breaking up is hard to do

Expressing myself through the written word is my preferred form of communication, but also the one that gets me into the most trouble. In its favor, it has a permanence that can allow for interpretation further on down the road. Or at least that is what I always hope will happen, after the initial misunderstanding. Words spoken off the cuff, in anger, also can have lasting effects, but re-living them only happens in one's mind until most of what was said is forgotten, to resurface only in the safety of a counselor's office or triggered by the next time it happens.

I put a lot of time into my plan to leave my job, hoping beyond hope that this time I could curb some of the fallout, the unnecessary drama that keeps everyone from having a good day.

To begin, I did not want to leave my job. In fact, I really liked my job, in spite of the assessment of a previous director who did not realize I was educated, competent or even human. At that time, I was reduced to the output of a laptop computer that crashed frequently causing me to lose all of my hard work and making it appear as though I had no skills when in reality the IT guy (may he rest in peace) told me my computer was broken. Hoping I would not end up in the same condition, I was given a computer of a woman who threw things in her cubicle the day she left until they told her they WOULD pay her for her vacation days after all, and she was able to calm down and collect her things in a box.

Writing, editing and proofreading is what I have always done. When I was in 5th grade if you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up my answer would be swift and plain: I want to be a writer. I wanted to travel to foreign lands. I wanted to read books by myself in the big tree on our farm. Instead of spending a lot of time with dolls, though I did enjoy creating doll houses out of shoe boxes and miscellaneous materials, I created a library complete with library cards in which I wanted my sisters to check out books. They, of course, wanted nothing to do with this game and could not understand why I was again asserting my authority over them. That was easy--I was the oldest. I needed no other reason.

In 7th grade I co-edited our class newsletter which meant I corrected the spelling and punctuation of willing classmates who desired to record the news of our small elementary school which was across the road from my dad's cherry orchard. I could wave to him on his tractor from the playground.

In high school, after finding myself so many points below failing geometry, which was unacceptable for a mostly A student, my guidance counselor found me a place in Mrs. B's journalism class. It was as though the skies had parted and a light had shone down from heaven: I had found my home. I co-edited the high school newspaper, re-writing stories to correct format and then took them down to the local newspaper to have it printed. I felt like I was on-track to becoming a journalist and decided to major in it in college and eventually graduate school.

But life is full of surprises and though I did work as a journalist briefly for a small newspaper in Colorado, my work life would lead me to data base editor positions at a law firm and many various administrative assistant positions before I became a preschool teacher for many years. I also helped my husband through two graduate programs and my sons through whatever papers they were writing.

So imagine my joy when not only would I be given a computer that did not lose all my work but my supervisor at that time recommended I be promoted to an editor position within the agency! It was not glamorous and the raise barely paid my bills, but I would get to read reports written by social workers who were not writers and I would make sentences better, spell words correctly, and insert punctuation wherever it was needed. It made my heart sing to employ the wonders of grammar daily.

For nine months I learned how to do this job and nine more felt comfortable with it. As the dark cloud of a job review gathered above my head, marking me down on tasks not assigned to me, I defended my work. Pointing this out did not make me popular or even heard. Then hard times hit and we were all asked to do our part and I kept reading and correcting and doing the absolute best I could do until we were all one by one called into the office, as though it were somehow the principal's office of which I know nothing because I was a good little girl and never got into trouble. Suddenly I was being told that my job description was going to be divided among others, I would take my previous title or some new variation thereof, take a cut in pay and even have to move into a cubicle the size of a small desk where the only window was so high above the desk that the sun shining in made it impossible to see my computer screen and I had to put a bulletin board behind the blinds to block the light.

And there it was: an impasse I could not traverse.

So I started to write a letter. At first it was your basic resignation-by-number letter that is a standard template used by many to professionally end their commitment. Obviously I was not going to do that. Having lost all I had, the last thing I could not lose was my voice. My words. My thoughts in written form like only I could write them. As I wrote this letter, I would stop and edit out the anger. I wrote this letter over and over for about three weeks. I had this amount of time because after the meeting in which my job description was taken away, I had found a new one by the next week, and would need to leave by the end of the month.

To give notice or not to give notice, that was the problem plaguing me. To give notice did not ensure that I could stay and get paid, and it would be perfectly legal for my employer to make that decision. In the end I realized my job had already given notice to me and I therefore would not need to give notice for something I no longer had. A part-time administrative assistant could be found the same day with a couple of phone calls. An editor with my credentials could not.

I wanted everyone in my small office to be given the same message to eliminate the need for comparisons or gossip. I wanted to demonstrate what I had been through since by this point I was one of the senior members of the staff though certainly not treated as such, and I wanted the rest of the one-page letter to be a place in which I could express my thanks to each staff member. I kind of saw it as an end of life letter that finally expresses in writing what one would not say out loud to anyone's face. I meant it sincerely as thank-you and good-bye. Nothing more, nothing less.

But here is where things took an unexpected turn.

Going into work on what I knew was my last day, I felt the need to tell my newly appointed supervisor my plan. I had told this woman three weeks before there was a great likelihood of my departure but that I was not willing to give notice. She told me she would tell those in charge. I could tell by the way they diverted their eyes every time I saw them that they knew. I was already being left behind by the herd for the wild animals to pick off at their leisure. I was no longer one of them. So on this day, my supervisor immediately called them, putting into motion something that did not resemble my plan. It was more closely associated with the nightmares I had been having for quite some time.

I was asked to write a resignation letter and told her I had written a letter. She said she didn't want a letter I would have written but something professional for my file. Three sentences later starting with, "Effective today" and ending with "my apologies," and I knew this thing was no longer in my hands. My hope for quietly going into that office that afternoon and sitting down to explain why I was leaving and how I could not be certain I would get paid for the two weeks and therefore could not give notice, was gone. Things went from bad to worse as I was called into the conference room to meet with those in charge. None of us even sat down. It was a standing meeting with my succinct resignation letter on the table in front of us, smiling up at me and apparently mocking them.

Suffice it to say it did not go well.

I then made the regrettable move of actually placing the letter I had written in each of their mailboxes. I say regrettable and yet I did not know at which moment I would be asked to leave and wanted the chance to leave the letter, so I did. (I would find out the next day by a coworker who had left the office early that she did not know it was my last day and contacted me to say good-bye. She knew nothing of the letter I had left for her since it was no longer in her box when she went to get her mail.) I should not have returned to the office after lunch but did so because my supervisor wanted as much information as she could get about my job that I no longer had, even though we had spent numerous hours for the previous three weeks transferring that information. I had not taken vacation hours as many with my plan for departure have done. I stayed to make sure every detail I could think of was covered.

Just as I was standing up, signing off my computer, gathering the last of my belongings, I was confronted by those in charge, this time shaking my true letter in my face with an anger I had hoped not to ever experience. I was told again how unprofessional I was, but the thing that seemed to get under the skin the most was that I had freely let my words tell my story and had not gone through the channels of leadership to communicate. I did not want my life reduced to an office memo. I knew I had broken the rules but I could not help it. I did not, as I was accused, write the letter to make anyone look bad. I wrote the letter to explain what had happened to me and why I needed to leave. It was further proof that some people will not ever know who I am and will therefore react in anger. I did not feel much of anything by that point. I had done what I could. I had a job that I liked, I did it to the best of my ability, it was taken away, and I left. The end.

I began again a new job today. It is not a job of writing or editing, but a job of caring for the needs of young children. I have always known that I have a special place in the hearts of babies, dogs, and special needs people. They somehow "get me" in ways others do not. I do not know why this is the case. I only know that their honesty does not tend to get them into trouble in the way mine does.

artists, crafters, and voodoo dolls

We seemingly have entered into a time in our collective lives in which group think wins and an outlier to popular opinion will be scorned, mocked and chased back into whatever corner is thought to be the nearest. It is one thing to engage in a political debate on Facebook; it seems to me to be quite another to attack a woman on a crafter's page who dared to state her opinion openly.

This particular crafter's page is one I ended up on, for reasons I am not too sure of at the moment, in which people who make things to sell post them as others generally give constructive criticism or encouragement. Most of what I see on that page is made from kits or configured with the trusty glue gun, and though I do not purport to be better than anyone, I see myself as an artist and not as a crafter in the true sense of the word. Artists create their own patterns and designs; crafters use the patterns and designs of others. I also feel it would take something away from my art if I started gluing on the buttons instead of sewing them on by hand. In any case, I would never impugn the work of someone who is trying to create something. We all have different expressions and abilities.

Yesterday, however, this crafter's page seemed to turn a corner.

A woman stated she would have to leave the page and would no longer be a part of whatever it is they are doing because she was so offended by someone's creation of a voodoo doll. She said it was evil and the practice of using a voodoo doll was hateful and she could no longer be associated with this page if someone was practicing the ritual of voodoo. Why she did not just take her leave, I am uncertain, but I have to believe that she felt the need to express why she was going, perhaps because she had enjoyed the fellowship this page had offered her, or maybe because she was truly concerned for the maker of such an item as she was for those who would unwittingly buy something with potential evil attached to it. I am pretty much making this up, but this is what I would like to believe.

Ok. On the one hand, this is hilarious. Having traveled to the birthplace of voodoo--Benin, West Africa--I can tell you that I even laughed there, when I saw a voodoo doll in a store. The idea of putting a spell on someone, however, I believe can be real, and black magic is not something I would ever want to mess with or encourage someone else to do so. But we each have our own minds to make up and I am not in charge of what anyone thinks, except for myself.

In response to this woman's earnest comment differentiating right from wrong within her own moral code were jeers and mocking comments of a ferocity that surprised me. Were these good-natured women at home quietly gluing buttons onto snowmen made of old socks and putting together one more identical teddy bear made from chenille or an angry mob with scissors in hand ready to attack? It seemed the latter was playing itself out among the pre-cut felt ornaments.

The woman must have left the page because when I went back to see the aftermath, her post, along with some 100 responses, has been erased. But not before these angry crafters let one of their own have it with the force of 20 bags of fiberfill. They told her she had no right to her own opinion, said she shouldn't promise to leave the page--do it already!, and then quite a few started posting photos of voodoo dolls and saying how badly they wanted to make them and how wonderfully cute they are. What the point of all of this was, in my mind, was really quite terrible. I imagine a God-fearing woman faithfully knitting together her own crafts to sell at her church bazaar while perhaps this new generation is knitting pussy hats for their next demonstration. Whatever way one needs to express herself is wide open. We live in a free country. Could we love each other just a little bit more?

To have her own group tear her to pieces because what she holds dear was found offensive by some members of the group does not mean she should be shunned. It is obvious to point out that perhaps because she is shunning the group by leaving the page that it is all good and right to do the same to her. I cannot be the judge. But there seemed to be a level above live-and-let-live that seemed a bit over the top this time.

It is for this reason I shy away from political, religious or personal opinions that may not be shared by others and may in fact invite severe criticism. Whatever happened to civil social discourse? If I write something, it is because it is my experience, something seen through my eyes, expressed by me alone. Like my art in which I create the design and the pattern qualifying it as an art and not a craft, what I write is of my own ideas, like what a friend said recently of my Christmas letter; it was very "Mary Ellen."

There is "nothing new under the sun," as is attributed to Solomon in the Bible. So maybe what this woman did, standing up against that which she perceived as evil, has always resulted in the same way. Look what happened to Jesus. Of course that angry crowd was probably not threatening him with knitting needles and crochet hooks.

Voodoo dolls, nevertheless, will be made from patterns, crocheted, and stitched (dare I say glued) together for the betterment (or not) of society. Some people will laugh while others will shun. Craft fairs will continue to offer dish towels and plaques, paint-by-numbers and the latest pre-fabricated whatevers. And somewhere out there is a woman who will be praying that evil does not ever overcome good. I, for one, hope her prayer is answered.

I'm glad you're here

I was in Group 9, the last group to board the plane because I chose to fly Basic Economy, the cheapest of the cheap tickets one can purchase. What that means is I was not allowed even one carry-on bag for the overhead storage compartment, but was permitted one bag that could be stowed under the seat in front of me. A J. Peterman bag I had been given years ago would turn out to be the perfect size and could contain all I needed for my long weekend trip.

Approaching the line to have my boarding pass scanned for my return trip, I was stopped by an airline employee who inquired whether I was traveling alone, which I thought was apparent since no one was standing near me. Thinking that was the last required question before boarding the plane, the employee said, "You can't take all that with you. You're going to have to check your bag."

Maybe because I had talked to my sisters later into the night than we should have or got up way too early to arrive an hour before the flight was scheduled to take off and then had to wait over another hour because the flight crew had not shown up on time, I was less prepared to deal with this sort of treatment. Or maybe it was actually a good thing that I was forced to defend myself, since I often let others treat me in ways that are not deserving or even kind. I explained that everything had been fine on my previous flights and I could not understand what could be the problem now. The additional bags in question were a small purse with a long strap I was wearing over my dress and the mysterious cloth bag I was carrying which contained the scrapbook I had made from my trip to Africa earlier in the summer, which I had taken to my family reunion. Fine. I set down my travel bag, took out the water shoes I had worn the day we went canoeing, shoved each shoe in a pocket of the bag, took off the small purse, placed it in the larger bag and started to make my way again toward the gate.

"You can't take THAT on the plane," this airline employee persisted, pointing to my scrapbook cleverly disguised as extra luggage in a cotton tote bag in which it was the only item, except for the piece of chocolate I was saving and my flight itinerary. Feeling anger rising, I simply revealed the contents of the bag and said, "This is a BOOK," as though I were introducing the concept to this person for the very first time. Though I was prepared to take it out of the cotton bag, fold up the bag, put it in the travel bag, and simply carry the notebook as the non-luggage item that it is, another airline representative, perhaps realizing I was not going to pay extra for luggage no matter what, said I could have it and waved me through the door and onto the plane. He apparently had the wisdom to know there is never a good reason to argue with a middle-aged woman, especially about something as inconsequential as this was.

I know air travel is not what it used to be. We now have to practically undress as we reveal our hygiene products in the quart-sized plastic bag. I did not even know that it had been my Birkenstocks setting off every security alarm I have gone through in my travels until this trip. The airline representative wanted to know what else was on my person that could be setting off the alarm. I pointed to my earrings. My glasses? He asked what was in my pockets. I had taken out the lone tissue. It was just me, my underwear and not even the underwire bra, and my summer dress. I had even taken off the thin cotton scarf when the airline employee running the scanner had asked what it was. I had told her it was a scarf. She asked what was in the suspicious cotton bag. I told her it was a notebook. She said all electronics needed to be taken out. I said it was a paper notebook. Scarves and books made out of paper--who has ever heard of these things?

"The world is a cynical place filled with tough customers," is the line from the Jerry Maquire movie that comes to mind. I know bad things have happened aboard planes and more bad things may undoubtedly happen in an infinite variety of ways. I know that though I am one of the least suspicious people boarding the plane, perhaps that makes me the most likely to do something unexpected. I know that rules need to be followed, like when we were asked to leave the pool area while trying to have a picnic with my parents at their retirement community because the thunder of the fast-approaching storm had already begun. We asked for permission to use one of the meeting rooms in their community center to continue our lunch and were given the go-ahead. But the gate was locked before we could use it which left us walking through a room that was being set up for an event later in the day. We were greeted by a woman at the door saying, "We said you could come in but you weren't supposed to use this door." But we did have to use it. The other one was locked. I would find out later that this same woman had grabbed my mother's shoulders to point her in the right direction, perhaps giving her a bit of a shove of encouragement to walk a little faster. I could not imagine why my mother would be treated so abruptly in her own retirement community, a place offering toilet seat cleaning tissues in the ladies' room for the hyper particular. It wasn't that I wanted to buck the system as much as I expected common decency. Respect? Kindness?

Before I had taken the trip I had been told that someone who used to do work for our agency had reached the point in which he could no longer imagine life the way he needed it to be and he decided to check out--permanently. It is always a shock when this happens, whether it is someone known personally or someone famous like Kate Spade or Anthony Bourdain. I am not going to say I have never had similar thoughts including those like George Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life, who wondered if the world would have been a better place if he had never been born. But after a summer of dealing with one loss after the next, the thought one day blazed through my head like spiritual lightning: "The world would NOT be a better place without you in it; it would be worse--much, much WORSE!" If nothing else, I am a person who cares. Intentionally. Without thought as to how much it may hurt me to care. I like to think I am not alone in this.

My question used to be much more about me--How am I being treated and why? How is the world receiving me and what should I do differently? But with grief comes a greater understanding of who I am and how I am able to deal with this, who you are and how I can do nothing to determine how you are dealing with this, and where the boundaries need to be. The question then becomes: What can I do to make the world a better place? How can I do my part to make it less cynical and more inviting?

I have wondered what I can say to someone struggling to exist, if I, in fact, even become aware that someone has reached that point. Sometimes there is nothing one can say. The decisions one makes undeniably can cause others a great deal of pain creating more challenges to be worked through and guidance to be sought. To opt out of this kind of suffering is to have "dead people's goals" as one TED talk speaker puts it. Only dead people do not feel pain. There are some wounds that go too deep to ever fully heal, yet life in its abundance can still be lived to the full. It is for each one of us to figure out how.

"I'm glad you're here," is the resounding phrase I keep coming back to. It summarizes what is important. No, you do not understand our luggage requirements, but obviously we can wait while you jam everything into one bag, and by the way, we are glad you are here. No, we don't understand your scarf or your notebook but our scanners have not determined anything harmful about them, and, oh yes, we're glad you're here. No, you didn't come through the correct door but it isn't hurting anyone because the program has not yet started and walking through our room in your swimsuits carrying your lunch in no way affects anything, and we're glad you're here. Life is tough enough without making it tougher. I'm glad you're here.

again

(What follows is a blog I wrote in July of 2014 and never posted. I have forgotten the specifics that motivated my expression, but was strangely comforted by my own words as I re-discovered them yesterday while looking for art materials to create something new. I probably chose not to post for fear I would offend or draw the wrong kind of attention. But the small measure of comfort these words have brought me, as I continue to live the life I've been given, is significant--and maybe just to me, but nonetheless, here I am contemplating again, in all my glory. Thank you for reading.)

Expectation is the root of all heartache, according to a quote attributed to William Shakespeare. Whether or not I expect something to happen is not the problem; it is in the length of time it takes me to regain my emotional composure, that my heart finds the time to ache.

I have been told ever since I can remember that I should "not let my imagination get the better of me," "not make too big of a deal out of it," and "let go of such high expectations." All I have ever heard is: stop being yourself. If I did not have such an over-active imagination, maybe it would not get the better of me. Perhaps longing for more than something common or boring has been what has motivated me. Why I am never to hope for something grand has confused me.

What adds to that confusion is how little I actually hope for. I remember making a list many years ago for what I wanted in a house, back when I was a renter and not an owner. Among the items on the list were "windows that open; doors that shut" which caught the attention of a well-meaning friend who could not believe my standards were so low. They are not low, I insisted. Up until that point I had lived in rental properties in which windows were painted shut or did not have screens, and doors were either non-existent or the wrong size. When one starts at the bottom, any expectation seems reasonable.

So I check myself to measure my expectations according to what is supposedly a "normal standard" and I end up expecting to eat, without the expectation that the food will satisfy me; expecting to find shelter, without the expectation that I will ever really feel secure; and expecting to have my basic needs met though it seems to be constantly up for discussion what my "needs" truly are. The tangible never outweigh the intangible, in my book, thus heartache is inevitable.

I guess I want what people cannot give me: time to process my thoughts with interaction and without judgment; promises that we will keep trying to sort things out, even if we never fully agree with each other; a commitment to communicate when misunderstanding is imminent; an I've-got-your-back attitude that will keep me from constantly wondering if this is the case. Or, better yet, a response to my emails! But life doesn't work this way. We take each other for granted and place our own needs before the needs of another. We say we agree to work together for common goals, but what this means is we will work together as long as our own goals are met in the process.

It does not take a detective to figure out where someone is when that person posts his or her life events on social media. It is difficult to believe that someone is too ill to meet an obligation when the person posts pictures of the great outdoors, while thought to be home in bed. A last minute trip to the beach, complete with a tantalizing plate of food photo, describes one's priorities more than that person may realize. I wonder how many of those cheering the person on, by liking the post, will understand what statement is being made by the person being there, and not where many will expect.

We tell our children not to lead mediocre lives--to strive for greatness. But then if they do, are we to tell them not to expect too much? How does this equation always backfire? Hope for the best, but do not fully invest yourself or you will be seen as neurotic. Give it your all, but do not expect others to do the same. We are all in this together, at least until social media tells a different story. So are we to expect anything or not?

I would like to think that having expectations is a human experience, common to us all, but whenever I take the time to contemplate it, I end up feeling very alone. I get stuck in the grief I feel when my heart is again shattered by those whose actions flippantly remind me that I again expected too much. I feel utterly lost when I try to figuratively and sometimes even literally hold the hands of those who have already moved beyond what I was hoping we would accomplish. I am left with unmet expectations, unrealized goals, and something that used to resemble hope, wondering how I ended up here. Again.

(Postscript: Though I have tried to avoid finding myself in the midst of painful circumstances, they have a way of finding me, perhaps not intending to harm but to teach. My questions may remain the same; the answers, however, can transform and heal if I will let them.)

the illusion of friendship especially during wedding season

Before I share my heart with you, and you, in your infinite wisdom of me, decide whether or not I should be on meds or perhaps assume I have not been taking the ones I have been prescribed, please note that these experiences are from my very own near-sighted viewpoint. They are mine alone. You do not have to agree with me, but my hope is that you will be kind.

If there is anything I will ask God as I someday enter into the gates of heaven, it will be this: "Why was friendship so hard?" He will know exactly what I'm talking about because it has been no picnic for him to make friends with us either. We are fickle and sometimes downright mean. We say we are friends with God when all is well, but turn against him when the bottom falls out of life. Somehow I have always managed to have faith, though I have often wondered how it has remained possible.

My first best friend was a little boy who lived on a neighboring farm. It may have been a friendship of convenience since his mother and my mother took turns driving us into town so we could go to the parochial school for first grade, but I would like to think we were friends because we enjoyed spending time together playing in the barn and eating peanut butter sandwiches. I knew when we became friends with a girl who lived closer to his farm than to mine there was a chance he would like her better than he liked me, especially when she chose to roll down the hill with him in that barrel and I never could find the courage to do so. But kids play together with different friends at different times and as long as no one is outwardly mean, it seems to all work out until everyone has to go home for supper.

Perhaps due to my introverted nature, I always seemed to veer toward the best friend model for friendship, since being in groups has never lent itself to getting beyond the small talk in order to know someone in greater depth by asking questions that matter. This worked great for high school and even for the last part of college. These two women are still my friends. They know me in ways others have never known me or probably ever will. They know me for who I am when I'm not trying to fit in. They know my strengths and my weaknesses, where I have come from and some of the life experiences that have shaped the way I look at life. Even though I am not particularly like them in every way, together we are better than we are as individuals.

I married a friend, which I would highly recommend since a conversation that is going to last for decades had better be an interesting one. And though there is the temptation to marry someone similar to yourself, the man I married has a personality more similar to those of my closest female friends and for that reason we are able to complement each other and not compete. (Sometimes we do compete, but not on our best days.)

What happens next is the part I have trouble understanding. We have old friends we see at reunions, and friends we see at church and even better friends who have parties in our honor; we have work friends and acquaintance-type friends, and make new friends once in awhile randomly, but just when I think I know what is going on, I am left without a clue. What I am referring to specifically is the dreaded making-it-on-the-list sort of friendship that gets one into parties and weddings.

I have learned that if I am not invited to the birthday party, I will not be invited to the graduation party. It follows that I will then not be invited to the bridal shower, the wedding or the reception. When the happy couple reproduces, I will not get invited to the baby shower or ever get to see their child. Why would this be important since I was not involved in any of their other special events? I cannot answer that nor can I predict which list I will end up on, if any at all.

Seeking answers, I have googled a number of articles explaining the etiquette needed to navigate these events that can be accessed by invitation only. Brides and grooms should pick which of their friends they would like to see at their wedding but their parents' friends should not be allowed to come, one article stated. Another pointed out the obvious: it is not possible to include everyone. It is cost prohibitive and makes no sense to invite everyone one has ever known. One article qualifies it by stating that if one has had no contact with someone for a specific amount of time, that person does not get let in to celebrate the couple's special day. I wonder if the determination for who gets chosen would be better handled by some kind of online quiz since there does not seem to be any kind of rating system that could provide a more scientific result.

Maybe the invitation process should be handled more like a college application. I know I could write a convincing essay about how I love weddings more than most people do and would even be willing to assist where needed. I could record every encounter I have had with those about to tie the knot, the prayers I've spoken on their behalf, the needs I've brought before others for their benefit. If I could somehow prove my loyalty as a friend and my commitment to the family to uphold them in all future endeavors and even give the newborn child they will someday have a bed bunny (which is the very best gift any child could ever have since I created it myself), I may stand a chance of getting in. But the "friend" who does not make the list has no voice.

There is now a website called The Knot which I have stalked to vicariously participate in the impending nuptials I will never get to witness in person. I can see when and where the ceremony will be and dream about the beauty of the day. I get to know when and where the reception is in case I decide to get drunk and crash it. (Just kidding--sort of.) And I even get to see their registries and all the cool gifts the happy couple will receive as I try to forget the design of the homemade gift I was going to make. I stop shopping for the dress I will not need to wear. I free up my calendar with a date I was never supposed to save.

Life moves on. Once everything is professionally photographed, it will appear on Facebook and I will get to see not only how beautiful the bride is, but will inevitably catch a glimpse of someone in the background who made the list when I did not. I will wonder about that friend's credentials. What was it that afforded that person entry into the best day of their lives when I was not deemed worthy? Maybe that person was willing to roll down the hill in the barrel with them when I was not. I may never know.

I have started joking to myself that I must be bad luck--the kind no one wants at their wedding. I have not received an invitation to a wedding in over four years and even then I had to negotiate with a relative of the bride's to be given a chance at the open bar and to be handed a sparkler to see off the newlyweds. I knew I deserved to be there and yet question myself when that fact is obvious to no one but me.

If there is anything that sets me straight again after all of this needless worry, it is the idea that after I walk through those pearly gates, ask God the tough question about friendship, and we have a good laugh together, he will usher me over to the banquet table where I will find a place setting with my name on the place card. I will sit down as an invited guest, fashionably dressed for eternity, and chosen to be on the list of his friends.

on the road to Glorieta

(I have been asked to join a class on storytelling and evangelism at my church over the next couple of months. During the first session we are each to tell one of our favorite stories. Here is one of mine.)

It was mid-February in 1988, and I was living in a studio apartment near downtown Denver, Colorado. Though I had finished my graduate program in journalism, I continued to pick up temp assignments, hoping for my career to begin. Since I was between jobs, provisions were running low.

When Lee, a friend from church, called to inquire whether I was going on the church retreat to Glorieta, New Mexico with the rest of the group, I had to admit I could not afford to go. I could barely afford a cup of coffee and was considering restaurant work for the free employee meal. The next thing I knew he was offering to pay my way. I wondered if meals were included.

His offer was problematic for two reasons: 1) It felt way too much like a date and I didn't want to mess up a perfectly good friendship, and 2) Even though he hadn't asked, he would probably want me to ride with him from Colorado to New Mexico and that would seem even more like we were dating, when clearly we were not.

I told him I would accept his offer. He then wanted to know if I would ride with him.

On the way to Glorieta we listened to music and barely spoke. I was grateful for the change of scenery and the dinner that awaited me. I was not prepared for our pastor to greet us at the entrance with a big smile on his face or the friends I hadn't seen in awhile who assumed Lee and I were together. We were not together . . . as he paid for my room and helped me with my bags.

By lunchtime of the following day, I had prayed that God would give me direction for my life. I was considering becoming a missionary with Wycliffe Bible Translators since at the tender age of 26 I was almost an old maid by the standards of my small home town. I would go to some faraway land and spend my remaining years serving God, with only words and the Holy Spirit to keep me company.

In the cafeteria, a group of my friends were getting ready to head to Santa Fe for the afternoon break before the chapel service that evening. Though I wanted to see the galleries, I also needed time to myself and turned down the invitation to join them. No sooner had they left the table did this overwhelming loneliness take hold. I had been living alone for years and when I was not working, I spent much of my time alone. This is the life a writer longs for, yet in that moment I realized I was hoping I would have someone to talk to, even for a couple of hours.

Looking up, there, directly in front of me on the other side of the cafeteria, sat Lee.

As I approached his table, the group of friends he was with quickly excused themselves, laughing quietly and whispering, leaving the two of us alone together.

"Would you like to go into Santa Fe?" he asked.

"I'd love to!" I said, not believing what I was saying or how I was saying it.

We walked the streets of Santa Fe window-shopping and admiring the art. As we re-entered the retreat center a few hours later, Lee asked if I would sit with him during chapel. Oh yes, how thrilled this unfamiliar person who now somehow conducted my life was. I even went back to my room to change my clothes and fix my hair. One of my roommates demanded to know who I was trying to impress. I naturally lied . . . to my friend . . . on a church retreat. It is a wonder God ever answers my prayers!

Finding Lee in the chapel, the entire pew of people got up and moved when they saw me coming. They were of course laughing quietly and whispering, as I made myself comfortable next to Lee.

All I really remember of that church service was when the first pastor got up to give his sermon, it was about provision. I started to think about how this retreat was provided to me and how food was provided when I had run out, and how the man sitting next to me was . . . GOD'S PROVISION! I suddenly knew with absolute certainty that Lee Shores was going to be my husband, and like every girl who is proposed to, even supernaturally, I burst into tears. This caused people to pass the box of tissues as Lee put his arm around me. No one knew what was wrong (or right) and I could not begin to tell them.

Our return trip to Denver was filled with our life stories, our views on certain topics, books we had read, music we enjoyed, and just about everything else we could think of to share with each other. So convinced was I that I had heard the voice of God, I took perhaps the biggest chance I could have and said to Lee, "I no longer see you as just a friend."

"I feel exactly the same way about you," was his answer.

(A month later, we were sitting on his couch when he asked if it would be too wild if he asked me to marry him. I told him that it would be too wild, but I would probably say yes. "Will you marry me?" he asked. "Yes," I said. After an awkward pause we agreed we should probably get to know each other. "When should we get married?" I asked. "Before I turn 35," he said. "How old are you now?" Thirty years later, we are still getting to know each other.)

a tale of two grandmas

I recently posted on Facebook,

When I think of Billy Graham, I remember walking over to Grandma's house, opening the back door and walking past the washing-up sink with a water dipper, into the kitchen where the smell of molasses cookies and freshly baked bread lived, through the dining room with the treadle sewing machine, all the way into the living room where on the console television in the corner we would listen to a man talk about God's love, while Grandma sat next to her piano with the hymnal on it and I sat next to a table with a Bible, feeling loved.

 . . . and realized that was only half of the story of growing up with grandmas.

The grandma I described in the previous passage was my father's mother. She had five kids; my father was number four. Her husband, my grandpa, died when I was ten. The only memory of him I have is when I was five and sleeping on the davenport, as Grandma called it, in their dining room, because it was the night my youngest sister was being born. I remember Grandpa getting up early to tend to farming chores. It seems like he was wearing a flannel night shirt as he hurried to get dressed in the cold house in the midst of a Michigan January. I pretended to be asleep, but cuddled among the quilts Grandma most likely had made out of her old house dresses, I soon was asleep, warm and safe in one of my favorite places.

The other half of the story is the part about my other grandma, my mother's mother. She, too, was the mother of five kids; my mother was number two. Her husband, my grandpa, also died when I was ten. I have two memories of him: the first was when he would bounce me on his knee singing a song about a happy hippo, and second, when I would see him being helped down the hallway of their big, old farmhouse, where he would find his bed and sleep it off. No one spoke about why he needed help walking or why he had to take so many naps. He was gone before I knew him. I remember walking out into the dining room of our house one morning with my mother holding my sister, crying, and telling me that Grandpa had died. I was not as sad as I was jealous that my mother was holding my sister and not me. I always felt that I needed to be held more than I ever actually was, but being the practical people we were, the chores that needed to be done always took priority over real or perceived emotional needs.

My other grandma did not watch Billy Graham on television, worked in a canning factory and did not do much baking, did not know how to sew or play the piano, and most likely did not spend much time reading the Bible. This was the Grandma who would teach me how to play rummy and we would play cards while she filled up a small cup for me with cream and sugar, adding just enough coffee to create a beautiful caramel color. I would gratefully sip on the warm treat and when I was finished she would offer me coffee candy. It would not take long before I was addicted to caffeine, at the ripe old age of six or seven, an addiction I have had ever since, not to mention tooth decay from all of the sugar that would wreak havoc on my chalk-like teeth.

This was the grandma who would let me roast marshmallows over the burner of her stove so we could make s'mores, which may not have been the best decision, but I do not recall ever getting burned, though sometimes the marshmallows did. Years into the future she would invite me to share in the mysterious concoctions that would be poured from the blender on Christmas as everyone got happier and I naively wondered why--why they were getting happier and why someone not of age was being invited to share in the merriment. Fortunately, that was an addiction I flirted with briefly in college, but it would not take hold and define my life.

That grandma would like to say, "ooh-la-la" and attribute that to being part French, which I never would have believed until it was recently confirmed on a DNA test I took: French, German, Scottish, Irish, British--100 percent European ancestry. I knew all was true except for the French and somehow felt slightly more exotic and glamorous after that. Maybe that is why I wanted to study French and ended up with a French minor, becoming semi-fluent for awhile. It was in my DNA.

Both grandmas went to church. The one who listened to Billy Graham took me to her small community church once in awhile where we would sing hymns and I would wonder what it meant to be saved. Before that she was part of the Brethren Church. She asked me before I went to college how I would treat a roommate if that roommate happened to be black. We only knew of one black family in our township and they seemed the same as everyone else in that small, rural community so even though I did not know the answer to her question, I said I guessed I would treat her just like anyone else. Grandma said yes, that is exactly what I should do. She is the only one who ever addressed the issue.

The coffee-drinking grandma had converted to Catholicism in order to marry Grandpa, just like my father converted in order to marry my mother, making me only part Catholic, though it had a major influence on my thinking, and probably still does. This grandma did not talk about her faith, but many Catholics I knew did not talk about theirs either. It was a given that one went to church for no one wanted to face an eternity in hell for missing mass. The ten commandments were pretty straightforward, though we all knew when we were looking at the prayer cards before making our confessions that there was no way we were going into that dark little booth and not have something to tell the priest. None of us could ever measure up and that was why we needed the priest to intercede for us. Maybe just maybe, if we recited the prayers just right, and never dropped a communion wafer on the floor, and didn't pinch our sister too much in church or actually laugh out loud, we could make it to purgatory and hope that someone in time would pray us out so we could go on to our final reward. There was a lot of pressure in being Catholic. And seeing that gigantic crucifix with the larger-than-life Jesus staring down at me every week certainly did not help.

Both grandmas would lose their husbands while they were still somewhat young, but only my mother's mother would remarry when I was 13 and I would get to wear my long green dress to their wedding. Afterward we had lunch with the priest and Grandma and my new Grandpa got to go on about their lives in a different house than the farmhouse, and spend time in their camper like the time they took a trip out West. Grandma soon discovered, however, she did not enjoy camping nearly as much as Grandpa. When I brought my fiance to meet the family at Grandma's birthday party, Grandpa pulled me aside to give me all kinds of marriage advice. Tell him you love him every day and show him, he said. He went on with instructions for how I could be the best wife possible. I would find out later he had advice for my husband-to-be as well. Be patient, was all he said.

I would not be the woman I am today were it not for both of my grandmas. The quilt-making, bread-baking, hymn-singing, listener of Billy Graham grandma along with the coffee-drinking, card-playing, somewhat French, Catholic grandma both taught me a lot about faith, love, and living life to the full. Both suffered great loss, endured hardship, loved their families and lived into their 80s.

Today I sew all kinds of things, love to bake and have even come up with a version of my own molasses cookie, drink coffee with cream or black--no sugar please, and have an enduring faith that allows me to love God and try to treat everyone with respect. I hope someday to be the kind of grandma I was blessed enough to have and to pass along all I have learned. Well, maybe not all.

standing in the need of prayer

What I love about my Birkenstocks is how the leather softens and molds around the contours of my feet over time. I wear them every day and sometimes with socks in the winter. They are my bedroom slippers and my footwear for the summer months. I have an old pair I take to the beach. I even chose to have a worn out pair resoled instead of breaking in a new pair--they are that comforting and good.

If you tried to wear my Birkenstocks, you would not find them nearly as enjoyable because they would not fit your feet the way they fit mine. My long, narrow feet with no arch are given extra support by this footwear that perhaps you do not need. And even if you do, they have been worn to accommodate my feet, not yours.

There are simple truths we need to hold dear when we come alongside each other--truths that define us as individuals. It is far easier to come up with generalized remedies for each other's ills than it is to consider we may not know exactly what is best. Sometimes the answers are out of our grasp. We want to understand, but we don't and maybe we can't. Admitting that we have limitations takes courage. Knowing we are not in control is a sign of maturity. Being open to learning gives us hope.

There is a gospel song, a spiritual, that came to my mind during prayer this morning: Standing in the need of prayer. "Not my brother, not my sister, but it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer."

Sometimes it is easier to pray for others than it is to ask for prayer. We can pray with long lists starting with family members and praying in ever widening spirals until we have prayed for the whole world. Prayers for people who are dying seem to take precedence though I often wonder if these prayers should be directed more toward those who will need to adjust to the loss that will occur when the loved one transitions out of this earthly plane.

To tell someone you are praying for his or her need sounds noble, but I believe something happens when these prayers are actually prayed. I can feel lifted up, embraced, made secure every once in awhile and wonder if this is a moment when a prayer on my behalf has made its way to the throne of God. Because we all have different belief systems I try not to impose my ideas on others. Most of my references seem to be from children's fairy tales anyway. But whether we are talking to God or merely wishing someone well, I believe there is power in our thoughts and words. For this reason we must have times of quiet--times when we can stare out a window into the pre-dawn sky and not think about anything more than the squirrel's nest that has now become visible as the neighbor's tree branch, bereft of its leaves, leans ever closer to our driveway. It is in listening to the crunching of the fallen leaves, seeing large, fat robins, and wondering for the briefest of moments why they are hopping around looking for food in January when they are supposed to be the first sign of spring, but then remembering these are the ones that flew South for the winter and that is where I now live.

Though it may sound like this sort of thinking takes a great deal of time, time none of us can spare, it does not. These are momentary experiences that happen without prompting if one is open to them.

Moments of being reminded that whether it is cold or warm, sunny or overcast, a day reminiscent of loss or celebration, I can stand here in my Birkenstocks in the need of prayer and know that someone somewhere is praying for me right now.

New Year in New York

I decided to take up the offer my friend, Ann, had made to spend New Year's Eve in New York City with her in her tiny brownstone in the Village. It was 1985 and my first time to explore the Big Apple.

Ann and I had been in the same GRE prep classes in Denver where she was from and where I had landed, tutoring each other: she tutoring me in math, and me tutoring her in English. We had enough in common to become friends and would go out for coffee and Baileys to talk about life and dream about the future.

She decided if she were going to go to graduate school, it would have to be a top school. I decided if I were going to graduate school I needed to go to the one that would offer me a graduate assistantship since I didn't have any money. She did not get into the school of her choice and decided to move to New York City anyway, taking a position that would one day get her into a position of choice. I decided to go to Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia, where my tuition was paid.

Since Ann was working and I was on break, I toured the city alone, which was how I did most things those days. The real difference between walking around inner-city Denver and New York was the sidewalks in New York were always crowded, even in the middle of the night. I went to all the places I had heard of--the Empire State Building, Wall Street, toured the Guggenheim, looked at all the people going in every direction at Grand Central Station and walked through Central Park. I remember pausing outside of the World Trade Center thinking it would be fun to go to the top and take a look, but decided there would always be next time. (Whenever I catch myself thinking that way, I think of this.)

Since I had been watching the ball drop in Times Square on television all my life I thought that would be our plan for the evening. My friend quickly intervened in that thought process saying it was far too dangerous and we could get mugged. She had a different plan--dinner with friends . . . her friends.

First she would lend me her stockbroker roommate's cashmere dress and string of pearls so I would fit in, and then she would instruct me to not tell anyone that I knew her from Denver, which, she believed, was too much of a "cow town" for these sophisticated New York-types. I wondered, after the fact, where she told them she was from--Long Island? Before I could say anything, she also forbade me from talking about graduate school since I was living in West Virginia, and that, she said, was even worse than Denver. Who I was, and who I was supposed to be for that evening, had very little in common.

After a dinner in which I didn't have to worry about saying anything because there were a couple of young women with a lot of money from somewhere in the South who were sharing with us how they "just had to buy those darling $80 t-shirts because they were the cheapest little items in the store." I could barely afford a cup of coffee, but I digress. Ann decided we would drop by someone's party. She was confident she would be meeting someone there and hoped I was ok tagging along. What other plans did I have?

Standing in a hallway of a tiny apartment on what I think may have been the lower west side, a decent looking guy approximately my age, started a conversation with me in the most predictable way, "So, where are you from?"

I looked around to see if Ann were nearby and when I didn't see her, I responded, "Do you really want to know where I'm from?!" He seemed ok with it. "I'm from Hart, Michigan," I said. "Don't worry if you've never heard of it. Some people from Michigan have never heard of it either. And I don't even live in the town of 2,000. I grew up six miles east on a dairy farm." I couldn't decide what the look on the guy's face meant. Either he was thinking--take a hike farmer's daughter, or, I've never met someone like this before--tell me more. As I waited for him to make some excuse and walk away, he said, "I know where that is. It's near Silver Lake." I had not given him that information. How could he possibly know? He then did what people always do and asked if I knew a certain person. In most cases this sort of thing bears no fruit, but I knew to whom he was referring! In a town that small one either knows the person, knows someone who knows the person, or is related to the person.

We were well in the midst of a wonderful conversation by the time Ann, with a look of--let's-get-out-of-here-before-someone-tries-to-kiss us--made it clear it was time to go. The guy pulled a business card out of his back pocket and said if I were ever in the city again to please give him a call.

The next day as I was enjoying one of the best, most expensive bagels I had ever eaten, I pulled out the guy's card. He was an executive with MTV! But alas, I had to fly back to West Virginia where some students didn't like me because they thought I was a big city woman from Denver. But I wasn't. I was like them--a country girl from a small town who learned that being invisible was not her only option, and the people who really matter will always be able to see you.

The Bright Hour, A Memoir of Living and Dying by Nina Riggs: my review and contemplations

Sitting on my small canvas beach chair next to an identical one occupied by my husband under our shade umbrella in the warm sand while the ocean roars and foams in its usual fits of ecstatic delight may seem to be a odd time for me to be reading a woman's memoir about death--perhaps as strange as the way death intrudes on a perfectly good life at what will always be the wrong time.

The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying by Nina Riggs came with me from our home in Greensboro, where Nina also used to live, to the southern part of the Outer Banks where we camp a few days every summer when we can. Now that we travel, just the two of us, I have more time to notice those with children around us: the French Canadian brothers talking quietly while I try to translate, the annoyed adolescent girls leaving a trail of pink plastic razors and the scent of fruity shampoo, and an exhausted couple guiding three small boys across what probably seems to them a very long boardwalk. As I begin to get to know Nina through her words, I think about her sons, as well. When I had gone to Scuppernong Books for the book reading, I happened to be sitting right next to them, saw her husband, and know a couple of her friends. Her life, with all of its leading characters, is right there before me in all of its brilliance as she tells her story.

In an attempt to convince my husband to camp at the beach instead of renting a cabin, I had ordered a tent we had not bothered to set up beforehand since we are seasoned campers and would make do with whatever difficulties presented themselves. The tent is extra roomy and a lovely yellow and red color. What we would not fully experience until the next morning is how light interacts with the mesh and rain fly creating a variety of changing colors inside the tent that in no way relate to the yellow and red of its outside. Purple, green, and orange of varying hues welcome us to the morning, as the dew sparkles like glitter, literally like silver glitter--a tent designed in Colorado by people with a sense of humor, I suggest, while my husband offers a scientific explanation about light refraction I only partially understand. I think about Nina's journey, remembering the part about the MRI as she and her friend, Tita, look for bright spots, hoping not to find them as they indicate more tumors, further metastases. For once, light was not the hoped for result but a preferred steady darkness leading out of a tunnel darker still.

Nina's vulnerable portrayal of a real marriage with its spontaneous intimacy of understanding, as well as chasms of differences too great to cross, made the idea of her having to depart from it almost unbearable. By the time she told her husband she had secretly purchased tickets for them to take a trip to France, a place where they had lived as a young couple years before, and only told him because she was beginning to realize he needed to know all of her secrets as she may not be there to tell him, I cheered her on when she then wrote that they got to take the trip. At last, here was a dream fulfilled. Even knowing the outcome of her story, I wanted Paris to last just a bit longer. I wanted there to be a round of treatments that would make a difference, a drug trial that would save the day and her life.

I did not know until reading her book that she was a direct descendant of Ralph Waldo Emerson. She quotes him in the preface:

"I am cheered with the moist, warm, glittering, budding and melodious hour that takes down the narrow walls of my soul and extends its pulsation and life to the very horizon. That is morning; to cease for a bright hour to be a prisoner of this sickly body and to become as large as the World."

Nina becomes larger than life as she cares for her dying mother, learning from hospice the clinical definition of what it looks like to lose one's life one step at a time. All the things no one ever tells you, Nina suddenly becomes competent in and does not lose her compassion or humor. She keeps on going in the midst of grieving her hair falling out and disfigurement from the surgery. She writes like a friend sharing a secret and holds nothing back. She does not seek pity and even goes out of her way to not shock a babysitter whom she had not seen in awhile with her new look, choosing not to say hello on the street. She just lives her life like everyone else, hoping she will get to keep doing the same things families do as they go through whatever awaits them in their day and tuck everyone in at night.

Looking out at the vast array of stars complete with the Milky Way Galaxy that we only get to see when we are camping at the beach, I see life in all of its glittery glory shining at me from horizon to horizon. I wonder about life on other planets, in other galaxies. I've seen so many science fiction stories of time travel, worm holes, and varying dimensions that these sorts of things no longer seem so far-fetched. I believe our souls go to a place when we die. And even though there has been much speculation about such a place and who is allowed to be there, none of us really knows--even those who say they have gone there and have returned to tell the tale. We do not know how we will be when we are set free from our earthly bodies and perhaps given new ones, or what the environmental conditions of the place will be like. I think I could spend eternity walking barefoot on the sand, letting the water wash over me while sea oats bend in the cool breeze and sea birds with long beaks find nourishment in the surf. To see the first rays of sunlight in the morning and the last in the evening while experiencing the ever-changing colors of life in-between, and finding those with whom to share such moments, is as good as it gets.

On her final page, before her husband finishes the memoir by saying she died in the early morning which was her favorite time of day, Nina writes, "We're making our way like this, though: We are breathless, but we love the days. They are promises. They are the only way to walk from one night to the other."

Thank you, Nina, for writing it all down and allowing us to see you.

the night before the reunion

We drove from our home in North Carolina all the way to southern Ohio, navigating mountain turns and straight ahead through acres of farmland. It took us eight hours to get to where my husband's high school memories reside.

The bed and breakfast we had stayed at five years ago would be my reward for being a spouse at a class reunion, a marital obligation some endure, while others opt out and hope an old flame isn't waiting in the bleachers for some imaginary half-time. Of course that scenario only tends to happen to those who never found a mate along the way and keep coming back to the reunions, perhaps hoping to get lucky.

We walked to a well-known and loved restaurant where some of the classmates would gather for dinner. Arriving early, we ate before the group showed up which proved to be the wise decision since the hugging and talking that ensued kept even the hungriest from their food. Facebook had allowed me to be a familiar face to these total strangers hugging me and welcoming me to their town. I saw the glances the women eight years my senior gave me though I pretended not to notice. Yes, their classmate robbed the cradle. Almost 29 years later, and there is nothing that can be done about it.

Later, my husband and I would walk across the bridge to the new brew pub for the first official reunion event, the night before the reunion, housed in what used to be a fire station with the big doors left intact and not quite enough outdoor seating. A small caterer offered a dinner of pulled pork, slaw and other sides that sounded good although we had just eaten pizza. A food truck offering doughnuts was a temptation we managed to avoid.

My husband re-engaged with his long lost classmates as I sat talking to the wife of his friend who came to the event hoping I would be there--the wives' plan for survival. We enjoyed our "brews" while batting the small black flies that kept dive-bombing us on this warm Ohio evening near the river under a threatening sky. Before long the bottom fell out, pouring rain, and we ran inside. Since we had walked over from the bed and breakfast, we decided to try to wait out the storm.

A man walked up, introduced himself, and said, "I wonder if anyone here knows me." He explained that he had transferred to the high school his last two years from a Catholic school for which his father had decided to stop paying tuition, and according to this man, it was probably out of spite. He went on to say that he hated his father and his father hated him, the kind of declaration someone can make after several beers. Words, that after all of these years, poured out like the rain outside the door.

He had graduated a year before the class having the reunion but seemed to have shown up for the sole purpose of being known by someone. He said he beat up some guys in high school and was expelled for three days once, this man in his '60s still looking for absolution. His actions that day had given him the reputation of being a "bad boy" which he apparently had been trying to reverse as he has been running a successful business for many years since and has made a lot of money, he assured us. He had done his penance.

I wondered about the people we are in high school and the people we become. My husband was not a good student for a myriad of reasons, but eventually earned two master's degrees. That fact may surprise some of his classmates, or maybe they knew he was smart all along. My reputation, on the other hand, was of being one of the top students in my high school. It was when I walked into my class reunion holding a beer that one of my classmates was shocked. I had been one of the youngest members of my class, starting kindergarten about a week after I turned five, forcing me to imbibe illegally until I was nearly ready to graduate from college. The point is, when one returns to a reunion of people with whom he or she attended high school, expectations are not going to get one very far.

In the midst of being hugged long and hard by a woman I may never see again, and eventually asking someone for an umbrella so we could make our trip back to our "home" for the night reasonably dry, I lost track of the man in search of validation. Seems like he had his photo taken with some people who may have known him, or maybe they just wanted him to abandon his search so he could find peace and acceptance among a new group of people who would be his friends, at least for that night. Maybe when they will look at the photo at some future time they will see something in his face that will trigger a memory, a twinkle in his eye, the way his mouth curved as he smiled, his infectious laugh, and they will piece together a story of a boy filled with anger because he felt unloved--a boy who expressed himself one day at high school with fists instead of words. And they will see that in spite of all that was against this young man, he turned out ok.

The aftermath of honesty

The problem with honesty is . . . it is not allowed.

Before you jump to the conclusion that I was raised by wolves, I, like most of you, was raised by a mother whose motto was: If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. So I remained silent for a great deal of my childhood. Whenever I slipped up and pointed out something real or something honest, someone was quick to throw a blanket over it, extinguishing the flame of my truth.

Same thing happens these days, except now I'm the mom, and I no longer have to remain silent.

That being said, I also do not wish to impugn anyone's character or cause an uproar. I share my stories as I experience them, hoping someone else can relate to the scenarios I describe.

When someone is not helpful when I am asking for help, or someone is rude when I am being polite, my first instinct is to laugh at them. That may sound callous, as if I am not living the way I have professed to live. It may help to know my second thought is to see if there is something I can do to help the person who is struggling, even though I am the one requesting assistance.

I was not even aware how much that is my way until I was nearly run into one morning by a woman who apparently had not noticed my vehicle was stopped, signaling to make a left turn. I saw her car in my rearview mirror approaching too fast, and I barely got out of her way in time as she nearly drove into the ditch. My first reaction was to inquire about her. Something must have gone wrong in her life for her to be driving so recklessly, though I had no way of knowing. Because there had not been a collision, we mouthed the words through our closed windows: Are you ok? I was fine.

One thing I try not to do is make assumptions. So when someone makes them about me, it takes me a minute to regain my footing.

I think there is a tendency to project oneself into a situation, interpreting it through a different lens, and not the thick lenses for extremely near-sighted eyes through which I view the world. When I am no longer permitted to be the main character of my own story and someone else is playing the lead role, the story can take a trip down a forlorn path into the dark and scary woods.

Someone with a take-charge attitude is going to be greeted differently than someone who looks like she is easy to control. But looks are deceiving and just because one is soft-spoken does not mean she is afraid to take a stand. It also doesn't make her rude, though according to this new narrative imposed upon her story, she has gone from victim to villain in five seconds flat. Perhaps neither is the truth.

There is a problem in ever truly knowing the heart of another. Our smiles can betray our sadness. Our words can either soothe or ignite an encounter with another who is also unknown. In the mind of a writer, no detail is missed. The smell of the room, the color of the papers on the desk, the girl sitting with her head down looking sick, the eyes averted, hesitant tone of voice, and the general feeling of this entire experience is lodged deep within the psyche of the writer. I read recently that people with my personality type remember impressions more than facts which is why many of us are writers. We are concerned more with how the experience made us feel than if each detail could hold up in a court of law.

There are verbal processors, people who have to hear themselves say what they are thinking to make it real, and internal processors, people who have way more going on in their heads than will ever make it into sound. I speak through my written words. It is my truest voice. I can lie to your face and tell you I am perfectly fine, but I cannot lie in what I write. It is there I express who I am for all to see, always hoping I will be understood, yet knowing it may not make any difference ultimately. We are each unique and for that reason, communication can be an insurmountable obstacle.

If we find even a handful of others who can interpret our coded messages, laugh with us at the absurdity of daily life, get our symbols, and know what we mean when we say what we do, we have found love.

No more teachers, no more books, no more office ladies' dirty looks

Driving to the high school with my son one last time, I pull into his parking spot. As our only son who ever had a parking spot, and only because he has been driving his brother's car while he is in the Peace Corps, it has made things a bit easier. But today I would be coming with him, one last time.

We knew his chances for receiving an award at the senior award ceremony were slim to none. Even the academic awards were few and far between. What seems to deserve valued recognition is community service. Student athletes and music students rarely can fit these extra hours into their schedules, and yet, I wondered about the value of providing entertainment in the way of sporting events and concerts. Do we really want a society of people who just show up or those who spend hours trying to get better and inspire others to do the same? (This is a rhetorical question.)

In the midst of my contemplation, a recording of Pomp and Circumstance played one too many times, screeches its way throughout the auditorium as the graduates enter wearing caps and gowns. I had prepared myself as best I could and even had a kleenex in my pocket, but when I saw my son whose cap made his curly hair stick out on the sides, he looked like my little boy playing dress-up with his father's cap and gown, and I could only laugh. My baby had grown up.

Sitting through an hour and a half of awards most students would never get, save the one girl who received about a dozen of them (there is always that one girl) I allowed myself to consider the only chance my son would have for an award could be athlete of the year, which never seemed attainable until his older brother won it three years ago. But his older brother had been part of an indoor track team that won the state title and that is what it takes apparently, as the award was given to a wrestler who had done the same. It had been a futile hope. They call when something like that is going to happen and we had not received a call.

Leaving the graduates in the auditorium, the parents waited in the hall. I decided I would take care of some business since the state track meet was already going on and my son would run in a few hours.

We had a pre-calculus textbook hanging around our house for a couple of years and even though no one had requested its return, I wanted to take care of it so there would be no last minute effort on the part of the school to get it back. I also did not want to pay a replacement cost, having already received a fine for a library book that had apparently never made it home and was now lost. The note we received stated that when the fine was paid and the senior survey completed, tickets to get into the graduation ceremony would be issued. Since we were about to send out graduation announcements, adding the tickets would be appropriate since the announcement is an invitation to the ceremony with the fine print at the bottom stating one needs a ticket to enter.

I always make the mistake of walking into that office thinking that I will be treated like a grown-up and forget momentarily it is a school, and therefore, I will be treated like a student.

I do not expect to be greeted with a smile, though it is obvious I have come to the school that morning to attend the awards ceremony because my child is graduating. I am instead greeted with a look of hesitation, the kind of look one gives when one is not sure what is going to happen next. I put the textbook on the counter and tell the ladies behind the counter that I found it in my house and am returning it. They don't want to receive it from me. They want me to find the teacher who taught that class whatever year it was that my son took it. There is a name of a teacher in the book. I have never met this teacher. This is a big school, this is my youngest child of three, and I apparently am not the most on-top-of-it mom when it comes to knowing the teachers. I have always left that up to my husband who is a teacher at another high school. I wish at that moment I had thrown the book in the dumpster instead.

With reluctance they take the book, making me write on a sheet of paper my son's name along with the teacher's name. I would be surprised if they still use that textbook in that class, but here I am admitting my son did not return his textbook, so in a way, I am aiding and abetting. Mom and son in textbook stealing ring. Story at 11.

I then pull out the sheet mailed to us threatening to withhold our son's diploma until he returns a library book or pays a $5.00 fine. I have $5.00 in my purse. I know my son does not have the book or know where the book is. He said he never had the book and it was used for a group project at school. I know that if they do not accept the $5.00, my son may never graduate.

They let me know with the look on their faces they are not pleased with this transgression. It was bad enough about the textbook, but this is truly unforgivable. The lady starts to tell me that I will need to go to the media center, which is on the other side of the building through a hallway now filled with parents awaiting the end of the awards ceremony so they can take their students home. I am imagining me walking to the media center, showing another lady this sheet of paper and having her send me back to the front office. I'm also imagining my son exiting the auditorium any minute and needing to leave immediately. I ask the woman behind the counter if more money is required. I am not trying to pay her off. I am wanting to be released from this office. I am wanting my youngest child to graduate from high school and go off to college. I am wanting my nest to be empty because even though I have been warned that having an empty nest is a terribly sad time, I cannot for the life of me figure out how that could be so!

If this were the first time something like this happened, I would not be writing about it now. This situation, however, has in many ways been typical. It got so bad with the attendance office lady that when my sons said they could slip out the side door to meet me in the parking lot for an orthodontist or dental appointment, I agreed that it was the best and maybe even the only way to get to these appointments on time since going through the proper channels usually meant standing around an office waiting, and in at least one case being scoffed at. Yes, scoffed.

The $5.00 was eventually accepted. We were down to the very last thing: the graduation tickets. I slipped my son's senior survey into the box and asked if I may have the tickets, in as polite of way as I could muster, and the response was a resounding: no. The tickets have not been issued. I ask when they will be issued since my son is done with classes and testing. They tell me he should have listened to the announcements. They do not know my son. They may not have raised boys. I have no excuse, and yet, there is absolutely no way my son knows anything about graduation tickets. In the past two graduations we have attended for his older brothers, there was a big deal made about the tickets. At the door of the coliseum, however, the tickets did not matter.

These ladies know they have got me this time. They had reluctantly taken back a textbook and collected a fine for a library book, but there was no way they were going to work with me on this one. The looks on their faces, as they tried not to look me in the eyes--a tired mom whose 10-year high school career was soon coming to end--seemed to almost reflect a kind of victory. I could not understand why they were not congratulating me, why they did not seem to even know who I was, and why they would act this way. They may not be issuing the tickets, but they knew when they would be issued, especially since they insisted my son had heard all about it on the announcements. But they would keep their little secret, as I finally had to leave the office to meet my son.

We may someday get the tickets to go to graduation. If not, I know of a side entrance.

"This is Us" and why I watch it

With many people posting about "This is Us" and talking about it, I figured I would watch an episode after the fact, to determine whether it was worth my time. The intimacy between Jack and Rebecca as witnessed in her dance for her husband on his birthday, while he is in his "birthday suit" and she is in the ninth month of her pregnancy, was real in ways we may not want to admit. His eyes of love toward the woman he thinks is beautiful even though she thinks she is unattractive in her big, unfamiliar body, says a lot about their marriage. It says a lot about mine, too.

Watching a woman in labor will always remind those of us who were once in that condition the intensity of the experience, yet this storyline was even more familiar to me.

What many of you may not know is that I had a wonderful doctor in Colorado while pregnant with my first child, was comforted in knowing he had delivered something like 2,000 babies, and looked forward to seeing his long, gray pony-tail and his well-worn tanned face, always smiling at me, putting me at ease with his stories about drinking vodka and taking trips to the nude beaches of Bali.

Though my pregnancy had gone well, the baby had not turned when he ought to have. "Ignats," as the doctor nick-named him, was showing himself to be strong-willed. His head lodged itself into my rib cage and it was determined he was a footling breach, one leg down, and would have to be delivered by a scheduled cesarian section. My doctor kept me calm, telling me that I was lovely, and reassuring me that when the time came, he would be with me and all would be well.

In "This is Us," Rebecca is carrying triplets, which is far more risky than trying to birth just one. She is fine . . . until she is introduced to the doctor who will now be guiding her through some of the most important hours of her life. Her panic was relatable, as my experience was somewhat similar.

My water had broken during the night and as I waited for the labor pains to begin, fell asleep. In the morning I realized nothing was happening but figured we had better get to the hospital, just in case. As soon as I was ready, a doctor I had never seen before came to introduce himself to me as panic was the only thing I could feel. I needed my doctor. He knew me. He would know what I would need to get through this. But his friend had a heart-attack and I would not see my doctor until the next day when he would run into my room, pony-tail flying, apologizing profusely.

As I am being monitored, I suddenly see the faces of those attending to me change from expressions of kindness to horror. The next thing I know, I am being placed hastily on a cart as those assisting are running me down the hall toward the operating room. I see the lights flash by quickly overhead like I'm on a train and all I can think is, "This cannot be happening--dear God, no."

In my case, though my baby was in distress with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, he was not oxygen deprived and was delivered in minutes. Though numbed from the waist down, an experience I hope to never have again, I eventually recovered and would only have to endure one more difficult birth until my third one, in which it took no drugs and exactly six pushes.

Rebecca, however, goes into distress and one of the three babies dies. Though I never lost a baby that had come nearly full-term, I did lose one early on in my second pregnancy. There is no loss more difficult for a mother, I am convinced.

Jack, trying to cope with the loss of the third child, decides they need to adopt a child who was abandoned and brought to the hospital. Love is color-blind and they willingly raise a black child as though he is a biological offspring. Themes of adoption, racism, sibling rivalry, bullying, and a family trying to make it through each day are handled with hope and a subtle humor. It is difficult for me to become engaged with shows or movies in which I do not like the characters. In "This is Us" I am hard-pressed to identify a character for which I am not ultimately rooting. I love these people.

The way the show goes from present day with the "triplets" grown with their own lives to flashbacks of their growing up years is a seamless transition and gives one so much insight into their characters. Kevin, feeling like a failure, even with some success at acting but not so much with relationships, figures out that family needs to come before work. Randall, who seems to succeed at pretty much everything, also realizes family needs to come before work. Kate, dealing with her body image, comes to the same conclusion and allows herself to trust someone enough to believe she can have a relationship. Growing up in the same family, their issues are different, yet somehow the same.

The way the last episode ended this first season is heart-breaking as we have known from early in the season that at some point Jack's life ends. The brief funeral scene has the children as teenagers and with the track we seemed to be on, it was imminent. And yet there was still time for a huge fight between Jack and Rebecca, the kind no married person ever wants to have because the truth is spoken and yet not the whole truth.

The truth is though there is nothing more fulfilling in life than a good marriage and raising children, if one does that and only that, the contributions to the family and to the marriage will be limited. We all need to nurture our creative gifts whether they are music, writing, accomplishing goals in sports or even making things and finding new ways to put them together. We need to develop ourselves in all of the ways we can.

I can relate to Rebecca's need to use her gift and yet I can also appreciate Jack's anger that he has not become her all in all. No one person can become everything for any other person. We need the village to raise our children and need to remain in that community to grow and flourish ourselves. We need to have times of rest and times of work. Times when we can do nothing but shut ourselves up in a room because the words need to find a way out to breathe and times when all we want to do is watch a silly movie with our family.

Though I thankfully cannot relate to needing a separation due to unresolved issues, the part that got to me the most was when Jack told Rebecca on his way out the door that she was still the most beautiful woman in any room, as my husband has shared that sentiment with me.

It makes me sad that this profound moment may be the last this couple shares in this show that has gotten my attention and touched my heart in deeper ways than most television shows ever go. But this in many ways is "reality" tv. We do not know how many days we have to live, to love, to share our hearts with those around us. We can only do the best we can with what we are given. I look forward to "This is Us" giving us all just a little bit more.

it's who you know

"It's not what you know, but who you know that matters," is a phrase that has been proven true more often than not. If I had chosen to live near my hometown and marry a farmer, I could now be re-living my mother's life, wondering if the cherry crop would bring in enough profit to afford some more livestock and new clothes for the family, or if a last minute hail storm would keep everyone in the same pair of boots for another year.

What it meant, owning land, was that we had jobs at an early age right outside our door, or at least down the road. We didn't have to go searching for work with resumes and lists of references. My dad was the boss and if he needed a substitute asparagus picker or someone to help cool the tanks of cherries, he would ask one of us, my sisters and me, to do it. He also had us "fill baggies" and tie the foul-smelling things to the slender trunks of cherry trees to give them a defense against the deer. Milk-testing was another chore done by taking samples of milk as the cows were led into the milking parlor to do their job while we wrote down the necessary information.

For jobs that required strength and size like baling hay, the neighborhood boys would be called upon to become employees. All they had to do was show up, do the work in the way it was supposed to be done, and then show up the next day to do it all again. Proximity and whether one had a reputation for hard work was all that was required. If one wanted a job, there usually was one.

Out in the world, finding work has been much more difficult, and yet, most of the jobs I've had have been given to me by those who know me.

I became a media coordinator for a ministry through a pastor friend who not only got me the job but also gave me a car that had been donated to his ministry, and then helped find a church to provide child care for my two young children, so I could go to an office each morning. Later, when the ministry job had ended and I was sitting in the car picking up my children from the same preschool, the director said I would not need to keep looking for work if I came and worked for her. No resume, no interview, just an open red door that I would continue to walk through for many years.

There is, however, a downside to this system of obtaining employment and it has to do with a change in management. When I returned to the preschool after working at another position I received through someone I knew, I needed to be re-hired, this time by someone who did not know me. All she knew was that there were two groups of women at that school: those whom she considered teachers and those who were not. I was the latter, and once placed there could in no way lift myself up. Didn't matter how much education I had or how much I loved children. Didn't matter that parents and children alike were happy to see me there year after year, handing me their children in love and with respect. I would never be able to be known by that director.

This problem of not being known has always plagued me. Perhaps it is why people never leave their small communities and go out into a world filled with those who will not understand a person even if that person's life experiences are explained in a myriad of ways. When someone recommends one to another, the person doing the hiring does not always see what the person recommending sees. When expectations are not met, the employee becomes vulnerable to criticism not necessarily any fault of his or her own. We all have an idea of who we are looking for and we cannot always communicate to someone else exactly who that is.

After searching diligently for about eight months and probably less diligently for years before that, a friend messaged me with a job for which I could be considered if I would just call her daughter. A couple of days later I was called by the daughter's director and asked why someone as overqualified for an administrative assistant role as I am would want so humble a job considering the degrees I hold and the low rate of pay offered. I explained I needed to make a change, so she invited me in to talk.

The job interview was unlike any job interview I have ever had. We were relaxed with each other from the start, talking like old friends. We shared our hearts about how we were raised Catholic and how those instilled values caused us to believe it was our duty and privilege to reach out to our communities and provide assistance in whatever way we could. We were both drawn to non-profit organizations and loved the idea of helping children who were in need of adoption, and offering hope and healing to couples looking for ways to bring children into their hearts and homes. Our conversation winded its way through the woods to camping and she shared her excited anticipation of a rafting trip. We seemed to have a lot in common, a rare experience for me.

The connection I made with this woman was profound. As I was settling into the idea of working for someone who seemed to actually know me, not the me I show most people but the real neurotic, creative, nerdy, lover of coffee and day-old popcorn me, she mentioned she had finally been offered her dream job and she would be leaving the organization. Momentarily, my heart sunk and I considered a thank-you-but-no-thank-you exit, but then I wondered if this agency really did work as a team, and all got along wonderfully, as she had said. I kept myself from walking out by thinking: How different from this incredible woman could the next director be?

Accepting the position, I went on our planned beach trip feeling ever more anxious that no one had contacted me about my new, grand and glorious position. When I was finally emailed by the interim director, who not only knew nothing about me but did not even know there was a new hire, I thought I would be looking for work as soon as we returned home. Instead I was invited to begin a job a week late which on day one, during my brief orientation, I regretted. The woman sitting across from me could not see me, not the real me anyway. She saw an insecure, middle-aged woman who never managed to have a real career, whom had been let in the backdoor like a stray dog that no one has been heartless enough to put back out on the street. She wanted documented proof that I could do exactly what I had no idea I would be asked to do. When the laptop computer I was given kept dying along with more and more pieces of my heart each day, I realized this director categorized people into two groups: extroverts and those with personalities opposite to hers whom she considered losers. She told me during the worst 90-day job review of my life, 40 days in, that I did not have the "skill-set" (oh, how I loathe that word) for the position and she would recommend my termination to the next director. I would realize later that by giving me a negative review she was denying me the raise promised by the woman who hired me, the woman who trusted the next director to do the right thing. Though her trust was misplaced, mine was not.

Every day for the past six months, I have walked from the parking deck up to my office to sit down at my desk, and wonder if that day would be my last day at this job. Every. Single. Day.

Two months ago, a permanent director was hired by the board and I was given another chance to introduce myself. But it was short-lived as the bogus job review still stands as my only "professional" representation. Doesn't matter that I'm in a position of leadership at my church and have presented liturgical prayers I have written to the congregation. Makes no difference I run my own arts and crafts business in which I sell my artwork to those who find what I create charming and beautiful. It doesn't matter that I have writing, editing, and proofreading skills that could enhance the reports and documentation of any organization, plus the kind of work ethic one develops growing up on a farm and beginning work as a child, working my way through college and graduate school, nearly starving and almost homeless all the while finding ways to survive! No. It is not based on anything real. It is based on the assessment of someone who cannot know me. Whether I will ever be known by the new leadership remains to be seen. Strangely, peace comes in knowing there is nothing left to lose.

If you know me, you know I write this smiling, and shaking my head. You know after I write this, edit it, re-edit it, and perhaps give it one more edit--at least, I may make a pillow, watch a movie, and later have a Guinness to call it a day. I will get up tomorrow morning, try to make it to the gym to work out with a friend who works out early, shower, and drive to work singing. I will walk from the parking deck to my desk, check my emails, get a cup of coffee and welcome whatever it is that will become my day. I will then come home to my faithful dog, get the mail, kiss my husband, feed my son, and wonder briefly about this path I'm on, led by the One who knows me best.