Merry Christmas to Me

So, I haven't written about this as my mom reads my blog and I didn't want to spoil anything for her. But this Christmas proved the very best Christmas of all and here is why:

Darian came home from Bolivia to surprise everyone here in the States...

... and surprise everyone she did.

Darian and I? We pulled it off.

Back in October, Darian told me she wanted to come home if tickets were reasonable. And believe it or not, they were! I got her a ticket to Asheville and on December 13, she flew in at 11:30 p.m. Nobody in my family knew it except for me. Really. I deserve an award.

Now the picking her up at the airport at 11:30 part was tricky. That meant I had to leave the house to pick her up long after my bedtime without Roy being suspicious. I pondered that one for quite some time before I happened upon a plan that included Tammy Vaughan having a meltdown and needing my assistance at her house as Bob was gone to a convention.

It was a straight up lie. But? Considering the circumstances, it was justified.

And so, Sunday night at 10:00 I was hanging in the man's cave (with Roy) in my pajamas, freshly showered with wet hair--looking beautiful, of course--when the texts from Tammy started piling in. She was in the midst of emotional chaos due to a chain of events that she could not control and she was spiraling quickly, as evidenced by the frantic texts. And so, I started the conversation..."Uh-oh...Tammy's upset." Roy seemed unfazed.

A bit later..."Oh wow..."

A few seconds later..."Hey, Roy...Tammy is really upset. I think I need to go over to her house for a bit as Bob is gone to a convention."

That got his attention. He scowled. "What? You're already in your pajamas. It's after 10:00. You have work tomorrow. Can't you just call her?"

I would not be persuaded. Roy is well aware that when my feet are solidly planted?

I shall not be, I shall not be moved.  (That's a song.)

"Roy? If Tammy says she wants me to come over, and it's already 10:00 at night, clearly she needs someone there. I'm not leaving her stranded."

Thankfully, I managed to get through this with a concerned face rather than a laughing uproariously face. The only way that happened is I firmly believed it was all true. Tammy was, in fact, at least in my head, having a meltdown. She needed me. I needed to go. NOW.

Maybe I should be in Hollywood.

Anyway, I quickly changed into something a little more sightly than my pajamas and headed out the door while Roy sat in his chair stone-faced and probably a tad annoyed at my neighborliness. Meanwhile, Tammy was parked in the church parking lot. She quickly switched over to my car and off we went to the airport. Now she didn't have to join at this point, but it was, of course, far more fun having her along.

Darian came in right on time and it was so good to see her that I couldn't help but cry a bit and hug her close and beg her--at least in my head--to never ever ever ever leave our house again. Ah--was she ever a sight for sore eyes.

And so we drove her home, laughing and chatting it up while my heart swelled a thousand times bigger than it had ever been before.

She woke Roy up first. It was precious to behold. He was in bed, asleep, and I turned on the light. He opened his eyes to Darian peering down at him and he lit up like the sun, grinning ear to ear. "Tammy wasn't having a meltdown, was she?"

We sneaked back downstairs and Darian waited in the living room while Roy woke up Savana. "Savana! Hurry! Come into the living room! Quick!"

Savana does not wake up with her brain in full gear. It's more like she sleep walks in the midst of a dream and it takes her a minute to come back down to earth. And so, in her head, the house was on fire and she needed to run on tippy toes to avoid burning her feet. And so here she comes, running frantically on her tippy toes behind Roy in an "S" fashion to the living room. And then she saw her. And then she fell apart. And they hugged for what seemed forever while Savana sobbed and held Darian so closely that I wondered if Darian could breathe.

For Jace? Darian flat out pounced on him while he lay in a dead sleep in the dark. We flipped on the lamp beside his bed so that Jace could recognize the intruder who was bounding into the midst of his dreamworld. He barely opened his eyes and said, "Darian? What are you doing here?" It was a quick moment of elation but then just as quickly, he rolled over and said, "I'm so tired. Turn off the light."

That boy. He is such a mess. But oh my word does he have my heart.

And so it went. Darian went to Southern for a day to surprise her friends and her cousins. She soaked it all up and basked in the glory of all of the love that just poured out from every corner.

My mom was the last person to be surprised. We kept it from my dad and Jo as well, but Savana spilled the beans before Darian walked in and so it wasn't quite so grand. Anyway, we met Mom at Huhots in Oklahoma City and she had no idea that Darian was with us. It was the cutest thing ever watching Mom's face light up at the sight of Darian. I wish I captured it on video but, sadly, I didn't.

It has been such a merry Christmas. Everyone was so generous with gifts and our family Christmas day was absolutely perfection. Savana is my chef and she headed up a scrumptious breakfast that was divine. And then we opened gifts in our traditional way that takes quite a lot of time but we soak in every moment as it's filled with so much love and joy. And then we played table games and dined on homemade pizza later that afternoon. We finished off the day at the theater: Creed. Ah--great movie.

A few days later we had Christmas in Oklahoma and though it was short, it was perfect.

But without any doubt, the most perfect gift of all, is that Darian came home and is sleeping in her bed right now. She will leave soon--Tuesday of next week: January 5. It will break my heart to hug her goodbye. But for now? Well, my world is complete and I shall enjoy each moment because, really, that's what life is about.

Moments.

And living them, each one of them, to the best of our ability.

Merry Christmas to me.

Just for Tonight

We are officially home from a whirlwind trip to Oklahoma. It's always faster than I want it to be but this year was exceptionally fast. We arrived Wednesday evening and Dad informed me as I was walking through the door that an Oklahoma blizzard was heading their way. And so, in order to avoid the storm that promised record-setting conditions, we left early Saturday morning rather than Sunday morning as planned.

Yep. That makes for 2 entire days in Oklahoma after 1100 miles of driving one way.

That's dedication.

That's a whole lot of driving and sitting and watching the miles roll by.

But no matter. I was home. And even though it was fleeting, it was worth it.

Stories of cattle and wheat. 

Sunsets that make me stand in awe at a painted sky against an endless horizon.

My stepmom's cooking that  reinforces how I don't, in fact, have any self-control.

My mom who personifies kindness and contentment and joy at having her kids all in one place. Truly she's the most precious person I know.

My dad my dad my dad. He has my heart like none other.

When I am home, so many childhood memories come flooding in and I find myself transplanted back to my younger self...the me who delivered iced tea in a quart jar as Dad rode the tractor in the blazing hot sun; the me who drove the pickup down dirt roads, dust swirling up behind me; the me who rode Snip, our gentle but stubborn horse, for hours while daydreaming my life away and creating stories that I would bring to life on paper while lying on my bed at home.

I could go on forever with all of the snapshots that run through my mind like a kaleidoscope of memories, tumbling one on top of the other.

I love Oklahoma. But even more, I love home. It signifies the best of times, the worst of times, family, belonging, struggles and triumphs, laughter, tears, promise.

And then when I hug everyone goodbye, the tears flow. I just can't help it. In fact, just thinking about saying goodbye when I am there makes me well up with emotion. But, of course, my regular life calls and so, I pack my bags and pack up my memories, compartmentalizing them back where they belong so that I can head back to my every day normal.

We arrived home this afternoon (Sunday) at about 4:00. We drove hard yesterday as we were being chased by a storm far bigger than we cared to challenge and made it safely to Nashville. But today? Well, we found ourselves tired of the hurry and took our time leaving the motel. We were all restless and the hours rolled by in mainly silence as we were each busy in our own private worlds.

After we pulled into the driveway, we kicked into gear: unpacked the car, unpacked our suitcases, vacuumed, swept the floor and wiped down the countertops, squared away our finances, bought and put away groceries. Roy even managed to change the brakes on the car so that we are ahead of the game once our week officially kicks into gear bright and early tomorrow.

But I am not really home here in North Carolina--not quite yet. I know I will be soon as life will take hold and yank me back to the present. But for now my thoughts are with those back home who are snowed in, who are sitting in a dark living room lit by candlelight while playing Rumikube, who are dining on taco soup and cornbread--perfect fare for a cold wintry night.

For tonight, I will allow myself the luxury of being a small town Oklahoma girl.

Just for tonight.

Hope is a Four Letter Word

I am hopeful about so many things.

I am hopeful that I will see Darian again.
I am hopeful that Jace will find acceptance and happiness.
I am hopeful that we will, someday, buy a house.
I am hopeful that Savana will have a beautiful wedding that is perfect for her and Guerin.

I am hopeful that I will be around to watch the sunset this evening.
I am hopeful that this too shall pass.
I am hopeful that winter will someday turn to spring to summer to fall and winter again.

I am hopeful that our nation will rise from the ashes.
I am hopeful that Luke will find his way.
I am hopeful that grief will turn to joy.

This week I have learned something that has changed my world and that is this: sometimes we have to recognize that we aren't from the cookie cutter mold and we have to take steps accordingly. Sometimes nobody is wrong. Sometimes we have to stop squeezing and prodding in order to fit.

Sometimes we simply have to stop fighting and find a new way.

Last night I coerced Tammy into coming home with me to see my house. Lots of changes have occurred this week and my living room looks brand new. It's a much needed change...as in it should have happened about six years ago...but that's okay. Kudos, furniture for providing a place for me to sit no matter how worn you appeared!

Anyway, I took Tammy through my house and showed her the different changes I've made, and she oohed and aahed appropriately. She's a great cheerleader. No. I'm serious. She is a G-R-E-A-T cheerleader. It's one of her special gifts. So, you know, I felt like a million bucks. And that's a great way to feel.

But as always happens when we get together, we started talking about our lives and about stuff that doesn't matter and about stuff that does matter. And as she was leaving, she stopped midway down the sidewalk, turned and looked at me through the darkness. And she said:

Hope is a powerful word. It's the most powerful word of the English language. It even surpasses love. It's a reason to wake up in the morning and it's the reason that when times are tough, we can still take one more step.

She's so right.

Hope is a four letter word that turns ashes into promise, devastation into rising, regret into moving forward.

And this morning? I am filled with hope.

Turning Ashes into Beauty

When Roy and I got married, we immediately moved to Campion Academy to a small duplex that was perfect for newlyweds. We had next to nothing to our name as we both came from dorm rooms rather than apartments. In fact, our living room furniture consisted of a couch that my parents had in their early days of marriage, and two burnt orange rocking chairs that were pulled from the dumpster. But? We were young and we simply didn't care. It wasn't much but it was ours.

For bedroom furniture, we had a waterbed that Roy purchased for fifty bucks from a friend. And that's it. No dresser, no nightstand, no anything. Just a bed. But as luck would have it, when we arrived at the duplex that was now our home, an old chest of drawers happened to be in the bedroom. It wasn't much to look at. We had no idea whose it was but as the duplex was totally empty with the exception of this chest of drawers, we assumed it was ours for the taking. And so we did.

28 years later? It's still our dresser. And it has maintained its worn, haggard look through the years. And though that is a popular look these days, it is certainly not becoming with this dresser. It's purely utilitarian. And so over Thanksgiving break, Roy and I were inspired to jazz up some of our furniture: the end tables in our living room, the nightstands in our bedroom, and, of course, and the most overdue, our haggard, worn dresser.

We sanded and sanded some more, and painted, and then painted some more, and then changed out the handles and knobs to a more becoming style, and wa-laa, that haggard piece of furniture was transformed into a trendy chest of drawers that was something to behold. We're really quite proud of ourselves as we've never ventured this direction before, and now Roy and I keep asking ourselves....Really. What took us so long??

From ashes to beauty...

This has been a sobering week. The mass shooting in San Bernardino, California brought home the stark reality that we're not safe in our own homeland. We are sitting ducks to Isis who is located throughout the States in sleeping cells and we never know when or where they will strike. As of late, Isis stories have been rampant around the world as they strive to invoke fear in the hearts of regular people. They have no mercy, no kindness, no compassion. But they do have a mission and thousands have bought into it. That mission? To fulfill their prophecy of taking over the world with ethnic cleansing that will leave only 144,000 so that life can begin again as it's meant, in their minds, to be lived. And these people will go to all lengths to accomplish this mission; their own lives have no meaning.

San Bernardino is close to home. I have two nephews that live there, a plethora of friends, and my heart-friend, Jacque. We lived and taught there for 3 years. I know the highways, the schools, the grocery store. When I talk to Jacque, a brilliant teacher in the San Bernardino district, the fear is palpable.

We are in changing times and we have a problem.

Last night before we went to sleep, Roy and I lay in bed quietly talking for quite awhile, as we often do on Friday nights. It's our catchup time after a busy week of schedules and packed lunches and errands during the moments in between. And I said to Roy, It makes me rethink everything--going to the mall, going out to eat, going to the grocery store. These past couple of days I look for the exits, and stage a plan as I am entering the doors.

I know I am not alone.

But stories of heroism are rising from the ashes. San Bernardino is coming together and standing up #sanbernardinostrong. Families are torn apart and devastation abounds, especially for those families and friends of the 14 lives that were senselessly taken. Those murderers have left carnage and wreckage in their wake. It makes no sense and it's crippling. But the human spirit? It's rising. It is rising from the ashes and it's holding hands and moving onward and upward. The human spirit will not be broken.

Isis numbers somewhere between 20,000-30,000, according to news reports. The world population? 7 billion. Isis operates with terror and fear and force. But they do not make up this world. They don't control our minds. They only have power if we give it to them.

I am not saying that we will not affected by their cruelty; they could very well strike in our own communities.

But when we stop living? They win. When we lose confidence in humanity, they gain victory. Of course we need to be cautious; we need to be aware. That's the reality of 2015 in America. But as for me? My focus will remain that life is to be savored; life is to be lived and enjoyed. Moments are precious diamonds, sometimes  in the midst of ashes.

The lights of my Christmas tree are blinking. It's still dark outside, and the blinking lights are a beautiful contrast to the cold world that is just outside my front window. Savana's wedding dress arrived and we made plans to pick it up today. She will try it on to ensure it fits perfectly, twirling magically in front of the mirror as tears will, most likely, roll down my cheeks as I stare in awe at this precious girl that stands before me. It's amazing to me, really, how she has grown from this chubby, slobbery cherub into this confident, driven woman. And when I see her in that dress, it all floods over me like a storm with conflicting emotion and bursting pride.

Jace has a party this evening--a lock-in--and a birthday party tomorrow that he has looked forward to for weeks. On Monday we have a faculty Christmas party and the food will be delectable; laughter will abound.

It's Christmas time here and for our family, that means anticipation of our own family traditions and traveling to Oklahoma and the joy of being surrounded by those I love the most in this world.

The sun will set, and the sky will blaze with color.

The mountains, bare, will continue to rise towards the sky.

And us? Our nation?  Well, we will rise too. We will find beauty in the ashes.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Growing up, I had a lot of nicknames. My grandpa Nick called me "Womp" because, I guess, when I was really little and didn't get my way, I would throw myself on the floor and cry. Grandpa would chuckle at me and say, "There she goes--womping on the floor again" and thus Womp was born. As I got older, that name grew to Wompolias--certainly not a name to wear like a crown, but my name nonetheless, at least where my grandpa and sister Lori were concerned.

At school? Vonda-Honda vroom vroom. Yeah. I got that a lot.

And my dad called me Ben. Nobody really knows where the name Ben came from as Dad called me Ben from my earliest memories. I have heard a variety of explanations, but the one that stands out is that Dad always wanted a boy and so he called me Ben as I was the last kid, the last child to crush his dream of a son.

Some days, Dad called me "Bender my Friender". That went over really well when I was in 7th grade or so--you know, that age where everybody hates me and everything I do is stupid and... we are all pretty much obsessed with ourselves, thinking that when we walk into a room, everybody stops and stares when the truth is (and you finally recognize this truth when you hit your early to mid 20's--somewhere in there) --...nobody notices. Not really, anyway.

During those early teen years, I can remember being at a basketball game, ready to head for home, surrounded by my teammates, and Dad would say, "Ready to go, Bender my Friender?" and I would cringe. "Daaaad!!!", I would say quietly, so that only he could hear, my eyes widening in that way we all do when we try to get across "The Message." But of course, Dad was undaunted.

Now that I have a 13 year old, I totally get it.

Dad never called me Vonda. In fact, when he did, it sounded strange, like a foreign word that I wasn't quite sure of its meaning. And even when I reached adulthood, married, started having children...Dad still called me Ben. And the truth is, I always  treasured that name. It spoke love to me, it spoke tenderness. It spoke of a connection between Dad and me. When I told others my dad called me Ben, they looked at me with questioning eyes...Why? But no matter. It was my name and, especially as I grew older,  I wore it with pride.

But somewhere over the last few years, my name officially transitioned to Vonda. I'm not sure when it happened, or even why it happened. Maybe it's just the natural progression of how life rolls. But for whatever reason, "Ben" got lost in a sea of years that rolled one on top of the other.  Sometimes, I've wondered about that-- in those moments where I just miss my dad.

Today is Thanksgiving. It's been a perfect kind of day really. The only "dark" spot was missing my sister Tami and her clan and, of course, Darian. But it was just a hiccup year and so, those of us who remained (our four, my nephew Jared, and Fiancé) did a mighty fine job of kicking into gear and helping out in the kitchen, eating more than our fair share of Thanksgiving fare, and ending the day with some raucous games around the dining room table.

But this morning, before I headed downstairs to peel potatoes and throw together a green bean casserole while mixing the dough for the rolls, I picked up my phone and took a minute to draft a text to my dad. I told him I loved him, that of all the dads in the world I'm so glad he's mine. And I am. Oh my word...I so am.

We ate dinner around the table, each of us stating the things that we are most grateful for this year: that we will soon have a son-in-law whom we all so dearly love, that sweet Jare came to visit, that Savana and Guer are almost done with school, that Jace is doing well in school, and the list continues. And then afterwards, as we all suffered from a food coma, we went our separate directions for awhile to have a couple of hours of quiet time.

And somewhere in there, I picked up my phone, noticed I had a text.

A text that was the exclamation point to my day.

A text that warmed my heart, that spoke volumes in just two little words:

"Thanks Ben."                                                

Shades of Gray

Lately Isis has been on the news as they have struck terror around the world with their senseless attacks that decimate lives, families, communities. I am sure we have all wondered where they will strike again. Will it be our nation? our community? our family?

Will it be me?

Not too long ago, someone posted an article on Facebook about this reporter that interviewed young men who had been captured that were part of Isis and were awaiting their own trials that would, undoubtedly, result in their own deaths. These men, for the most part, had wives, a minimum of two young children, and homes. They had families; they knew love and devotion. When asked why they joined Isis and spent their lives murdering innocent people, they responded that they were hungry; Isis offered security. They were scared; Isis offered community. They were splintered and fractured after the US came in and dethroned Hussein; Isis offered belonging. The details didn't matter. What mattered was securing their families and creating peace for their own.

Don't get me wrong. I am not sympathizing with nor supporting Isis. Their brutality is abominable and, in my black or white opinion on this matter, must be wiped out. No compromise, no mercy.

But sometimes, when I look deeper--as in this case of this interview, I am amazed at the humanity of it all. These ruthless killers are devoted to family. Most likely they celebrate holidays, laugh with their children, hug their wives, watch the sunrise in awe.

How can that be?

Their senseless acts are evil, sheer darkness.

But life is filled with shades of gray.

Sometimes I wonder....if we could take all of the hatred and anger and violence in this world and roll it up in a ball, how large would it be? And then if we could take all of the beauty and love and kindness and wonder of this world and roll it up in a ball, how large would IT be? Would they be similar in size? Would the ball of hatred far surpass the ball of love? Or would it be the other way around?

While acts of terror and violence and rage are splashed all over the headlines,  average people walk the streets searching for hurting and helpless animals so that they can rehabilitate them and find them homes. Strangers take in children who are neglected and abused. Some stop and help the elderly or the handicapped load their groceries in their cars.

Some people ...
play in the rain, twirling with joy as raindrops fall on their cheeks,
play music and sing while they cook dinner for their loved ones,
run shelters for the homeless,
visit those in prison,
take a meal to the lonely or the sick,
offer a smile to the stranger they pass on the street,
take time for their aging parents,
offer encouraging words,
read inspiring words,
and some people embrace those who are different than themselves.

In my opinion? The ball made up of love and beauty and kindness is far bigger, far more meaningful.

Often I hear talk about how life has become so dark and that our world is on the verge of destruction. And granted, I do think with all of our nuclear weapons and acts of terror that could strike our water supply and such, we do stand on a precipice. But I don't think, personally, that it is because humanity has become so evil; I think it's because of the power we now hold in our hands. When I consider the days of Rome where stadiums were packed for the purpose of watching gladiators fight to the death...that isn't exactly an rose-colored view of the hearts of mankind.

Life has always been a conflict of love versus hate. I am not convinced that humanity has changed. From the beginning of time we've had the choice...

to choose kindness or choose to bitterness;
to choose to focus on how one has been wronged or to stand in awe at the wonder of a sunset;
to gossip and tear down or to offer words of encouragement and empathy;
to spread good will and community or to ostracize and belittle;
to accept with open arms or to reject simply because we don't understand.

That's Important to Me

When I first got home yesterday, I had many intentions, all involving kicking up my feet and filling up on the things I love: Netlix, journaling, reading, creating. Maybe a cup of hot tea by my side, or a cool glass of water to sip on throughout the evening.

But none of that happened.

As I cuddled up on the couch for  this much anticipated "adventure," I first checked my email, and immediately saw an email from my sister, Tami. She had sent me a link to a blog entitled This Life I Live, written by Rory Feeks about his life with Joey Feeks, his wife of 13 years. They are a well-known country duo in the music world right outside of Nashville.

I was immediately entrenched and started at the very beginning: January 2014, and worked my way through to November, 2015. The blog is gut wrenching, fascinating, real. It's a testimony to a beautiful life filled with simple things, family, love. In case any of you choose to read it yourselves, I won't give anything away. Suffice it to say, it is a tender, heart wrenching testimony, embedded with videos and songs they sing together that bring meaning to the content of the particular blog.

I started around 7:00 and put my iPad away at about 9:30, utterly drenched in life with the Feeks. It stuck with me all night, and all morning on this Veterans Day.

This morning I listened to one of their songs: That's Important to Me. It shows their life on their Tennessee farm where they live simply with no tv, no smart phones, cows, chickens, and their dog. She makes home cooked foods in their kitchen and watches the fireflies in the evening on their swing. It's filled with reminders of what is truly important in this life we live.

And it got me thinking about what's important to me. Sometimes, life turns into such a rat race, each day blurring into the next, and it's easy to get caught up in pointless worries such as others' opinions, others' lives, finances, petty arguments, petty ideas.

Sometimes we all need reminders that life is about love, simplicity, family, meaningful relationships, butterflies, art, a warm home, our pets, bursting flowers, towering mountains, crashing waves.

Sometimes we need to remember that it's more important to give of ourselves to those who are less fortunate than we are, that we are all connected, we are all one, doing the best we can on this planet where life can throw curveballs that are brutal in unspeakable ways.

Recently I was at work early one morning on a dark, cold, rainy day. I went into our little kitchenette that has a window that looks directly out to a little park area, the main street, and the courthouse on the other side. I noticed a growing circle of people huddled around a little woman sitting on a park bench with her head in her hands. It was clear the people surrounding her--all strangers by the looks of things--were concerned. One covered her with his umbrella while another scrambled for her phone. Shortly after, the EMTs arrived and placed her on a gurney, and headed off, sirens wailing.

I noticed the woman had her purse, was dressed in a skirt and jacket, and was clearly out for a day of purpose.

And now? Well, now who knows. Maybe she's fine and home resting from a scare.

But maybe she's not. I'll never know.

But what I do know is that life holds no promises. Each day is a gift and when we focus on the stress and the unfairness of it all and the negative cycles that run rampant through our heads, we trade beauty for cheap living; we trade negativity for joy.

I want to live deliberately, to ease the pain for others, to create more smiles  than frowns. I want to focus on laughter, mashed potatoes, the woven woods right outside my sliding glass door. I need more walks down Holcombe Cove Road where I can't help but look up.

I want to live what's important to me.

Rory's blog

The New Resident

A couple of days ago, I got up at my usual 5:00, headed downstairs, started my chai tea, and then walked into the living room to turn the light on when Ajax bounded through the cat door in the window with a perfectly healthy live mouse in his mouth. Once inside, he set him free on the carpet and began the game of cat and mouse. I stood frozen. But suddenly, I whipped into gear and began screaming and stomping like a crazy lady, yelling, "Ajax, get out! Get out now!" And, wonder of wonders, he did. He scooped up the mouse in his mouth and, clearly wanting to escape my crazy antics, madly dashed back through the cat door and out into the darkness with his prize.

Whew.

I stood there for a just a minute to let my heart slow a bit and then went about my normal routine--letting out Piper, giving him his pill, feeding the "wet" food to the cats, etc.

And then, I headed back into the living room for some "me" time--my absolute favorite time of the day....except, Ajax was back. This time he was peering frantically under the couch, moving his body with whatever was underneath and stretching his paw in hopes of catching it.

Clearly, the mouse was back.

I moved the couch and sure enough--he scurried out from under it and along the edge of the wall while Ajax, tired of his moving target, headed to the kitchen to find some food that didn't take so much work...and he couldn't be persuaded to come back and finish what he started.

Somehow I managed to chase the mouse into Darian's bedroom and closed the door, barricading the closet and the bedroom door with towels. And at 5:15 a.m., I headed upstairs to get Roy to help me get rid of this unwanted little creature.

I wish I had a video of the two of us scrambling after that damn mouse. For the next thirty minutes, we chased it like morons. It would go under the dresser, under the bed, under the hope chest, under under under...while we screamed and swung and chased. At times it even managed to run over my feet--or Roy's-- and we yelled like banshees and jogged in place for a second.

We did this for 30 minutes. Yeah.

T.H.I.R.T.Y. M.I.N.U.T.E.S.

Finally, after barricading all hiding places with towels and such, we had him cornered and there was no escape. We slowly went towards him--each of us with containers, a broom...and just when we were seconds away, inches away, from catching that little sucker....

....he went down the heating vent.

Yep. There's now a healthy, live mouse in our heating system.

Meanwhile, my "quiet" time was over. I headed back upstairs to get ready for work.

While I was at work, I sent a text to Roy: Please take Ajax in the car, drive a few miles down the road, and throw him out the window.

Roy responded: Great idea.

A couple of hours later, Roy sent me a photo of Ajax and Piper curled up together, sleeping contentedly. The caption?  "He found his way back home."

Meanwhile, I will go about my life, living my own definition of normal...but a little piece of me will be ever watchful for a little resident who has total access to every room in our home...

If anyone hears me screaming, or spies me doing a strange sort of dance through my windows....well, you'll know why.

Living with Wholeheartedness

This has been a week of revelations.

First of all, I have been reminded of how mean we can be, of how we can forget that we are all just people, doing the best we can. We may not understand the journey of others, but they are just humans as the rest of us. It has been a tragic reminder as I have seen how the cold, harsh acts and words of others have decimated lives.

And now for my own "be real" admission:

It has also been a reminder that I am far too controlling by nature. That I need to let go and trust. (Thanks, Laurie.)

When it comes to my kids, I am a mama bear. Don't mess with them. I can be nice...until my kids are involved. And then? Well, then I see red and I scramble like a bat outta hell to make things right in their world. I have risked friendships for my kids' honor. I have badgered teachers and principals and anyone who may dare to judge harshly. (Don't judge me until you have walked a mile in my shoes. Just sayin'.)

Currently, my world is filled with Brene' Brown. If you don't know who she is, I would encourage you to find out and to engage in her books, or her online OCourse. She's hands down amazing and insightful and wise. Anyway, her basic message is that we need to live wholehearted lives and raise our kids that way. Wholeheartedness is not for the faint of heart, I might add. It's tough business; it's painful. But? It's real and it's authentic and it's living your best life. It's about feeling the sorrows and experiencing the joys in a very powerful way. It's about being knocked down and then having the courage to crawl your way back up without burying your feelings and shutting out the pain.

And? Here's the kicker, for me especially.

It's about letting your kids have their own wholehearted journey without your control. So in other words, they get to fight their battles and experience the heartaches and the accomplishments that life brings their way without controlling their circumstances. And that's a tough one for me.

Of course, that doesn't mean you have to send your five year old out the door without holding their hand...but it does mean that by the time your son is 13 years old, he gets to start maneuvering and learning tough lessons and taking the hard knocks without my interference.

That's a scary idea. It's a harsh reality. And yet? Well, it offers freedom at the same time. Because my job is to give my kids a safe place to land, a place that offers kindness, that allows them to experience the hard knocks but know that when they are home, they are loved and that we will brush them off and offer comfort and encouragement to get back up and try again.

And that also means I have to trust. And that's another tough one for me.

But, this week I began this new journey; I began the process of letting go.

We'll see how I do.

I Have Enough

Sometimes it's easy to fall into the pattern of "never enough."

There's never enough time, never enough joy, never enough power, never enough weekend, and never ever ever enough money.

I have been reading this week about how to turn the "never enough's" into "enough." What a difference life would be if, rather than contemplating the deficiencies, we contemplate the sufficiencies. And really, isn't there always enough? Because somehow, we survive. Somehow we get to the next day, and we do that over and over again.

I want my life to be one that is joyful and grateful and "enough."

But sometimes I forget.

So the "enough"? That's the North Star. That's where I'm headed, though I'm sure I may experience some detours along the way.

This weekend Roy and I had a Staycation. Jace left with the Pathfinders on Thursday morning for a three night/four day Pathfinder event that involved camping and soccer games and basketball. To say he was excited would be an understatement: I'm never going to go to sleep!  he exclaimed over and over again on Wednesday evening.

We spent the majority of that evening packing, checking off items one by one on the list to ensure all was included that was required. His suitcase was perfectly organized when he left; I am sure it will be a full-blown disaster when he returns. And he'll be exhausted.

Perfection.

(Here's to hoping that Shane and Darrell aren't ready to kill him when I pick him up on Sunday afternoon.)

Anyway, so Roy and I have relished in our time together, living free and celebrating adult time. Ah--it's been a blast. Over the course of the weekend we went to a play called Young Frankenstein that was put on by Asheville Theaters. It was mind blowing as it was performed by amateurs who volunteered their time, and yet...you would never know it. The talent these people brought to the stage is breathtaking. The one who stole the stage was an 18 year old Senior in high school that was P.H.E.N.O.M.E.N.A.L.

One day Roy and I went out to eat and our waiter was a friendly guy who told us he is engaged, scheduled to get married a year from this October. We talked about how he needs to start a honeymoon fund and we laughed and we left thinking, This is just a great kid and I hope life treats him well.

At another place I went to the bathroom where a mom was derailing a little 3 year old who was just sobbing her heart out, all dressed in a frilly white dress but clearly misbehaving out in public. And Mom had had enough. Oh, I remember those times, and how I regret my lack of patience now. As I left, an older lady left with me, and as soon as we got in the hallway, the older lady said to me, shaking her head, "I just want to tell that mom to relax, to enjoy her little girl, that she's going to be just fine. They grow up too fast."

I get it.

Roy and I rode the motorcycle up Mt. Pisgah, a 40 mile loop that involved towering trees, rocky cliffs, and a rainbow of shimmering reds, bursting oranges, and shades of gold. Though Roy and I often communicate the best when we're riding the bike, we were both quiet on this journey as we soaked it all in.

And then one afternoon we took out his '81 Firebird and decided to get dessert at a nice restaurant in Asheville. As we always do, we locked the doors to the car...but Roy, in a rare moment of forgetfulness, left the car door key sitting on the console. Older cars have two keys: one for the doors and the trunk; one for the ignition.

Oops.

As we no longer have Triple A, this was a problem. But, due to the kindness of a K-Mart employee who found some wire in the back, and less than 30 seconds from Roy who is well-versed in breaking into old vehicles, we were back in business in less than 30 minutes.

Our Staycation isn't quite over. We're going to breakfast this morning as the finale of this weekend that we've been anticipating for weeks. And then? Well, then real life will kick in: shopping at Sam's, a few items at the grocery store, laundry, cleaning, and preparing for a week that will announce its glory at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow.

But here's the thing that I've noticed over our three day reprieve from parenthood. Even though we did a lot of laughter and talking and living in the moment, our thoughts were still engaged. We still worried about the things that bind us; we still experienced some frustrations and negative emotions along the way.

We were still us.

We didn't ever go away because, you know, wherever you go...there you are.

This weekend was on the highlight reel of our lives. That's for sure. But my readings this past week have reminded me that every day is filled with enough. It isn't just the Staycations that provide enough fun, enough time, enough joy, enough beauty...

Every day is enough.

I want to be on the lookout for the negativity that rises its ugly head on occasion, and I want to change those thoughts to...

I have enough time.
I have enough money.
I have enough power.
I have enough love.
I have enough friends.

I have enough.

Again and Again

Yesterday I was walking downtown with a friend. We were walking fast, talking a mile a minute, laughing, when I noticed a pole with several cables that were all connected at the top of the pole and then angled down and were anchored on the sidewalk. My friend's fast pace led her smack dab in the path of that pole and for a split second, the thought crossed my mind, "She's going to hit the pole!" But it was one of those surreal moments. I didn't have the presence of mind to reach out my hand and stop her, to warn her ... and then BAM! She slammed into that pole, hitting the side of her face at record speed because she was turned to look at me. Her head bounced back and hit the cables surrounding the pole and she stood there for a moment, stunned.

Last night she sent me a text: the entire side of her face is black and blue. Poor thing.

This week? This week I slammed into the metaphorical pole.

I have been reading a lot of Brene' Brown lately. If you haven't read her...you should. She's amazing. Inspiring. Real. And she's all about living in a wholehearted way. She deals with shame and how we all react to shame--the tricks that we use to escape the pain and succumb to its pressure rather than facing it head on and continuing on a wholehearted pathway.

And I "amen" her all of the time--love her messages.

And now I'm going to get really "real" for a minute.

This week? Well, this week I didn't love her messages. This week involved quite a lot of shame. And I found myself wanting to retreat from everyone I know, to just hang on Facebook for hours and numb the pain, to curl up in a ball and pretend like none of it happened.

But every time -- every single time -- that I found myself "reacting" from the shame, I remembered Brene'. (We are on a first name basis, Brene' and me.)

 And I sighed. Heavily.

Because being wholehearted is easy when things go your way. Focusing on messages such as "I am worthy of love and belonging" or talking to oneself as one would talk to a friend rather than having inner thoughts that rage: Why are you such an idiot??...is easy as pie...

until the going gets rough.

And then it's a whole different story.

Sometimes when I am at work, I throw something on in the background to listen to while I do tasks that don't require critical thinking. Sometimes it's music; other times? I try to find something inspiring or informative or, simply entertaining.

Yesterday I chose Ted Talks. I love Ted Talks. When I taught, Friday was always Ted Talks day and I would start the class with one that inspired discussion or deep thought. It was my students' favorite part of the week. In fact, if we ever missed school on Friday due to a break or whatever, they would beg for Ted Talks Monday.

Anyway, the first one I listened to was a young guy in his 20's who has ADHD. His talk was fascinating as he discussed what that meant for him as a student growing up in a regular classroom and the shame the ADHD diagnosis brings. However, he is blazingly successful now--and all because he has ADHD. He has taken the aspects of the "disorder" and used them to his own benefit.

Another Ted Talks I listened to was a 17 year old boy who suffers from a terrible disease that deeply affects his physical appearance. Genuinely there is nothing about his appearance that is attractive. He is tiny, awkwardly built, bald, has an elfish face and a squeaky voice. But he shines with confidence and a can-do spirit. Clearly his family has encouraged him to live in a wholehearted manner because this kid thrives.

Sometimes we all have moments, days, or even weeks where we get punched in the gut, breathless. Sleepless nights seem to be our best friend.

That was my week.

But I am going to do my best to face it, to grow from it, to seek control in my own perceptions and my own reactions rather than others' because that is the only control I really have.

I am going to strive for wholeheartedness when what I really want is a dark closet away from the world around me.

I am going to be brave, courageous...

And when I am not? I am going to get back up and try again.

Because that's what wholehearted living is all about: trying again and again...

...and again.

All About the Attitude

When I was in 8th grade, we moved mid-fall from a town of about 10,000 to a very small town on the outskirts of Oklahoma City: Piedmont. Piedmont was one of those small public schools that had about 50 kids per class or so, and most of them had grown up together. They were a close-knit group and, as a result, I wouldn't say they welcomed me with open arms. Meanwhile, I came from Cushing and from a school that I dearly loved, filled with a group of friends whom I adored. I had won a student association office for my 8th grade year, but, of course, once I knew that we were moving? Well, that ended that. But my point is, I felt successful, loved, and accepted.

And then we moved.

My first day at Piedmont felt like a disaster. I didn't know a single face in the crowd and felt isolated, alone. However, band was a raging success.

When I was in the 5th grade, our band instructor came into class and asked if anyone wanted to join. He demonstrated the various instruments and so, I begged Dad, and he finally gave in to my whims and purchased a used flute for me. But he didn't have much confidence that it would be something I pursued.

I proved him wrong.

I loved band. I practiced for hours on the flute and poured my heart into being the best flute player I could be. My dedication paid off, and by the time we moved to Cushing my 6th grade year, I could play relatively well, for my age, of course. Mom taught us girls how to play piano, and so I had a good handle on reading music and such. That was probably the biggest reason for my success as, I really only had to learn how to play the various notes on the flute. The rhythm and reading the music? Well, playing the piano made that a piece of cake.

Anyway, when I attended school on that first day, they happened to be doing try-outs for chairs. First chair is the coveted spot as that means one is the best player in the group. Melody was in the 8th grade as well and Melody had been challenged multiple times by the other flute players in the group, but she was clearly the best and held her spot for the previous two years.

As I was new to band and nobody knew me, I sat in the very last seat after the other 8 flute players. The band instructor's challenge was to play the B flat scale, up and back down. I shrugged to myself. Easy as pie.

But clearly I was the only one who thought so. The other 8 girls struggled and hit wrong notes and couldn't keep the correct rhythm--even poor Melody. So when the band director got to me? I played the entire scale with ease.

"I do believe we have a new first chair!" he proclaimed. And so, I moved from Chair #9 to Chair #1...just like that. Melody was clearly unhappy with my success, and scowled my direction repeatedly. I looked straight ahead. Over the course of the year, Melody challenged me one time but...well, I kept my spot.

We were never friends.

Other than the bright spot of band each day, I struggled socially that year. Being in 8th grade is a piece of work anyway, but when one adds "being the new kid on the block" to the mix...well, it is a whole new level of insecure. After some time, though, I finally managed to get in with a group of girls that begrudgingly accepted me.

One time a neighbor came over to the house and I was in the shed helping Dad change the oil on the pickup. The neighbor asked, "So how do you like school here at Piedmont?"

I scrunched my nose and shook my head. "I don't like it," I quipped. And that was that.

Well, that was that until he left. Dad was none too proud of my response. "I don't care whether you like it or not," he fumed. "That school is part of our neighbor's home and you just told him that it isn't good enough for you. That better never happen again."

It didn't.

One day, after being at Piedmont Middle School for several months, I went to lunch and got in line with these friends. They were all laughing about something and, wanting to be in the know, I said, "What are you girls talking about?"

Susan rolled her eyes. "You always do that," she said. "You always come up in the middle of a conversation and we have to stop talking to get you up to speed." And then she turned away, and the only thing I knew about their conversation was that I was annoying.

Her words never left me. Clearly. Because 35 years later? I still remember them.

I was the outsider and I wanted nothing more than to leave that school and find a place where I belonged.

My mom taught at a small Adventist school--Parkview--in Oklahoma City that had grades 1-10. That summer, in order to escape my social crazy, I chose to switch gears and enrolled at Parkview. I was sad to leave Band behind. The fall of my 9th grade year they were going on a two week tour through Switzerland and, had I stayed, I would have been part of it. But nothing could sway me to stay. I was determined: determined to leave, determined to start fresh, determined to make it work. My attitude was a whole different ball of wax going in to Parkview that first day. My motto?  To have friends, to make it work, to like it, to be likable, to be other centered.

And my attitude? It worked. I made friendships that I still have to this day. I loved my little school and it made all the difference.

But I have wondered so many times, what about if I had brought my attitude of confidence and determination to succeed to Piedmont Middle School? How different would my story be? Because when I started Piedmont, I had the attitude of insecurity, of begrudging the move because I loved my previous school, of being a victim because I was a misfit in a group of friends who had been together since they were 5.

Sometimes life is all about the attitude.

Roy is one of those people who never looks back. I admire that about him. He refuses to "cry over spilt milk", to regret a major decision, to stew. I've learned a lot from him over the years.

Perspective is everything. Change your thoughts? Change your world. One experience at a time.

Remember, Friends

A downpour is goin' on outside. A beautiful way to begin my morning.

It has been dry this summer. Rumor has it we're in a drought and I don't doubt it as splotches of brown can be found on the ground where before? Only deep green. We need this rain. This rain is a beautiful thing.

Fall is in the air. Leaves are on the fringes of changing as a few golden leaves can be found dotted amongst the trees. And I am ready.

The girls at work and I have been talking lately on our walks about how we are all ready for autumn: pumpkins and crisp apples with caramel and sweatshirts and scarves and trees that display the wonder of a thousand colors and marshmallows over a fire. Mm.

Probably my most favorite thing, though, is the long evenings. Already I'm getting a taste of this bounty of time that is spread before me when I get home in the evenings as I've been walking earlier than normal, so by the time I'm home from work, walked my three miles, supper is over and done and I've hopped in the shower, it's 6:30.

Yeah. 6:30.

For the past three nights I've actually been in my jammies before 7:00 with this wide open space for doing whatever I please. Ah. Heaven.

Last night? I watched the season opening of Nashville and caught up with a friend whom I haven't spoken with in almost 5 years. It's kind of ridiculous how much time can go by when you blink twice.

I've managed to be in bed every night by 9:30. That is unheard of during summer days when the sun shares its bounty for far longer than it does during winter days.

A few days ago, the girls at work and I were doing our usual walk when we noticed this older man attempting to walk across the street from the courthouse. It's set up as two one way streets with a sidewalk of sorts in between so that one only has to cross one street at a time. We noticed him as he was crossing the first street, painfully putting his walker in front of him and slowly taking a single step, and then repeat. It was painful to watch, and the three of us just stood there, deliberating whether we should assist. But he was making it, one step at a time, and the cars were patiently waiting as he inched his way forward. When he got to the other side of the first road, we heaved a sigh of relief and again talked amongst ourselves: should we help him? And about that time, he started forward yet again, inching slowly, one step forward...walker, step, walker step...as we held our breath. And then to our delight, as we just weren't sure if our assistance would be welcomed, a tall middle-aged man stopped as he was crossing and spoke to this elderly gentleman. We couldn't hear them, of course, but we could imagine the exchange that was happening between the two of them. The middle aged man nodded his head and continued on his way while the elderly gentleman pursued his course.

We sighed in relief and moved on down the road, comfortable that this little old guy would be okay, that he was determined and independent, that it didn't matter how long it took to cross the road, it only mattered that he crossed it.

I happened upon this old epithet awhile ago that reads like this:

Remember, friends, as you walk by,
As you now are so once was I.
As I am now, so you must be.
Prepare yourself to follow me.

When I first read that, it stopped me in my tracks because of the stark reality of its words. Life is so short, filled with seasons that change, subtly at first, and then whisk in with splendor. Life is filled with valleys and mountains, with plains of every day normal, with joy and sadness. And then? Well then it's over.

When I was talking to my friend last night, she told me that she has days of such sheer joy and then moments of deep sadness. That's okay, I told her, as she is considerably younger than me. What is important is that you keep feeling that joy and feeling that sadness, because that is what life is about. It's when we don't feel that we become disconnected, numb to our realities. And that is a dangerous thing.

Some days we are all that little old man who is crossing the street. Somedays we just have to plod forward, inching our way, hoping and praying we reach the other side. And some days we're watching Nashville in our pajamas, a steaming cup of herbal tea in hand, dreaming of all our tomorrows.

Mother

I hate being called 'Mother.'

Sometimes Roy has made the comment to one of our kids in one of those stern voices, "Listen to your mother." And I will say, with my nose scrunched while shaking my head, "Don't call me mother."

Darian has realized over the years that it's my least favorite term for myself so she inevitably says, when she comes in a room, "Hello, Mother!" in her most cheerful voice.

Darian is not a communicator. I'm always saying, "You need to communicate! You'll discover that life rolls much easier!" So recently she was having a conflict with someone there in Bolivia and was finally able to communicate her feelings. She emailed me about it and said that she feels so much lighter, that things are going so well now, and then she ended the story by saying, "You were right, Mother!"

And, as I always do, I cringed.

And here is why.

When I was a little girl, I had a Grandma Great. That's what we called her. She was, of course, my grandma's mom, and, in my eyes, she was ancient. In retrospect, Grandma Great was quite a lady--very classy and elegant. But I didn't realize that at the time.

Grandma Great had 9 children: 7 girls and 2 boys. One boy was born, I believe, with spina bifida and passed when he was just 2 or 3 years old; the other boy, her baby, had Downs' Syndrome and passed in his early 20's. But the girls were all healthy and when I was growing up, they would all come home to visit once a year (at least) and gather at Grandma Great's house in Thomas, Oklahoma. So, of course, we would always go hang out with them when they were in town and it always proved a raucous time filled with so much laughter and chatting it up and fun. I loved it when they all came to town. Aunt Lena was always my favorite aunt when I was a little girl because we had the same birthday and so she took a special interest in me. She bought me a gift on every one of my birthdays until I was 18 years old and I looked forward to receiving that gift like none other. It was always perfect. But honestly, all of my great aunts were fabulous. They were cheerful and personable and helped create in my life a strong sense of what family is about.

I remember one time when we went to visit they were all gathered in the kitchen and a large pot was on the stove, the water boiling rapidly. "What's in there?" I asked, and someone lifted the lid to reveal a long cow's tongue cooking in the bubbling broth. Repulsed, I stepped back. "You're going to eat that cow's tongue?" But they did! I remember watching, fascinated, as my aunts split it amongst each of them and dined on what they each considered a delicacy.

I considered it gross.

Ew.

Grandma Great had a cellar out behind her house. It was on a slight hill so that the cellar door was slanted and built into the earth, creating a hill of its own that was, in the mind of a young child, quite a piece of fun. I remember spending all kinds of time out there on that cellar door, running up and down and up and down and, most likely, creating my own world in my head.

Grandma Great had a bookshelf filled with books right by her chair. One day, when I was about 8 years old and we were visiting, I picked up a book that Grandma Great had there on the table by her chair and started to read it, just for something to do. After a minute or two, Grandma Great came along and saw me reading her book. She quickly snatched it out of my hand. "You don't need to read that," she said, placing it on one of the bookshelves that was out of my reach. But she didn't take it before I noted that it was titled The Thorn Birds. Grandma Great was never harsh, never impatient, and so her quick words startled me, and that title was emblazoned in my head. When I was in high school and meandering the public library one day in search of a book as I was an avid reader, I remembered that experience and checked out a copy of The Thorn Birds. And then? Well, then I knew why Grandma Great snatched it out of my hand.

During regular life when my great aunts weren't in town, Grandma Great would occasionally be visiting Grandma when we would go the farm on the weekends. I can remember her sitting in Grandma's chair, her feet kicked up, and Grandma putting warm wool socks on her so that she wouldn't get cold.

As the years went by, Grandma Great eventually moved into the nursing home there in Thomas. We stopped to visit her occasionally and she always so pleasant, so happy to see us, so kind. She never appeared disgruntled that life placed her in a nursing facility. She was, from all appearances, a happy sort of person. Content.

One time when I was talking to Aunt Lena about what life was like for her as she was growing up in the midst of all of those girls, she told me what an amazing mom Grandma Great had been. She said, "We told her everything. I thought all moms were like that--that every girl went home from a date with a boy to their mom waiting at the door, anxious to hear every detail, because that's how my mom was. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized how unusual that is."

But here is the thing. Everyone called Grandma Great...

Mother.

Everyone.

She was a great lady, a great mom, a patient, kind lady. But I was a child and she was...well, she seemed old to me. And her name was Mother.

So when my kids call me Mother? I see walking with a walker, wool socks on my cold feet.

I see old.

Don't call me Mother.

Relatively Speaking

Today I mistakenly entered into a wee bit of a political debate.

Heavy heavy sigh.

I know better.

Here's the thing. People are passionate about their politics. And the piece of that puzzle that I find baffling is that one's perspective absolutely determines one's position. It isn't about facts. It's about one's perception of those facts. So if one mentions Obama to a devout Republican, for example, he is a menace to our nation. But the very same Obama with the very same policies is, to a devout Democrat, a great president.

It's all about perspective.

And so, I've kicked myself a good part of this day because I dared to go there.

What was I thinking?

This evening Piper and I took our typical walk down Holcombe Cove Road and, as we always do, we passed this absolutely monstrous dog--a Newfoundland, I believe, except he's white and I'm not sure that breed is white. Anyway, this big guy always paces back and forth behind the white fence and barks as we go by. But here's the thing: there's a huge chunk out of the lower part of the fence as the bottom board is missing. All that he would have to do is simply crawl under the middle board and...freedom. But? This fence has been broken for quite some time now and clearly this guy hasn't realized how close he is to exploring the world beyond.

I think we all have a piece of that Newfoundland. We are corralled inside our own little box and don't have the foresight to see beyond it.

When I was in high school, my English teacher was a guy named Bickell. His full name was Calvin Bickell but we all simply called him Bickell and it fit him perfectly. Bickell had this way about him that made us all stop and listen. He was cynical and clever and cool. Earning Bickell's approval? It was everything.

Anyway, I met Bickell my freshman year of high school and I will forever remember one of his first writing assignments. We read this story about a guy who lived on a ranch and had all of these crazy experiences. So Bickell asked us to rewrite the story from the horse's perspective.

What?

I was baffled, clueless, didn't get it. And so, I took that story home and rewrote it word for word as the author had written it with the exception of when the horse and the main character were in a scene together. And then I awkwardly flipped it around to somehow be about the horse. It took me a forever as the story was several pages in length.  But I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and when I handed it in the next morning, I was fairly certain I utterly failed that assignment.

Seeing from a different perspective? It was like speaking a foreign language.

Bickell never said a word to me about that assignment. To my memory he didn't even hand it back. He must have recognized my inability to see beyond my own limited walls and through the eyes of another. But he didn't give up. I sat at Bickell's feet for four years, learning slowly to think beyond my narrow world and recognize that my truth was simply mine, not necessarily anyone else's. And others? Well, they had their own truth too.

Truth is relative.

And so today when I ventured into the land of politics, well...I quickly tried to turn around and tiptoe right back out where I started from.

And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow I'm keeping my mouth shut. Tomorrow I'm talking about the weather and my weekend plans and what I'm having for dinner.

Because my perspective is simply mine...and sometimes one's perspective is better left inside.

Magic and Stardust Now

Young love is a beautiful thing.

On Saturday night, we hosted an engagement party for Savana and Guerin.

When I got engaged, we just told people and people said, "Congratulations!" Or not. But in today's world? We throw engagement parties. It was so much fun and these two got so much support from friends. Good food, lots of laughter, great friends. What could be better? Savana and I have watched videos and looked at pictures and laughed a million times since that night, reminiscing about what a great evening it turned out to be.

I am currently reading a book for my book club entitled The White Masai. It is a fascinating read but I am absolutely dumbstruck at what this young European girl does for the sake of love. She has this great life--owns her own business, has a stable boyfriend and people proclaim them a perfect sort of couple--and they head to Africa on a trip of sorts to see the land when suddenly she sees a Masai warrior. She is awestruck and determines that he should be hers. And so? She leaves everything -- the comforts of a modern home and her stable boyfriend and her comfortable life -- for the rugged plains of Africa where she sleeps on the cold, hard ground and wants for food and learns to adapt to a life that is as far south as her previous life was north. I can't put this book down, but the entire time I'm reading it I am shaking my head. "Whhhaaattt???" I just want to shake her. All for love.

Yesterday Jace came home from school and said, "Hey, Mom. I want to tell you something. When I left school today, a certain girl (I won't share her name) ran up to me and said, 'Hey Jace! Give me a hug goodbye!'" And then, according to Jace, she proceeded to give him a very tight hug. He said, "That was really weird. Is that normal?"

(Oh, how I love how I get to be a part of these stories! But I realize that my time is short...I shall relish them while I can.)

Stories of love are everywhere and most of us are intrigued. Who doesn't love a good love story? But in today's world, love stories often have tragic endings, decimating the hearts of all involved--or at least one of them, usually. But clearly it's a game we're all willing to play as, you know, it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

When Roy and I got engaged, I went home from school one weekend and attended church with my mom.  The teacher of my class, LaRee, knew I was engaged and so she brought in this little couple who had been married 50 plus years to talk to the class about what makes a marriage last. That was obviously quite a long time ago so I don't really remember their words of wisdom, but I do remember LaRee saying, "Young love is so romantic and fun. But I think the best stories   come from old love."

At the time, I questioned her reasoning because, of course, when I looked at this couple, I saw wrinkles and white hair and old people. I didn't see what I see today: strength and courage and an unbreakable bond that has weathered the years and loyalty and commitment. We have all heard the stories of people who have been married for their entire lives and when one partner dies, the other passes not long after because life without their partner is simply not worth living.

I am so excited for Savana and Guerin. They are a great couple, compatible, happy, stars in their eyes. They will have a good life--I know it. But give it a few years and they will be like the rest of us old married couples. They will have conquered hurdles, raised children, endured life's stresses, fought when they shouldn't have, lashed out at each other, and acted in ways that, today, they can't imagine possible. But oh it's possible, and it happens. To the best of us.

But they will also experience a deepening love that quietly grows year by year. Give it some time and the stars in their eyes may dim. That certain glow that comes with the hopes and dreams of a young couple in love will very likely be replaced with the weathered solidarity that comes with knowing your partner like the back of your hand. Their marriage will become a partnership--a machine that works in silence.

Magic and stardust now...

And then?

Security and redemption and commitment and wrinkles from the laughter and a life filled up with the beauty and wonder and heartache of living side by side with the one you love.

Living Greatly

Some days I envision greatness.

I have always been a dreamer, living more in my head than outside of it. Lazy days filled with a cup of steaming tea, a journal, a dog-eared book, and lounging pants spell perfection in my mind. Though I am married to a man who loves nothing more than being "on the go", I am quite the opposite. I could settle down in my living room for days on end, never seeing a soul, and be perfectly content.

I think I have my grandparents' blood. My grandfather on my dad's side loved home. Grandma always complained about it, sneering that she never got to leave the house because Donnie wouldn't go anywhere. But the truth was, when opportunity knocked and Grandma had the chance to go? She chose to stay. So really, she just liked blaming her love for "staying put" on Grandpa when the truth was, she was just as content as he.

When I was a young girl, I dreamed of being a famous author, or a singer on a stage with bright lights and a swooning crowd. (Other than carrying a key, I can't sing. It was just a dream.) Some days I dreamed of being an actress or maybe a famous basketball player as I knew my dad would burst with pride.

Clearly those were all just pipe dreams because, well, here I am and last I knew, nobody was knocking at my door and begging for my autograph.

Fame is the dream of youth. Jace often talks about being a famous you-tuber, getting over a million likes on his creations, and having the world fall at his feet in admiration. I tell him frequently that in order for that to happen, he needs to start creating videos...

But my vision of greatness really doesn't involve fame.

Sometimes I still ask myself, What do I want out of life? What are my goals? my ambitions?

And that's where the "greatness" comes in. Because I have to remind myself that true greatness is in the little things.

I think I am done going to school. At 48 years old, just the thought of hitting night classes and burning the midnight oil exhausts me. I realize that many people go back at my age...but? I think my day is over for attaining my Master's and changing gears in my career. Again.

Yesterday one of my previous students who is now married with a couple of kids (how does that happen??) posted on Facebook about how I used to have a mailbox in my classroom entitled "V-Mail." I had totally forgotten about that. It was a way for students to voice concerns, ask questions, or submit writings for me to read and give feedback. Anyway, that post generated comments from previous students and memories of the good ole teaching days and my reality that those days are gone. But teaching? It created greatness in my life. Teaching touched lives and made a difference.

My current job isn't about greatness. Not really. It's a great job--I am absolutely not complaining. I am always happy to go to work, to see my people in the office who have become a part of me, to literally have almost zero stress in the workplace. That, my friends, is a beautiful thing.

But I miss the feeling of greatness, of making a difference in the world.

And so, somedays I wonder, what can I do? How can I matter?

And it in those moments I have to stop myself and remember:

Life isn't about being great.

Life is about living greatly:

Soaking in the sunsets
Laughing on the beach
Lunch with a precious, precious friend
Deep conversations with family
Achieving another notch on the bucket list
Tossing the ball for the dog
A warm and happy home
Long walks down Holcombe Cove Road
Giving when you don't have to
Being authentic, even when it hurts

A Lens of Wonder

Yesterday after I got home from work, a message suddenly appeared in my inbox:

Hey Mom! I have internet for a little while!

It was Darian. What a fabulous surprise. We spent the next bit of time texting and sharing photos and acting as though life is normal and she's just around the corner instead of thousands of miles away in a completely different country.

I read a quote recently that said we should look for the miracles every day.

So I don't know about you, but I'm not one to think that miracles happen in my life on a daily scale. Miracles are those things that surprise us on a grand fashion, that one hears about and stops in wonder. But what about if I changed my attitude? What about if I did expect miracles every single day. What a beautiful lens that would be to view my life.

Yesterday after I enrolled Jace in Pathfinders, I went for a quick walk with a little bit of jogging thrown in for good measure. (That would be a very loose interpretation of jogging--just saying.) As I left the house, was walking quickly down the driveway, I spied something out of the corner of my eye, and whattayaknow, there was Ajax, bounding down the hill with full intentions of following Piper and me.

Ajax has just discovered that he has the ability to leave the yard. Prior to this realization, he would hang on the edge of our yard and cry loudly and pitifully after me. It was adorable. But then one day, on a whim, he decided to just truck after us and I had to use my ninja skills to catch him and throw him back in the house for fear he would follow me all the way down to Holcombe Cove Road.

And so yesterday, when I saw him bounding beside us, I quickly tried to snatch him up. He evaded me and realized I was after him. Now he was genuinely excited as I was playing his favorite game: Catch Me If You Can. As it was rather late and I knew I would be racing sunset as it was, I wasn't too enthralled to be in this cat and mouse game with Ajax.

And then, because I am looking for miracles with my newfound attitude, a miracle happened: I caught him. Relieved, I snatched him up, carried him back up the driveway, and tossed him (loose definition of tossed so no worries) in the front door and shut it firmly behind me.

Ah. Success.

And then off we went, Piper and me, ready for our walk.

But guess what.

Out of the corner of my eye? Ajax. As soon as those little paws hit the floor of the entranceway, he bounded across the living room and right out the cat door and beat me to the road.

Yeah. That happened.

And so this time I did the next best thing: I yelled like a banshee and stomped my feet towards him, scaring the living daylights of him so that he ran for the bushes and hid while Piper and I made a mad dash up the hill.

And then I heard it--that loud, pitiful wailing that he does when he feels abandoned.

It was a great walk.

Miracle #3. (Miracle #1, in case you're wondering, is hearing from Darian...)

I'm not sure what lies ahead of me today. I do know that it's dark outside so the sun will be rising soon. And if things go as planned, my car will start and I will drive safely to work where I will meet my adorable coworkers who have all become so dear to my heart over the past year. And maybe I'll get a surprise text from Tammy as she goes about her day, or maybe Erin will suddenly find a minute in her crazy schedule so that we can walk this evening and catch up on all of the stories of her life. Maybe Roy will decide on a whim to come in and meet me for lunch. And maybe this evening I will talk to my dad, or my mom, or my sisters, and catch up with the ones I love the most in this world.

Maybe Darian will visit the river near town and have Internet once again so that we can pretend that life is normal and contact is daily rather than sporadic, depending on whether she's in a tiny town made up of dirt roads and haphazardly constructed shacks, or the jungles of Bolivia.

I think that life is filled with miracles. The fact that I breathe air every day, that flowers bloom, that birds sing, that the sun rises and sets and paints the sky shades of gold, that cars whiz down the highway, that pets share their love so abundantly, that people care enough to know my name...well, all of those things become commonplace and regular. They are expected.

But what a different life we would lead if we looked through the lens of wonder.

48 and Dreaming

On Friday, Savana got engaged. She and Guerin went on a hike up in the mountains and, once they were near the top and had stopped for a bit, Guer got down on one knee and asked her to be his bride. It was simple and sweet, minus all of the glam and flair of engagements these days as couples seem to be pulling out all of the stops. And yet, that moment was no less life-changing, heartfelt, sweet. It was perfect. And then, of course, they came home, bursting with smiles and hugs and excitement.

I can't say I was surprised as they have dated well over three years and they both graduate in May 2016. If I was surprised about anything, it was that it took this long to happen!

But their engagement has sparked a lot of reminiscing on Roy's and my part. Even last night we were discussing how so very young I was when I said I do. Engaged at 19 (yeah, soak that in for a minute), I well remember walking on clouds as the idea of sailing off into the sunset with this guy I had by my side sounded like nothing short of blissful. I was full of stars of and dreams and magic. But if a 19 year old came to me today and told me they were getting married and oh my word I am so excited and yay!!! for me?? Well, I would probably give them one of those patronizing smiles, and a pat on the back, and think to myself, "Oh, honey...you're so young. You don't know even know yourself yet, much less what you want in a partner!"

But it worked for me. We hit 28 years in August and so clearly we've managed to survive all of the daily grinds that marriage seems to bring. Four kids later, 7 places to call home, 3 dogs total, 6 cats, a closet jammed with photo albums, and a bulging shelf of journals chronicle our history. We've hit a rhythm as we know each other like the backs of our hands, working in unison without saying a word, reading each other's thoughts just because we know. There is a beauty in a relationship that has weathered the years and I'm grateful for what we have.

Sometimes I think about the fact that I am living my 19 year old self's dream. You know--how young girls fantasize of life as a wife, a mom, a career, a home? That life. I am the wife, the mom. I have a career, a home. But I'm not so sure that mine is a fantasy world as one dreams it will be. It's just a world, a normal day to day world filled with the normals of most lives. Because, really, that's just how life is for most of us. It's just regular living filled with some monumental moments that stand out...but typically, years can go by, blending into each other like sunrises and sunsets until they all seem the same.

On Sunday morning after all of the fanfare and congratulations were over from the news of their engagement, Savana and I hung on the couch in the living room and talked for quite some time. And Savana said, "I know I am engaged now, but I still feel the same. I don't feel any different."

And I couldn't help but laugh. "Yep," I said, "and that's how it will be when you get married too. You will still feel the same. You'll just feel like you with a piece of paper in your hand."

Because that's how life rolls. Sometimes I'm just that 19 year old girl looking forward and dreaming of how life is going to unfold...but when those dreams arrive, most likely? Well, most likely I'll still just be me--folding the laundry and painting my nails shades of red and wishing I had thicker hair with unruly curls and blogging about the good ole' days when I was 48 and dreaming.

Heading Up the Stairs

Yesterday Jace was playing in the backyard when Roy and I drove up from somewhere, though I can't remember where. Anyway, he ran around the corner and said, "There's a huge black snake in our yard." So of course, Roy and I quickly ran back to see it. But it was gone. We looked around for a minute, checked out the bushes and peered down the hill, and then gave it up as a lost cause and headed back towards the front yard. Just as I neared the house, I noticed something black poking out from a piece of siding on the side of the house. "There it is," I said, grabbing a stick and poking at it, much to Roy's dismay.

"Leave it alone," he said.

But curiousity got the best of me and I kept tugging at it with my stick, trying to get it to slide out from behind the siding. It wasn't budging. It kept curling back up as I pulled its tail out with the stick until, finally, Roy, a bit exasperated, asked me to please give the snake a break already and leave it alone.

One time when I was about 8 years old, my grandpa sent me to the cellar for a jar of green beans. The cellar was out behind the house in a separate building. It had cracked concrete steps leading down to a cold, dark room filled with cobwebs and shelves lined with canned goods my grandma had canned over a hot stove during the Oklahoma summers. Grandpa stood up at the top of the steps, just outside, and gave me directions regarding exactly where I could find these green beans. But first, of course, I had to gingerly walk down the stairs and find the string that was attached to the switch that turned on the light when I yanked it just so. That part took me a minute as it was pitch black down in that cellar but finally, I managed to get the single light bulb to glow, waited a minute for my eyes to adjust, and then peered around at this dusty, dank room that wasn't much bigger than me. And as I looked around at the jars surrounding me, I noticed something slithering.

"Grandpa?" I said calmly, "there's a snake in here." And then I headed back up the stairs towards the light.

I am not a fan of snakes. They don't exactly leave me screaming like a little girl but I certainly wouldn't want one as a pet. Snakes and I? We don't connect. They remind me of darkness or things that slither in murky places. Recently we were peering into the "basement" of our house (which is a very poor excuse for a basement...we actually refer to it as the "Jeffrey Dahmer" room, if that means anything) and we saw this large -- very large -- snakeskin that had been shed. The thought that a snake the size of its shed skin resided underneath my house is not exactly an idea that I choose to consider too deeply. I'm not sure I could sleep at night.

I have a friend who is currently battling for her life. Diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer, her outlook appears bleak.

Some of those I love the most in this world are struggling with conflicts that threaten to  rob them of the joy they so richly deserve.

Sometimes my own thoughts run wild, slithering through my mind and keeping me up at night.

Questions. Doubts. Insecurities. Struggles.

Surrounded by cobwebs.

Deep dark places...

And all we can do is head back up the stairs towards the light.

My Rainbow

Recently, I stumbled upon the 12 signs of inner peace. They are as follows:

A tendency to think and act deliberately, rather than from fears based on past experiences.

An unmistakable ability to enjoy each moment.

A loss of interest in judging others.

A loss of interest in judging self.

A loss of interest in conflict.

A loss of interest in interpreting the actions of others.

A loss of the ability to worry.

Frequent, overwhelming episodes of appreciation.

Contented feelings of connectedness with others and nature.

Frequent bouts of smiling.

An increased susceptibility to the love extended by others, as well as the uncontrollable urge to extend it.

An increasing tendency to allow things to unfold, rather than resisting and manipulating.

I consider myself a peaceful person. I don't think that I go looking for conflict, that I try to stir up trouble, that I am unhappy. But when I read this list? I realize that I have a long way to go. I cannot say with total confidence that I have mastered a single one of these items. Not one.

But I am inspired. I am inspired to chase this rainbow, to confront who I really am and let go of the things that conspire against peace in my heart. I want bouts of smiling uncontrollably. I want to stop resisting and start accepting without manipulation. I want appreciation to well up within my chest and bubble out to all whom I encounter. I want to get out of my head and stop interpreting the actions and words of others because, really, they have nothing to do with me and everything to do with them.

This person that has this kind of inner peace? Wow. He/She is my hero.

This list?

That's my rainbow.

Guardian of Kindness

Yesterday I went to a funeral.

Savana's boyfriend, Guerin, lost his grandpa a couple of weeks ago, and they had the service yesterday. I've never met the man, but after hearing about him, I feel I have missed out on something special.

Mr. Williams received a purple heart from President Eisenhower. I don't really know what happened, but I do know that is a rare and beautiful thing. About four people stood up to pay tribute to this man who made such a difference in their lives. And then Spencer, Guer's brother, sang while he played the piano-- I Will Rise. And that was it for me. It was beautiful, soul-stirring, powerful.

Ah--it makes me cry just thinking about it.

But this man whom I never met? He reminded me of how important it is be kind--because that is exactly what he was. He made everyone feel as though they were important; he thought the best of others; he didn't gossip or demean; he never raised his voice; he loved.

The director of the assisted facility where Mr. Williams lived said, "The sadness we feel in our hearts today is the price we pay for loving someone. But I can't imagine this world without Mr. Williams. I miss him."

I've known people who are guardians of the right way. They are exacting, wielding a large stick as they go about their lives pointing out what is wrong in the lives of others--lots of let's pray for them statements and posting quotes that pose as sermons in order to convict others of their sinful ways.

And then there are guardians of their offspring--helicopter parents who refuse to let their kids out of their sight, who protect their children from experiences that help kids learn how to be responsible for their actions and survive in this world.

There are guardians of a cause--health, animals, dogma...

And then there are guardians of kindness. Mr. Williams? He was a guardian of kindness.

Yesterday was registration here at MPA and they always serve a free lunch. Jace and I headed over to the cafeteria at the same time as Gary, one of our neighbors. I ended up sitting at the table with him and he was telling me an experience he had with a student as he is a professor at a nearby university. Anyway, the student made a really rude comment to Gary that was demeaning and utterly unnecessary. Of course, I'm sure it didn't affect Gary personally as this comment came from a kid rather than a peer, but we talked about the fact that we don't get "mean".
But, sometimes? Well, sometimes I'm mean. Sometimes I don't think the best of others. I don't strive to find the good but, rather, nurse my wounds and feed my own negative perceptions. Sometimes I share too much that really doesn't need to be shared.

But this morning I am inspired by a man who lived a life built on the importance of relationships, who strived to be kind no matter the cost to himself, who loved freely and unabashedly.

When my life on this earth is over, my greatest hope is that someone will stand at that podium and say, "We are sad today because that is the cost of love. Vonda was so kind and I can't imagine this life without her. I will miss her."

I want to be a Guardian of Kindness.

Bring It

Today is Registration, the official beginning of school here at MPA. I have all of the veggies chopped and waiting patiently on the kitchen counter so that as soon as Roy is ten minutes away from being ready, I can throw an omelet together and have it waiting for him when he comes downstairs this morning.

(Cue She's a Good Wife theme song...)

But my day is filled with all kinds of things to accomplish, none of which include MPA registration. I am walking with Erin this morning, buying groceries, attending a funeral, making a casserole for the family, washing some clothes because my mom is gone and not doing my laundry anymore ...

(Cue I am So Sad and Please Come Back theme songs)

...and, if time allows, cleaning this wretched house.

Jace is still sleeping. It's his last day of summer so I'll let him sleep as long as he chooses. Typically, I'm not a fan of sleeping until all hours of the day...but sometimes I have mercy. Today will be one of those days.

As today is ...well, today and all that registration encompasses, we decided to make yesterday a last day celebration around here. We had a special "last" lunch together, laughing and chatting the whole way through. Mexican themed. MPA held a staff luncheon that Roy mentioned, but from what he said, it didn't sound like it was a big deal, or that it was something that all of the staff would be attending.

As it turns out? We were one of three families that didn't attend. And? It was Mexican themed.

Yeah. Go us.

That happened.

So I feel terribly that we chose our own gig over the staff's...

(Cue We are Fails...)

...but it's too late now and truly we did have a great lunch (though chatting it up with those we share a campus with is always a barrel of fun). And then we went for a 3 mile walk--Roy, Jace and I--and took turns listing our goals for this school year--at least until Christmas. And then when we got home, Roy typed them up so we can print them out and hang them on our fridge. We listed all kinds of things we hope to accomplish--you know, the whole living purposefully bit and not letting life pass us by. Even Jace got in on the gig

(Cue We Are On It theme song.)

Last night we ordered pizza from Pizza Hut, and even got a box of their gooey brownies, Savana popped popcorn, and then we watched McFarland, USA. If anyone hasn't seen that movie? You absolutely should. It's a winner. Inspiring. And a true story. And? I'm pretty sure there isn't a single bad scene in the whole thing. We all loved it, as we sat in the man cave crunching away, our eyes glued on the screen.

It was an almost perfect day.

And so, the lazy days of summer are officially over. The temperatures around here are gradually cooling off as the highs have been in the low 80's recently. Fall is in the air. And I am sensing a new beginning: new teachers, new students, new goals. I am excited and ready to see what this year brings.

Theme Song??

Bring It.

Names Matter

My mom left on Wednesday afternoon, just before I got off work. It has been the most amazing almost-two weeks of my life. My word! Mom is 80 years old but one would never know it. I'm so thankful for her sacrificial spirit and willingness to come here solely for the purpose of easing my life. Mom is a trouper. I miss her so much already. Every afternoon, when I walked in from a day at work, she would be folding my laundry, the kitchen sparkled, and Jace had been well-entertained. It was a good reminder of how Mom lived with us for two years when we had Ciara. We got along perfectly--and that is a beautiful thing. A rarity really--that your mom can live with you for an extended period of time with relatively no issues after you reach adulthood and are married. My mom? She's a jewel.

It feels like fall around here. The morning air is crisp when I let Piper out--more like late September than mid-August. It makes me hungry for autumn: leaves that glow hues of brown and orange, sweatshirts, and marshmallows over a fire.

Yesterday was early registration her at MPA. When I got home from work, I headed down to the school to say hello to Roy and see how things were faring. I felt a bit nervous, to be honest. Would it ruffle my feathers a bit as I wasn't involved? as I wouldn't be welcoming kids with open arms and the familiarity that comes with teaching students in a classroom? But this time around, it didn't phase me. I do believe I have fully transitioned from the world of education to my life as it is today. It's interesting what a year will do.

As I was walking down to the school, I was called over to the gazebo by one of my girls whom I taught her freshman year: Sam. I walked over and chatted with her for a moment, asked about her summer and such. She was sitting by a young kid that looked like an incoming freshman and so I asked him, "Are you going to be a freshman?"

He kind of laughed and shook his head no.

"Sophomore?" I asked.

Still shook his head.

Sam said, "Mrs. Seals, he was here last year. He's going to be a junior."

"Oh!" I laughed. "I'm not around much--I don't think I've met you."

"No--you've met me," he countered. "I'm Nathaniel and I was actually at your house once because Coach showed me his man cave."

Great.

I hope that isn't a sign that I'll get Alzheimer's one day.

Maybe I need to subscribe to that website that has activities for the brain.

Maybe I need to be more aware, more present, when I am introduced to others. I think I live in my head too much. This conversation with Nathaniel? It was a reminder that people come first, that names matter, that if they remember me and I don't remember them...well, that is a problem.

One time when I was a junior in college, I took a writing class. I had this professor who was an atheist, actually, and loved to make fun of Christianity and the devil and such. Anyway, he was a critical grader and I just couldn't get anything above a B+ on any of the papers I submitted to him. We had to write an essay a week, if I remember correctly, and we went through the whole writing process with each one, including researching to back our opinions and then group evaluations. I never gained his approval. But one day, towards the end of the semester, I was in the student lounge when this professor walked in and saw me standing by myself near a corner, waiting for a class to start. He immediately came over to me and said, "I loved your essay."

"You did?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yes! It was incredible! I loved your stance on your position, your reasoning, the way it flowed together. It was flawless. In fact, I think you need to send it in for publication."

"No way." My jaw dropped. I couldn't believe it! Finally--he actually acknowledged something I had written! I was flying high.

And then he patted me on the back and said, "Well, you have a great day, Sarah. I'll see you in class."

And everything collapsed in that moment. Because Sarah? She was a tall blonde student who sat next to me in class.

Clearly my professor didn't see me.

This year here at the academy I'm going to be helping in the dorm with worships. I'm excited about that, actually. I hope to be relevant, to share words that bring hope and comfort and peace.

I am going to focus on seeing these kids, each one--each one as a gift, as a person who matters.

I want to know their names.