I'll take Mozart

Walking through the carpeted hallways of a well-regarded private school on the other side of town, I joined the group of women showing up looking somewhat frazzled after hours spent teaching small children. I chose the music instruction for preschool workshop as my way of obtaining the ongoing teaching credits necessary for my job.

I know music to an extent, having studied piano and flute for seven years from 5th grade through high school. I would pick up my flute again at the tender age of 29 performing in my last flute ensemble concert of our small community college class taught by a woman who played flute in the Denver Chamber Orchestra. I was pregnant with Gabriel at the time, aware that music instruction may have to be shelved while the demands of motherhood took over. After my flute was stolen during a break-in, and returned to me after divine intervention led me to the correct pawn shop, I made good on my promise to God by playing my flute in church where I hope to play it again someday--but I digress.

In the music room of this school, we sat in chairs around a carpet filled with musical symbols, where the students would sit during class. We were shown video clips of young children dancing around the circle using small steps and big ones; matching the musical selections in tone and intensity. As the music teacher read a book to us with a musical accompaniment, I experienced the pleasure of reentering my childhood, remembering how much I love being read to and how satisfying a beautifully illustrated children's book can be. I started thinking about the many books I have loved as a child, then as a mother and a teacher, and . . . .

By the end of the workshop we were each given a turn to go to the teacher's table to pick out either a cd or a poster for our classroom. Music is a powerful stimulant but can also evoke a sense of relaxation, thus giving our thoughts a chance to process more deeply. Studies have shown that the brain becomes engaged, soothed and encouraged to form all kinds of connections by listening to Mozart. The variety of children's music designed to awaken the sensitivities of the very young, as well as the brightly colored wall posters were inviting. But having much to consider lately, I popped in the cd I chose as I started my car. Angelic strains of Eine kleine Nachtmusik in G major came forth, bringing rest to my soul.  

another one of those dreams

The other night I had one of those dreams that haunt me for days afterward. Though science tells us we are not in REM sleep very long, this dream seemed to go on all night. Most of the specifics of the dream were already forgotten upon waking, and yet there is one detail that still has hold of me.

In the dream I am going about my day--busy as usual. I go to work at the preschool. I run errands. I come home and go to work again. I then go to sporting events, or meetings, or go back to work in the evenings. Fortunately the work I keep mentioning is making art and is as therapeutic as it is necessary for my business to thrive.

Throughout the dream, in each scene of my daily life, I see in the background a small child. Engaged as I am carrying out whatever my duties are at the moment, I do not take the time to follow up on the passing thoughts I have regarding the child. As the dream progresses, the thoughts become more prevalent. Why is that child wandering around alone? Where is the mother? I am not even sure whether the child is male or female since the child's hair is cut short and uneven, as though someone were in a hurry.

Near the end of the dream, while I am in the middle of something that is requiring most of my attention, I suddenly sense the child standing nearby. I look down and gasp. The child is me.

She stands there with tears running down her young face, her pre-plastic surgery lip trembling. The all-too-familiar pixie haircut is as unflattering as ever. Her nondescript shirt and jeans made her look like a boy. Her near-sighted blue eyes look directly into mine, quietly pleading for help. She has just enough color on her freckled face and chopped off red hair to stand out in the room, but not in the confident way children who know they are deeply loved do.

Though it is my natural inclination to comfort a child, as I have learned throughout my tenure as a preschool teacher, as well as in motherhood, I knelt down but then froze in place. There were so many things I wanted to tell her--words of wisdom and comfort, but all I heard myself saying through my tears was that it would be ok, having no idea of whether or not that was what she needed to hear or even if it was true.

a guy named Keith

The first recollection I have of Keith Uffman is when my husband, Lee, came home saying that our then seventh grade son, Ariel, who wanted to go out for track, was being coached by a guy named Keith.

We then had the following conversation:

"Keith who?"

"I have no idea."

"Is he a teacher?"

"I don't think so."

"Then he must be somebody's dad."

"I do not know who he is."

This guy named Keith, who stood near the far corner of the track wearing a big hat, shouting out times to track kids who were trying to run faster, remained a mystery until we heard that his last name was Uffman. The only other person we knew by that name was Mary Helen so by default he had to be her husband.

One day Lee noticed Keith dropping off his daughter for cross county training at Hagan Stone Park--I KNEW he had to be somebody's dad--and as both men are runners, they ran together. In the course of their conversation Keith would tell Lee that when he wasn't coaching middle school track, he was pastoring a church--Alamance Presbyterian Church. But only when asked directly did Keith share with Lee his level of education.

"So what do I call you?" Lee asked.  "Reverend? Doctor? Coach?"

"Call me Keith," was his answer.

(We would sometimes refer to him by some variation of the Reverend Doctor Coach Mr. Uffman in the privacy of our own home, but to his face we called him Keith.)

Keith invited us to come to church. Lee invited Keith to come to our oldest son's high school graduation party at our home. We came to Alamance; loved the music, the preaching and the welcome. Keith showed up at our party, politely engaging my parents in conversation, and getting to know so much about us.

As our sons have gone through school, Keith coached Ariel and Joel for track, and Mary Helen taught and coached them in soccer, earning both of the Uffmans a place of honor in our family, reserved for anyone who helps us raise our boys well.

Seven years ago Keith could have introduced himself to us as the Reverend Dr. Uffman, as he has earned that right, but as he explained it to Lee, a title can be a barrier, a division between people, and not necessarily the best way to get to know someone. Though we were not sure what our church affiliation would be, it seemed clear from the start that we had found a friend.

Keith often chooses not to wear a traditional Presbyterian robe, which could further separate himself from the body of Christ. He not only invites ALL of God's children to the table of the Lord to receive communion, but lives out this ecumenical invitation in his studies, in dialogue with interfaith leaders, and in counseling those in need--with a generous portion of compassion and a bit of humor thrown in. It has been up to Keith to remind us that we are all beloved children of God. It is up to God to sort out the rest.

It would take me a year of investigating the Presbyterian faith, including reading the Book of Order, and other great books and authors Keith has continued to recommend, before I was willing to join this church. Keith kept telling me, "Only God can bind your conscience," whatever that means. Thanks to Keith's patient endurance of my endless questioning, I, too, could become a Presbyterian.

When I recently thanked Keith for sharing his pulpit with me so I could read what I had written to the congregation, he was quick to point out that it was never his pulpit, but God's pulpit. It is not his church, but a church in which the Spirit of the Lord dwells.

This is a testament of the character of the man who has been in leadership here for the past 18 years: a quiet man with a brilliant mind, gentle spirit and sparkling wit; a humble minister of the Word who has faithfully yielded his life to serve God and all of us. A guy named Keith.

mental

Words of inspiration on Facebook sometimes ring true to me and I will post them on my wall with the hope that someone else will be able to relate to the sentiment as I do. It is a subtle way of letting others know what I like and who I am.

The other day I came across a post that I felt completely opposed to--so much so that I need to write a rebuttal of sorts just to get it out of my system.

The original post, with a picture of a runner in the background, is as follows:

6 Things Mentally Strong People Do

1.  They move on. They don't waste time feeling sorry for themselves.
2.  They embrace change. They welcome challenges.
3.  They stay happy. They don't waste energy on things they can't control.
4.  They are kind, fair and unafraid to speak up.
5.  They are willing to take calculated risks.
6.  They celebrate other people's success. They don't resent that success.


1. Mentally strong people move on and do not feel sorry for themselves.

I don't know about you but I have had the misfortune of having some of these people cross my path. Moving on is often translated to mean refusing to work through the issues. A wall goes up when questions are asked. No, they do not waste time feeling sorry for themselves or anyone else, which does not make them selfless or mentally strong, but just the opposite. Chances are, they may even be responsible for the problem, but will move on anyway leaving behind a mess for others to clean up.

2. Embracing change and welcoming challenges.

This sounds amazing, doesn't it. Being a real change agent. When the changes are promotions, more money, better stuff, good things happening--sure. Who welcomes the challenge of adjusting to the diagnosis of a life-altering illness? Loss of job? Loss of home? Loss of income? Loss of a loved one? I've known so-called mentally strong people fall apart in the midst of something I would consider relatively minor. Maybe those who say they embrace change have not really had to.

3. Staying happy and not wasting energy on things they cannot control are two very different ideas.

People who claim to be happy all the time are not. Their forced smiles, strained voices and mannerisms are carefully choreographed to avoid dealing with how they really feel. Maybe they are forcing themselves to suck it up because the change they said they would embrace was not exactly what they had in mind. They cannot feel sorry for themselves because they are mentally strong. Therefore, they present themselves in ways that make them appear as believable as cartoon characters.

4. Kind, fair, unafraid to speak up.

It has not been my experience that this sort of mentally strong person is kind. Of course when I'm thinking of kindness, I'm thinking of empathy. In order to have empathy for another human being, one has to enter into that person's pain, something many people are unwilling or unable to do. Fairness would amount to treating each person the same as the next, or in this case, not engaging deeply with anyone. Afraid to speak up? Oh no, this person will tell you to embrace change and move on!

5. Calculated risks.

If one is not going to waste energy on things he or she cannot control, how can there be any time devoted for planning a calculated risk? Weren't we just embracing whatever happens, come what may? Mentally strong people will risk what they can control to avoid appearing weak like the sappy people whose very act of expressing emotion may enable others to release their pent up emotion. Putting up the brave front does not ultimately make one stronger. Internalizing feelings backfires in the end.

6. Celebrating the success of others.

Celebrating someone else requires the willingness to enter into that person's life for a few minutes. I can celebrate someone's good fortune that far outweighs mine. Most people I know have better stuff and more money than I do. Their houses are bigger, their vacations more exciting, and I celebrate their happiness--especially when they do not feel guilty for their many blessings. I can feel the sentiment of someone who is truly celebrating me versus someone who is trying to say and do the right thing.

The picture on the inspirational poster is of a runner and if this is the lens in which these six items are seen, it makes a big difference. Being mentally tough is a big part of running as it requires that sort of strength for runners to keep moving on and not feeling sorry for themselves even though they may want to rest. They challenge themselves to run further and faster and embrace whatever is on the path ahead. They have to devote all of their energy to running and focus on remaining positive, not worrying about what may be around the next corner. They possess a kindness, fairness and willingness to speak up to tell someone they are about to pass them. These are common courtesies of all runners. They take calculated risks and keep on going. And at the finish line all are celebrated for having achieved the goal of finishing, regardless of times, needed breaks, injuries or anything else.

I would like to say that running and life are exactly the same, and it would actually be easier if they were, but they are not. There are reasons we each make the choices that we do--reasons that may not make sense to someone who has not experienced them.

We all move on at different speeds. It is hard to question what is going on in one's inner life. What resembles self-absorption may in fact be the process of surrendering it all to God.

Change will come whether we embrace it or not. It is in the daily rhythms of life we figure out how to adapt. When I am ready to accept whatever is before me, I believe I will be shown how.

If I live my life according to the way of Jesus, I let him forge my path. Happiness is circumstantial and fleeting. Joy, even in the midst of terrible sorrow, remains.

I am not afraid to speak up. My challenge has been to find someone who will listen. It is not kind or fair to ignore someone with a quieter presence. We all have something to say.

I take a calculated risk every time I write what is truly on my heart. I risk offending those I wish to bless. I risk having what I believe dismissed by those who cannot or will not try to understand.

Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep. That has been my biblical motto for many years. When we can enter into the lives of each other, we can learn to walk together--and even run!

We will someday each cross the ultimate finish line with those who have gone before cheering us on. No more definitions of what it means to be mentally strong. No more sadness. No more change. No more control issues or risk-taking. All tears will be wiped away.

And all the people said amen.

right now

An after-holiday hush has settled over the house as I look around, contemplating what came before, and what comes next.

Behind me, in my work area, is a rather large unruly pile of unsold pillows and fabric, next to the clothing rack containing three new items I was able to purchase for seventy percent off from a failed department store. Below are bins of fabric scraps, fiberfill for stuffing pillows, and next to the closet is a rather large wicker basket with partial bolts of cloth along with wallpaper and wrapping paper. A small table is covered with the remnants of a put-together shelving unit that I have replaced with a better system, though having no idea yet where to place all of the bits and pieces it contains.

Cut out are the ornaments that never got made; garlands I never stitched the words "merry and bright" on. My ideas always overwhelm my schedule. Time is a strict task master. Once the deadline for a seasonal item has passed, it will not come around again for another year. Well-meaning friends suggest that I begin to work on these items sooner. They are right, though my natural proclivity is to procrastinate.

Possibilities loom. A gift card was spent in the ordering of yet another shelving system for the other wall. Floor to ceiling on every side will the raw materials await a spark of creativity that will render them beautiful. Placed in their baskets and jars will buttons, thread, wire and all miscellaneous materials dwell until they are called forth. My mind spins. So much work ahead. So many hours to disappear in the process of creating. I look forward to falling back down the rabbit hole and losing myself in my own wonderland.

It is here that I pause.

As I warm my hands on a snowman mug of hot coffee, I savor this moment. Right here. Right now.

Looking back is never wise for me unless I am recalling a lesson I learned so I do not repeat it, or to remind myself that I am in fact still loved by God. I will want to account for the choices I have made to decide whether to head in a different direction. I will need to take a good long look at how things went before starting something new.

Anticipating the future often causes me more stress than it is worth as I do not possess a natural optimism. I often do not expect things to turn out well which probably has more to do with looking back than it does in moving forward. We tell ourselves not to have expectations. I still wonder how that works as I expect so many things both great and small on any given day.

The challenge as ever is simply to BE. Be careful. Be creative. Be happy. Be at peace. Be well. Be yourself. Be still.

A look behind. A glance forward. A steady gaze out my window at the albino squirrels chasing each other around a tree. Grateful to be here, I wait for inspiration to awaken.