No Words

I first met Lauren when we lived and taught at Wisconsin Academy several years ago. Her sister, Jamie, was one of my girls as she was my newspaper editor, and so, when Lauren came her sophomore year, I loved her from the start. She had a laugh that echoed through the halls and we could all hear her coming before she ever entered the door of my classroom. She had this long gorgeous red hair and a smile that lit up her face.

I'm not sure when it happened but at some point during that year, she fell in love with Brian Kessen, the son of my best friend. Brian was a senior and he and Justin Minnick teased Lauren unmercifiully. And she laughed. She laughed and she laughed and she loved and she danced her way through her years at W. A., making us all fall in love with her with her strength and determination and boldness to conquer her world.

And then of course, Lauren graduated and took off for Andrews University. But on occasion, she would come back to visit and she always came to my apartment there in the boys' dorm to say hello. We would talk for hours, laughing. The main subject of our conversation? Brian. She was so in-love with him. She and Brian hung together in groups and though she wanted to think he was interested, he never took the bait. And so, at times she dated other guys, but one eye was always looking to see if Brian's head was turned her direction. One time, she begged me to call Brian to see if there was any hope. Please let there be a glimmer of hope. And so, I did. It was out of my comfort zone as I felt like I was treading on territory where I didn't belong, but I made that phone call as her eyes pleaded desperately with me and I just couldn't resist. I talked with Brian for quite awhile, searched his voice for a sliver of interest and hung up the phone, defeated.

But a couple of years later,  Roy and I drove up to Wisconsin, as we'd moved by then, to attend her fairy tale wedding. She was so gorgeous that day, all dressed in white splendor and glowing with joy as she spoke her vows to the love of her life. Afterwards, Brian whisked her away to Loma Linda where he attended medical school and she taught in the San Bernardino school district.

My sister, Lori, lived near Loma Linda at the time, and so one year when we visited, I called Lauren to see if we could get together. We met on the beach and had a bonfire, ate supper together, and she played with Jace, who was just a little guy at the time,  out there near the waves, teaching him how to surf. And then one afternoon I visited them in their little house there on the outskirts of Loma Linda. Lauren gave me the grand tour and she had it decorated like home--so Lauren. We talked for quite awhile--about teaching (as she, too, was an English teacher) and life and marriage and dreams. And it was somewhere in that visit that we realized that she taught for a guy named Steve Perlot--the same principal I had taught for so many years ago when I taught for the San Bernardino school district.

How uncanny is that?

We ended our time together by heading over for some frozen yogurt. It was a beautiful summer evening and my family joined us, so we sat outside, eating yogurt and laughing and talking nonstop.  And then we hugged goodbye with promises of keeping in touch. I watched her and Brian walk away, holding hands and talking as Lauren looked up at him with those eyes of adoration and I couldn't help but feel so proud of these two who were such great kids and doing so well as life rose up to meet them with nothing short of promise.

As the years sped by, Brian graduated from med school and they headed to Illinois for him to complete his residency. Lauren was pregnant with Ben by then and we lost contact as we all were, of course, busy with our own adult lives. But Dee kept me updated with pictures and stories: Lauren is such an amazing mom... I am so proud of her...she wants to go back to school and get her Master's...

And then one day Lauren and I managed to Skype together. She introduced me to Ben and we chatted it up as though no time had passed since we'd last seen each other. Without question, Lauren was one of those friends where life just picks up where you left it and conversation never lags.

I talked to Dee a few weeks ago. She filled me in on how Brian, Lauren and Ben had recently visited for their annual autumn get-together in Door County. She shared pictures of Lauren, seven months pregnant with their baby girl, and then we watched a video of Ben as Lauren's laughter rang through the air in the background. Clearly they had the world by the tail as they had just moved to Minneapolis, bought their dream house, and were conquering their dreams one by one.

Until, as I write this,  one week ago today...

Because a week ago today? Lauren tragically passed away while giving birth to their beautiful little girl, Leah Marie.

Since I've heard the news, I've felt as though I live in a haze, as though the world is filled with undertones of gray. It is as though my heart is beating her name and, even though I am surrounded by so much to be thankful for in my life, I can't quite wrap my thoughts around the reality that life will never be the same; that a light has gone out and our world is a littler darker for it.

And here is the thing. We all know our days are numbered. Life is no guarantee. But when death strikes one who is so vibrant and in the prime of life, who still has so much living to do...well, there are simply no words.

I am left with no words to describe the utter sadness I feel for Brian, for Ben, for little Leah, for Pam and Mark and Ron and Diane and Jamie and Dee and Bob and Michael.  For the sadness I feel even for myself--though this isn't my story.

For the past several days, people have been posting memories and anecdotes on Facebook in honor of Lauren. Clearly she has touched the lives of many as they have shared their own tears and heartache. And as I've read these beautiful tributes,  I've grappled to find just the right words to express my own piece of sadness in the whole of this devastation.  And I am left with no words. How does one voice such tragedy? such loss?

Lauren left behind a legacy through her loved ones, her friends, and our memories:

Beautiful Ben with his spark for life and laughter.

Precious Leah with that dark hair who will grow up with her mother's genes and will create her own little slice of greatness. How could it be otherwise?

A husband who will rise up and meet this challenge with courage and and determination.

Her laughter that echoes in my mind at the mention of her name.

And so much more.

So much, much more.

Rest in peace, our  beautiful, amazing Lauren.

Just Around the Bend

This evening Darian and my Lewis nephews are piling in for a whole eight days of absolute goodness. And on Sunday, my cute sister, her cute husband, my very cute nieces, and my cute mom are piling in for a whole six days of laughter and games and cooking and chaos and movies and talking and family and shopping and eating and fun.

Ah--I love the holiday season.

Jace, too, is excited. Christmas is, of course, his favorite holiday, and Thanksgiving follows up as a close second. He told me that recently and I was shocked. Really, Jace? Why?

Because the Lewis family always comes and we always have such good food and lots of desserts. What's not to love?

I must say--I agree.

Of course, this year is a bit different than ever before as I have to work through Wednesday. I am hoping the days fly -- and, as they almost always do, I'm not too terribly concerned. But I am sure that I will have lots of times throughout my day of thinking I wonder what they're doing right about now. But I'll be sure to give plenty of admonishments that they not have too much fun or talk about anything interesting until I get home.

That'll work.

The week after Thanksgiving we'll put up our tree. I haven't quite figured out how I'm going to rearrange our living room to make room for it yet as we've recently added another chair down here that is complicating the situation. And I was hoping to have some presents to pile under the tree already but...well, I don't. Surprise! But the thing is, I don't have a Christmas tree skirt. I always use a red makeshift blanket which is, of course, rather redneck of me, but by the time you pile on some presents, nobody knows the difference! Before Christmas, I'm always too cheap to shell out the bucks to buy one. And after Christmas? I always forget.

Yeah. I'm amazing like that.

And so here we are, Christmas #28, and we still don't have a Christmas tree skirt.

That's just one skeleton in my closet. I have a couple more, but I'll keep those to myself.

So today will begin the preparation. I already made a list for Roy so that he can go grocery shopping. And on Sunday, we'll go on a huge shopping spree in anticipation of the week that will include Walmart and Sam's Club. I typically avoid Walmart these days but for occasions such as this where I will have to pile my cart high, well...I figure braving the long lines and the people that make me question what is happening to the human race...kind of mean, I know...is worth it. And then Sunday evening we'll all head over to the caf for the MPA Thanksgiving feast which is always delectable and the event that heralds the actual beginning of the holiday season.

I wrote down our menu for Thanksgiving while I was riding in the car the other day. It's a typical American menu that includes what most people have with the exception of homemade noodles. Homemade noodles were part of our holiday fare every year when I grew up. I assumed everybody had noodles on Thanksgiving and Christmas Day until I married. You're making noodles for Thanksgiving? What's that? But I can't imagine the holidays without them. They're a staple--just like a Christmas tree and Jingle Bells and snow. Every Wednesday night, I roll them out, cut them into noodles, lay them out on cookie sheets, and let them dry overnight in anticipation of cooking them up in a veggie-broth the next day that turns into a noodle gravy that we slather over mashed potatoes. Mmmm....so good. And every year I think I should make these more often because they are that good. But? I never do. And most likely I never will. It would be kind of like eating pumpkin pie in June. Who does that?

So this morning I do believe I will find Christmas music to play on my way to work. I will dream dreams of family and fudge and card games as all of that holiday goodness is just around the bend.

The Stuff of Dreams

It is icy outside. A dusty covering of snow has blanketed our yard and I have to traverse these treacherous roads in order to get to work. This is one of those times when I kind of wish Buncombe County Department of Social Services followed the Buncombe County school schedule: two hour delay. And no worries! You don't have to make up the extra two hours.

Ah--the stuff dreams are made of.

So last night I headed over to the girls' dorm to lead out in a small group study as their regular leader is gone and so I filled in. It's been awhile since I have been in front of a group of teens and I fell right back into that routine as though I've never been out of it. It felt good actually and reminded me that I need to be more diligent about being involved.

Sometimes I struggle with that word: involved.

When we lived in California, my sister Lori told me that the only reason I'm fairly organized is because it gives me more time to sit. Sadly? It's true. I love "activities" that involve sitting--writing on my iPad, reading, watching a series from Netflix, or simply chatting it up with a good friend. But if the house is a mess or there are dishes to be done...well, I can't sit and do my thing with any sense of peace. And so, I get things done so that I can have lots and lots of "me" time. Mmm.

But, of course, all of that "me" time detracts from being involved in ways that benefit others. And though I can't say that I'm "chomping at the bit" to get out there and become a volunteer for a nonprofit organization or lead out in worships in the dorms or a host of other possibilities, well...I will acknowledge that there is a slight chance that I need to be a bit more selfless in the area of involved.

As a teacher, one is constantly involved. The job demands it. I've never been in a position in my entire life where I had two distinct lives: professional; personal. Even as a child, my dad was superintendent of the school in the small town in which I grew up and so we were constantly involved in school activities: attending football games and basketball tournaments and chili suppers for the purpose of raising money and school plays and the list continues. But now? Well, I am finding myself with these long evenings that stretch before me and when there are school activities, I have the option of attending rather than the obligation.

It's refreshing.

But sometimes it leaves me feeling like just maybe I need to find a niche somewhere and make a difference. "Sitting" is a beautiful thing--no doubt about that.

But action for the sake of others? That is what life is about. That is truly the stuff that dreams are made of.

Time to Shine

Roy left this past Wednesday for Acrofest, taking his team and the bus and a truck filled with mats and other gymnastics-type paraphernalia. Jace and I drove down Friday evening after I got home from work, joining my sister at her friend's home there in Collegedale. Her friend, Dana, has this sprawling home on a gorgeous piece of property less than a mile from the Southern University gym, and she lets her company inhabit the entire downstairs section of the home, complete with two full bathrooms and four bedrooms filled with king-sized beds. It was fabulous.

Before I arrived, I picked up Roy from the gym so that he could spend a couple of hours with us as he was staying in the dorm (though it wasn't required). As soon as I walked in and saw my very own personal room with this king-sized bed, I ran back out to the car and said, "Roy! You have to stay here! We have our own room!"

He shook his head. "Nah--I'll stay at the dorm. You'll enjoy the time with your sister."

And then he walked in.

"Nevermind. I'll stay." 

And so, Roy and Jace (and his buddy Harrison) and Darian and Tami all piled into Dana's home and we stayed up way too late talking and eating, as Dana left out snacks and juice, and all in all had a fabulous time.

Saturday evening was the Acrofest event, complete with about 30 performing teams from all over the Midwest and eastern part of the USA. But the highlight for me? Seeing so many friends from Texas and Missouri and Wisconsin. One beautiful thing about living in so many different places is all of the friends I've made over the years. It's a little bit like comin' home seeing so many that are so dear to my heart. 

But the part that just fills me up in ways I can't explain is seeing kids that I've taught over the years who suddenly grew up--became men and women who now support families and are pursuing their own dreams, forging their own way. It is a whole lot of crazy and it makes my head spin. And honestly, it makes me burst with pride a bit--though I can't really claim any part in their successes. It's just that when I taught, back in the day, I looked out at kids filled with sheer potential. And so to look at them now, grown up and beautiful in so many ways, well...I just want to squeeze them and say I knew you had it in you.

One of my kids is a guy who is now an English teacher and he is brilliant at it. He lives his life with passion, and it doesn't take long in a conversation to realize that this boy was born to teach, to make a difference one student at a time. He student taught under me and we had the most amazing time as we bounced ideas off of each other and laughed and cried our way through the semester. (Well, I cried as I'd just found out I was pregnant with Jace and as the girls were 8 and 10, this new reality sent me reeling.)

But Nick is just one of many that I caught up with. I could go on and on and on: Kelly and Bretlyn and Sean and Frankie and Jon and JiHon and Chris and Anthony and Shawnda...

I'm sure you get the idea.

By the time I got home this afternoon, I was exhausted. After two nights in a row of staying up far too late talking and so many different emotions and such, well...I just needed a little time to hang on the couch and soak up a little Parenthood. And so that's exactly what I did. That show is a whole lot of goodness and there are only 5 more episodes.  Sigh. Anyway, there is this part towards the end of the show when Crosby is talking to his wife Jasmine and he is feeling badly as his business is floundering, and she has taken a part-time job as a filing clerk to help ends meet. And so, he is telling her that he wants more for her, that he doesn't want her to have to work this measly job. And she looks at him and says, "It's okay, Crosby. It's just for a little while. Things will change soon and I'll get to live my own dream. Everybody has their time to shine."

Life is a journey. Sometimes, our lights are dim as we grope around in the dark, desperately searching for the right path while we stub our toes and flounder. But then, the shadows lift and we find ourselves filled to the brim with so much light and love and joy.

This weekend at Southern? It was kids pouring their hearts out on those mats and my friends being a support system and my past students who are now in throes of adulthood and chasing their own dreams coming to be a part and coaches who inspire.

This weekend at Southern? It was a whole lot of shining.

The Life in your Years

Brittany Maynard has taken the Internet by storm. It seems lately I've seen her face every time I am on Facebook or glancing through Google news. And every time I see her, I feel such utter sadness.

What is it like to only be 29 and facing the end of your life?

I watched an interview with her this morning as I sat in my rocking chair and sipped on chai and contemplated the deeper meaning of life and other such things that I do at 5:00 a. m. And as I listened to her talk? I was amazed at her courage, at her willingness to stand for something in her darkest hour, at her ability to love her husband enough to encourage him to find a new love and start a family filled with the laughter of children.

Brittany Maynard, in my book, is a hero.

She is no longer with us, of course, as on Saturday, November 1, she swallowed a cocktail of pills  that ended her life so that she would not be a burden to her family; so that she would not suffer. I recognize that her act is controversial and that many are outraged at her decision. But honestly? I admire it. I think she had the right to choose the best path for her. Not everyone would choose the same, of course. Many would opt to let life take its natural course; let come what may. And that's okay, too. We're all different and we all have, in my book, the right to choose what's best for oneself. Or, at least we should. Don't judge until you have walked a mile in her shoes. I'm interested to see how Brittany Maynard's final act influences our ability as a nation to choose one's right to die with dignity.

I've been reading a book lately that talks about the beauty of life. This author discusses how we have more laughter than tears; more successes than failures; more good times than bad. I've found his book inspiring, thought-provoking. Sometimes his words leave me staring off into space for a moment, contemplating one of this thoughts. I have been one of those people that says Life can be so difficult. And truly--it can. Brittany Maynard, for example, died at 29. That's difficult. That's tragic for those she left behind--the only child of her mother; the love of her husband's life.

But clearly Brittany's life was filled with love and laughter and good times before her fatal diagnosis--and honestly, even after her diagnosis. And when I think back at my own life, I remember so much laughter and so much love that it fills me to the brim. Even the dark times were tinged with moments of unity and inspiration.

This morning as I drove to work, I noted the towering trees on the winding road that leads from the academy --vibrant oranges and reds and deep, deep yellows. This afternoon as we girls went for our daily walk, the air crisp, I thought I am so lucky to be alive, to be here in Asheville, to know these girls whom I work with, to be me.

I came home from work this afternoon and Roy and I headed to vote because we are a free nation and we have the luxury of choosing our leaders. Once home I made dinner for Jace because I have a stocked pantry and lack for nothing. I talked to Darian for awhile and laughed with Jace as he shared a story from his day.

Sometimes I get lost in the mire of day to day living and it takes a Brittany Maynard to bring it home that life is meant to be enjoyed. She died in her late twenties and yet? She had the wisdom to recognize that life is a gift. Cherish every moment.

We are born to dream, to live life in abundance, to think outside of ourselves, to be generous with our time and our resources, to love.

And that's what life is about--whether you die at 29 or 92.

It isn't about the years of your life. It's about the life in your years.

RIP, Brittany Maynard.

Back to It

I was flat on my back with a 103 degree temp and the inability to function for 4 days. Tuesday saw a hint of relief after I took the second dose of antibiotic. And today, Wednesday, I actually ventured to work. It felt good to get back into the routine of normal life after several days of staring at the backs of my eyelids as I couldn't handle much beyond that. I can't remember being that sick in a very long time. And? I hope I'm not that sick again for a very, very, very long time. Thankfully, Roy is a great nurse. Sometimes I think he missed his calling. And thankfully, Jace is mildly independent so he fared for himself for the most part. I think he ate a lot of salad with Olive Garden dressing. (I'm just hoping that salad tipped the scale over dressing but all bets are off.)  I'm not sure what else he scrounged out of the refrigerator--but clearly he is still alive so I guess he isn't too much worse for the wear.

I did stumble downstairs one time to make myself a cup of tea but I never drank it once I got it back upstairs. I fell asleep before I had the chance. And Roy convinced me to take some of this cough medicine he has that makes one fall asleep and sleep like a brick for several hours. And so? I did--even though I was already sleeping like a brick. But of course, sleeping even more like a brick sounded fabulous at the time so I took a swig...and then found myself drifting off to sleep, falling off of a bridge, and kicking myself awake. Or...drifting off to sleep, running into a wall, and kicking myself awake. Over and over again--falling asleep only to rudely awaken myself due to a collision.

That, my friends, is why we don't share others' medications.

On Monday, I rolled out of bed mid-afternoon so that I could stumble out the door, slide myself into the car, and ride to the clinic that is downtown and across from where I work. We dodged voters with signs and pleas to please vote for ----"My wife is sick, Ma'am--we're here for a clinic, not to vote"--and I managed to stumble across the road to the door that led inside where I, after what felt an eternity, managed to drop into the heavenly bliss of a straightback chair, lean my head back against a wall, and close my eyes into that heavenly sanctuary of darkness. For just a moment. Until the nurse shattered the stillness and called my name and, again, I stumbled back to my feet and clinched my teeth against the swirling madness.

Okay--maybe swirling madness is a tad bit dramatic. But still--you get the idea. It was miserable.

By late Monday afternoon? Life had split apart at the seams: piles of laundry, dishes sprawled on a counter that apparently hadn't seen a dishcloth in days, a floor that hadn't seen in a vacuum cleaner in awhile...the saga continues. No doubt about it. My allotted time to be sick had run its course. Roy is a great nurse. He can even do that "wife" thing quite well. But housekeeping? Not his strong suit. (And that's ok--I'm not complaining. He does more than his share and keeps my part of the load light in comparison.)

 And so by late Tuesday, I managed to pull myself up by my bootstraps--(fancy name for antibiotics), and throw a few loads of laundry in the washing machine. I wiped down the counter tops and even ran the vacuum. What's with all of those ladybugs? I'm so over them. I swept the floors and packed lunches and pulled life together as we women do when life has fallen down around us--even if it's from our own making (or lack thereof--whatever the case may be)--and even when we're running temperatures. And then I sank into bed and prayed desperately that Wednesday would bring a normal temperature as...well, frankly, I am out of sick days with the County.

And thankfully, my wish came true.

I am back in the land of the living:

back to grocery lists
and Sam's Club
and rushed mornings getting out of the house so I can beat the schoolbus
and the blustery winds of autumn
and early morning tea
and bike-a-thons and soccer games
and ball with Piper
and packed lunches
and...oh my goodness...

Who has time to be sick when there's just so much living to do?

Free to be Me

I have been seeing a lifecoach for the past three weeks; today marked our fourth meeting. On our first meeting, she (Michele) told me that I need to figure out who I am. She, for example, is a guide. And so, my assignment was to define myself in a single word.

Ok--that may sound easy...but I found that rather baffling. Who am I? And so the search began. I scoured the internet for single word descriptors. That proved helpful--I narrowed the field quite a bit.

I am a counselor, I decided. When I was in my senior year of college after 5 years of undergrad, (getting married slowed me down a tad) I met a girl whose major was Guidance Counseling. "Wait--what is that?" I asked. And when she told me, I knew that was what I wanted to do. But? I had just spent the past five years in school; you could not pay me enough to spend any more time pursuing a different degree. And so, off I went with a degree in English in hand to conquer the world of education. I'll get my master's in guidance counseling when the time is right, I figured. And of course, we all know how that goes. During my first year of teaching, I found out I was pregnant and the rest is history.

I still don't have my Master's in counseling.

And so, week two I met with Michele, armed with my new descriptor: I am a counselor!

That's great! she said. I'm so proud of you! You seem so confident, so self-assured! 

Ah--job well-done. I know my who. 

And then, she told me I needed to figure out what I bring to the table with my who. 

How do people perceive you? How do you want them to perceive you?

And so, back I went to google. Google and I? We're buddies. Pretty much best friends. And so I began to make a list of qualities in a counselor and how I can see myself in that role. I met again with Michele, armed with my new array of how. And again, she was impressed with my insight, with my dogged determination to figure out who am I. This time, she sent me home to figure out how all of that fits into the workplace in a single sentence.

And so, I came home and began researching exactly what a counselor does. And that's when I began to question: am I really a counselor? I am not interested in hearing people's problems so much. I'm not a life coach, a guide. I'm not all about the office with the low lights and the waterfall contraptions and the tan couch.

And then it hit me: I am a teacher. Doggone it--I just can't get away from it. I was raised in education. My parents are educators. My husband is an educator. I taught for well over twenty years and thrived in that profession. I am a teacher.

And so today I went back to Michele and, with a shrug, I said I am a teacher.

I just can't escape it, no matter how I try.

And she said, "I thought you were a counselor!"

"Me too." (Shrug)

"Well then, tell me what you have taught."

"English."

"And what did you like about teaching English?"

"Well, I liked teaching literature, but my gift in the classroom was teaching writing. I loved teaching writing."

And so I began to explain how writing brings power. It empowers. It changes people and cities and countries and churches. Writing speaks love and brings connection. It unites and creates acceptance. Writing changes the world, one sentence at a time.

I explained to her how, at the tender age of 7 years old, I sat at our dining room table, pencil in hand, and created stories about the Christmas cards that hung on our wall during the holiday season. When I was a young girl in the throes of insecurity, I escaped the madness by diving in headlong to the lives of the characters whom I breathed life into on paper. I filled notebooks with stories that bulged and gave birth to another until they spilled out of the boxes that housed them. It was as though the world did not contain enough pages to fill with the words that burned within me--I simply could not write fast enough.

"And then I had children," I said. And writing took a backseat to highchairs and squabbles and flying out the door to teach and laundry and vacuuming and grading papers and cooking dinner and grocery shopping and exhausted blank stares at a tv screen at the end of the day only to wake up and do the same the very next day...and the next...and the next...and the next.

And then Michele grinned.

"I do believe you have your who," she said.

It was so simple really. It was there all the time; I just didn't see it. And now that I know? Ah--such freedom it brings! I no longer have to stress about the fact that I never know what to cook when company comes over for dinner. Why? Because I am a writer! I am not a cook!

I no longer have to worry myself with the fact that, though I love to knit, it never goes well for me. Why? Because I am a writer! I am not a knitter!

I no longer have to worry about the fact that I don't do shopping or large crowds of people or boisterous parties filled with silly games. Why? Because I am a writer who craves peace and bursting flowers and quiet moments filled with the ones I love.

Figuring out my who? It's liberating. It's a beautiful thing really--I am seeing my world through completely new eyes. I am empowered! No more grading or pretending or striving to be the things I'm not.

Let the writing begin.