Shards of Glass

I am in the throes of preparation for Homecoming weekend, happening April 6-9. My life is consumed with lists and checking each item off one by one. I'm pretty sure that for every item I check off, I add an additional 17. It's never-ending. I don't have enough time in my day, enough hands, enough of me.

My desk is a giant pile of papers, scattered and strewn from one side to the other. I barely have time for lunch and I have even forgotten to eat a couple of times.

What??! That hasn't happened since I was 21!

When Roy and I were newly married and I went to school at the University of Northern Colorado, we lived on pocket change. Roy's salary amounted to about $17000, if I remember correctly, and we barely had enough left over for groceries at the end of the month. I can remember one time that Roy wanted to buy an $8 tool, and we sat in the parking lot, discussing whether we should wait another month to purchase it.

But I will say, I think every married couple should start out like that. It didn't hurt us one bit.

But my point was, I never bought a lunch -- I would simply wait until I got home from school to eat. But sometimes when I got home, I simply forgot...

And then later I would think, I don't feel so good...

Oh yeah. I think I forgot to eat.

Roy often made fun of me for this strange phenomenon. I mean really...who forgets to eat? I certainly don't.

One time my sister Lori was visiting and she went to school with me. Now I will say-- the three of us girls were all created from the same mold. Food wasn't an issue for any of us when we were young. (I have solved this issue.) And so she happily obliged my daily routine of going all day without lunch and then eating once I got home. But by the time we got home? We were starving.

Hangry.

We quickly worked together to make Chicken Rotel -- a spicy concoction comprised of cream of mushroom soup, chicken, onions, tortillas, and topped with a can of Rotel tomatoes. It's comfort food at its best. I threw it in a glass dish and popped it in the oven.

And we waited, stomachs growling.

By the time I pulled it out an hour later, we thought we were going to die of starvation...

We both eyed it hungrily as I grasped it with my oven mitts and pulled it out of the oven....

....and promptly dropped it, sending it crashing to the tile floor and shattering.

But no worries...we simply scooped it up and ate it anyway.

Yeah. We did that.

Glass and all.

It was delicious.

For the record, I haven't forgotten to eat in well over twenty years.

I. Love. Food.

I don't anticipate it happening again in the near future...though if it does, I shall rejoice.

Meanwhile, I am headed back to the office today...back to my desk laden with papers, back to my lists that continue to grow exponentially, back to my dreams of comfort food (minus the shards of glass).

Chatt Adventures Part 1

I flew to Chattanooga on Monday afternoon for an alumni event the following Tuesday evening. It was a fast trip as I flew back early Wednesday morning, but it was a beautiful thing to spend some time with Darianna. She had just gotten back that morning in from a whirlwind trip from Europe where she toured Norway, Scotland and England, so we had much to talk about. We spent many hours hanging in the motel or in her apartment perusing photos on her computer.

It was fabulous.

But I have two crazy stories that I want to share. I probably shouldn't. They definitely aren't my best stories...but they are...well, they are just so me.

On Tuesday afternoon, I had lunch with a dear friend and then rushed to Walmart for some chocolate for my event. While there, I decided to pick up a few groceries for Darian as a surprise. And so, I wandered the aisles, found some things that would go together and create a few different meals, and checked out. By the time I left Walmart, it was hazy out and very cold. I popped the trunk and began to empty the bags of groceries into the car when Roy called. And so, with the phone clutched to my ear with my shoulder and the thoughts running through my head that I needed to hurry so that I could catch Darian (who was heading back to the motel from class), I quickly slammed the trunk shut, gave the cart a hefty shove so that it would roll back into the cart cage, and jumped into the car -- talking to Roy the entire time.

Walmart is just across the street from the motel; however, one has to go through two stoplights to get there. And so, I made my way back and pulled into a parking spot just as Darian pulled in beside me with DJ, her boy. I was excited to see DJ as I haven't seen him for several months, and so, with the intention of getting out to hug him, I reached for my purse to slip my phone inside....

WHERE. IS. MY. PURSE!!!!

I frantically looked in the backseat...not there.

And then I froze.

I left it in the cart.

I rolled down the window, my head spinning, and shouted, "Get in the car! I left my purse at Walmart!"

And so, DJ and Darian ran like two crazies out of the little red pickup and dashed in the car while I threw it into gear and sped off.

My head was spinning, like it was going to burst at any given moment.

Oh my word.

My wallet. My credit cards. My driver's license. How am I going to get home tomorrow??!! I need my ID to fly!

"Maybe it's still there," Darian said encouragingly.

Walmart. Like seriously. Have you SEEN the people at Walmart?? There is an internet site devoted to posting pictures of the people who shop at Walmart.

And then we arrived in the parking lot. I knew exactly where I'd left the cart and so I drove that direction, my eyes zoomed in on the carts, hoping to see a glimpse of blue and white stripes.

Nothing.

We got closer.

Still nothing.

My heart sank. I was stuck in Chattanooga forever.

Darian and DJ leaped out of the car, Darian throwing out the words, "It's not over yet, Mom. Maybe someone turned it in."

Right.

This is Walmart.

While they went inside, I scoured the parking lot. Maybe I didn't remember correctly where I'd left the cart. The parking lot is quite large...

But...no success. And then I saw them -- Darian and DJ -- walking out of Walmart with my purse held high over their heads, giving the thumbs up sign.

Ah...sweet success.

I get to go home after all.

Turns out one of their employees who is in a wheel chair spied my purse in the cart and rolled out to save the day. "That thing is heavy," he told the kids when he handed it over. "I don't know what she has in there."

You know...just my wallet, a few odds and ends, the kitchen sink...

Thank you, Mr. Walmart Man.

You are my hero.

(Stay tuned for the second story...it's even -- well, more of me...coming right up.)

All Day Long

I grew up in a neighborhood filled with kids For whatever reason, on summer nights we often gathered at the King's house next door and played games. My favorite was Kick the Can. As fireflies flickered and the sun bid its nightly farewell, we would run, shadows dancing, across the back yard to the shed, or behind the doghouse, and listen intently for the designated "It" to yell, "Ready or not, here I come!" And then we would would crouch down in the intense silence that followed, waiting. Once we knew we'd been spied, off we ran, squealing in the darkness, in search of the "can" -- usually a plastic milk container -- in hopes of kicking it before "It." We played for hours -- long after the sun went down -- laughing and hiding and chasing and running. And when we tired of the game, we split into two teams and played basketball in Mike's driveway, his dad often joining. One time the ball went amiss and hit me on the side of the head -- BOOM. I careened to the side, whiplash to my head, and Bob (Mike's dad) caught me. "You ok?" He asked, his arm holding me up from crashing to the ground.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. But I wasn't. Once the game resumed, I slipped off into the dark night and headed for home. But of course...it was a minor blunder.

When my kids and their cousins were in those early elementary years, they loved Piggy Wants a Signal. They played for hours. In winter months, we took the kids to the gymnasium where they ran and squealed and hid. Sometimes, when school wasn't in session, they played in the boys' dorm. All of the hallways and bathrooms on different floors created a haven for hours of play.
Of course, by the time Jace was old enough to really play without giving himself away...(you know, typical 3 year old: I'm here!! Do you see me??), the kids were in high school and the game was wearing thin. They kindly appeased him on occasion and we'd trek down to the gym there in North Carolina for a few rounds of Piggy. But it wasn't nearly as engaging as when the older cousins were 10 and 12 years old.

I sadly resigned myself to the reality that Jace would never fully experience the joys of a rousing game of hide 'n seek.

Jace was devastated to move to Texas. He sulked the entire ride, bemoaning the loss of his childhood friend Zach. Those boys ran the Pisgah campus together, jumping on the trampoline or sliding down the water slide they created in the Bradley's backyard. They had many adventures and though they didn't go to school together, Jace loved his buddy. Asheville was home -- he loved the mountains, the snow of winter, trails outside our house.

I encouraged him daily. "It will be ok, Jace. It's okay to be sad but someday you will be happy again. I promise. You'll make friends."

But he didn't believe me. The landscape of Texas is a desert in comparison to Asheville. The heat can be unbearable in the late days of August. And so in those early days of moving, Jace struggled. He sighed a lot; hung his head; slept. I feared depression was beckoning as those early teen years can be difficult under normal circumstances, much less when a major move is thrown in the mix. Furthermore, he had no friends to run with, to game with, to call. He spent hours skyping Gavin, his school buddy from Pisgah, in the evenings, and he often asked me about living in Asheville when he grew up. "Do you think I could afford it?" Or he would tell me about the weather. "It's so hot here, Mom. It's only 80 degrees in Asheville."

I worried about my son.

And then we moved to our home and he met Raymond, the boy across the street. By Christmas, he made another friend that dropped by our house on occasion: Anson. And then they just kept coming.

William and Leo and Austin and Bing and Emmanuel and Quincy...

We have a crew now that visits regularly. And I feed them. My cupboards are stocked with easy to prepare meals that will feed hungry boys and not break the bank. And these boys? They. Are. Precious. They are kind and funny and respectful and wholesome.

They blow me away with their goodness.

And they play. They play basketball and soccer for hours. Outside. In the driveway. In the yard.

But a couple of evenings ago, I was pretty sure my heart was filled to the brim and flowing over when I was cleaning the kitchen and heard laughter and squeals coming from outside. After a bit, I opened the door to peek out and see what was going on. And there they were, running and squealing and hiding and chasing.

Quincy was tucked into the corner of our entranceway, his body a straight line in order to be as small as possible. "What are you boys playing?" I asked furtively.

"Your property is a perfect place for hide 'n seek, Ma'am," Quincy grinned.

Yes it is, Quincy. Yes it is.

You come back tomorrow and we'll have burritos for dinner and you can chase all you want.

All day long.

Even Me

Sometimes I am bitter.

Sometimes when I lay in bed at night, my thoughts run wild and dig up old hurts and old grudges and painful things from my past.

And then, I shake my head as though to shake the thoughts away.

But then sometimes in the early mornings when Roy has left for work and I am once again entertained by the conversations in my head, I return to the bitterness. And once in awhile, I engage in conversations with those who have hurt me, stung me with betrayal, rejected me.

It's painful.

I have managed to work myself into quite a state frustration in these times over hurts that are, sometimes years old, and yet--clearly run deep. These rivers of pain have dug deep channels in the crevices of my brain and in quiet moments I easily slide down the slippery banks and coast on its ripples.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not prone to depression and I am quite sure nobody would dare to think that these dark thoughts plague me at times. I do well at putting on a happy face. But, like everyone, I wear a mask that disguises my truth: I have pain. Deep pain.

We all do.

And so this past week I have focused on it. I have tried to get to the root of it, unbury the pain and really feel it, so that I can put it behind me once and for all. I am tired of the same conversations with the same people that go nowhere. Because really...I will never have them. I will keep smiling in their presence, keep pretending...

And in the midst of my journaling and such that I do when I am trying to get on top of my own feelings I realized that I have forgotten one of my pillars of truth:

Compassion.

Everyone does the best they can with what they have.

Somehow when I say that phrase and put their face behind it, the pain is eased. It doesn't change the rejection or the betrayal...but it does change the way I see it.

Suddenly words take on different meanings and spiteful actions become less about me and more about them.

And I have found that, at least for the moment, I can let go. I can breathe. I can feel joy again.

Life is such a tangled web. My life is beautiful right now. My kids are thriving. Roy loves his job. I work with great people and enjoy what I do from 8-5 each day. My home is on a beautiful piece of property and within the year my sister will be my neighbor. My world is filled with laughter and great books and quiet evenings. The view from my porch beholds sunsets of blazoned skies and frolicking pets.

And yet...my thoughts betray me and create a world of angst. I know we all suffer from it. All that I have to do is turn on the news and shake my head at the divide in our country right now. Or scroll through Facebook. Or read the headlines. Or have a heart to heart with a dear friend.

We all carry pain.

Choosing happiness is a bandaid that works for awhile...but it doesn't clean the slate.

I have a friend who has a deep wound in her heart. When she thinks of it, tears well and she immediately changes the subject. "You need to go there," I have said more times than I can count. "You need to allow yourself to feel the pain so that you can move beyond it."

But that pain? It's just so painful. And sometimes it takes courage to stare it in the face.

But when we do...when we finally allow ourselves to feel its angry surge, to bask in it for a moment and allow it to wash over us like a cleansing flood, we are able to finally see with new eyes.

And then we can choose a new way, a better way.

A compassionate way.

Because if we choose to believe that everyone does the best they can, even those that hurt us...well, it allows us to breathe.

Because everyone means...even me.