Hands Free

We have become a media-obsessed culture.

Honestly, it drives me a little crazy. I have a friend who refuses to buy a smart phone because she doesn't want to be like the rest of us--obsessed with her phone. Gotta admit--I admire that. I wish I was so disciplined. But alas...

But the sad thing is, most of us have little to no cell phone etiquette. Even adults. I can't count the times I have been engaged in a conversation with someone only to have them pull out their phone and start texting while I am talking directly to them. It's a tad bit exasperating.

I pride myself on never doing that.

This morning I was laying in bed and thinking about venturing out from the covers. It felt so good--so warm and comfortable there, so I wasn't in any hurry. And then Roy said quietly, "Hey, Vonda. I want to tell you something."

I thought he was asleep. But he said it in a way that made me perk up. It sounded like he had some really juicy gossip to tell me so, of course, I rolled over so that I could hear him over the air conditioner fan.

And then he proceeded to tell me how he was driving Jace home from taking his buddy back to his house and he apologized to Jace for not making it to Jace's soccer game as he (Roy) had to work. And then Roy said, "But it's okay, Jace, because Mom was there."

And then Jace said...

"Not really. Every time I looked at her she was texting."

Kill. Me. Now.

Honestly, I am torn between publishing this post and deleting it forever in hopes that it won't always be embedded in my memory. Mother of the Year Award. I get that one a lot.

Tragically, he is right. I was participating in a conversation with a friend that I found more engaging than this game, frankly. I had a difficult time keeping up with Jace. Everybody looked alike out there on the field--dressed in the same colors, all the same height, lots of blonde running around. And it didn't appear that Jace ever got the ball--it seemed to always be on the other side of the field.

And so...I wasn't too worried about it. Obviously.

Meanwhile, on the other side of me was a mom who had no cell phone. She watched the game, her eyes on high alert, the entire time. She was the picture of Leave It To Beaver...sitting next to that girl who never does that.

I am filled with regret tis morning: regret that a conversation that absolutely could have been postponed to a time when others weren't sacrificed with little to no effort; regret that my son felt ignored; regret that that other mom on the bench noticed my irreverence; regret that I have become so deeply engrained in a practice that I frown upon.

So when I got out of this bed this morning? I left my cell phone. Normally I keep it beside me in these early hours by the off chance Savana will text me as she sometimes does in the morning when she gets up. And, of course, that's important. But I want to become aware. I want to retrain myself to stop looking at a screen and engaging in texting conversations that cause me to ignore the very things that are in front of me.

Not too long ago I watched a video that circulated Facebook about a girl who went through her day without her cell phone. Everywhere she went were people missing out on life. They were too busy recording, too busy texting, too busy talking to someone they couldn't see. And as a result, they missed out on so much living.

That's me--the girl behind the cell phone.

And so...

I want to stop checking Facebook a million times a day just because I can.

I want to say, "Wait. Where is my cell phone??" because I forgot I had one.

I want eye contact.

I want to be present--present for others, present for my husband, present for my kids.

I want to live, fully engaged, fully alive.

And so this morning I am venturing out into the world with my head up, eyes wide open--

Today I am alive.

Wide Open

Life is all about perspective.

I attended high school at a really small Adventist day school in Oklahoma City. In fact, when I first started attending, it was a 10 grade school. But they decided to make it a full high school with my class, and so when I became a junior, it was an 11 grade school, and then, of course, all 12 grades my senior year. My graduating class had a whopping 7 students--or around there. Not many to say the least.

But I look back on my high school years with such fond memories. I loved the people in my class--genuinely loved them. And I adored all of my teachers actually, but particularly a teacher whom we affectionately called Bickell. He had a way with kids and made us feel like we could conquer the world if we wanted. We went on trips to Washington DC and Ozark. It was a family in my eyes, and I loved it.

Recently a person who was in a couple grades lower than me started a Facebook page: "You know you went to Parkview if..." And it has become quite popular the past week or so. But the baffling part is how negative the comments are, even from people who were in my class at the time. I didn't realize how genuinely miserable they were. In my mind, we were all relatively happy, content. Nobody was bullied; everybody was basically accepted--at least as far as I knew--and we weren't exactly a normal bunch. We had our own unique weirdness about us.

Evidently somewhere in those four years I missed the boat--happy in my own world and completely unaware of others'.

Recently I had a conversation with a friend and she was telling me how she thought I judged her harshly for something. This startled me as I don't remember ever even thinking twice about the incident she was referring to.

A few days ago, Jace came home from school and informed me that they were studying ancient Egypt. And then he said, "Mom, they had the weirdest beliefs. When I hear about the things they believed, I wonder how they could believe something so strange. But then I was thinking. If we were to tell those Egyptians what we believe, they would probably think that we have the weirdest beliefs and they would wonder how we could believe something so stupid. So what makes us right and them wrong?"

(Sometimes his depth amazes me.)

We all see through eyes of culture and experience and knowledge and ... well so many things affect how and what we "see". Two people can share the identical experience and have two completely different perspectives. Perspective changes everything. We take things personally that we shouldn't. We judge when, really, we don't understand. We gossip and tear down and hate...all because of our "eyes."

I want eyes of kindness, of acceptance, of freedom. I want my perspective to be inclusive rather than exclusive. I want my experiences to be ones that remind me of laughter and soulful conversations and building up rather than tearing down.

I want eyes wide open.

“We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.”
― Abraham Lincoln

tags: attitude, perspective, positive-thinking

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Remembering Compassion

Sometimes compassion makes all the difference.

Yesterday was parent/teacher conferences at Jace's school and so, after my Freshman English class, I took the golf cart up the hill to meet with Eileen Fuller.

Yesterday was one of those days where the sun couldn't quite make it from behind the clouds and it was chilly--pretty much a "Let's stay home and watch movies and drink hot chocolate" kind of day. And my students clearly felt that way as we simply couldn't get on the same page. And so ... I was frustrated. They probably were frustrated with me as well, for the record. But since this is my blog....we won't worry about that fact.

Anyway, as soon as I walked into Eileen's office, I began to talk about my teaching woes and of course, she totally understood. And from there, we talked about kids and heartaches and life and retirement and ... so many things. I think we did manage to talk about Jace for a few minutes and that's a good thing. He is doing well and I am proud of him--and thankful for her kind spirit as she has been such a huge part of his success this year.

But when I walked out of APCS yesterday, my step was a little lighter and I just felt so thankful. Eileen's compassionate spirit changed everything.

Later I  had a conversation with a good friend of mine from high school days. We don't talk too often but our conversations are always real because we've known each other since we were fourteen. He is so successful financially, has such a generous, helpful spirit, and is so welcoming to anybody. But he shared with me some of his own feelings of inadequacy that he experiences each day.

And it broke my heart a little.

Because when I am reminded of this friend of mine, I see so many good things. I see kindness and love. I see open arms.

There is a video circulating Facebook that shows moms answering the question: Are you a good mom? All of these moms answer the question with how they could be a better mom. But then they ask their kids  about their moms. All of the kids beam with love and gush words of appreciation and happy experiences.

Sometimes we are just too hard on ourselves. We see ourselves through critical eyes, assuming that's how everybody else sees us. We give others compassion while we silently berate our own insecurities and frailties.

I think there is a better way. I think there's room for kindness--not only for others, but for ourselves.

So yesterday I was thinking about these things. And it made me so grateful for so many people in my life--people that are kind and open; people that are gracious and here just so that my journey on this planet is a little easier.

I am thankful for people like Eileen who give everything they have so that my son can gain an education; thankful for people who are generous with their time and money; thankful for life on this planet that provides opportunity for so many good things.

And I was reminded that when I  am ready to berate myself with those negative thoughts that sometimes consume us all, I need to simply stop.

I need to remember compassion.

Holding on for Dear Life

I hate losing.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those die-hard competitive people who stops at nothing to win. But I definitely have a competitive streak. If you watched me play basketball as a kid you probably wouldn't know this about me as I was one of those players who would rather just hand the opposing side the ball than fight for it, much to the chagrin of my coaches and my father. I started playing when I was in the sixth grade. Evidently I had more skill than just my height as I was 5'9" even then. I started as a first string player for three years--and hated every second of it. And I lived in large communities where there were several kids to choose from. I have always wondered why I was picked as a first-string player as I did my best to "fool" the coaches. Now don't get me wrong. I didn't have any faith in my ability to play basketball.

But I guess they saw something in me that gave them faith that I would pull it together in a game. I never did...except for once. It was the last game of the season of my 8th grade year. I was exhilerated that night, knowing I wouldn't have to go through any more basketball torture until the next year--and I was secretly trying to figure out a way out of playing basketball. So in my head, this was possibly the last  game of my life. And so I played with gusto. I stole the ball, I guarded the other team with passion, and ultimately I fouled out in the fourth quarter. And as I walked out of that gym for the very last time, my dad gave me the only compliment he's ever given me about the way I played: "You actually played basketball tonight."

Desperate for a way out of the competitive world, I chose to  go to Parkview the next school year--a very small Adventist day school where my mom taught. It was a game changer for my family as Dad no longer had a reason to stay around. He left my mom that November and never came back. But the weight of the world was off my shoulders in some weird twisted way. Basketball was that stressful for me. I had other dreams.

My senior year of high school, one of my teacher's wives asked me if I would rather watch a game of basketball or play in it. "Oh, I would definitely rather play," I lied. I didn't want her to know what a coward I was on the court. I thought she would judge me harshly if she knew the truth. But she just laughed and said, "That surprises me! I pictured you as someone who would prefer to watch."

She knew me well.

Now that I'm middle-aged, I look back on those years with irritation at myself. I wish I had just let it all go, enjoyed the ride. I wish I had played with the same energy and confidence that I had in the last game of the season. I wish I'd given myself a chance instead of wallowing in self-criticism and hatred.

I wish I had seen in myself what my coaches saw in me...and my dad.

But, of course, I didn't. My dreams took me far far away from basketball, from the world my father envisioned. For the past 30 years, I've steered clear of the competitive life. I am far removed from those "glory" days. But once in awhile, that competitive streak that reared its head in the last game of basketball I ever played comes alive. And that's what happened yesterday.

One of my students from the good ole days of Wisconsin posted a riddle and said to message her with the answer. If  you messaged her and got it wrong, you had to change your profile picture to a giraffe. I thought about the riddle and was fairly sure I knew the answer...and so I messaged her.

I was wrong.

She posted on facebook that she looked forward to seeing my "new" profile picture. And so, with a twinge of regret that I ventured into this setup, I found one.

My new profile picture shows a large giraffe standing in a field with a smaller giraffe hanging on its neck, clinging for dear life.

And here's the thing with that ridiculous picture. It reminds me of my dreams. They aren't the same, of course, as they were when I was 14--far different these days. But back then? I clung to a dream that was far-removed from my reality: a dream that didn't include basketball or competition; a dream that included Adventism as I longed to be one but feared the rejection of my father.

But clinging to that dream? It made things happen. My dreams came true.

And so, I am clinging today--clinging to my dreams. My profile picture may be the result of a silly game in which I lost...but the truth is, it means so much more than "I lost the riddle."

It means I am clinging, holding on for dear life.

Letting Go

One time when I was about twelve years old, our church hosted a camping trip for the youth. I was so excited about this adventure--anxiously awaiting the day that we would leave. I loved the leaders, loved my friends that were joining in the fun, loved camping itself--an activity I rarely engaged in. And finally, as it always does, time passed and I headed out the door for the weekend. It was everything I thought it would be--filled with laughter and fun and good times.

And then it was over.

Dad and I were riding to grandma's in the pickup, the 100 mile trip that we took each weekend, shortly after the camping expedition. It was silent for awhile--Dad lost in his own mental world while I considered that fabulous camping trip I'd experienced--when I suddenly blurted out, "You know, Dad, you get so excited about something that's going to happen in your future. You plan for it and wait for it and finally it comes...and then it's over. Forever. You can't ever relive that experience again."

Dad laughed and said, "Yep. That's how life goes--you look forward to something, then it's over. And then you do it all over again. And then before you know it, life is over."

That's pretty much how this past weekend went. I've looked forward to my girls and nephew Caleb coming home for fall break since school began in August--anxious to have them back in our home, in their rooms, making plans, talking for hours. And so, after weeks of anticipation, this past Wednesday finally arrived and the three of them barreled in, a flurry of laughter and chatter and energy. We stayed up past midnight that first day as they filled me in on the goings-on of their lives. We talk almost daily but of course it's not the same over the phone. So many details get left out, stories left unsaid. Darian has this "thing" where she refuses to share certain stories until we are face to face as she wants to see my reaction--so I always know that when we are finally face to face, she has a wealth of things to tell me.

And then the rest of the break was filled with all kinds of business: shopping, eating at El Que Pasa with the Williams, fall fest at the Pisgah gym, laughing, cooking crepes and soups and burgers and Huhots, talking 'til past midnight, watching favorite shows...So many good things.

And then last night around 8:30, the three of them piled into the little Toyota pickup, a blaze of suitcases and jackets and talking, "We're leaving late!" "Where's my sweatshirt?" "We need gas!"

Finally they were settled inside as I stood on the sidewalk just outside our front door, watching forlornly. Savana rolled down her window, yelled, "Aren't you coming over here? It's what you always do!" And so I tiptoed through the rocks in my bare feet until I stood beside her. And as they drove away, she held out her hand. "Here, Mom. Grab my hand!...as though you don't want to see me go..." And she laughed that silly little giggle of hers.

And so I did. I grabbed her hand--the hand that has grown from that of a newborn to an adult woman; the hand of one who is so witty and funny and vibrant; the hand of a young woman on the verge of beginning her own adventure apart from me.

They drove away, all 3 of them waving and smiling and yelling, "Bye, Mom! We will!!!!" (...to all of my admonishments to be safe.)

And then, the little red pickup disapeared around the curve, leaving me standing, yet again, alone. And as I stood there, I remembered that day that I talked to Dad in the pickup as a 12 year old, just learning that life is made up of good times that end, and then more good times to anticipate.

It's heartwrenching in some ways--this whole parenting thing. I'm not sure I will ever adjust to letting go of their hands because, really, I don't want to see them go.

But, of course, I will. I will let go. And I will anticipate the next time they come home...and the next...and the next--bringing all kinds of good times and chatter and laughter in their wake.

Glass Bottles

Awhile ago, I downloaded a game on my iPad that has puzzles where you look for objects. As you complete the puzzles, you earn coins that allow you to continually move up in the game, unlocking more levels of puzzles, etc. One of the objects that I have had to "find" several times is a glass bottle. It's this dark green bottle shaped like an old coke bottle -- one of those from back in the day.

And every time I see that bottle, I am reminded of my childhood when we would visit my grandparents' home out in the Oklahoma countryside. We would go there when we were kids every Saturday as my dad farmed on the side. We only lived about thirty minutes away so we would just spend the day. And though I didn't appreciate it then, when I look back now I realize how those visits brought such security to my life.

But anyway, we three girls would hang with Grandma and Grandpa while Dad did his thing. Oftentimes, we would walk a couple of blocks down the highway that ran in front of their house (which was truly in the middle of nowhere) to a gas station. It was a rather picturesque setting actually--as my grandparents' two story blue-shingled house with a chicken house and barns and then an old run-down gas station  not too far away were the only man-made creations that interrupted miles and miles of prairie.

Once we arrived at that gas station with its old gas pumps, rickety wooden floors, and an ice chest filled with glass bottled sodas, we would each choose our treasure: a candybar, soda pop, candied cigarettes--whatever we fancied at that moment. We would pay the man who owned the store--Larson in the early days and then Donny Shones later, all dressed in overalls--then head back home.

That gas station and even the two storied blue-shingled house are all long gone now--buried in a pit that is covered with dirt and grass and time. But every time I go "home" to visit my dad who now lives in a much grander house where the blue-shingled house once stood, I can't help but fondly remember those happy days of walking the highway, drinking our bottled cokes, and smoking our candied cigarettes.

Some days I can't help but smile as I hear kids talking about their dreams, looking at us teachers who are in the middle of life as though we are ancient. It wasn't too long ago that I was one of them. My, how quickly life breezes by. Sometimes I feel discouraged as there are so many things that I wish I had accomplished in my life...but I haven't. And I can easily become consumed with moments of self-doubt and frustration.

But when I see those glass bottles, I am reminded of good times and laughter, of hope and security.  There remains a lot of living yet to do--my life is far from over. And so, I want to throw those negative thoughts to the wind, embracing where I am today. When I'm eighty, I hope to look back with nostalgia in my eye, saying, "When I was in my forties? Those were the days...." When I see pictures of my kids emerging into adulthood, when I am reminded of our gray Toyota, or I see another Cockapoo that makes me think of Piper...they will be the "glass bottles" that transport me to a day filled with laughter...like those when the wind blew my hair on the Oklahoma prairie...days filled with no regret.

What I Forgot

Sometimes I forget.

Just yesterday I got up, feeling that familiar restlessness. So many questions unanswered, my future vague. What should I do? That question has nagged me for going on four years now. What about retirement? What about a house? 

My husband Roy and I have devoted our lives to a Christian educational system. We've worked and played and lived and breathed and raised our kids--all on an academy campus. It's all we know. And though it has provided a beautiful life for our family--so many great memories and a safe environment for our children--it has left us with a lot of financial insecurity. Our money has been tied up in educating three children in a system that isn't cheap, even when you get subsidy. And I have never worked full-time as I wanted my kids to know my presence at home.

And I don't regret that. I have great kids and I have to believe that our sacrifice is part of the reason.

Our plan has always been that when the kids grew up, I would go to work full-time. When we moved to North Carolina, I gave up a job that would be full-time as soon as I said the word. But we felt God's leading as Roy was tired of playing dean and he was ready for a house of his own. Truthfully, I didn't really care as I loved the boys' dorm--loved a houseful of boys on Friday nights; I loved the enthusiasm that greeted me every time I walked through the dorm; I loved their eager spirits.

But I knew Roy was tired, that it was time for him to pursue something different. And so when the doors opened to come to North Carolina, we readily accepted. At the time there was no job for me and so that first year, I surrounded myself with part-time positions, all from home. I worked as a textbook correlator, a customer service representative for AAA, a contract writer. I kept myself busy while I fretted and worried and wondered. I felt hopeless and sad, and I missed being deeply involved with teenagers on a close-knit campus.

And so while Roy and Darian busied themselves with classes and work and rec and Saturday night activities and Vespers and Sabbath School, I nursed my wounds.

And then? Hope brimmed on the horizon. After two years, our principal thought he could hire me part-time for the following school year. At the same time, my dear friend Joy told me about an opening in her department working for the government that, with her help, I could possibly get. Foolishly, I turned down Joy and threw all of my eggs in the only work I knew "basket" only to have the job go from 1/2 time to...not much. But it was okay. I knew it would work--this was just the beginning. If I held on, a full-time job would come my way at the school.

And then? The school decided to start an ESL program and bring over students from China. Sure enough--I would be full time at last! I planned and got my certification...and in July, after zero applicants, we realized that it wasn't going to work out.

And so now, here I am. Both of my girls are in college, their days busy and productive. They're both so happy. Jace is 11 now--busy with his own life as he's active in sports and adores his friends. I'm definitely a backseat, and that's okay.

And so, it's easy for my heart to be filled with frustration. What about me? I've sacrificed everything for this system. Am I hung out to dry now? I've applied for so many positions and not even gotten an interview. Everything I touch seems to crumble. It's frustrating, disheartening.

I've become restless.

But then yesterday this online Bible study that I've joined began. The verse from Isaiah 49:23 was shared: "...those who hope in Me will not be disappointed." I read that and then...

I stopped.

Really??

I feel like all I've experienced is disapointment--one sorry disappointment after the other.

But then, I thought about it for a moment. My kids are doing so well--thriving actually. Roy has a great job, one that he loves and that he's good at. We have so many comforts, we eat out weekly, we laugh. A lot. I live in, in my opinion, the most beautiful place in America that I could live. My life is, truly, blessed beyond measure. I've never gone without--not really.

And so this verse gave me peace. I don't know what is in store for me in the future. Will I ever teach full-time? Will I find a job I love? Will we be able to retire with income above the poverty level? Will we ever buy a house?

Those questions can't be answered today--and maybe not even tomorrow. But for now I am choosing to simply rest in the knowledge that He has my back. And I don't necessarily know what that means, but I'm choosing peace over restlessness; gratitude over worry; joy over discontent.

And that's what I forgot.