Let Go!

“Make sure to wait to use your turn signal for the main road until you get past that little side road entrance,” I caution. “Whoops, sorry, we’re going to the bank; you’re turning on the side road. I’ll shut up and let you drive.” Mental note to zip it. He’s been driving since June on his own. My coaching is complete. Let go of control – let him drive and learn. Trust he’ll figure it out.

At 15 with my learner’s permit, taking a trip to Cleveland, my older brother drove the hour from the Illinois state line area to the crazy 465 loop around Indianapolis. He pulled over and said, “Your turn.” And he proceeded to fall asleep. I white-knuckled it around the 465 race track and the rest of the way to Cleveland. He threw me in the ocean and I swam. Confident driver ever since.

“Bud, you don’t have to stop there – oh, wait, you need to yield to oncoming cars in the parking lot. Whoops, sorry again. I’ll try to hold my tongue.” “Yeah, Mom, it’s okay. I’ve got this.”

We started our morning errands at the orthodontist. “Do you want to drive,” I ask. “Yes,” he says. As I take the passenger seat, I realize this is the first time he’s chauffeuring. Shoot, I can text and get all kinds of distracted, not focusing on opportunities for teaching moments. We’ve completed our 50 hours of driver training.

He’s transitioned from being gone just a couple nights a week to maybe being home a couple nights a week. Going to gatherings where he may only know one person instead of hanging with the posse of friends he’s known since fourth grade. He’s meeting lots of new people. Josh is outgoing, confident. He walks in a room and makes new friends. Unlike me where I will make sure I know at least one person at the party (hopefully more because most likely it’s the host and she’ll be busy mingling) and struggle to talk to new people.

My husband and I have taught him a foundation, and we get to (have to) let him make choices and mistakes at this point and make sure he knows we will love him through it all. Better now than when he’s in college, right? God, I’ve said that to friends who’ve gone through this already with their children. This adjustment is rocky. Were they ready to wring my neck over my inexperienced input?

Within one week he gained his license, started employment, opened bank accounts, learned to use a debit card, mastered pumping gas, make curfew when driving (which is 10:00 pm, by the way, during the six-month driver probation period, something we learned online as he pulled up at 10:45 his first night out driving alone). He’s on the brink of 17, folks. And from what I hear, he’s a late bloomer.

It goes against my nature to trust first; I was a lucky liar as a teen. But alas, he’s not me. Can’t wrap my mind around why I’m so excited for these next few years but my heart starting to squeeze in the rapid approach.

After a handful of failed attempts to keep my mouth shut while we completed our hour-long errands, finally I succeeded by not telling him “the light’s green, you need to go.” Through my comments this morning he responded with grace. Patience at its finest.

Where There's a Will...

Dear George Will,

Hope you don’t mind if I call you George. Phew, what a crazy couple weeks. Of course yours has been so very public; mine private, contemplative, as I’ve processed your article published in The Washington Post. I must tell you I’ve come a long way, I’ve noticed, because a few years ago - heck even a year ago - I would’ve immediately fired off a response, quite hostile I’ll admit, one I’d regret later.

During these couple weeks I’ve narrowed my focus specifically to your phrase “coveted status that confers privileges.” Thank you, George. You’ve ignited serious soul-searching, and I’ve come to some epiphanies and deepened my spirituality as I’ve thought about forgiveness and redemption. Something in me has even come to believe that if my stepfather were alive today, I think I’d be able to stand strong before him and forgive him.

I was sexually assaulted (molested they called it back in the day) by a neighbor boy; and when I told some kids, they didn’t believe me. The seeds of being doubted and ashamed were planted. A year later, my new stepfather began wooing me with gifts I readily accepted, which led to a summer of molestation. His threats of killing me and my family if I told, and my fear no one would believe me, as well as the shame that I’d enjoyed the gifts and attention he showered on me before that first assault, kept my lips sealed. It wasn’t until that silver-haired Phil Donahue turned to the camera during an episode of his show, looked me in the eyes and said don’t believe the abuser. Tell. And keep telling until someone believes you. I did that very day, and my mother sent me to safety while she dealt with the fallout.

Here’s the rub: She didn’t prosecute. He was a respected man in the community, and she didn’t want to put me through facing her soon-to-be ex-husband in court. In her mind she was protecting me; in my 11-year-old mind I felt she doubted me, I was partly to blame, and I feared he’d continue preying on other girls.

So those seeds of doubt and shame sprouted. The advice of “forget it and it will go away” was conveyed. A series of choices starting in my teens developed as I looked for ways to cope. I turned to alcohol, drugs, and promiscuity. I was looking for comfort in all the wrong places.

Here’s the profound part: What began flowering in me was a heart filling with mercy. In my 20s, after making mistake after mistake, I developed a deep love for the downtrodden, for single moms, for the bullied, for people who feel no one cares. In my 30s, I zoned into a passion of seeking out ways to help teens, especially in that critical junior high age when drugs and alcohol are easily attainable and those hormones are flaring – the same age at which I chose my destructive path.

So while mulling over your phrase “coveted status that confers privileges,” I came to the realization that ten or so years ago I was given opportunities to share my story, to bring to light the darkness that consumed me. And each chance lifted a layer of shame in which I wallowed.

George, I’ve had the “privilege” to work with youth, to walk alongside teen girls as they hit that pivotal age. I’ve had the “privilege” to mentor a young lady - who’s experienced much trauma in her life - beginning in her seventh-grade year and continuing through her senior year. I’ve had the “privilege” to share my story in front of a group of women ranging in age from teens to elderly in Nicaragua, some who’ve experienced similar journeys. I have to tell you, I cried as this group surrounded me after I spoke, laid their hands on me and prayed for me. I thought I was there to minister to them, but no, these strong women were loving on me.

The last I’ll share – I hope I haven’t lost your attention – is I’ve had the “privilege” to share my story with groups of women at a handful of retreats. I am not comfortable speaking in front of groups, but when I lean on my faith, I wish you could see the power my God injects. I blossom when He helps me conquer my discomfort. And I treasure the moments when other women who’ve experienced abuse share their stories.

So in the phrase “coveted status that confers privileges” on which I’ve meditated, while I disagree with “coveted” - because please search your heart and understand no sexual assault victim “wishes for, especially eagerly,” (dictionary def.) that experience – I will agree, in my own experience, that your words “status that confers privilege” describes me because I am given opportunities to redeem my choices and make peace with my past.

George, I look forward to how you’ll redeem your experience of a couple weeks ago and the fallout. Hoping to witness redemption at its finest. I wish you all my best. Grace and peace.

What's Up with This, God?

“It’s a blip on the radar,” the dean said with the high school counselor nodding in agreement. And in our brains, Dave, Josh, and I understood, but we still hadn’t made that 18-inch connection to our hearts.

Josh has been dealing with bouts of vertigo for the last three years. If you haven’t experienced it, it’s debilitating. From what he describes, it’s like the earth is shifting, spinning, the floor opening under him. The pattern seems to be trip-related, be it a flight or the bounce of a vehicle after long drives to a destination, although there've been episodes in between. We sought the help of a second neurologist who specializes in vertigo. In going through J’s history and ours, the doc came to the conclusion it might be migraine-related. So we started a daily med prescribed for migraine prevention.

Well, about a week after starting the med, Josh had a bad reaction: racing heart, dizziness, trouble breathing. In short, side effects from the med and now panic attacks at the thought of symptoms happening at school. We tried the next few weeks to get him to school, even just through first period, and he couldn’t make it. There’s no talking a person down from anxiety attacks. It’s leaving logic behind (this kid is logic-driven so this is new territory for us) and just supporting him and trying techniques that engage the senses: squeezing ice cubes, stomping plastic cups, heaving a brick (not at something, although I’m certain he considered at my head as I stumbled through this experience, but chucking it, say, in the back yard) to focus the mind on physical v. mental.

With the dean’s and counselor’s advice, we withdrew him from his beloved school, enrolled him online, which transfers credit for credit, with the hope of just that semester. This was painful for him. Not laid out in the life plan he’d created for himself – and not the one we envisioned. It took time for us to process and enable him to accept this decision, coming up with a plan he could own in order to be successful.

Guess what? This ain’t no blip. This is a life changer. Classes for second semester (he was able to return to school more confident than ever) that he would’ve signed up for, like business, were either filled or only offered first semester. He ended up in two art classes. This is the kid who was taking art just to fulfill the fine arts portion of his high school diploma. A means to an end. More science-, social studies-, math-driven.

Well, he’s in the midst of shaking up his schedule for jr./sr. years. Instead of math/science/law school focus-based classes, he’s pursuing art. This was the area in which he had little confidence in his work. The kid is changing his goal to major in business/art. What?!? He beams as he shares this news at lunch, sitting across the table from Dave and me, my hand squeezing Dave’s under the table as we witness the fire in his eyes. And that passion and drive he had before that the uncertainty of his health had sucked dry has returned and then some.

We skipped our trip over Christmas vacation, deciding to keep him stable and not risk another bout with vertigo. But he’s ready to take on the extended family vacation this summer with warrior mentality, willing to risk a recurrence of symptoms. Pray for our J as he takes on this challenge with a “bring it” attitude.

The answer to the prayer “why” at its finest.

Forgiveness at Its Finest

We were enjoying what had become our weekly talkfests, Mom in the blue vinyl recliner hooked up to the chemo cocktail, Aunt Cinda and I in the rolling stools huddled close. We were pleased to end up in the left corner spot which gave a bit of privacy in a room lined with others receiving their meds. In what turned out to be her last weekly treatment, aided by my aunt who’s a brilliant psychotherapist, Mom and I had one of the most significant breakthroughs in our rocky past.

“I just wanted you to listen. I’d yell and sling hurtful comments and you wouldn’t react, didn’t flinch. I felt you didn’t care,” I shared.

Cinda, who’d facilitated many healing conversations in the last 11 months, asked her sister, “How’d her actions make you feel? What does that stir up in you?”

Mom replied, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I felt growing up I was to be seen, not heard. I wanted you to have a voice.” Ah-ha dawning. Burden lifting. Definitive forgiveness on both sides in her final days. Eyes shining. Tender smiles shared.

We’d been on a journey toward harmony for about a decade. Seeds were planted as I witnessed my son’s full-onslaught adoration of her. She was the dream grandma. Not only would she listen intently to my son’s recounting of a half-hour show in 45 minutes, but she’d take dictation in her spiral notebook on each Pokemon character and their powers. She’d talk knowledgeably when he brought his pack of cards next time. We’d overhear little Josh complain “Oh, man” and beg for a couple more hours when we’d call saying we were on our way to pick him up from overnighters. Grandma would negotiate, “We were just fixing some mac ‘n cheese. Can you wait?” “We just started a game of Sorry. A couple more hours?”

Mom’s and my relationship grew from weary to wary to friendly to loving. The seeds turned to sprouts when she wrote me a letter as part of a 72-hour retreat. In it she shared how much I’m loved and thought of. She listed “some of the things you do that I’m especially impressed by.” And the theme I make out as I read it today, her birthday, and on the eve of Mother’s Day, is that she was listening to the details (my son inherited his sharing of details) I’d share about my life. She ended by saying, “You’re a lovely and accomplished woman and I’m very proud you’re my daughter.” Seeing her words on stationery – she could’ve said this many times before – helped me to hear.

My son’s working on his driving time, and he’s a cautious kid. I’ve had so few moments of fear on the road with him; a couple incidents of pressing an imaginary brake, mind you, but otherwise a calm experience. I shared with him the couple times Mom took me out driving before my license. I’d back out of the driveway in her brown ‘70s Chevy Impala with the V8 engine, shift to drive, and gun down the road. I’d accelerate through turns, my periphery catching Mom’s petite frame slide across the bench, press against the door, seize the handle. She never said a word. My aunt asked, when I relayed this to her the other day, “Did that settle your urge for her to react?” I reflected, “No, just spurred me on more, took those turns a little faster.” My son’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “I told you, Josh, I could be a pistol,” I said.

I redirected my energy, after receiving her letter, to search for the positive memories. I see examples of unconditional love, grace, forgiveness. She wasn’t perfect, but she loved me the best she knew how. And she is my earthly example – Lordy, she’s set the bar high – for how Jesus loves, how He wants us to love.

Christmas 2011 was our last trip together, her stage IV cancer diagnosed the previous July. We relished our moments, aware this would be our last time at the beach. We walked slowly, her still-present sashay as we meandered down the beach. Learning to catch with Josh and me, she’d curtsy as she picked up the ball. Ah, her dainty nature. Dave, who adored her, and I chuckle at the recall.

We spent our last 11 months together crying, laughing, loving. Crazy in love with her. May 25 she died in my arms, her back against my chest, my legs along hers, my hand stroking her downy short hair, as I whispered, “I love you, Mommy, I love you.”

Dave, Josh and I crazy miss you, Mom. You are one of God’s finest.

Who's the Parent?

My son and I are in the midst of a slew of battles to decide who is right. It consumes most of our interactions with each other. The majority of these arguments are over such petty things. To top it off, I transition in and out of these “discussions” from what should be parent mode to child mode.

I’m tired; it’s exhausting to try to win all of the time. I’m annoyed; I can’t stand hearing myself engage and even start some of these debates.

I had heard over the years to “pick your battles.” I imagined I’d be a natural. Oh, not even close and way harder than I ever dreamed.

This “right” bug I’ve been infected with is even spreading into my relationship with my husband worse than usual – let alone I’m sure is circulating through my friendships.

I ache to be done with this virus which feels like it’s destroying my relationship with my son. I’m grateful my eyes have been opened to my behavior, and I pray I can control this habit before our bond is irreparable.

My Man and Me

Okay, friends, I did it. I actually did something romantic (see Hallmark Hates Me). There is a song by Dave Matthews that makes me tear up when I hear it and brings my thoughts to my husband. I couldn’t wait to share it with him. I played it for him while standing next to him. I couldn’t look at him; I was staring at the ground. My thoughts? Why did I do this? I should have sent him the link! I blushed. I started sweating. I used great restraint not to cry as I listened to the words with him next to me. His response was a hug and he said “ahhh.” We even did a little slow dance as the song finished. (This sounds gushy as I write this!) Hey, there’s some growth here. Baby steps.

The song is You and Me, should you care to listen.

P.S. He informed me he already has a song for us: Walls by Tom Petty. He thinks I have a huge heart. I think we’re more romantic than we realize…

My Husband Thinks I Should Connect With the Vacuum Cleaner

So if I understand the practice of Lent correctly (by all means, pipe in if I’m off base here), the idea is to give up something that takes your time/thoughts off God and spend that time you’ve gained in whatever way you connect with Him.

Well, here’s what I experienced last year: I gave up Facebook games. I used to spend hours upon hours playing Facebook games. I would even take time during vacations to update certain games. A really cool thing happened after Lent season – I didn’t go back to playing the games. It freed up so much of my time and I was glad to be free of that particular addiction. When I start something new, I tend to jump right in and Beat It To Death.

Here’s the rub: That extra time in my day, the hours upon hours I had spent playing those games, got replaced by some of my other habits; i.e., TV. I may have started out Lent spending some intentional time with God each day, but that TV time crept in and replaced that time with Him.

An experiment I’ve decided to try this year (see Hallmark Hates Me blog – I’m feeling very experimental), I’m going to try a new plan of attack: Instead of focusing on what I’m giving up during Lent, I’m going to focus on what I am going to do, which is committing to connect with God on a regular basis. Not too shabby if this is one of those habits I Beat To Death. Time to get started; Lent has already begun!

Now you know what the title means…

Hallmark Hates Me

I didn’t want to celebrate Valentine’s Day this year. Call it an experiment. Call it bah humbug. I’m not sure what my intentions are. But I mentioned it to my husband, he looked at me strangely – he’s done that a lot lately for good reason – and readily agreed with my request. I enjoy those “chick flicks”, but when it comes down to it, when I ask my husband for a little romance, it ends up grossing me out. I know there are issues there, but we’re both fine with that. After all, I’m married to a guy who didn’t formally propose. It came out that we were getting married as part of a conversation while we were talking about purchasing a house. And once I came to the realization that I’m not the romancy type, it took a lot of pressure off our relationship. When I go to those movies, I don’t expect our relationship to look like that fantasy.

Getting back to what I’m going to call the experiment, I think this has been our best Valentine’s ever. Because it fell on a Sunday this year, let me call it Valentine’s weekend. Friday night was spent at a couples group my husband and I just joined – something totally new for us to do together – with two other couples. Good food, if I say so myself (it was my turn to cook), and lots of laughter. On Saturday, my son had a party for four hours, and our time was spent picking out a couple lamps and - wait for it - some new toilet seats. We had lunch, came home and watched a couple DVR’d television shows, and just relaxed together.

What I think has made this so enjoyable? There have been no expectations to make this “holiday” weekend so special. There’s been no pressure to pick out the perfect card, find the perfect gift, and plan to make the day memorable. I felt relief not to fall in that trap I fall into of trying to feel feelings (to be clear, I feel the love; it’s the gooey romance!) I just don’t feel the rest of the year, let alone on this day.

I’m settling into being comfortable with myself; that it’s okay for me not to be a romantic, gushy woman. My husband is quite pleased I’m embracing this fact, and it actually makes our marriage stronger for it. So after all this, I guess we did celebrate Valentine’s Day, and I hope you enjoyed your special celebration as well!

Guilt? Living in a Van - CFI/Redwall Live Event

Oh, eek. I feel a teensy bit of guilt. Leading up to this Community First Initiative/Redwall Live event, in talking with people I know, I mentioned - well, more than mentioned - that it would be funny if the weather turned cold and snowy. I wanted Darren to feel a little pain. I guess my mercy heart went MIA. Careful what you wish for! Here we are, day one of this fundraising event, and we're looking at plummeting temperatures, expected to be in the teens by tonight, with tropical storm winds between 40-60 mph. Sorry, Daniel - I mean guys.

My boss Darren Heil (president and founder of CFI) and Daniel Herndon (owner of Redwall Live) will be camping out in a 1970s van under a billboard until they reach a goal of $25,000. Why? To jumpstart a couple of the mentoring programs CFI will be starting in January, as well as programs already in place. CFI offers these programs to schools at no cost, depending on grants, donations, and fundraisers.

Darren and Daniel will be tweeting this event and webcasting live 24/7. Take time to tune in. On Twitter: @forkout, @cfiinc. Blog: http://www.redwalllive.com/. On Facebook: check out the Fork Out page, also the Community First Initiative group.
To learn more about CFI's not-for-profit organization, check out our website at www.go-cfi.org

The Ringing of the Bells Part 2

“While women weep, as they do now, I'll fight; while little children go hungry, as they do now, I'll fight; while men go to prison, in and out, in and out, as they do now, I'll fight; while there is a drunkard left, while there is a poor lost girl upon the streets, while there remains one dark soul without the light of God, I'll fight-I'll fight to the very end!” -General William Booth, Founder of The Salvation Army

If you read my last blog, you already know how impressed I am with The Salvation Army soldiers. I had the privilege of chatting with Brent and hearing some of his story. He’s an inspiring guy.

Brent lives in Indianapolis and has been working for The Salvation Army for three years, two of which have been spent ringing the bell in front of my grocery.

This has been a tough year for Brent. He was laid off from his other job, and his unemployment is running out this month. He lost his apartment. Brent is a recovering alcoholic, and a job like this gives him hope and a positive outlook on life. It helps him to stay sober, in good spirits, and to keep his head up during hard times.

What gives him the heart for this job is when he was growing up, his family needed services like The Salvation Army provides. That motivates him to help others in need.

He feels this job isn’t for everybody but he’s capable. They work six days a week, eight to nine hours a day, and on the day after Thanksgiving they work a 12-hour shift. Can you imagine, thinking of the weather we experience here in Indiana - rain, sleet, snow, the below-freezing temps - standing out there hour after hour, the majority of the time without someone to pass the time?

And referring back to my previous blog, not all passersby respond in a cordial way. I asked him how he feels when people dodge him or don’t acknowledge him. He said he can’t make people respond, but he can pray for them.

Now Brent is no saint – we all have our moments. Sometimes he’s upset when he’s not acknowledged after he extends a smile and holiday greeting, and he really tries not to get mad. To paraphrase, he said you reap what you sow. But he’s quick to say it’s a God thing, and you can just pray for people and hope they would be less inconsiderate. If you can’t drop money in the kettle, that’s one thing, but a little holiday cheer in return goes a long way – human kindness.

I’ll close with this: Brent said this job inspires him to do well and to go down the right path, to put a smile on his face, and he knows “God takes care of the rest, especially for me.” Amen.

The Ringing of the Bells Part 1

It’s that time of year again. The decorations are going up. The Christmas music is playing. I’m a bit of a Scrooge about Christmas music. The radio stations that start playing it the day of Thanksgiving, or even earlier this year, for me it just gets old and stale. I know, I know, turn the station. I also am burned out on all of the old Christmas movies, but I quite enjoy Elf and Love Actually – how’s that for some new Christmas classics! And I’m not much of a shopper. I love spending time with my family on Black Friday morning, but I ride on their coattails, socializing with them while using their expertise on bargain shopping.

One of the things I do love leading up to the Christmas holiday is the ringing of the bells – that’s right, it’s Salvation Army time. And in particular, outside of my local grocery store are two guys who are the epitome of the Christmas spirit, showing the love of Jesus every time I walk in and out of that store. And I don’t often carry cash on me, so even when I don’t donate, they still treat me with a whole lot of kindness.

I’ve studied these guys (and not in a stalker kind of way!) to see how they react to different customers coming in and out of the store, customers I would describe as the dodgers, the cordials, the suddenly unawares, and the glancers. I've seen the soliders react to each type of customer in the same way: they smile and give hearty holiday wishes. It just blows me away. This is my interpretation of how Jesus calls us to be like in the Bible. They are showing the face of Jesus.

I took the opportunity to interview one of them which I’ll share with you in my next blog. I hope you’ll take the opportunity to read his inspiring story.

The New Girl

So there’s a new girl in town named Shelley. Shelley was born in Oregon but moved at an early age and spent the majority of her life in Arizona. I haven’t been there (or the southwest for that matter) myself – it’s on my list – but from what I’ve gathered, while the desert does hold its own unique beauty, there is not much in the way of color or change of seasons. Oh, and the heat, I’ve heard her mention the heat.

Although I don’t know Shelley all that well yet, she is my Facebook friend. I’ve been noticing her status updates, especially over the last month. The reason I bring this up, I’m from the Midwest. I’ve had the opportunity to do some traveling and I always marvel at how stunning nature is at the different locations I’ve visited.

The last time my family came home from a trip, I mentioned to my husband that we need to find something beautiful about Indiana (aside from the people – I love my peeps) that we’re just missing because we’re too familiar with the scenery. Of course, he scoffed. He’s a lifelong resident of Indiana. He’d move to Florida in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for his family living here.

Back to Shelley’s updates. She seems enthralled with Indiana’s weather. For example, we had rainy days; she loved them. Last weekend we had frost. Her post? “We are so excited to wake up to the first frost! It sparkles!” She took lots of pictures of trees and bushes changing colors, commenting she’s soaking it all in. And get this, her friends were excited right along with her. I’m assuming these friends are also from Arizona.

I enjoy the changing colors, but I’ve been paying more attention this year.
Shelley’s opening my eyes to that something beautiful in nature I’ve been craving here in Indiana. I hope her enthusiasm for that first snow will get me through the icy temps and slush that inevitably follows. Shelley, will you invite me to go sledding?

Memories of a Mentor

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” ~Maya Angelou

Do you remember two adults, excluding your parents, who made an impact on your life as a young person, positive or negative? I participated in a mentor training class over the weekend and that was a question the trainer asked. I remember one of each.

Let’s get the negative out of the way first. My high school guidance counselor was reviewing some test results and told me I was not college material. I left his office feeling stunned, later angry, and still later wanting to prove him wrong. So even though the guy was a jerk, it pushed me harder to succeed.

Now for the positive, Mrs. Sepich, my typing/shorthand teacher. When I first met her, she seemed a bit grouchy and intimidating. From what I remember, her mouth was set in a frequent frown, and her classes were run in a no-nonsense style. This is my perception - I could be wrong on that frown memory - because as I look through my yearbook, I see a beautiful smile. But I vividly remember I was going to mind my Ps and Qs. Thankfully I loved typing and shorthand classes so no trouble was coming out of me.

She wasn’t a grandmotherly/soft-spoken type of mentor. Being on the receiving end of a smile made me feel I had achieved success. When she gave me assignments from the school office, like typing up the rosters for the basketball home games, it made me feel competent and trusted. Getting involved in a regional shorthand/typing competition at her prompting helped me build confidence in my skills.

Mrs. S helped me by submitting my name for a scholarship, as well as helped me get a job at the courthouse in the city where I would be taking my classes. When I decided not to continue my education (I had this new job after all), the next time we met, she urged me to stay in school. When I traded in my goal of becoming a legal secretary for a court reporter, again, the smile. Her support instilled that I-can-do-anything-I-put-my-mind-to feeling.


I had a successful 20-year career as a court reporter. Now I’m moving on to try new ventures. As I write this, I realize 25-ish years later she still impacts my life. Thanks, Mrs. S.

It Takes a Neighborhood

The neighborhood we lived in until I was seven felt like its own little world. I remember playing well with my brothers, making mud pies, smuggling sugar snap peas from a neighbor’s garden, lying on the ground and trying to decipher the shapes of puffy white clouds. I learned to ride a bike in that neighborhood, as well as ride with no hands. I was quite the showoff, riding up and down the street.

I changed my dress multiple times a day, but I did not care for hairbrushes and face washing. Early one morning I could not find a clean pair of underwear, but I still chose to wear a dress. I remember shifting from one fanny cheek to the other while sitting on our frigid cement front stoop, waiting for my friend to come out and play.

The coolest kid on the block, whose first name was Kirby, came complete with leather jacket and mini-bike, and I pondered whether he was related to the Kirby name on my mom’s vacuum cleaner. I was thrilled when he came to my older brother’s pirate-themed birthday party and oh how I hoped he would notice me.

The woods behind our house was thick with sections of trees and berry bushes and was our place for adventure. We would run straight to the fort with a friend’s older sibling’s Mad magazine or comic book, clueless on what we were reading. There would be dares to try an unknown potentially poisonous berry. The real thrill was keeping an ear out for bears – an unsubstantiated rumor.

We played until dark or until we couldn’t take any more mosquito bites. My habit was scratching until they were oozing, and the remedy was cotton balls soaked in alcohol held on by Band-aids. After the initial urge-to-scream reaction, the bites quickly stopped itching and healed. I haven’t found a better remedy yet – although my son has no interest in trying this method.

These memories conjure up feelings of safety, happiness, high self-esteem, being nurtured, and I’m not talking just from my parents. Neighbors were an integral part. Neighbors looked out for each other. If a family had to rush one of their children to the hospital for an emergency, the siblings went to a neighbor’s house for the night. If a kid was down the road causing some trouble, an adult knew who the culprit was and yelled out, “I’m calling your mother.” No police, just calling the parent.

Is it any more dangerous for children now than it was then? I don’t know. We have more media coverage and awareness. But what I have noticed and have been guilty of is there isn’t a lot of neighborhood support, neighbors knowing neighbors. The neighbors down at the end of my street wouldn’t recognize my kid in a lineup, nor would I know theirs (no pun intended).

For me, this is a call to balance out my time on the back deck with some time on the front stoop (underwear included) and spend time getting to know these kids. From what I’m learning in the mentor program with which I’m involved, lives are easily touched by interactions with adults. I’m in!

TMI? I Think Not

To paraphrase Rapunzel from the movie Shrek the Third, “Everyone toots, Beauty,” and I’m going there with my blog today.

As some of you know, I was a court reporter for many years. I was setting up my equipment for a deposition one morning. There were two men in the room, an attorney and a witness. It was quiet except for the rustle of setting up my equipment. My case was on the floor, so I would bend down to get an accessory, stand back up, down and up.

Well, on one of the rotations it squeaked out - yes, I’ll say it, I farted. Oh how I was mortified. In my quick thinking I contemplated my options: Could I blame it on the squeaky chair next to me or maybe that I kicked my case? No. I saw they had looked up, and I decided to acknowledge my shame. I said it. “Excuse me.” I turned beet red, flaming red. My armpits immediately began to perspire. I still turn red to this day.

I tend to take myself a bit too seriously, take things too personally. Let me tell you, this event inspired my journey to lighten up, to try to laugh at myself more. If I don’t get the joke, I’m going to tell you I don’t get the joke. (Eeek, the “ohhh” moment years later when I figured out “what’s black and white and red/read all over.) The joke’s on me, baby. Bring it.

You're Such a Loser, Sweetie

In the course of reading Pete Gall’s book “Learning My Name,” in Chapter 2 he challenges me to figure out the name I call myself when I do something stupid.

There were lots of names. I spent a heap of energy trying to narrow them down to the core zinger that would capture them all. If you put that much effort into thinking about your negative names, you feel pretty darn lousy. It just brings all those feelings of failure right to the surface whether you are in the midst of doing something stupid or not.

I decided to break the thought pattern and focus on the next challenge in the book, to think of the name God calls me, because as Pete said (and I believe) The Big Guy’s not up there calling me that zinger.

It was challenging, thinking this way. My initial feeling was discomfort, like it was too prideful (which is actually reverse pride, but I digress on what I’ve learned in therapy). His example in the book for himself is “sweetheart.” I took some time to contemplate mine and “sweetie” kept coming back to me. The more I chewed on it, the better I felt it fit.

I used it this week. I was having a particularly rough day. Instead of thinking, “What is your problem? Snap out of it, Loser!”, I focused on God asking me, “What’s wrong, Sweetie?” I remember a feeling of sweet relief. It’s all in the name, isn’t it.

I Flunked

The church I attend had a series on anger last winter. There was so much information and insight I learned from the experience; i.e., imploders, exploders, and those who do both. I would say I do both.

I did not miss a Sunday during that series. I was riveted by the information I was learning. I am impaired in the arguing department. My style is to give the silent treatment until the other person “blinks”; and after enough anger builds up, well, look out for the tornado.

That’s why I was blown away by this series. Light bulbs turned on over my head. After completion, I was actually a little cocky – ok, not a little, I was cocky - in thinking, Hey, this girl’s got skills now for arguing. It’s too bad my husband didn’t learn this useful information, but he will really benefit from my new-found knowledge. We don’t argue THAT much, so I was almost looking forward to the next one to show off my new techniques.

I flunked. I became instantly defensive, bull-headed, indignant, self-righteous. It went south from the get-go. Think Linda Blair. I believe it’s the worst argument we’ve ever had – yes, my dearly beloved confirmed that’s the angriest he’s ever seen me. We don’t even remember what we were arguing about – just the anger.

What I’ve learned?
1. Listening to a series, while beneficial, is one thing; practicing new-found knowledge is another.
2. The last year and a half of counseling has been worth every minute of time and penny of money. My husband’s worth it; I’m worth it; our family is worth it. And after 17 years of marriage, we’re closer than ever.

I HAVE EVERYTHING!

I feel a bit sheepish as I glance over last week’s blog. After I hit "send" last week, it occurred to me my counselor would have asked me to think about what I do have. So here are just a few things that come to mind. Please understand they are addressing the complaints from last week. I am very grateful for my family, health, home, food – a very long list.

I have the opportunity to work with an organization I feel really passionate about: working with kids who would benefit from adult mentoring. Now that makes my heart sing. Kids make my heart sing.

I prayed for the chance to take on some change in my life. Boy, am I getting that opportunity. I’m seeing from this past week that I can succeed; that it’s okay to have failures (while not fun, it is progress in the perfectionist department); and that having the support of wizard techno people to help me with my Cra- – I mean Blackberry issues has saved my sanity.

I am still struggling with the crabby virus this week, but I am fortunate to have family and friends who are patient. I am hearing myself more in the midst of my crabbiness and apologizing quicker (at least I hope so – confirmation, dear?).

So to quote a wise sixth-grader from his first English paper of the year, “I’m not perfect, but I’m going to keep trying new things and having fun.” Thanks, buddy.

I HAVE NOTHING!

Over the last couple days I’ve tried to sit down to write my weekly blog and realize I’m stumped. I have nothing. I’m on information overload.

Throughout the last couple weeks I have: officially started my new volunteer position three days a week; started to learn Word and Excel; received an offer for a paid writing assignment and an opportunity to review a show at Indy Fringe Festival; my kid started school; and to top it off, I’ve switched over to the dark side – yes, a Blackberry. Have I mentioned before I am technologically inept? Email and court reporter software was the extent of my knowledge for over a decade.

I am 100 percent excited about all of these latest developments (except my kid starting school), but with these opportunities comes a high amount of stress with my learning curve. Add to that my perfectionist personality, phew. I’ve been snapping at my family, defensive, all-around crabby. Every bump in the road gets blown way out of proportion.

The one consistency through all of this is I stopped running before my summer trips due to a minor injury. Since the trips I’ve been making excuses as to why I haven’t started again – too busy, too hot out, feeling rundown. Well, not anymore! I started today. I was so frazzled, I threw on the shoes (screw the 80-degree weather) and ran. So it didn’t feel all that fabulous (lungs screaming – legs jelly), yet I am a little calmer, and I’m glad I’m finally back to doing something I love and makes me feel so much better.

Log Blog

I got stuck on a log. I was on my way to a meeting in the midst of a downpour, and there was sporadic road flooding. I saw something floating, but I thought I got through the “puddle” unscathed. Then I heard this dreaded “rrerrer,” a bit like the sound of a garbage disposal. The “rrerrer” was stuck under my car. Thankfully the usually busy road wasn't at that moment, so I had the chance to back up to try to break free. No such luck, “rrerrer” again. I pulled slowly to a right turn lane and looked under the car. Yes, a log.

The rule in my past profession was understood: if you're not 15 minutes early, you're late. This habit has carried over into my new position. My anxiety commenced.

Gratefully, a kind citizen stopped to assist. He jacked up the car just enough, and I pulled the log out. This log was about 4 feet long and about 7 inches in diameter. I picked that log up over my head and chucked it over the guardrail. The man turned to my son and said, “Wow, did you see what your mom just did?” To which I replied, “I am woman; hear me roar!” Okay, I didn't say that. But all my anxiety over being late went with said log. He had gotten some dirt on his light khaki work pants in the posterior area, which I politely informed him of while thanking him for helping me. He then pointed it at me for help, to which I politely replied, “Yeah, I can't help you with that, I'm married.” One good deed does not always warrant another.

My moral to this story is, one, when I'm nervous, find a log to chuck to release anxiety – physical exertion releases stress from my brain (duh!); and two, the ever-present not jumping to conclusions when someone is late. You never know, someone may have gotten stuck on a log on the way to a meeting.