words

Last evening I played the game Apples to Apples in which a card with a word on it is placed in the center of the table as each player lays down a card that will in some way represent that word. The person whose turn it is then chooses the card he or she likes the best. If the card has the word "cold" on it, the person may choose "icebergs" as the best answer if it is one of the choices, but could choose any card from "genetic engineering" to "Mark Twain, " if those are the cards offered by the other players. It may make perfect sense or it may not. It is open to the interpretation of the person making the choice.

What is considered fun in a game, however, is not always so much fun in the real world. A misunderstanding resulting from words not carefully chosen can lead to years of separation in families. A word intended to be funny but not taken that way by the recipient can lead to dismissal from a job. The power of life and death is in the tongue, according to a biblical proverb. Shakespeare said that the pen is mightier than the sword.

The image a person creates has as much to do with the words that person chooses to use than with his or her actions. If I tell you that I love you with anger flashing in my eyes and a tone that betrays the beauty these words are meant to bring, even if I'm doing something nice for you, the message is not one of love but of something else. If I, however, tell you that I love you as I look into your eyes and speak with sincerity, even though I do not come bearing gifts, the message has a greater chance of being believed. We trust with our hearts and our minds. We believe the words that make us feel a certain way. If we've been lied to, we develop a discernment for sorting out the dishonest words that do not carry the same weight as those told in truthfulness. It is a learned art to know if a word spoken or written is what it claims to be.

What gets confusing is when someone speaks in a sweet tone with a pleasant expression but the words are not at all kind or pleasing. The Southern expression, "Bless your heart," often fits this description. It sounds nice but just under the surface is the kind of mockery, gentle or otherwise, that I would rather do without. "I just hate that for you," is another phrase that usually means the opposite as the person saying it realizes that she has somehow avoided the fate you are now left to deal with.

Words of gossip can take on lives of their own as the excitement of something said in secret is transmitted to another willing participant. Though these messages can be somewhat interesting, I find they often fall far short of communication as a whole as I am left wondering--in what tone of voice was this message originally given?--what was the context of these words and what exact words were spoken?--who is the source?--and where do the allegiances of those involved lie? I then have to ask myself whether or not this message is believable. How do I know it is true? Who is going to prove it to me? What implications are there to believing a message told in secret? Will the repeating of that message by other "informed" individuals begin to shape a belief I did not previously have? And if so, will that new belief have any resemblance to the truth?

Can we ever really know what is in another's heart or mind? Aren't we left to depend on each other to express how it is we really feel? We have to rely on words and interpretations that have been formed through years of learning to trust and to believe. We can blame and accuse or we can give each other the benefit of the doubt. We can jump to conclusions and then share our limited and questionable findings with the next unsuspecting person. Or we can patiently seek out the person we are being told to see in a different light because of the way our minds have been shaped by the interpretations of others, and put an end to the endless speculation by merely asking, "So what do you think?"

listening

As a writer and a woman of faith, I spend a considerable amount of time taking into consideration the possible conclusions one may draw while reading my words and looking at my life. Even if there is understanding, there may not be agreement. Each one of us has a unique perspective at times requiring a certain measure of reconciliation to achieve peace with one another. This, however, does not always happen.

Without a word spoken, I can sometimes sense tension forming like ice on the edge of a pond in winter. A voice raises an octave as lips tighten. Even if a smile is attempted, the eyes betray the expression, revealing true feelings. It is then a waiting game. Will the person admit to the bad feelings and look for ways to settle the differences, or will he or she withdraw from communication altogether?

As an observer of people, I find it fascinating to watch a drama between two people who are at odds with one another unfold. To see one walk past the other without as much as a backward glance establishes the purposeful isolating action. To then witness the painful expression as eye contact is deliberately made, makes me wish I could run over yelling, "Time out" and get the two people to talk, even if they can only agree to disagree. But this doesn't happen because I don't have the ability to control people. Not even God wants to do that. He leads us and guides us. He speaks to the hearts and minds of those who will listen. To those who will not listen, he very quietly waits, as though there is a door separating that person from himself. It may be a matter of time before the person lets him in. He will wait as long as it takes.

I find it interesting when I hear that someone believes God has called her to accomplish a certain mission. I find it even more interesting when the mission God has me on is in direct opposition. Is God speaking to either of us and in this case, which one? Wouldn't it seem that the one with the most peaceful solution would be the one actually hearing from God? Maybe we all define peace differently.

So, wanting to live a life worthy of the calling of God, I wait. I wait for those who harbor anger and bitterness in their hearts to hear God's tender voice on the other side of that door. I wait for those who want to pretend there are no problems even though their eyes betray them. I wait for a new revelation of God's love that can be made known and understood. I wait for a greater opportunity to serve. I wait, knowing that there are no easy answers. All I know is that winter does not last forever. There will come a springtime and a thawing of all that is frozen. As streams of living water are eventually released to flow, my prayer is that we can step into that stream of life together, having heard his call and willing to be reconciled for the greater good.

But first we must listen. Is that knocking that I hear?



  

sharing space

Sitting next to someone at an all-day arts and crafts show can give one a glimpse through the window of a person's soul.

Yesterday a woman who seemed perfectly nice set up the two tables behind my table. I told her where I sat, the half-way point between her two tables, with the hope that she would choose to sit behind the table where she would bump into no one. She chose to bump into me instead. It promised to be a very long day.

As she sat on her wooden stool, she commented on how uncomfortable this would be by the end of the day. I agreed. I used to have a stool with a cushion that still left me with screaming back pain hours later because I could not lean back. Even though she had placed herself exactly in my way, which threatened my ability to remain charitable considerably, I decided that I needed to share with her a more adequate chair owned by a friend who would not be joining us for the show. After retrieving the chair for her, she immediately decided to change her seating location and I was relieved I had bothered to help.

No longer using her wooden stool, she allowed me to set it behind her other table across from an empty table and next to a stool left behind from a regular vendor who also would not be joining us. When a man in need of something to sit on asked if he could use her now available wooden stool, she looked at him as though he had just asked if he could take ownership of her car or maybe move into her spare bedroom. Her answer was an unequivocal NO! It was HER stool that she brought from home. Of course no one could use it but her, even though she would no longer need it until she took it home with her at the end of the day.

Having just given her someone else's chair to use, one that was HIS, I marveled at her answer. Quickly I motioned to the other stool and invited the man to take it. The woman sat comfortably in her newly found, much more comfortable chair with a back on it that was NOT HERS!

As the day wore on we interacted little as she tried to sell her wares and I mine. At one point she started up a discussion with me about my "primitive" style of art. Every time she spoke the word "primitive" she spit it out with such disdain I wondered how she could even bring herself to breathe the same air as I did. She smiled sweetly with her face but her words did not reflect that kindness.

Later when she accidently knocked another woman's glass sign off her table sending it to shatter on the concrete floor, I showed her where the brooms are kept with the hope that she could redeem herself by offering to clean up the mess she made, but I noticed it was the woman who had suffered the loss doing the cleaning. I hope the woman in question apologized. I'm not sure that she did.

About an hour before the show was supposed to end, this woman was already packed and ready to go home. I could have reported her to the coordinator since leaving early is an offense that can get a person left off the list for the next show since that sort of thing is not permitted, but I chose not to. I just said good-bye and went back to my work.

I don't think this woman set out to remind me of the parable in which the man whose debt was forgiven turned around and demanded repayment of the next man's debt, but she did. She received that which was not hers but could not extend that kindness to another in need. She could not offer blessings toward me for fear that it would somehow diminish her own creativity, and she would not take responsibility for her wrong doing in the accidental breaking of the sign. Love can cover over a multitude of sin. When we choose not to love, the emptiness of sin lingers and its sadness remains.

Though we may be tempted to think she is not a decent person, she is no different from any of us if we choose to live an unexamined life--one in which we do not consider the needs of those around us. We become her when we choose to be competitive instead of developing a heart of gratitude with generosity spilling over naturally. And in her defense, I do not know if she has lived a life in which her few possessions were taken from her or if she has suffered other abuses that have formed her character.

There is only One who rises above the pettiness which we all can succumb to. One who forgives us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. One who not only gives us a place to sit, but inspires us to be creative and empowers us to repent. When we allow the Spirit to take us over, we are freed from even the perceived ownership of our very lives. We become his hands and feet, learning to love another more than ourselves, always aware that we can choose to curse rather than to bless. There is no guarantee we will do the right thing at the right time. But we will still be loved.

I hate jello

Every year my parents make their pilgrimage from their home in rural Michigan down to their Mecca--their winter home in Florida. On the way, they stop at the Cleveland Clinic for medical evaluations, eventually making their way to North Carolina where they take us out to dinner a couple of times before proceeding further south.

They have to close up their home on the farm since they will not be returning until spring, so my mother always cleans out her refrigerator and brings all opened food along for the journey. If she can get us to take some of it off her hands she will lighten her load and make room for more once she gets set-up again in her other house. Her goal is to market the food items to us so we will want them.

For reasons I cannot imagine, she always tries to sneak several boxes of jello in with the crackers, walnuts, sometimes cereal, once in awhile apples, and this time a honey bear with honey leaking out into the bag it is fortunately packed in. Not a fan of her low sodium, low fat choices, we are limited as to what we will accept as viable food offerings for our pantry. And yet, there it remained . . . the jello.

I tell her, like I do each time, "I hate jello." She says to feed it to the boys. I remind her that they do not like it either. She wonders why I have deprived them of this essential food. I tell her it is because I don't like it. She reminds me that I ate it as a child. I tell her I ate it because I had to. She points out that mixing jello with cottage cheese and Cool Whip will do the trick. I tell her we don't eat those foods either. She slowly puts the jello boxes back into her car.

Maybe it was growing up in the '60's and '70's, but jello seemed to figure prominently into every family gathering, church picnic, and school event. If there was a party of any kind, there would be jello. If a kid got hot lunch at school, there would be jello. If someone went to the hospital and the opportunity to eat in the cafeteria arose, there would be jello. It was the go-to-quick-fix for a busy mother. Clear jello, jello with fruit cocktail in it, jello mixed with cottage cheese and Cool Whip. Jello was the staple of everyone's diet. Its bright, primary colors would beckon to me as I would have to decide between the jello or the pudding. I would choose the pudding any chance I got.

I stopped eating jello when I stopped drinking Kool-Aid. I started to read books like Diet for a Small Planet and stopped eating red meat for a number of years as well. Nutrition started to matter to me as well as making ethical choices. I could not determine what health benefit could be obtained from eating jello. My mother said it was for our hair and nails. My hair and nails were fine. I wonder what health benefits could be derived from the processed, canned fruit in the sugary syrup that would often go into the jello, or the myriad of other artificial food products of the day, like Velveeta, but I digress.

Jello, with its vibrant artificial dyes, makes a great paint for preschool children. The candy-like aroma will enhance the artwork that will hang on the outside of the refrigerator as the yogurt, the "jello" for this generation of children will be ready for snack-time when the artist gets hungry. Greek yogurt that is high in protein with no artificial ingredients is my favorite snack of choice these days. It goes well with raw almonds or granola. Cool Whip not required.

rule breaker

Waking up later than I should have and feeling rather worn out, I decided to pull it together anyway for a Friday at the preschool. Getting a substitute is often more difficult than going to work, I reasoned, and I felt a whole lot better than I had the day before when I not only felt like I was going to throw up, but eventually did.

Walking down the hall toward the kitchen with my bleach bottles in hand, I was confronted by a coworker who asked why I was there. I had not drank enough coffee by that time to comprehend even the most basic of questions so I simply stated that I was there to work. She crossed her fingers at me as though I were some sort of vampire as I continued on with the task at hand. I always fill two bleach bottles about a quarter of the way full so we can spray toys, the changing table and anything else that needs to be kept germ-free, at least in theory.

Reaching the kitchen I heard others making comments about how surprised they were to see me at work and wondered why I was not observing the 24-hour rule, a rule that states that one is not to come to school until 24 hours have passed after one has exhibited signs of illness. I heard myself say out loud, "I didn't think this rule applied to me." I still have no idea why I said that.

My "illness" seemed to be no more than a fast-moving virus that created havoc with my digestive system for awhile until it tired of its game and moved on. It gave me a day off from eating, while I tried to remember how many years it had been since I had even gotten sick since I am not prone to this sort of thing. I remembered a food poisoning incident that left me begging for God's mercy while clinging to the coolness of the bathroom floor tile in the middle of the night years ago. I also remember getting the flu immediately after getting a flu shot one year, something I have refused to do ever since even though a well-meaning doctor insisted there is no correlation.

What seemed to confuse me more than anything else was why no one was asking me how I was doing. "How are you feeling, Mary Ellen?" was what I was expecting to hear. "We were concerned about you when you left work early," I thought they would say. But instead I felt like I would be held responsible for the next person making a quick retreat to the bathroom to do what I had done in the stall closest to the window the day before. If there was a sudden outbreak of sickness, it would be all my fault. Me--the instigator of disease, the culprit of a flu epidemic.

So in an effort to maintain order and not condone my lawless attitude, I was sent home to "rest." All peace would then be restored until the children would show up with their runny noses, persistent coughs and pale faces that indicate less than the picture of health as their parents hurriedly drop them off insisting that they are fine. A few parents over the years who have trusted me enough to be their confidant have admitted to me that their little darling actually threw up in the car on the way to school but were feeling so much better now that . . . well, the 24-hour rule just didn't have to apply to them, did it?

red

It seems we have a natural proclivity toward making comparisons with one another. Why we think we can measure what someone else has gone through with the same standards we use for ourselves is a mystery. Each one of us is different.

This concept has become abundantly clear during my recent unpleasantness with the dreaded root canal. It does not take me long to realize that in a conversation involving dental procedures, there are many interpretations for what-is-not-a-big-deal all the way to what-is-the-worst-pain-ever. And I tend to find my tales of woe heading for the worst pain ever category far more than others.

So I did some research and found out that there is scientific proof for my sensitivity to dental pain! It is because the mutation that provided me with red hair is the gift that keeps on giving and with it comes a different way of caring for my teeth.

Knowing what I know now about how a redhead requires more pain killers to mute the obvious pain of dental work explains a lot about how terrible my experiences at the dentist were when I was a child. I remember being given more than one shot to numb the pain which seemed to annoy the dentist who was already impatient that I was most likely crying. Not that emotional little redheaded girl with all of the cavities again, he may have thought. But yes, there I was, scared to death, knowing I had eaten too much candy and awaiting the pain that came along with it.

As my gums started to recede, exposing nerves that could not be touched with sharp, pokey sticks used by dentists, nitrous oxide became the answer to my problems. It allowed my chalk-like teeth to be filled and filled, and I would be warned again that coffee would stain them and I would smile and nod knowing good and well that I would never be giving it up. I had been warned as a teenager that because of my open bite, braces were recommended (I only have two teeth that actually come together for chewing) or else by the time I was 40 I would be eating my dinner through a straw. This of course never happened.

The day came when nitrous was not enough. It was as though I had become immune to its effects and it was too dangerous to give me more. So I was sent to a dentist who used pill sedation as his method of pain relief for those of us who needed it. This worked quite well at first. I would take one pill at home and the second one at the dentist office about an hour later. I would go into some kind of "twilight" zone and reemerge with cleaned, fixed teeth. After doing this about twice, I woke up in the middle of the procedure while the dentist desperately tried to administer more pain medication. Alas, I had become immune to it as well.

All that remained was IV sedation which consists of being strapped into a chair that becomes more of a bed with all of the seriousness of surgery. This dentist assured me that as long as I did not start shooting up street drugs like heroin, I would not develop an immunity. So far he has been correct.

Developing an infection in my crowned tooth as one root lay dying (incidentally, one of the teeth that I use for chewing) became an emergency situation as it needed immediate attention to relieve what I believe to be perhaps the worst pain I have ever been in, or at least second, after a breast infection that . . . I will spare the details. I knew that I would be able to endure as whatever it is in the IV started flowing through my bloodstream giving me a warm feeling that increased until the room began to spin and I would take another journey to a place where there is no tooth pain. I would then be escorted from the dentist's chair, helped into a vehicle and awaken in my bed hours later having no idea how I ever got there. I then would get into these conversations with people who do not require more than a simple shot for their dental needs and wonder if they think I am being overly needy, too dramatic, or something other than normal when I admit that my procedure is far more involved and way more costly.

But what can I do about it? I have red hair.

driving alone

I received a text from my oldest son about a week ago reminding me to pick him up from college to come home for fall break. Though I do not enjoy driving, I do look forward to bringing him home.

There are three basic ways to get to his university: the major highway route which is definitely not fun and does not get one there any faster though the vehicle is driven at a higher rate of speed; the combined major highway/minor highway route that is stressful until the exit onto the smaller highway; and the backcountry road way that, much to my delight, is the shortest, most direct route and even with a certain amount of meandering, not only gets one there faster, but the beauty of the countryside soothes my mind and allows me to think.

I am grateful that my college-bound son is only an hour away from home. Just far enough for him to have his independence and not so far that he has to worry about how to get home for breaks. I am reminded of how I, as an undergraduate student, would trudge down to the bus stop with my backpack and overnight bag, and get on a bus heading north--a trip that would take close to three hours. Never wanting to completely fall asleep on a bus for fear that I would miss my stop or perhaps awaken suddenly to a new less-welcomed seat mate, I would try to entertain my mind by reliving events so I would not fall asleep. Sometimes I do that when I drive. I often sing. I also like to practice what I would say if someone asked me a particular question. To remain alert I have to remind myself of my journey at regular intervals so as not to get lost in my day dreaming and drive into a ditch.

Once we load up the minivan with the laundry bag, computer, backpack filled with books and a duffle bag containing clothes, I then have a traveling companion who fills me in on what his life is like. We can discuss roommate issues, how difficult his classes are and what he is planning to do this summer. We can update each other on different family scenarios that have been communicated through email and texts. I can ask about Facebook posts, especially ones in which there are girls involved. We drive together through the countryside until we get home.

Several days later we put those items back into the minivan and take the drive back to college. We finish our stories and try to think of anything we have forgotten to tell one another. Thanksgiving is not that far away and given the amount of work we each have in front of us, we won't have time to even count the days. I help carry the items back into the dorm room, a place where I am not responsible for making sure the bed is made or the clothes are picked up off the floor. It is not where I live; it is my son's home--for now.

Soon I am in the minivan heading back to our house. I love the way the sun is setting and how beautiful the leaves are as they are turning colors. I see cars heading toward where my son is living and wonder if these are parents taking the same trip with their college-aged sons and daughters. I see people in cars in front of me and wonder if they already said good-bye and are hoping to get to their homes before dark.

Not sure why but I always listen to the same Harry Connick, Jr. cd on my road trip and it is just the right length to get me to the dorm or back home. It is a cue that I am going to see my son, or that I am on my way home to see the rest of my family. Either way, it keeps me from driving alone.

pen pals

I remember standing in a field, writing a note, putting it into a balloon and sending it up into the air to be found by someone who would then write a letter to me. As wonderful as this sounded at the time, the practical side of me would often wonder at what point the balloon would pop. Could it make it through a rainstorm? Would it land in a lake and never be found? How many miles could it travel before being discovered by someone who would follow the instructions and be curious enough to follow through? I do not remember any of these questions ever being answered.

As a child growing up six miles from a town of about 2,000, I had dreams of going to faraway places to see what life was like for those living elsewhere. Always looking for ways to make connections with people from other places, I would give my address to new friends I would make, especially when we were on vacation, in the hope of receiving letters. When one of my first best friends from school moved to a town about 40 miles away, we sent letters back and forth for awhile. In the days before our current technology, news traveled slowly. Very slowly for a little girl with big dreams.

The other day I discovered that on my business page, dream with m.e., one of my "likes" is from someone in India. Even given today's technology, I am amazed by this. I am equally impressed that people from the United Kingdom and Russia are possibly reading this post right now, according to the statistics on my blog. It is like my own little balloon of information has been found. My words are traveling to places I have only dreamed of going and though I most likely will never meet the people who have decided to make a connection with me even by clicking a key on a computer, I get excited that my childhood dream of making contact with someone in a different place has been realized at last.

tinkerbell

Today I had a conversation with a 5-year-old. Or more accurately, she decided to have a conversation with me. After I amazed her with my ability to guess that she was in kindergarten when she told me her age, we started to get to know one another. She demonstrated her ability to spell her name and thought it would be fun if we clapped out the syllables together. She was right.

Then she told me in wide-eyed amazement the story of how three wolves at a wildlife refuge came right up to the fence where she stood, her all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-my-two-front-teeth smile transforming momentarily into a look of intensity. I told her she was brave and she agreed. I asked her about going to the zoo to see chimpanzees and was going to tell her that one time one of them came right up to the glass where I stood and kissed it, but she was already telling me about how great her leopard-print tights were and showed me a small figurine of a leopard to prove to me she knows what a real one looks like. She went on to say that her birthday is after Christmas, a day or a month, she was not sure. All she knows is that she wants a cake with elephants on it.

We moved on from there to other important matters such as the fact that she was ditching the Cinderella costume she wore last Halloween in favor of becoming Tinkerbell this year. This story is her favorite anyway, she pointed out, and besides, there will be wings! She can then take on this new persona, having a certain amount of dramatic flair already as evidenced by her sparkly sequined hat and Hello Kitty shirt, while she goes out for a night on the town collecting treats.

I met a 5-year-old boy about a month ago who confided that though he looked and acted like a regular boy, he was actually a garden fairy, who came alive when pixie dust had been sprinkled in the general vicinity of where he had emerged. I guess he figured since we were going to be friends, it was appropriate to let me in on his true identity. This fascination with an alter ego of an other-worldly being intrigues me.

I wonder if there is inherent in each one of us a desire to not only be connected with the supernatural but to actually BE supernatural. That if we clap our hands and believe in something greater than ourselves, wonderful things WILL happen. I'm fairly certain that if I were to consult my 5-year-old friends on this issue they would skip happily away, with a look of joy on their sweet faces that would in essence say, "What are you waiting for?"

lost in translation

Talking is not the same as writing. But since more people talk than write, those of us who write have to adapt. So we try. When others take it upon themselves to try to communicate for us to someone just out of our reach at that time, everything we know--the already identified strength we possess to express ourselves well--is called into question. And suddenly it seems like the entire fabric of the universe has become unglued. Maybe it is just OUR fabric that becomes unglued, or more correctly--unraveled.

First, I have no idea what tone of voice or facial expressions are employed by the one doing the communicating on my behalf. Would the combination of these factors accurately represent me? The choice of words--a writer's pride and glory--seem to be casually tossed about and not obsessed over like a writer would do, leaving me to wonder EXACTLY which words were spoken. Are they the ones I would have chosen? Not bloody likely. But they are, nevertheless, an attempt to communicate and as a writer I know that to be a good thing. We writers try to hold onto the hope that maybe this is the time for a meeting of the minds, an enlightenment, a eureka moment. We somehow think this impossibility is likely, even though we are well aware that under the very best circumstances, it is not. We deceive ourselves again and again. But we are writers and we can't help it.

A debriefing between the writer who longed for a conversation and the person who actually got to experience a conversation, then becomes necessary. One needs to piece together moment by moment of the conversation one didn't get to have--an exchange of thoughts and ideas meant to resemble your own, though in the back of your mind you know it must have fallen short. The question you don't want to ask ultimately arises: was my message received or lost in the process? A positive best guess is, sure, yes, you were understood completely. You know that cannot possibly be true because even in the best of conditions that never happens. Ok, once in awhile, but very rarely. So the second best guess is, I don't know. And that is where the truth can be found or not found--in the great unknown universe of inferred meanings, looks that express more than a word ever could, and the ultimate resignation that it is as good as it is ever going to get so you may as well drop it.

Sometimes after a series of misunderstandings occur and I spend my time and energy thinking of how things may have happened differently, better, and that one chance for communicating something has passed and probably failed, I wonder if it would have been better to have remained silent.

communion

A friend offered me a portion of the large, flat sesame cookie he had just purchased from a Muslim family who makes them to sell at the market, and I wondered if this could be considered communion.

Growing up Catholic gave me the sense that communion could only exist in a narrowly defined reality. The small, white, circular "host" that tasted like paper somehow dissolving on my tongue was supposed to become the body of Jesus, according to the transubstantiation doctrine. Never wanting to over-think this, for obvious reasons, I never really gave it much thought. As the old, trusted organ music was replaced by folk singers playing guitars and bongo drums, the Spirit breezed through the church changing the way things had been done for a long time and ushering in new ideas. Pretty soon people were breaking off matzos, talking about how they were striped and pierced--like the body they represented--and later even started using bread that contained that little bit of leaven that leavened the whole loaf.

As wonderful as it seemed that we were all invited to share in this beautiful moment, there was always the reminder that only those who belonged to that particular faith were truly allowed to partake. All others were welcome to partake . . . elsewhere. So as I contemplate world communion Sunday, I wonder what it is supposed to look like for all of us to break bread together.

It seems like each culture has its own kind of bread--everything from tortillas to bagels, challah to pita. Bread made with yeast and without. Quick sweet breads, and breads that need time to rise. Crispy, fluffy, chewy and filling. Some crusty breads go really well with soup. Others work well for toasting. Few experiences are as satisfying as eating a slice of freshly baked bread, warm from the oven, with butter.

With all of these different people and these different types of bread, I wonder how it would look if we each just offered a piece to the next person we met, breaking it between us so that we could each share in the fellowship it represented. Though our belief systems differ and we may follow different traditions and doctrines, could we not extend human kindness, loving one another as God loves us all? Even if we couldn't speak each other's language, wouldn't reaching toward another with a piece of some sort of bread communicate the goodwill intended? What if we could experience a world-wide communion? What then?

old enough to know better

With age comes wisdom . . . in theory. In reality, I often just find myself repeating the same situation, always hoping for a different outcome--a definition of insanity. Where I continue to fall short is in holding onto this hope, that comes from some unknown place since I am definitely NOT an optimist, and continues to get me to believe that something good will happen. Let go of the outcome, I've been told, and do not have expectations about anything. How does one live without ANY expectations?

Do we not all expect to make it through the day? Do we not expect that our spouse and children will come back home at the end of the day and we can regroup and start over tomorrow? Do we not expect that our jobs will be there when we walk through the door? Do we not ALL have some basic expectations in this life? To say we are not to expect anything sounds very Zen, but the idea that I'm going to be able to pull this off in the midst of an emotional crisis is expecting too much.

Emotions surface when special events are made known. This is when I go into my default mode resembling an adolescent girl and I wonder who wants to be my friend and invite me to the party. I would like to think I'm not alone in this thought process but do not find many willing to admit their fears of being left out. No one wants to think he or she will be left off the list. Maybe to say it out loud will somehow jinx it. No one wants to be on the outside looking in, overhearing others talking about how much fun the party will be or how awesome it was.

And yet, after all of these years of living, I find myself retracing my steps and taking that very familiar path. I am somehow shocked that it is again happening to me. You would think I would learn, but I don't. Sometimes I wonder just how many times I can recover from a broken heart.

"Friend" is one of the most difficult words for me to define. "A person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection . . ." is the way one definition begins. It is the "mutual" part that trips me up. How does one know whether or not the other person feels the same way? Isn't that demonstrated by actually sending the invitation with the expectation the recipient will accept it?

Too many memories of these failed attempts at "mutual affection" clutter my thoughts. I think of being asked to come to a party--in order to be a servant, not a guest. I remember coming to offer a tribute to the guest of honor and being told that tributes were offered earlier at another party--the one I was not invited to. And then there is the, "See you at the party" comment followed by me swallowing hard and trying not to let the tears spill out of my eyes as I am confronted with the fact that I will not be seeing that person at the party because I am not even supposed to know there is a party. I am, in fact, supposed to pretend there is no party so that the next time I see the host of the party, I will bear that person no ill will, especially if that person is my "friend." It becomes my burden to deceive the person into thinking all is well when it is not, at least for me.

So what are my choices? If invited, I can go and enjoy the mutual affection of those I consider friends, and laugh, celebrate, dance and savor the moments of shared joy. If not invited, I can once again try to gather together all of the pieces of my heart and begin another long recovery especially reserved for those of us who are sensitive enough to truly love and to risk doing so in the midst of almost certain failure. What can anyone say to alleviate the pain? It is what it is. And it hurts like hell.

soccer mom tells all; story at 11

It was 1999 at the beginning of another school year. As all three of my boys have September birthdays, Gabriel was almost 7; Ariel was almost 4; and Joel was almost 1. I was as overwhelmed as I could ever imagine to be, and about to become a soccer mom.

Starting out on a recreational league, Gabriel was quick to learn the game and played to win every time. His preschooler brother, Ariel, could become interested in a dandelion, and sit down in the middle of the soccer field to examine it. As Gabriel would help to guide his team to victory, Ariel may decide to walk off the field if something seemed more interesting elsewhere. And though we tried to keep baby Joel strapped in the stroller for his own safety, he would often insist on getting out and doing the most obvious thing: kick a soccer ball.

As they grew to love the game we continued to take them, season after season, year after year, to their practices and games. By the time Joel was 4 he officially joined his brothers in their soccer way of life, going from recreational leagues to club soccer, as well as from the middle school to the high school teams.

With competition becoming more fierce, there were more opportunities for injury. Some of their injuries were even related to soccer. Ariel learned to play goal keeper while nursing a hurt shoulder while Joel played quite effectively with a cast on his foot. (Joel's toes were not broken while playing soccer, however, but after the rope his brothers were holding broke and he was sent flying into a tree on a swing. Ariel almost lost a toe but that had to do with running around barefoot and not with soccer either.) Gabriel broke his finger during a high school game and had to leave the field momentarily but finished out the game with a big smile on his face.

The worst injury happened during an end-of-season playoff game in which Gabriel was kneed in the chest by a goal keeper intent on not letting him receive the ball and score. The foul was called, the crowd went wild, but Gabriel did not get up. I could feel eyes watching me to see my reaction as I had already prepared myself in knowing that I could do nothing but pray. After an eternity in soccer time, which was probably about 5 minutes, he was helped off the field and then at the end of the game I could hear the trainer saying he was going to be fine, but I knew he was not. He would spend four days hospitalized with blunt force trauma to the pancreatic duct which the doctor said was consistent with a car accident. But he did not require surgery and would in time recover fully, to play more soccer.

And yet, soccer is a great game. It is great when a dad keeps yelling out, "Good idea" while another dad echoes, "Unlucky." It is great in the midst of wind and freezing rain that is coming down sideways and making us all wonder why we continue to stand on the sidelines. It is great in wind that is propelling the ball in every direction but toward the goal. It is great even if the soccer mom with the loudest voice thinks she should keep on trying to express herself. In fact, maybe there should be an award at the end of every season for the most obnoxious soccer parent based on how many times that person argued with the ref, screamed at his or her child to "win the ball," "gotta want it," "BOOT IT," or any other variation of what their unlucky offspring is desperately attempting to accomplish, though I remain uncertain as to who would be the judge for this type of contest. For there are times when we all find ourselves getting sucked into the drama of the bad call, the catcalls from unfriendly members of the visitor section, or worse yet, when parents make threats toward each other or the players. IT IS ONLY A GAME, PEOPLE!

I have been a soccer mom long enough to see all manner of strangeness played out before me, and yet I can still say that soccer is a great game. It is great even if the ref actually does need someone's glasses, as is usually suggested by some helpful spectator, or if he just plain does not see the opposing player intentionally trip our guy, in the box. It is great if red cards eject rowdy players or better yet if the boys can find it within themselves to act like gentlemen for a few minutes and play with class.

I have wondered about those who are naturally better at cheering, since they seem to need this vicarious outlet for their emotions. Known to be a quiet person for the most part, it may surprise some to know that my voice can be very loud at times if need be. I was even a cheerleader back in 7th and 8th grades and not because I knew anything about gymnastics. I prefer not to yell but to savor the moments and hope to be looking in the direction of one of my boys when they somehow pick me out of the crowd and make eye contact. Sometimes their eyes seem to say, "Why can't you do something about this miserable game?" while at other times it is more of a, "Did you see me do that?!" Whatever our sign language and eye contact communicates to each other, my boys know that win or lose I am there to cheer them on. Always.

birthday mysteries

Folded and almost flat lay the small flat rate box in my otherwise empty mailbox. For a moment I hesitated to take it out. My mind was quickly filling in the blanks the questionable package was presenting.

The return address was that of my sister who has been sharing my birthday with me ever since she decided to be born on the day I turned one. The label slapped unceremoniously across the top of the box had two of the little boxes checked: RECEIVED WITHOUT CONTENTS and RECEIVED UNSEALED AT 27406.

I would find out during our traditional birthday phone call to each other that my sister had actually made me a gift this year. I found this remarkable since I had decided to send her gifts I had made as well. This may not seem all that amazing to others but to us it is a strange connection we have that enables us to give each other similar gifts each year. One year we sent each other chocolates; another year, cookies. We have sent each other earrings and other accessories, but regardless of the gift of choice for that year, we usually have the same type of gift in mind.

Though not twins we were treated as such during our childhood years and were often expected to wear matching clothes and have our hair cut in the same way. I always had a difficult time with this as her brown hair and brown eyes were nothing like my red hair and blue eyes, and I wanted to grow my hair long. I also did not appreciate having to wear the same outfit in a different color. I was not allowed to wear red or pink for fear those colors would clash with my hair so I would be sporting the green or blue version of whatever it was she was wearing. This apparently entertained our mother as we would draw attention wherever we went as though we really were twins. But of course we were not. Irish twins, at best.

What my mother did get right was letting each one of us have our own cake. This was a good thing since my sister always chose angel food which to this day I have no desire to eat. It tastes bitter to me and no amount of whipped cream is going to change that. I would always choose devil's food, ironically, and could not understand why this would not win over my sister. Who does not adore chocolate?! I even proposed a compromise in which we could have white or yellow cake with chocolate frosting, but that was never acceptable. So we would pose for pictures with our two cakes and my parents would sing the birthday song completely out of tune as they continue to do over the phone to this day.

Back to the mystery at hand. At some point I wondered what the earrings were like that my sister told me she had made. Not wanting to belabor the point of the empty box, the amount of time and money with no gift attached, I did not continue my line of questioning. My imagination was left to wander to the exact moment that the package contents would have dropped out--maybe because she did not tape the box? She wondered if the glue was loosened because of the heat since we are both Southerners these days but upon further inspection I noticed it was not the side of the box that was sealed with the self-sealing strip that was opened but the ends that could easily be opened by someone wishing to investigate the contents of the box. Maybe that was it! Maybe my birthday earrings were stolen! And if so, by whom?!

Where do missing contents from small flat rate boxes shipped through the postal service end up? Is there a large lost and found in the corner of some nondescript room in the back of a post office? Do the postal workers go through the items and claim whatever looks good to them when there is no possibility of ever matching the items with the recipient? Are these renegade items, God forbid, thrown away?

Another birthday has come and gone. Remembered by some and forgotten by others, it is always a surprise as to who will end up in each category. It is a day filled with unexpected happenings that bring a measure of joy, undeniable disappointment and the ever present challenge it takes to truly celebrate the life of another. Like a box, emptied of its contents, my birthday wish is to go into this next year open to experiencing life with a joyful heart, an expectant spirit and enough love to cover over a multitude of disappointments.

personally

To take something personally means "to interpret a remark or action as directed against oneself and be upset or offended by it, even if that was not the speaker's intention" according to a dictionary definition. And though I have a firm enough grasp of the English language to comprehend the meaning of this statement, I often find myself confused by it.

What I do not understand is why being told to not take something personally is supposed to make me feel better. I want to take it personally because I want the conversation to actually have something to do with me! I would love to be talking with someone who knows me, loves me and has a sincere desire to communicate with me.

Of course I understand that when someone is rude because he or she is tired, having a bad day or going through a hard time that I am not supposed to become offended by the rudeness, and yet I often wonder why a little kindness cannot be extended, if for no other reason than to alleviate the doubt that a viable relationship still exists. If I am seen as overly emotional because I took something personally, what responsibility does the person have who said the words in question? Does warning me that I am not to take something personally really let the other person off the hook? Are there no repercussions for bad behavior that hurts another?

A friend called to tell me of the untimely death of her friend's daughter. I always wonder if something could have been said that would have changed the outcome. There is no one to blame at a time like this. There are no words to adequately describe the grief. It is an unwritten story with an abrupt ending--an obituary that will attempt to represent her truest self and yet not do justice to a life lost.

Did she take something someone said personally? Could she not find a way to get around someone else's issues that kept getting mixed in with her own? Did she try to find the words to describe how she felt as she lugged her oversized bundle of emotional baggage everywhere she went, not ever figuring out how to loosen the ties that bound her to it? Was anyone listening to the cry of her heart? Did her own lack of communication betray her in the end?

Life and death are in the power of the tongue, according to a biblical proverb. Is there a word that can begin to heal a broken heart, restore a lost perspective, or counsel a mind gone dark? Can we speak into existence newer and better versions of our lives? Do we dare make our messages personal, speaking the truth in love, and willingly walking alongside those we hope will understand our words? Instead of making excuses, will we ever risk it all and choose to love?

I don't know. But personally, I hope so.

language of love

The first day I walked into my new teaching position at the group home for adults with severe and profound developmental disabilities, I wondered what in the world I had been thinking when I had accepted this job. It had more of a nursing home/mental hospital feel to it than that of a classroom. And I was more of a preschool teacher than a personal care attendant.

Each day I would conduct three one-hour classes for 6 or 7 students at a time who would come to my room using walkers, wheelchairs or walking slowly with the assistance of an aide. The highest academic level I could ascertain was kindergarten, as I discovered one day when one of my students demonstrated that he could actually read--very slowly, in his quiet voice, with much coaxing on my part. And yet I had been hired to teach these students a curriculum out of a book that was being used to equip those with special needs to eventually be able to find work and live independently.

My students, however, would live out their days in their various group homes, always in need of assistance with the most basic needs in life. They somehow knew that being subjected to lessons I had to rework to fit their level of comprehension was a waste of time. The testing I had to put them through quarterly was an even bigger waste but because it was the one measurable component of the education program, it was necessary. What I came to discover early on was that no matter how many times we went over the alphabet, counting to 10, shapes, colors and other lessons I had borrowed from my years of teaching 5-year-olds in preschool, my students would not retain the information or ever improve their test scores. One man could list all of the mascots for college basketball teams though, and that was enough for him.

So we spent our days singing songs, making art and playing games. I brought out my preschool repertoire and taught them, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands" as they tried to clap with hands that could not go together. Some of them figured out how to tap other objects on the table to "clap" and others just waved their hands in the air. Joining in was the lesson we all learned.

Their favorite game was Bingo using large cards with pictures. Even then they struggled to find the matching picture on their card with the card I was holding. I found super large playing cards and we played War. I would pass out all of the cards, turn over my card and then run to each player shouting out which card they were holding. When I would find the card that beat mine, a man with Down syndrome would put his hands in the air and shout out "BINGO!" And we would all cheer.

Several of my students were older than I was and all of my students required a great deal of medical intervention for various disorders; most commonly seizure disorders. Somehow I would find peace while watching a student have a seizure, knowing there was nothing I could do. It was difficult going to work not knowing what I would face and I would go home exhausted, but while I was there, I felt a supernatural presence strengthening me for the task at hand. Knowing I was not alone was the lesson I learned.

The most profound turn of events for me had to do with an older woman with Down syndrome. She would try to run away from the aide assigned to her if she didn't feel like coming to class. When she couldn't get a piece to go into a wooden puzzle I offered her, she would nearly break it trying to force it in, yelling at it the whole time. She would run out of the room if she felt like it, forcing me to call someone to catch her and bring her back. I would warn her that she had better be good and do her puzzle and she would shake her finger at me in a mocking way, giving us all a reason to laugh.

When she became ill and was hospitalized, it was a typical scenario. But the last time she did not recover and I would write a short poem to read at the memorial service we held. Our class curriculum shifted from preschool to a daily discussion of the afterlife. Everyday we would sing "Jesus Loves Me" and talk about what it would be like to live in heaven. One of my students had been told that in heaven he would no longer need his wheelchair. All I could think was that in heaven we could have a real conversation! As I was getting dangerously close to completely abandoning the curriculum I was supposed to be teaching, this no longer mattered to me. I finally understood why I had walked into that group home.

I recently read an account of the life of Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest who wrote about being "beloved" and spent his final days with those having mental and physical developmental disabilities living in community. At the end of this book there was a brief mention of how his special needs friends had come to pay their respects at the time of his death and it brought me back to this time when verbal or nonverbal, my students communicated to me daily in a language of love that transcended everything else. It is a spiritual union that is possible when the spirit within each one of us can awaken and bond with another. There are no words to describe it.

provision

If there is one thing I have learned, it is that I am not in charge. I don't mean of my household because frankly, I am the one in charge. Sh-h! Don't tell my husband. But I'm talking about life on a broader scale and specifically about the provision needed to live this life.

Whenever I get nervous after paying bills and estimating how much money is needed for the rest of the month, knowing the numbers do not add up, I look around this house and remind myself of how we were able to buy it when we were existing in a financially deficient sort of way--not too different from the way I have always lived.

It all started with the first house we rented when we moved to Greensboro. It was a tiny, two-bedroom home equipped to offer us the biblical plague of the day. Rodents, fleas, flies, an unbelievable population of June bugs, crickets and whatever else could find its way inside waged war against us--when the landlady was not launching her own battles. When our family grew we moved into the rental house next door--more space, fewer bugs, same landlady.

After eviction, being falsely accused and having to take a stand against a woman who thought she could intimidate by sending certified letters, we got our full deposit back and moved out to our third rental house near a cow pasture. The house was in need of repair but the landlord was one of the sweetest men I had met. He would eventually put his property up for sale forcing us to revisit the need for housing. Daily I would pace the back porch looking up through the trees to a God who provides. Like the woman in the Bible who says she will eat the crumbs that fall from the table before she will go hungry, I would remind my Provider that I needed a "nest" for my young. And I would not take no for an answer!

Having our third baby threw us into an economic category that afforded us government aid and we discovered that if we could find a house for sale within a very narrow set of parameters, we could qualify for a loan. So the hunt began as we tried to determine which house could become our home.

It became clear early on that the idea behind this loan was to get us into a newly constructed neighborhood with houses built on speculation. None of these houses appealed to me so we continued our search. Throughout the process, the woman at the loan office began to figure prominently as she insisted we just accept the way the deal worked without trying to complicate the process with our own desires. Do what you are told and be happy about it, was her line of thinking. I continued to pace on my rented back porch.

One day we were shown a house in a small subdivision that belonged to an elderly couple who became original owners when the house was built in 1972. They were not eager to show the house since they did not want to be bothered and yet had a need to sell as their health was declining and they were on a waiting list to get into assisted living. Though far from my dream home, there was something about the place that seemed peaceful and comforting when we did a walk-through with our realtor. Surprisingly, the house actually fit the seemingly impossible parameters and we immediately made an offer which was accepted.

Taking this new and exciting information back to the woman at the loan office provided me with yet another opportunity to grow in my faith. For she was in no way happy about it! In fact she looked me in the eye with as much fierceness as she could manage, and said, "You will NOT get that house!" Having callouses on my feet from walking across that porch so many times, I thought, I will if God wants me to have it. I asked her what I could do. She said there was only one thing and it was an extremely doubtful long-shot that it would even work. All I could possibly do was--write a letter. WRITE A LETTER! There was no way she could know that of all of the skills I have, writing a letter is something I can do!

I wrote that letter like my life depended upon it, because it did--my life as well as the lives of my family. What we would later find out was that the elderly owners of the house were Christians who were praying that the first people to view their house would also be Christians and would buy their house to make it a home. We were the only ones to ever see their house before we would sign the papers right around Thanksgiving, more thankful than ever at how we had been provided for.

bread pudding

I have a craving for bread pudding.

As a young girl, I could walk almost the length of the cornfield, past my favorite climbing tree, over the hill, resting momentarily on a big rock, continue on beside a stand of trees, around the asparagus field and find myself at Grandma's house. I would open the screen door and immediately experience the aroma of whatever it was she was baking in her kitchen. The laundry room or mud room was where one entered her house with the modern appliances on one side and an old wringer washer in the corner. There was a big utility sink and a tin cup with a handle hanging on the wall for anyone who was thirsty.

Entering Grandma's kitchen was like walking into the gates of the heavenly realms. She baked her own bread, always wearing her housedress and apron, and usually had some loaves cooling on the counter. Her pies were made with whatever was in season: cherries, blueberries, apples, peaches. And she made the very best sugar cookies and molasses cookies I could ever imagine eating.

Sitting on a bench against the windows I would watch Daddy eating milk toast. Grandma would slice off a big, thick piece of freshly baked white bread, place it in a shallow dish and cover it with milk. Sugar would go on top and a simple, satisfying treat would be created. I would later discover bread pudding which offered the same kind of warm, feel-good comfort.

Walking into the dining room I would go over to the old sewing machine in the corner and become fascinated with the big basket of quilting squares and a large coffee can containing buttons of all sizes and colors. In Grandma's living room sat the old upright piano where she would play hymns to sing in church and at weddings. Her Bible on the table was always open. And whenever Billy Graham came on the television, everyone in the room got quiet.

There is a recipe in the Joy of Cooking for bread pudding with meringue.  I'm fairly sure I can round up the ingredients since it is mainly bread, milk, eggs and sugar--the staples of any kitchen. It is a resourceful dish, the kind that set the foundation for my life.

to remember

Pat Schneider, author of Writing Alone and with Others, makes the following assertion,

"The old saw 'forgive and forget' has it exactly backward. It should be 'remember and forgive.'  Remember fully, in detail--perhaps many times. Feel all the stages of grief, denial, anger, resignation, acceptance. Perhaps then forgiveness will come up when you least expect it, in the middle of a piece of writing, like a flower out of the muck."

This is life-changing.

No matter what I do, my writing is autobiographical. Try as I might to hide it, the truth of what I really feel comes out eventually.

Forgiving and forgetting has never been possible for me since my memory for detail is quite keen. There are scenarios permanently etched into my mind that cannot be erased. What I cannot fully remember haunts me. As a writer, I have been at a loss as to what to do about these troubling tales. I've had opportunities to tell-all but have chosen to only write what is noble and good with an absence of malice. And yet I have wanted to create characters that may have experienced some of the things I have been through but have been intimidated by the amount of emotion that is still attached to so many of these past events. How does one write a story if she loses her ability to tell it because of how overwhelming it becomes to manage?

The idea of remembering and writing about it seems to make more sense to me than anything I've heard in a counselor's office in a long time. Remember the scene, the people involved, the way I felt, the actions taken and words spoken, and then after it is all there in living color . . . let it go, allowing forgiveness to wash over it like the tide coming in. This is what I've been longing to do. Maybe by sharing this wisdom I could help guide someone else on a path of healing.

I know about the stages of grief and have been through them. Denial can last a very long time, as can anger. Schneider doesn't mention bargaining but that is an important stage as we think we can somehow change what has happened. She calls the next step resignation but it has always been referred to me as depression which is far worse than just giving up. It is a seething just under the surface that masks itself as something far less threatening. But when left unattended can lead one down a road of self-destruction.

Acceptance happens when there is no more game-playing. It is over and done and it is time to move on. The grip of pain that once held us captive is loosened and we are free.

When it comes to writing, there exists as much honesty as the writer will allow. It can be a carefully choreographed dance written for purely entertainment purposes, or something that will pierce the heart of the reader with a resounding truth that must be told. Writers are notorious liars, however, and that truth can only come forth if there is an acceptance within that person--a come-what-may attitude that will enable something real to be shared. The risk of the telling outweighs the need to keep it a secret.

I want to remember and forgive.

soul frog

Though I have taught 5-year-olds for five years; special needs adults with severe and profound developmental disabilities for a year and a half; subbed at the preschool in nearly every classroom; spent two years with toddlers and the past year with infants, not to even mention the years of Sunday school teaching and vacation Bible school leadership, I sometimes wonder how I ever became a teacher since I still do not completely know what I am doing.

Don't get me wrong. I am well aware of my creative abilities, learning how to make a wide variety of crafts and absolutely loving to do art with kids. I have also added a great many songs to my repertoire, complete with hand motions, and know that in a bind a rousing rendition of "If you're happy and you know it" can go a long way. Reading books to kids is extremely fun, especially when I really get into it and do different voices. I always hope I'm inspiring them to fall in love with books as I did when I was young. I also never grow tired of playing games with kids, no matter what their ages, and watching kid movies over and over, laughing at ridiculous and corny kid humor. But when it comes to classroom management, I seem to part company with appropriate teacher practices.

We've all seen the teacher look. It is similar to the mother look, if you were raised that way. It is usually accompanied by a hand on a hip and a shrill tone of voice. And though I've had my moments with my own children, I don't naturally act like that in a classroom. It isn't who I am. I am the teacher who does one-on-ones and gets to know the deeper thoughts of the more reflective children. I like to ask the naughty kids why it is they are choosing to break the rules, as opposed to just putting them into time-out. I want to offer counsel and prayer. I want them to express themselves without fear. This is perhaps why I work at a church-run preschool and not at some other place.

So even though we are supposed to be sharing the love of Jesus with the kids at vacation Bible school, are with them a very limited amount of time and do not want to even think about disciplinary measures since I'm not sure they would be appropriate anyway, I wondered what I was going to do to get the kids' attention, just in case they grew weary of my Bible story teaching. My set design would capture their imagination, I was quite certain, and the curriculum presented an interesting approach, complete with an introductory activity to gain their interest. But what would I do if it didn't?

Just before I walked out of the door on my way to the church that first night, I had a flash of inspiration, and remembered something I had purchased a couple of years ago at an outdoor craft fair. It is a hand-carved, wooden painted frog called a "soul frog" with a stick placed into its mouth. Its back has spikes carved into the wood. When this little frog is held by the back two legs and the stick is taken out and drawn across the spikes, a chirping sound is made that sounds just like, well, a frog--and also sort of like a cricket.

As I set the ground rules for how we all wanted to be good listeners so as not to miss the details of the story, I pulled out the frog and told the children that my pet frog could only make a sound when it was quiet. Otherwise he would get scared and have to remain silent. Every child immediately stopped talking to listen to the frog! I went on to tell them the Bible story about how we make plans that sometimes work and sometimes do not. But that God's plans are always the best.

pilgrimage

We all come to the water.

--the family of six celebrating their first year in North Carolina at Fort Bragg; mom organizing the kids while dad thinks about another organized run;

--a young couple collecting shells with their small child; the woman as bald as the man though probably unintentionally, perhaps hoping that as her hair lengthens so will her days to spend with her family;

--a gathering of generations all wearing white shirts getting ready for their family portrait on the beach; possibly remembering those who have gone before while holding tightly onto those coming up next;


We all come to the water.

--a one-armed man guiding his wife and children back to their campsite, embracing us with his cheerful disposition and even warmer smile;

--an older couple with too big of a truck and a ridiculously large trailer that does not seem too much when upon closer inspection the license plate reads: Nam '66 (with a purple heart emblem);

--a young woman with a certain glow who proudly shares with the world her good news blossoming in her protruding belly; the young man accompanying her having absolutely no idea what comes next;


We all come to the water.

--the Canadians--God bless the Canadians!-- who arrive primarily from Quebec with slightly different camping equipment, speaking their beautiful language--"Bienvenue;"

--a young man overcome with excitement for the waves, the sun, the incredible beauty of nature, breaks into song, "the seas are alive with the sound of music" and laughter can be the only response;

--the guy who looks like Jesus occupying the campsite we were hoping to have as we then realize that if we can't have it, who better to take it;


We all come to the water.

The sea oats each stand alone on the dunes, connected by deep root systems that unite and strengthen them against the fierce winds. They appear fragile, as though they could break without much force, but hold the sand in place so that the beach will continue to be a place for all to come. They withstand great adversity because though they seem to be independent of one another, they are actually created to live as a community.

"Everyone who thirsts,
Come to the waters;
And you who have no money,
Come, buy and eat.
Yes, come, buy wine and milk
Without money and without price.

Why do you spend money for what is not bread,
And your wages for what does not satisfy?
Listen diligently to Me, and eat what is good,
And let your soul delight itself in abundance."

[Isaiah 55:1-2]

almost technologically free

In the not too distant future I will be leaving this somewhat uncomfortable desk chair for a portable beach chair that I will place on the top of a sandy bluff, complete with ocean view. This will be where I drink the coffee my husband will make using the Coleman camp stove in the confines of the screen house which will be our home away from home. To sleep, we will walk carefully so as not to step on a cactus or sand bur the short distance to our tent. I will say, "Oh, let's leave the rain fly off," and he will say, "There is rain in the forecast and I don't want to have to get up in the middle of the night to put the fly on," and I will say, "I'll do it," and he will say, "Ok," and we will both know that when it rains in the middle of the night he will be the one getting up.

After reading, drinking coffee and not having to do anything, we will make our way down to the water's edge and try to determine how close to set up our beach tent so that when the tide comes in, we will not be washed away. This requires some thought because we may just read until we fall asleep and then wake suddenly to find ourselves scrambling to save our books.

We will splash in the water from time to time and walk along the shore. We will watch the little burrowing creatures hide themselves every time a wave carries them in. We will reflect sadly on how we have a difficult time seeing sand crabs as there are not nearly as many as there once were before vehicles were allowed to drive on the beach, and though there are roped off sections for nesting sea turtles, we wonder how they are able to survive as well in this place we are all trying to share.

When we first came to the Outer Banks almost 20 years ago, the island of Hatteras was less developed and the beach near the federal campground at Frisco felt more wild. For several years a man we called "the naked man," for obvious reasons, used to walk the beach as though nothing were unusual about his lack of attire. We would see women sunbathing topless and thought this was all pretty exotic for North Carolina. When the boys were small we let them run around in their birthday suits as well. Life at the beach goes at its own pace and has its own rules.

At dusk I will breathe a sigh of relief having made it through another day of being overly exposed to the sun's intense rays and will wash the layers of sun screen off my reddened, freckled self in the cold showers with the rope one pulls for the water to come down. I never even mind the brightly colored tree frogs who shower with me. It is all part of the experience.

After a dinner that always tastes better eaten outside, especially when we go to the local dock and buy something that was caught just hours before, we will then walk back up to our chairs and watch in awe at the expanse of stars that will get brighter with each passing hour. The Milky Way is even visible. We will watch shooting stars, see satellites and try to identify constellations. The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse light will shine its rhythmic pattern over the dunes as the sea oats wave in the breeze that will pick up sending the mosquitos away.

It is at times like these when there is no need for any technology more sophisticated than a bottle opener and a knife to cut the limes.

awaken

Sometimes a dream stays with me long after I am awake. My rational mind tries to remember the setting to determine whether I have traveled to the place before, and I like to take time to consider what the story line is telling me. Mostly I want to determine whether this dream has any hidden meaning of merit or whether I am just too stressed or ate something weird for dinner.

I laugh when people are asked if they dream in color as my dreams tend to rival Les Miserables for their lavish costumes, large musical numbers, expansive sets and engaging actors. At least once I used a dream to write a paper in school and was given an A for my imagination. Didn't have the heart to tell the teacher that all I had to do was go to sleep!

In my recent dream I was visiting a cathedral. In some ways it reminded me of the basilica I visited last summer in Asheville, NC, while on vacation with my friend, Tia. We were drawn to experience something that reminded us of our childhood faith tradition, and in my dream I seemed to have the same desire.

Alone in my dream, I thought I would spend some time in prayer. I became aware while touring this unknown cathedral that an opportunity to take communion and receive prayer existed as I discovered a schedule of services. Thinking this would be a nice experience, I continued my tour. I ended up in what appeared to be a convent, attached to the main sanctuary by a long hallway. There I could see nuns wearing blue habits getting ready to offer communion. A line of women formed to receive prayer. I could see a woman barely able to walk on her own holding up the line. She asked if someone would help her and as no one offered, I decided I would.

Once I had taken her down that long hallway back to the main sanctuary I saw a boy about the age of 12 sitting by himself. Where was his family? I wanted to know. He smiled and said he was with a group but because he could not walk he would wait for them to find him. I could not understand how he was going to be found since he was not at the meeting spot and could not get there on his own. He agreed to let me carry him and much to my surprise this was not difficult for me to do. He was nearly as tall as I am but carrying him was like carrying a baby.

Done with my good deeds, I want to rush back to the nuns. Running through a church does not seem to be a correct choice so I take a back door which leads to a rickety scaffolding I then have to navigate in the dark. This frightens me and I try not to look down as it now appears I am several stories in the air and attempting to run on narrow planks while holding onto the bars on each side. But I do not make it in time. Communion dishes are being washed and put away, and the nuns, in their matter-of-fact way, tell me they are sorry I missed communion and prayer but I may be able to participate in the main service if I hurry. So off I go hoping not to miss out on any more.

Before finding a seat I notice that someone had forgotten to light the candles! So somewhere I find a lighter and start lighting them. I pay no attention to the fact that the church is filling up and as I turn around I realize there is no where for me to sit or pray and I have missed communion altogether. I can't stay where I am, on the altar, because I really was not supposed to be there to begin with and yet I don't know where exactly it is that I am supposed to be. I say one of those panicked in-the-moment prayers asking why I could not spend time practicing my faith and celebrating tradition when it was my very intention to do so. I had come to take a little time out of my day to be with God. How could I have messed this up?

I then think about the woman I helped walk to her pew, the little boy I carried to find his group, and the candles that needed to be lit; all choices I knew I needed to make. Above the clatter of my unsettled thoughts, I heard a still small voice whisper, "You don't ever need to come looking for me when I am with you already."

choices

Certain words and concepts sometimes cause me to trip over them, like the countless number and types of male footwear all over my house. The word "choice" is one of these. There was a time, not so long ago, when someone would ask me, "Which one do you choose?" and life as I knew it would stop dead in its tracks. Why does this person think that it is up to me to decide? I would wonder. The choice was simple. I would choose whatever was on sale.

This method of thinking served me well over the years as the majority of my belongings were once owned by someone else. It only became problematic when people like Oprah challenge us women-in-search-of-ourselves to compile notebooks containing styles that speak to us and define us, colors that represent us, and unending ways to show the world who we really are based on our choices. And yet, my problem is not solved.

What invariably happens is what always happens: exceptions to the rule. My choice to persevere in the face of great odds becomes undone when tears welling up in my eyes let the other person know he or she has gotten to me, in spite of my best efforts to remain strong. My choice to seek out something that I truly want is circumvented as I start to realize that I don't care enough to obtain it, even though I am told repeatedly through the role models of our time that my self esteem depends upon it. The real challenge is not letting someone think less of me because I am a thrift store queen. What are the chances of something-someone-may-have-died-in holding up against brighter, shinier new things certain to offer one a far more favorable entree into polite society? I "choose" not to care. But sometimes I do anyway.

My choices have been questioned more than once and for good reason. Some of them have altered the course of my life. And yet we are told that we are free to choose. We are somehow given this idea that we are in charge of our own destinies and if we but walk through the correct door, all will fall into place and we will live happily ever after. As long as we maintain this self-possessing strength of character that allows us to know what is best for us, well, we've got it made. Truth is, most of the time I don't have a clue.

I don't know what this day holds in store for me. I have no idea whether or not I will lose my temper at my loved ones even though I would choose to only love them. I would like to choose something more exciting for dinner but with a big pot of beans in the refrigerator I can already tell you what we will be eating. I choose good health and will be running down the road with the dog in a few minutes trying to accomplish that goal, all the while knowing that conditions have limited me that have had nothing to do with my choices.

Rebellious to the core, I have always struggled with authority. But when I think there is a Spirit who knows more than I do, can guide me in ways that are far more brilliant than my very best plan, and can speak truth to my heart so that I can understand it, I am strangely relieved. I'm willing to admit the gig is up and I do not know what I am doing. It makes going into a thrift store more of a treasure hunt when I discover amazing items seemingly waiting for me that I actually really like. It makes my whole life a lot more exciting when I am led on this grand adventure by One capable of setting into motion all sorts of scenarios--some I would choose and others, not so much.

known

Years pass and memories fade. And then comes a lunch invitation with the hope of reconnecting with someone I once knew. I wonder if our friendship will take up where it left off, wherever that was. Does my friend regard me the same way that I think of her? We have each undoubtedly moved on to other friends that fulfill our needs. Can we still make room for each other?

It brings me comfort to think that I am known by someone. And yet it is a misleading notion since we are not images in frames on a wall, frozen in time. We live. We breathe. We move into our ever-changing beings, becoming at times even unrecognizable to ourselves.

Sometimes I will think back to how I first met someone and reflect on my initial impression. I retrace our shared journey on a well-worn map in my mind. Spending time at someone's home reveals more about the person than his or her favorite colors or the ability to purchase quality furnishings. There are tell-tale signs of children--toys that have not found their way back to the toy box, muddy soccer cleats by the door, clothes en route to the laundry room--or the equally apparent lack of children, quietly filling a room with the emptiness of a woman's longing to turn the office into a nursery.

A weekend trip to the beach in which each woman is encouraged to share her story can launch a friendship into an intimate place with lightning speed. An invitation into someone's deepest heartaches opens a door that does not close easily. Celebrations open all of the windows. And with each opening of space into someone's life comes the knowing that something mystical is at work, forging a relationship in a way that requires more than human will.

Given all of that, I promised myself to hold it together and wait until my friend responded to me so I would know how to respond to her. Joy spread across our faces as we exited our vehicles and walked toward each other in a restaurant parking lot. There we embraced and openly wept in each other's arms. We could have pretended that it was not that big of a deal. We are grown women, after all, and each have active lives in which we are counted on to show leadership ability and professional conduct. But we chose instead to live, for that moment, in a very sacred space.

day old popcorn

Making my way through the devotional I've been reading for the past several months has left me grateful for the experience, yet longing for more. The words of Ann Voskamp, the author of One Thousand Gifts, has spoken to me in ways I had not previously been reached. I think it has been her honesty. She writes what others are thinking but do not dare say out loud.

The point of this book are the forty lined pages at the back. Each numbered line waits for me to come up with a word or phrase representing a blessing--a reason to feel loved. Feeling loved can also have to do with what I love. Rediscovering a list I made in a journal I still have near my rocking chair (from 2005!) I am reminded of how making this sort of a list helps one become present to life and find joy in the simple things.

coffee with cream
dark chocolate
the smell of rain
the sound of waves
singing together
flute music
quiet
eating garden-ripened tomatoes
laughing so hard I can't breathe
making someone else laugh
words spelled correctly
Birkenstock sandals
Just For Redheads cosmetics
conversations that have meaning
no laundry to do
pecan pie
handmade gifts
antique toys
Thanksgiving food
campfires
a well-told story
sunscreen protection
a good pillow
the possibility of angels
Mexican food
dark beer
red wine
no cavities
the scale going down
wearing black
being alone
being included
getting published
crying in a healing way
being united with others in the Spirit
hearing the birds before dawn
mint chocolate chip ice cream

Another thing that makes me profoundly happy is day old popcorn. Most people would probably say it is stale and throw it away, but I actually enjoy the chewy, salty, buttery goodness of it. I will make popcorn when I don't really want some just to leave it for the next day. Makes no sense at all.

overheard

The conversation went something like this:

girl: I can't believe you said that.
boy: Why?
girl: Because it made me mad!
boy: That is why I said it.
girl: Why would you want to make me mad?
boy: I've never seen you mad before.
girl: Sure you have. I've been mad plenty of times.
boy: I've never seen you mad at me. I wanted to see what that would be like.
girl: (speechless)

As a proctor at our local middle school for the end of the year testing, I have to find ways to engage my mind since a three-hour period is a long time to walk around a classroom, looking over kids' shoulders to make sure they aren't cheating. I'm always grateful when someone "needs" to go to the restroom. So I count the students based on varying criteria, categorize them and sometimes even make up stories about them.

Half of the students were wearing hoodies, obviously to ward off frost bite since the temperature of the room was similar to that of a walk-in freezer. The one with pink polka-dots got my vote. Nike shoes and Rainbow sandals seem to be the footwear of choice. Most of the students had varying shades of black to brown hair, with two on the blonde side of the hair color spectrum. One kid wore glasses. There was one redhead.

A few of them realized that I was in fact their math teacher's wife and this left them wondering what kind of a home life he must have. I wondered which of these students were the cause of their teacher's thoughts of retirement.

As I gazed upon the fresh faces of tomorrow, young people not yet knowing who they are with their braces glittering in the fluorescent lighting of the room,  I wondered what was going on in the minds of the girls with the lip gloss and painted nails; the kids who could use more time in the gym and less in the cafeteria; and the boys who may continue to wear athletic clothing every day of their school lives. Would the girl who kept fixing her hair find more meaningful pursuits? Would the self-confident boy who asked me boldly how I was doing find a leadership role in society? Would the kids who kept sniffling, forced to use pieces of cardboard-like paper towel to continue to blow their noses, ever regain their health? Would that boy try to make that girl mad again?

Testing had ended. The redhead and I exchanged a knowing smile.

a day in the life

5:30 Teacher husband's alarm goes off. Too early. Can't get back to sleep. Enjoy listening to the birds. It is amazing how many bird songs can be heard right before dawn.

7:30 Wave good-bye to those going off to school. Take a few moments to read and reflect on greater truths. Get dressed. Drink coffee. Walk the dog.

8:09 Have figured out this is the last possible time to leave for work without being late. Better to leave earlier in case there is a train or an accident blocking the road, but usually can't force myself to do so.

8:30 Walk through the red door into the preschool where I started working back in 2001, when the boys were 3, 6 and 9. Go about my duties in exactly the same way every day like an obsessive compulsive person. This way I don't have to think. I just do. I have other things on my mind, like words that are organizing themselves into a poem or a prayer, or art I am in the process of creating.

8:50-1:15 Play with babies while sitting on the floor in bare feet. Rock back and forth in a rocking chair, garnering strength for the rest of my day. Talk with my teaching partner, another mother of three, about everything going on in our lives. Chat with other teachers and parents. Drink more coffee.

1:35 Arrive home. Take out dog. Take a short nap if possible. Make it possible. Coffee.

2:30 Decide whether to do dishes, laundry, cooking, go running or work on art. This is problematic because there is usually only time to accomplish one of these goals. If I choose to run, then what is for dinner? If I choose to cook, who is going to run the dog? The dishwasher has been broken since December 1, 2011 some time in the early afternoon. The washing machine seems to be heading toward the same appliance demise, as its random beeping seems to indicate. What IS for dinner? I have no idea.

From this point on there is a complex choreography of transportation and events rivaling the greatest productions of our time. Practices, games, classes and meetings are all scheduled and like clockwork each person gets to each event more or less on time. Uniforms, taking precedence over regular laundry, are at the ready. Food in various forms is available for whomever, whenever, even if it is not to everyone's liking. A hope to have us seated around the table together again someday lingers.

Of course in the midst of this dizzying array of endless opportunity lies my unfinished and often unrealized life as a writer and an artist. How long does it take me to make a bed bunny? I am sometimes asked. That depends, I want to say, on how many people, places and things need to happen involving me and the minivan on any given day. And besides, it isn't like I time myself. Sewing has its own rhythm providing soothing relief from too much hurriedness. How can I increase my productivity and my income for my business? I was asked recently. Ah . . . live alone?!

Suggestions are sometimes made to me about letting others "help" with creating my art. Not sure how that would work. Translating my vision into something someone wants to purchase is difficult enough for me to do, but I'm not sure how I would communicate my artistic thought process to someone else who would then duplicate what I am doing. Perhaps I flatter myself but I would like to think that what I am creating is one-of-a-kind art and not easily mass produced flea market fare. Sure there is money to be made getting out a glue gun and following some downloadable pattern, but I make my own patterns. In fact, I have created everything I sell, sometimes from dreams and visions I have actually had. I like to cook the same way--often making up a recipe as I go. It takes longer but the result is worth waiting for. And there is so much more joy in the process.

The interesting part about these conversations involving my creativity is that they usually end in one of two ways. I am either cast in the role of an idealistic purist choosing a life of abject poverty in the futile hope of saving the world by reaching the hearts of people, not yet recognizing that this is a ridiculous waste of time and why in the world am I not pursuing a REAL job; or, I am made to feel like I have been blessed with unique gifts that I can choose to share with those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, knowing that ultimately I will receive provision because there are greater forces at work in my life.

Hmm. I wonder which one of these thoughts will motivate me to be creative today.

beyond survival

Too lazy to get up and turn the television channel to something more worthwhile, I found myself watching Undercover Boss last night. It was actually a "best of" show highlighting some of the more extreme situations. What stood out to me as these company presidents and leaders of business worked alongside their employees, doing whatever was required to earn them a paycheck, was that so many of these employees were at that particular job for one simple reason: money. Not the kind of money the business owner was making since he or she undoubtedly had more education and caught the breaks necessary to climb the ladder of success, but a paycheck nonetheless which would allow another mortgage to be paid and kids to find something on their dinner plates. I wondered what had happened somewhere along the line to get these people to this point in life. Naturally I reflected on my own path.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" is the question asked to children and kids getting ready to don cap and gown to walk across a stage, receiving a diploma and a handshake. Does anyone ever say, "I want to work in a dead-end job?" I remember thinking that I would love to travel, write, and become rich and famous. The rich and famous part would be necessary to make the traveling possible.

Trying to figure out what to major in if one is fortunate enough to get to go to college is not easy. Especially when I had just turned 18 and had no idea what life was like in the wider world. One of the good things about being from a small town is that everyone knows you. One of the bad things about being from a small town is that everyone knows you. This sense that others may be looking out for your best interests is not how life works. And though I never felt alone sitting by myself in the woods or in the tree where I liked to read or write in my journal, I often feel very alone in the midst of people. I thought that becoming a journalist would somehow shield me from that insecurity because I would be the one asking the questions--the one in charge of presenting the unvarnished truth to the eager, awaiting masses. (With that kind of imagination I should have majored in English or Drama!)

I keep hearing that recent graduates are having a hard time finding work in their chosen fields. I remember facing the same problem. It is at times like this that survival instincts kick in. The paycheck becomes the bottom line, even a paycheck way below what you thought you would be earning with the amount of effort involved in higher education. This was the case in my first job when my soon-to-be employer told me that he could not afford to pay me what I was worth but the job was mine if I wanted it. Rent was due and my unplanned fasting was getting the better of me. Thus would begin a series of dead-end jobs that in no way reflected what my childhood dreams were about. And yet, there was still a spark, a lingering hope, a desire that would not die.

My first job out of college ended when a partner embezzled a large sum of money, thanks in part to my efficient work as an unknowing accomplice, which eventually encouraged my boss to accept an offer to sell his company when he had the chance. I was grateful to not be indicted and do prison time, like the hapless partner, so I became a temporary employee going from office to office often answering phones and trying to make the best of it. Being a temp provided me with so much more expertise than I ever imagined. I would learn how to deal with sexual harassment in a never-ending variety of situations, and to cope with all of the rest of the people who thought I was not worthy of respect because I was, after all, a temp. My best temp job was at a law firm in which a team of us worked on a long-term project. Every single one of us had unrealized hopes and dreams. Writers, actors, musicians, teachers, a paralegal and a school principal who wanted to make movies made up our ranks of those-who-had-not-yet-fulfilled-their-callings-in-life. We became friends as we celebrated our potential and laughed at the mundane nature of our current work lives. We took turns choosing music for the office and making each other cakes. It didn't matter that we were getting paid horrible wages and were seen as nobodies because we could see each other through a lens of truth. We may have looked like mild mannered Clark Kents but we knew we were really superheroes just waiting for the chance to fly. And maybe even save someone--perhaps ourselves.

Still, after all of these years, I find it interesting that the question, "What do you do?" is difficult to answer. To say I'm a preschool teacher is kind of misleading because I don't see myself as a teacher at all. I've spent the past nine months rocking babies to sleep and being blessed to do it. Does my job require higher education? No. It requires a compassionate heart and a willing spirit. One also needs to show up on time and be responsible but aside from that, there isn't a lot of training necessary. Sometimes I say I'm an artist, depending on the person asking the question. That is also confusing since it is more of a hobby than a business, especially based on the amount of money I bring home.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a writer. Always have been, always will be. So am I rich and famous? Rich in blessings. Famous among those on my Christmas list. Have I traveled? I got to live in Denver for about a decade, went to California a couple of times, as well as New York. I've been to Quebec and spoke French. I have traveled to far and distant places through the many books I've read and movies I've seen.

What most of the undercover bosses came to understand is that their employees are not that different from them. Maybe life threw some of these workers some curves and they had some extra struggles along the way, self-inflicted or otherwise. At the end of the day we all want to come home and feel like whatever it was that we did mattered. That we matter. And whether or not we have achieved our dreams or not, there is still hope. And no one can take that away.