Putting on a Good Face

Darian flew home Saturday night. Savana was on her way home from a week at the beach with Guerin's family and they swung by the Greenville airport on their way back so they could drop Savana off. We met her there shortly after the drop-off so that the three of us (as Jace was gone to Wisconsin at the time) could pick up Darian together. After 12 weeks of separation, seeing Darian's face come around that corner was a whole lot of good for my heart. Oh how I have missed my girl.

By the time we collected her and her luggage, and loaded us all in the car, it was getting rather late...but we had to do that Seals thing: go out to eat. Olive Garden was Darian's restaurant of choice and so we  plugged it into the GPS and headed that way. Our car was alive with questions and chatter and laughter. By the time we got home that night, it was almost 11:00 and we all fell into bed.

Sunday was a whirlwind of unpacking Darian's hefty suitcases, doing umpteen loads of laundry and re-packing for Southern as Darian was heading out early the next morning. Savana started grad school the next day as well so she, of course, had her own mile-long to-do list as well. Roy spent the day at registration at MPA so he was in and out...but mainly out...and so the day was a whole lot of crazy.

That evening as the sun was going down and darkness was just beginning to flood our campus, I took Piper outside to play ball. Darian, of course, joined me and so we sat out on the swing that overlooks the hill in our front yard. "Here, Mom. Let me throw the ball," she said. We have this little gadget for throwing the ball for Piper that catapults the ball quite a distance and you don't have to touch it. That's a really nice feature as Piper loves to chomp on the ball and get it really gooey. Touching it is kind of gross. And so, I handed her the gadget and said, "Don't throw it out into the street. Throw it behind us."

She threw it out into the street.

And so, I tried to take it from her. "Here, let me have it."

"No. I'm going to try again."

And so when Piper brought the ball back, she once again threw it....out into the street.

And so I wrestled the gadget out of her hands and threw the ball and talked away about everything and nothing. While we were talking, we could hear the roar of laughter and Louie Parra's voice on the microphone from the gym just below us. Clearly, those kids were having a great first night at MPA. And then suddenly two people catapulted out the gym door. They were walking fast; her head was down, her long coat whipping up behind her as the wind caught it in her haste. They walked to their vehicle, neither saying a word, got in and sped off like a bolt of lightning.

Are they angry?

Darian and I both stopped talking, watching, as these two captured our attention. As they drove past our house, we got a better look at their faces, so intense, brows furrowed, staring straight ahead.

Obviously, I have no idea what the deal was; I can only guess. I don't even know who they are, much less the thoughts that were running through their heads. But their faces told a story and if my gut reaction was right, it wasn't a happy one. Most likely, had they known we were watching from afar, they would have masked things a bit; or maybe not...Maybe their thoughts were too intense andthey simply   wouldn't have cared who noticed.

I've been there...a few too many times.

I remember one time we went to Walmart and Roy said something that annoyed me. I have no idea what it was now but at the time, I could have killed him. And so, as we are checking out, I'm growling at him and letting him know in no uncertain terms that I. Am. Annoyed. He said People can hear you. I said, through gritted teeth, I don't care. And then I hastily paid, pasted on a smile for the cashier and told her Thanks though I really didn't mean it as I was so angry and I couldn't believe he said that Why in the world would he say that? He is unbelievable! I am so mad right now! all the way out to the car.

No doubt people did a double take: Wow! What is wrong with Her??

And then when I got to the car, had a minute to simmer a bit, I felt only shame. What an idiot I am.

Those people who saw me for the first and last time of their lives? They saw only anger and frustration and fire.

Sometimes life just gets the best of us. Sometimes we forget what we look like on the other side of us. And sometimes, sadly, the other side? It just isn't very pretty.

Monday morning I left for work about 7:10. I hugged Savana goodbye. Have a great first day, Honey. I hugged Jace goodbye. Your first day of school! I hope it's a whole lot of wonderful. And then I hugged Darian: Hello goodbye, Girlie. Can't wait to see you in two weeks!

I hid dark, swirling thoughts behind a smile pasted on my face so they wouldn't know. I sent them off with hugs and words of cheer to chase their dreams and live their lives. And then I headed out the door towards mine.

Holding Hands Together

I--as so many millions of people--am so saddened by the death of Robin Williams. He has brightened my life since I was a kid. My first memory of him is when we lived in Cushing, Oklahoma and I was in the 6th grade. We had just moved there from a tiny little town called Seiling where I had a very small class. But in Cushing? Hundreds were in my class. It was a transitional year for me in many ways and I loved it. Anyway, Mork and Mindy came on television that year--a show where Robin Williams played the part of an alien who came to live with Mindy. It. Was. Hysterical. I watched it faithfully.

Behind me in my reading class was a boy named Dirk and Dirk was soooooo cute. I was crushin' on him like nobody's business. And one day he walked into class and put his head on the chair as though he were sitting on it and said Nanu nanu. (Mork's version of hello.) In my mind? That sealed the deal. Not only was Dirk cute? He had good taste in television! And he was funny!

Like so many others I have watched many of Robin Williams' movies. I watched when he hosted the Oscars. I've watched interviews of him with Barbara Walters. He has been a large part of my cinematic life.

I will miss him.

People have been blowing up Facebook, most of them supportive and sharing sadness over the loss of such an amazing talent. But a few of my "friends" have shared how selfish Robin Williams was; how the media has glorified his death.

Really?

When something so utterly tragic like this happens, everybody has an opinion as, of course, we are all affected. We all lost a little piece of an era with Williams' passing. But from my standpoint, Robin Williams was a tortured soul. When someone exists in such deep agony, a suicidal act is no longer selfish. It is desperate; it is a tactic to end the pain. And for us to look on at a man who entertains us and criticize him, label him...That's refusing to acknowledge his pain, his feelings of no way out. To me...that's selfish.

On Monday morning, Roy and I were watching the news before we both headed off to work. They were talking about Robin Williams' death and his family, his personal life. They told the story of how Robin (we're on a first name basis now) has a daughter, Zelda, who recently turned 25. On her birthday, Robin tweeted You're now a quarter of a century old but you'll always be my baby girl.

And that tweet gave me pause. It spoke of a father's love for his daughter. It revealed tenderness and love. It spoke of something far beyond the tinsel and glitter of Hollywood.

And then they shared the grief and agony that Zelda and Robin's wife are experiencing in the wake of Robin's death. They talked about how they have requested that the media gives them space and lets them grieve. They talked about how Zelda has posted on Twitter, revealing the deep love she has for her dad. And this is the post that took my breath away:

That post, to me, said it all. That post brought it all home. Robin Williams was just another guy eeking out an existence. And while we all love him from a distance, Z loves him up close. Personal. She was daddy's little girl. She didn't just lose a genius comedian, a guy who exists on a screen. She lost the guy who tucked her into bed at night. She lost the man who bought her birthday gifts and smiled at her as though she were the only girl in the world. She lost her dad.

Yesterday was registration here at MPA where we reside. And so after I got on campus from work I didn't even bother to go home. I pulled in at the academy and walked inside to check out who had registered and say hello to all of my academy friends. It was so much fun walking down the halls and peeking into classrooms, seeing the faces of so many dear people who share my life with me: Beth and Beth and Laurie and Stella and Kim and Tammy and Nancy and Kevin and Ed and Rick and Brian and Nina and Adam and Louie. Seeing them all was so much fun. It was good for my heart as these people? They're my friends. I've shared a campus with them for four years. I've shared a job with them for two of those years. I have memories with them. They are all a piece of me.

And as I walked out of that building, I was just so thankful for each of them, for their smiles and their laughter and their warmth. I'm so glad that they are more than a figure on a screen. I'm so glad that they walk this planet alongside me. I'm so thankful for their friendship and their support.

And I hope that they will each keep shining, keep looking up. Because life is short and we have no promises that there will be a tomorrow. We're in this world together and if we don't hold each others' hands, well...who will?

Big Black Trash Bags

Sadly, my mom leaves today. In a little over two hours, I will say goodbye just before head out the door for work. Then later this afternoon, Roy will take her to the bus station and she will begin the long adventure home. Having my mom here has been a whole lot of fabulous. We've taken several walks together up winding roads, talking the whole way. She's cooked for me and done my dishes and my laundry. She helped me move around the living room yesterday afternoon and sat with me, she in one chair, me in another, until I headed to bed, leaving her still on her laptop until probably far too late. (I'm not sure what time she finally ventured to bed.)

She's a good mama.

I'm sad to see her go.

Roy and I have the house to ourselves this week as Jace is gone to Osh Kosh and Savana is at the beach with her boy and his entire family for the week. It's so quiet around here!

Since Jace is gone, I started a major project yesterday: cleaning out his room. Actually, it really doesn't matter that Jace is gone. I would have done this anyway. But there is an advantage to his absence: he isn't here to whine about everything that I want to either give away or throw away. The child is a packrat.

I hauled out a huge black trash bag of trash and three large boxes stuffed full. Two of those boxes will head to Good Will today; the other? I'm hoping to sell its contents.

As I was going through Jace's closet, I noticed a stack of books on the ground that I had placed there the last time I thoroughly cleaned his room. They're all books from early childhood--sweet books that I got at Jace's baby shower or that the girls had when they were little. I yet again sat on the floor and paged through them, remembering my toddlers as they looked at the pages, pointing and slobbering and giggling. I'm not sure I can let these go.

I am a lover of books. I love how words have the power to create emotion and spark imagination and transport us to another world. I love the feel of the cover, the worn pages, the mystery of a story before it has unfolded.

I, too, have gone the way of the Nook due to its convenience. I can carry a library with me at all times in my purse. I can fall asleep reading without the light on so that, I simply fall asleep. But in my heart of hearts, nothing compares to a well-loved book with dog-eared pages and covers that spell home.

These days I haven't been reading as much as I would like. My job entails a lot of reading and writing and so by the time I get home, my eyes swimming are in my head. I've become much too accustomed to Netflix--mindless watching rather than choosing something that will inspire or make me think. I've gone the way of the average American. I do believe the 8-5 will do that to you.

It's time to make a change.

It's time to get back to the basics.

The other day I noticed Mom thumbing through a book from my bookshelf: Making Over Your Metabolism. It looked inspiring and so, I'm going to start reading that. School is starting one week from today. I have goals to accomplish; life I want to live outside of mindless living once I am back inside my house. There is so much to explore at one's fingertips. There is so much living to do.

And yet...it's so easy to be mindless. It's so easy to simply vegge. And yet...I have personal goals to accomplish, books to explore, recipes to try...

Today?  I am going to start hauling out the big black trash bags of mindless living and refocus on the adventures that are right inside my doors.

The Best Part of Me

It's a Sunday morning and I got up at the crack of dawn so that I could take Jace over to the community center by 5:30 a.m. He is headed to Wisconsin for a great big Pathfinder event that will host 46,000 people.

My word.

He was so excited that he woke me up before my alarm at 4:55 this morning. Mom! It's time to get up! And so I did, bleary-eyed and begging the clock to please be wrong as I normally sleep til 7:00 on Sundays. But of course...the clock wasn't wrong and so I dragged myself out of bed and down to the kitchen to pack Jace's lunch and cook him a pancake as that's the sending-off breakfast that we'd decided on the night before.

Hey, Mom? I'm going back to bed. Just let me know when it's ready.

Thanks, Jace.

When we arrived at the community center, he said, "Bye, Mom," and reached up to the front seat from the backseat to give me an awkward hug that he really hoped I'd be satisfied with so that he wouldn't be embarrassed by hugging me good-bye in the parking lot. Someone might see! And if someone saw him hug me? Well. He might die.

Now don't get me wrong. When we're home and nobody else is around to witness it, Jace loves for me to hug on him. He often crawls on my lap and sits until I can't take it anymore, pushing him off. He always complains: Let me sit on your lap!

And so I can handle his outward show of Watch me walk away from my mom because I really don't need her.

He absolutely doesn't need me...until he's hungry...or sick...or sad...or he has a story to tell...or...

As soon as we exited the car, Jace asked Shane which van he was riding in. She gave him a choice of two, letting him know who was riding in what. He looked at me and nodded in the direction of the van that suited his fancy and darted off to get the best seat in the house. The last I saw of Jace he was sitting by two of his buddies giggling away.

He's going to have a great time.

I have never attended a pathfinder camporee...and I seriously doubt that I ever will. Pathfinders weren't part of my life growing up but all of my kids have been actively involved. It's one of my girls' favorite childhood memories: weekly meetings, camping trips, honors, Bible Bowls, and, of course, the camporee that rolls around once every four years. Savana only managed to go in 2004 when she was 11 years old. It was freezing cold that year and so that is her main memory from the experience: shivering and huddling in the tent. But Darian attended when we lived in Missouri in 2008 and she came home raving about what a fabulous time she had.

I imagine Jace will do the same. But the difference will be, I probably won't learn much about it. I will only know, most likely, what I hear from the leaders. When it comes to words, Jace doesn't exactly share his sisters' prowess. The girls love nothing more than talking endlessly to me--sharing their every thought and conversation and experience in avid detail.

Jace?

Not so much.

I suppose it's a boy thing as I've heard from other mothers of boys that their sons don't mince words. And when I really try to question Jace and needle information out of him, my questions are met with heavy sighs and minimal answers to appease me 98 percent of the time.

But then that two percent rolls around: that heavenly, blissful two percent.That two percent when he gives me a little glimpse of his heart; when he shares what really goes on in that head of his in quiet moments.And that two percent always leaves me bursting with pride. Jace is still rough around the edges. He definitely has a lot of growing up to do. But he's getting there. He's thinking and he has a kind heart and a sensitive spirit. He is grappling with deeper concepts and trying to find his place in the world. I am confident that, in the end, he'll be a good guy, a guy that will have integrity and depth.

This parenting business is a whole lot of crazy. It isn't an experience that one can put into words. I remember when Savana was born and I gazed into that sleeping, precious face and I, filled with so much love I thought I might burst, quietly promised I will never do anything to hurt you. I will always always have your back.

And then she was two years old and running around like a crazy machine, embarrassing me as she tore down displays in the grocery store and screaming endlessly and terrorizing my life. But at nights I would rock her as she sucked contentedly on that pacifier and I would gaze into that precious little face and love would ooze out of me for this precious little bundle that exasperated me and left me emotionally exhausted as what does one do with a screaming, flailing toddler?

And then my sweet sweet Darian came along who slept 23 out of 24 hours until she was about 4 months old. She quietly went about her little life in her easy-going way...until she turned 3.

And then I thought I might kill her.

Darian's 3 year old fits would give any child a run for their money. She screamed and kicked and flailed, leaving me exasperated and searching the books for an answer.

But then she would put those chubby little arms around her neck and nestle in and I was positive that nobody loved their child more than I loved mine.

As time went by, I realized that my promise of I will never ever hurt you was premature. I've hurt my kids as I am human and sometimes life happens. Sometimes I say unkind things or act in ways that aren't becoming. Sometimes I blow it at their expense.

Joy and I ride together to work most every day. And not too long ago, we were talking about how last fall she drove down to Texas with her two kids to drop off her son for college. And then she and her daughter headed up to Nebraska where she dropped her off for school. And then? She drove home. Alone. Just her and her books on tape. I asked her Was that the longest drive of your life--Texas then Nebraska then North Carolina??

Without hesitation she said, I loved it. I really like my kids. They are my favorite people in the world.

I totally get that. Our kids exasperate and frustrate and annihilate us. They cost us sleep and peace and quiet. They make us cry with worry. But in the end, we moms are their best cheerleaders. They offer us hope. They make us proud. They bring us joy.

My kids?

They are the best part of me.

Checks and Balances

My friend Tammy and I walk about 4 evenings each week. She comes by in her red car at 7:00 prompt, I pop in, and we drive over to the track where we walk 3 miles: 13 laps around and around and around. We each keep track of the rounds on our hands, double-checking with each other as "Wait! Was that 4? Or 5?" happens to me...and then Tammy... as we are talking. Nonstop.

Checks and balances. It's a beautiful thing.

Anyway, I'm not sure what we enjoy more: walking because it's good for us or the talking part. I have no idea what we talk about but we are never ... and I do mean never ... at a loss for words. And the funny thing is, we met yesterday for lunch as well. We have our regular little spot where we meet at 12:30 about once every two weeks. Okay...maybe once a week...but seriously. Who's counting?

Before I started working at Hope Chest last spring, our hangout was this cute little pizza place called Brixx that has the best pizza with Greek salad. And then when I started working at Hope Chest our new hangout was Atlanta Bread. And now? Mellow Mushroom. We are kind of boring as we both always order the same thing. Tammy orders first and then I simply say, "I'll have the same thing minus the tomatoes on the salad."

And then we talk and eat our way through the next hour until she leaves in her red car and I walk back to work. She's a fun date.

When we interviewed for this job a little over four years ago, they told us that we had our choice of three houses. I immediately had my eye on the house we currently live in as it's large and on a hill all by itself--a little bit of seclusion on an academy campus. Beautiful. Anyway, as soon as I knew this house was available, I snuck over while Roy was busy checking out the gymnasium and did a quick run-through. Other than the kitchen--which appears to have been an afterthought as it's long and narrow and a poor excuse for a kitchen--I loved this house from the moment I laid eyes on it. No matter that the uneven floors due to the house being moved twice and never leveled once make you feel like you ar walking uphill, and then downhill on the next step, at times; no matter that I can watch the sunset from the cracks in my doors...I knew immediately that it was home. And so, early the next morning I told Roy that he had to come check it out. As we were opening closets and mentally measuring windows, we heard a knock on the front door. Uh-oh. Are we not supposed to be in here?

We hesitantly opened it....and there stood Nancy and Tammy, big grins on their faces: Hi, ya'all!

I knew instantly we were going to be friends.

Tammy is one of those people who never meets a stranger and treats you like you're the only person in the world. She listens to my stories as though they are absolutely fascinating even though they are not. And if I need something, she's there before I say the word. I can count on it.

Every. Single. Time.

When I took Savana to the ER the second time around that Friday night, she randomly texted me. I have no idea why...but I told her that I was hanging out with Savana at the ER for the second night in a row. She said I'll be right there. I said It's almost 11;00! I'm fine!

I'm on my way.

That's Tammy.

And so, when we walk the track, we always end up talking about mundane things and heavy on our heart things and just things in general. And that hour? It flies by.

When it comes to friends, I am blessed. I always find a couple of heart-friends everywhere we live: Rachelle and Kerrie and Jacque and Estee Marie and Dee and Shirley and Raylene...and a host of others that, if I showed up on their doorstep, would welcome me in with open arms. We would sit on the couch and talk as though no time had passed, even if it had been years.

I am rich indeed.

Part of the beauty of being 47 is that, by the time one reaches this point in life, one has a host of experiences and conversations and realizations and relationships (some that last, some that don't) that all culminate into creating the individual that one becomes. And with that realization comes the beauty of being comfortable in one's own skin.

As we were walking around the track yesterday, Tammy said, "I am over doing things I don't want to do. I don't have anything to prove anymore."

I totally get that. There is something to be said for recognizing what we genuinely like or don't like; for giving up on pretending and embracing authenticity. Life is too short to spend it chasing after a rainbow that has someone else's pot of gold at the end.

And sometimes that means embracing the right people. Life is too short to worry about those who reject us or wrongly judge or criticize. That isn't to say we have the right to be rude or cold. I am all for kindness.

But I am also a big believer in filling one's life with good things, with good experiences, with good friends. Friends that stick by you. Friends that get you. Friends that have your back, your family's back. Friends that laugh with you and cry with you...without judgment.

Those kinds of friends? They make the world go 'round. Those kinds of friends are the ones you walk the track with, 13 times around, keeping track on your fingers and talking as though you're the only ones in the world.

The Gift of a Moleskin

Roy and Jace left for Nosoca Pines Ranch yesterday morning. They are headed down for a mini-retreat for the Pisgah staff, filled with boat rides and canoeing and swimming and horseback riding and great food and summer-filled cabins. I know they're going to have a spectacular time.

Meanwhile, Savana and I stayed home (with my mom) to hold down the fort as we both have work starting today. And so, once they were gone in a blaze of glory, we girls took off for a girls' day out. We started by meeting friends at the nail salon for pedicures and manicures. Lillian got her nails painted this bright, summery pink that matches her cute little personality. Tina, who works incessantly because she has these amazingly gifted hands, painted her nails a soft glittery pink. Savana and I? We're all about bold and black. What's the deal with that? I must have some hangup from my childhood that resulted in this need for dark nails and I passed that down genetically to my oldest. Or maybe it's my rebellion to having pasty skin. But whatever it is, I have these nails that one could see from a mile away.

Awesome.

And then we headed to the mall as I had a few things I needed to pick up. The very last thing on my list was a tiny notebook from Barnes & Noble called a moleskin. Now if you have never had a moleskin, you've never had a real notebook. These little guys are phenomenal. They are made with a special kind of paper that just feels good. And the covers are soft and leathery. When I buy these little notebooks, I always have grandiose ideas: I'm going to carry this around in my pocket and take notes throughout my day--enlightening quotes, sparkly ideas that cross my mind, memories that suddenly flit across my mind's horizon, things I need to do, recipes I come across, goals I want to achieve...The list continues. But the truth be said, these little notebooks stay tucked away inside my purse and I pull them out on a whim that usually doesn't resemble anything of the above: a quick mathematical equation or my budget for the month or a grocery list or...

But, my previous notebook from B&N has seen its last days as the pages are filled and so...it's time for a new one. And so, as I stood there in Barnes & Noble yesterday, I perused an entire kiosk of moleskins. They come in a variety of sizes and thicknesses and colors. It's music to my soul. I could have bought the entire rack, lugging home boxes of moleskins and designating a different "job" for each. That would be a slice of heaven, in my book.

But I finally settled for a soft pink one. No bold colors this time around (unlike my nails). As soon as I purchased it, I tucked it away inside my purse, my mind already spinning excitedly with ideas for how to fill its pages in a worthy manner.

When I got home, I helped Savana with her room for a bit. She's trying to reorganize it so that when she starts grad school in a couple of weeks, it will be easier to maintain. And so I hung up clothes for her and threw trash in a bag and created a pile of give-away stuff and chattered with her while she reminisced about high school photos and dog-eared books on her shelf.

And then, as I was making her bed, I noticed this really cool notebook that had been tossed aside and lay partway under the covers: a moleskin!

I picked it up and thumbed through it as she hasn't started using it yet. It's unlike any I've seen as it has a picture on the front and all of mine have been just plain covers. Where did you get this? I asked. And she proceeded to tell me how a friend brought it for her when she was in the hospital.

Lucky girl. She is one amazing friend.

When I first learned about moleskins years ago, I read about them on the cellephaned advertising. It said that Walt Whitman carried a moleskin with him at all times, jotting things down in quiet moments. Maybe he wrote Walden Pond on a moleskin.

I love Whitman. His words speak to my soul. He talks about finding that quiet place within your life, being centered, standing for your truth. Whitman's ideals are all about peace and kindness to others; individuality; living a life of purpose.

Back when I was in the classroom, I spent an entire 80 minute class period with my juniors on Self-Reliance because every sentence is a gem. It's a short read but it's filled with goodness. And every time I get my hands on a moleskin I am reminded of his words.

I am reminded that life is about the small moments. It's about creating a little piece of goodness in my neck of the woods. It's about the glory of nature and the beauty of a rising sun. It's about living my life with gratitude for the small things and integrity when it comes to others.

And so, even though my moleskins are typically used for random jobs on the fly rather than the meaningful moments I dream for, I can't help but be reminded every time I pick one up that life is a gift. We are granted this opportunity to laugh and find joy in the simple things. We have a few select years on this planet to hone our craft and make a wee bit of difference, no matter how small, no matter how simple...even if it's nothing more grand than giving the gift of a moleskin.

Out of my Head

Yesterday, Roy met me for lunch. He parked outside in the little red pickup and sent me a text: Here. And so at 12:30, I straightened my desk, grabbed my lunch, and headed outside to the parking lot in front of 35 Woodfin where we spent the next hour together eating our sandwiches and chatting it up about our daily events.

While we talked, we checked out the people around us. They were all rather interesting characters. One guy had this beard that was split in the middle--his chin totally hair free while on both sides his beard jutted out like horns. One guy had to hold his pants up because if he didn't, they would have fallen to the ground before he turned around once, much less twice. One lady parked in the middle of the parking lot--not in a parking space--and then stood outside to talk to people that she clearly knew. They laughed and talked uproariously as though they were the only ones in the world. And the list goes on. Is anybody normal? 

But then again...what's normal?

But as I was watching them, I couldn't help thinking that if I could spend time talking to them, I would most likely like them. I would find them interesting or funny or some characteristic that would turn them into just a regular person.

Recently, Jace was complaining about himself. He's hitting that age where insecurities roar inside one's head and sometimes he struggles with just simply liking himself. Oh the woes of being a teenager. But in the midst of our conversation, we talked about how there is only one Jace and so, even though he is no different than anybody else and therefore needs to respect others simply because they are on this planet, too, he can also know that he is one of a kind. He has a gift that nobody else has--a unique perspective to share his gift with the world.

I find that fascinating.

My mom is a health nut. She eats and breathes and talks and studies and writes...about health. And that's a beautiful thing--really. She knows a lot. It's her passion. But the thing is, we all have passion about something. We all are born into this world with a gift, a passion, if you will--that will shed light on who God is in a way that nobody else can.

Sometimes, I think, we struggle to find our passion. We struggle to find the good in ourselves, seeing only our dark sides. But just like we all have weaknesses? We all have strengths. We all have qualities that are bright and shining.

Way back in the day when I was in high school, I became good friends with this guy who is as goofy as can be--still is--but he and I connected and started a friendship that lasts to this day. We still talk on occasion but our lives are busy, of course, and so months, and sometimes years, go between our talks. But when we do manage to catch up, our conversations are long and range from the facts of our lives to real talk. Anyway, we touched base about a week ago, and during that conversation he shared with me how he is riddled with insecurities. He struggles with trust issues, with feeling worthy, with liking himself.

And I find that so tragic. Because when I see my friend, I only see the good things. I see how he has created a successful business, starting it from the ground up; I see how he gave another classmate of ours his lucky break by buying him the equipment he needed to start his own filming company; I see how he has singlehandedly sponsored my girls for mission trips; I see how he has taken in his grandkids and is raising them as his own. He loves with his arms open wide. It's his gift.

And yet...he is consumed with self-ridicule.

Sometimes? I think we need to get out of our heads. We need to start by loving ourselves...and then we can share that kindness with those around us.

Loving ourselves doesn't look selfish or even self-centered. It just means we're nice to ourselves inside of our heads. It means that, rather than berating ourselves for being fat, we say things like I'm going to make healthier choices. Rather than thinking Why did I do that? I am so stupid! We say We all make mistakes. I'll be smarter next time around. Rather than thinking I am so awkward. Nobody likes me,  we replace those thoughts with I am okay. I too have gifts to share with the world.

And then, as we replace all of that anxiety with positive affirmations, we find ourselves settling in. We find peace instead of torment...one moment at a time. But those moments? They grow until they, at last, become a way of being.

And so, the next time you find yourself sitting in a little red pickup in the parking lot of a county building, you will look around you at all of these weird people walking by. And you will realize that they, too, have gifts. They may look a little strange; in fact, they may be a little strange. But underneath those baggy pants and that double-edged beard is a gift, a passion...that has something to share with us that nobody else can.