On The Road Less Travelled

As I have mentioned here before, I quit my job in March. It came after much soul searching, praying, and just really hating my life. My job was beyond stressful; my manager was beyond mean and horrible; and my body was showing me signs that the situation was just not good. Stress had dominated my life to the point where my mind was never quiet. I would be sitting with a friend “listening” to them, but my mind would be racing with thoughts of things not done, of things that needed my immediate attention, and of things that I would never get to. My workload was such that I was unable to do a good job on every file and that bothered me more than anything else. Trying my best wasn’t enough and that weighed on me heavily. I was exhausted mentally, physically and spiritually.

I wasn’t fulfilled at work and I was too exhausted to have a personal life. Seeing friends was often too much for me…I so wanted to go and spend time with them but the energy it took to make plans or follow through on plans sapped me. I found myself making excuses why I couldn’t meet up for dinners or movies. I would be wiped out from my super stressful day at work and the couch beckoned. Many, many days were spent going from work to my couch where I would sit and watch TV until it was time to go to bed. Vague thoughts would filter through my mind that maybe I should be doing…something…but the thought would filter out just as quickly. I needed the mindless drone of the TV or stereo to let me not think about my ever present job.

When I heard God nudging me to quit I, of course, waited for Him to nudge a job my way. But as time went by, I realized that was not His plan. I have worked since I was 15 years old, sometimes working two or three jobs at a time. Not working is not in my MO. Even after I had Michael I tutored kids at the base library. When he went to half day kindergarten, I worked part time at a real estate company. Working is what I do…and let’s just say, as someone without a husband; it’s all up to me. There is no one else to lean on, no one else to let carry the weight, no one else to pay the bills while I figure out my life.

After some major planning and money saving, quit I did and I must say that I love not working more than I ever, ever thought I would. Maybe it is the fact that the better part of my life was spent working and that the last fifteen years has been spent working at a very tough job. But oh, Sunday nights are no longer tinged with that creeping feeling of dread and that pit of anxiety that would begin to grow in my belly. Mondays dawned glorious and hopeful. But, de-stressing is serious business and I was so unbelievably tired that I went through many a day when, again, the couch seemed to be my best friend. I mean, my whole point was to get off the couch and on with life, but, I’ve been told, sometimes, sitting on the couch is okay. Sometimes it’s okay to not be strong, to not be able to handle everything life has thrown at me, and sometimes it’s okay to take care of myself from the inside out.

I have spent days in my pajamas reading or tinkering around the house. I have spent time writing. I have spent time on the phone with friends. I have watched movies I never had time for before. I cooked. I listened to music. I have gotten dressed up for a simple lunch. I reconnected with friends and family. I grieved my Dad and Jon. I thought about my life and how I want to live it. I’ve rested my weary body and my weary soul. I took walks. I sat in coffee shops. And slowly, I started to feel like me again. I found that I could be present with people and really care about them and what they were telling me. I could also remember conversations and situations…I really think the first thing that goes when you are stressed is your memory. I could handle things again; I could get things done without having to figure out how I was going to get what I was 86-ing done in its place. Or without needing a nap.

So, here I am six months later, raring to go, and I am still wondering about God’s plan. I am right smack in the middle of this road less travelled and I have no idea where I am going. I have bought into a business and although I love it immensely, it will not provide a full time income for a year or two and my bank account is dwindling. I have applied for many jobs, but none has come through. I have beseeched God to show me what He’s got in store, to no avail. And then I thought, maybe this is the plan. Maybe the resting and the not being busy is the actual plan. Maybe I am right where I am supposed to be. I can’t say I like that idea much, I would rather have the solution reveal itself at the end of the half hour, but this is not an episode; this is my life.

So, the road less traveled is wonderful, but it is also scary…because I have no idea what is going to happen. When you are working, you know pretty much that you’ll continue working and getting paid and you’ll go on vacation and cherish your days off, you may get a promotion or switch to another division, but you have the security of knowing. I know nothing. Nothing except that whatever His plan is, He is in control. And for me, that’s enough. I know to get what I want I have to do something different, and quitting your job with nothing to replace it is, um, different. I’ve gotten everything from “are you crazy?” to “you’re my hero!” And maybe a little of each is true; I do feel somewhat crazy for doing this and at times I feel like Superman, or whatever the female equivalent of a superhero would be…Wonder Woman? Storm? Somewhere Michael is rolling his eyes…but I digress.

I know that I am as happy as I can remember being. I know that quitting was the right decision. I know that whatever happens, I will be okay. And I also know, I’ve always been at home on the road less travelled. There is something about this road that captures me. I think that is why I always take pictures of empty roads that go off into the distance; the possibilities beyond that curve excite me. What is around that corner? What lies beyond the bend? I’m excited to find out.

Memories of my Dad

Today is the second anniversary of my Dad’s death. Looking back at my life with him, I see how he has shaped me and how the things he taught me are ingrained in who I am as a person. His influence, married with my Mom’s, has made me a “tomboy girl”. That is a phrase I coined at lunch one day with a group of my AmFam co-workers. It means I am both a tomboy and a girlie girl. It means I like football and ballet. It means I am my parent’s child.

My Dad was a Marine, enlisting at 17, dropping out of high school to take his GED to be able to get in. He told me a few years ago that his score was so high that he was called in to retake the test; a little Stand and Deliver happening right there in my Dad’s life. He, of course, scored high again and off he went to become a Marine.  He was a drill instructor, in intelligence, did two tours in Vietnam, and retired 20 years later as a Captain.

Because my Mother was carrying me higher than she did my sister, my parents thought I was going to be a boy. “Michael Anthony” was chosen as my name and when I arrived, a premie, and a girl, it was my Dad who named me Susan. He was the disciplinarian in our home, but never someone who yelled. He didn’t need to. He said your name a certain way and it would freeze your blood. Or he would lecture you until you thought you would fall out of your chair from boredom. I was, um, a rowdy child. I was full of energy and pushed limits and most of the lectures my sister and I got, were because of something I did. My sister would give me the death stare thinking it unfair that she had to sit through my punishment. She was probably right. But those lectures lasted well into our high school years when an extra 20 minutes would be tacked on for an eye roll. For which I was Queen. Eye rolling, and as my sister has reminded me, door slamming.

On the occasions when we were spanked, we got a lecture before the spanking. The one that sticks out in my mind is when both my sister and I called a neighborhood kid a ni@@er. Now, we had no idea what we were saying. A bunch of the neighbor kids were all playing in our front yard and kids we didn’t know were calling us names. We were yelling names back when Kim Kelly, who had 3 older brothers, told us to call them ni@@ers. So we did. Loudly. My Dad appeared at our front door so fast and ordered my sister and I inside. The neighbor kids scattered like bowling pins and my sister and I knew something bad, very bad was about to happen. My sister went first while I waited in our bedroom. I heard the belt and her instant cry, then she came into our room. “Cry quick, it’ll be over faster,” she said. Now this confused me as my sister NEVER gave me advice. Was it a trick? My Dad said my name in that blood freezing way and I walked down the hall to where he was sitting. He looked upset, but not mad upset, sad upset. More confusion.

He took my hands and asked me the stock question. Did I know why I was there? I gave the stock answer. “I made you mad.” It covered all sorts of things when you didn’t know specifically why you were there. He sighed deeply with a furrowed brow. Another first. I furrowed my brow, too, wondering what the heck was going on.  My Dad then broke protocol and told me why I was there. I had said a very horrible word. He told me what that word meant and as he carefully explained it, tears welled up in my eyes. I was mortified, and horrified, and embarrassed, and tried, through my tears, to tell him I didn’t know what it meant. He squeezed my hands and said he knew I didn’t mean it but that because it was so serious, I would need to be spanked. I agreed and instantly bent over  his knees. Nothing happened. He kept talking about how this was going to be harder on him than it was me and his voice sounded funny while he said it. I patted his ankle as my tears dripped off my nose. He continued to speak and finally asked if I was ready. I snuffed out an “uh, huh” and felt the belt lightly strike my butt, I mean, it barely tapped me.  He paused. When I didn’t cry out he brought the belt down again, a little bit harder, but not enough to hurt, and as my confusion mounted, I continued to snuffle as before. As his hand went up again I heard him mutter, “Cry, dammit!” This time, I cried out and was instantly on my feet in my Dad’s arms crying on his shoulder. When I got back to my room, my sister looked at me in disgust. “I told you to cry faster.” For my Dad, he went to my parent’s bedroom and didn’t come out for a long, long time.

My love of sports comes from my Dad and some of my best memories are of watching football. We had a TV set; which means it was encased in wood and sat on the floor. It was a big, huge thing with speakers built on the side and, I believe, those glass grapes sitting on a doily on top. Since it was low to the ground, I would find my Dad lying on the floor, his head propped up on a couch pillow, watching football. When I tired of playing dolls with my always a girlie girl sister, I would find my way to the living room and lay down next to my Dad and put myself in the same position he was in. Usually with our left arms behind our heads and our right foot propped on our left knee. And he would teach me about football. Not just the game, but the players, my favorite being Bart Starr. When I was five, I asked for a football for Christmas, and remember shrieking for joy seeing that oddly wrapped ball under the tree. We have pictures of me in the backyard in my sweater set attempting to catch the football with my arms extended straight out, hands flexed upward in a clear blocking stance. My Dad was humorously proud and my Mom, well, was just relieved.

My Dad also loved to tease us. We would go to the Red Onion, our favorite Mexican restaurant in Anaheim, just a stones throw from our childhood Mecca, Disneyland, and he would say things like, “If you eat that hot chili I will take you to Disneyland!” I was always game, but my Mom, would put a stop to all those shenanigans. One Easter he took us into the backyard and growled at us to pick up the trash lying in the clover. As we stooped to pick it up, we found chocolate Easter eggs and my Dad smiling happily at his ruse.

My Dad had a weird/wacky sense of humor, which thankfully was given to my sister and not me. When America’s Funniest Home Videos first came out, oh my gosh, I’ve never seen my Dad laugh so hard or for so long. The clip of the Great Dane on a leash and he takes off running and the lady holding the leash goes horizontal? He laughed for days. Days.  My sister would send him birthday cards and the two of them would laugh and laugh while my Mom and I would just shake our heads at them. Stuff like that just cracked him up.

While my Dad liked being a Dad, he relished being a Grandfather.  Once Michael came along things with my Dad changed. First, he quit smoking, something he had done all my life. I have vivid memories of walking into our family room into a cloud of cigarette smoke. Yuck. But once he had a grandson, emphasis on son, the cigarettes were gone and he started planning my infant son’s future. To say that Michael and my Dad were close is an understatement. My Dad lavished things on Michael, things we would have never, ever seen. For his 7^th birthday my Dad got him a limo and had it come to Michael’s soccer game. The whole team piled in and off they went to McDonald’s. My Dad rode with the driver and gave him a big tip as that poor dude probably spent a good two hours cleaning it out and getting it presentable again. As Michael grew I couldn’t help but giggle once the lectures started. I would ask which one he got…how important good communication is or the one where he talks about being true to your word? Michael would roll his eyes (who knew that was hereditary?) and complain about how bored he was hearing them.  “You’re preaching to the choir, Son.” I’d say with a grin.

And Michael got stories we never did. I think my Dad just needed a boy to talk about war and some of his experiences in the military. Being in intelligence, there was a lot he couldn’t say, and I know he kept a lot bottled up, but Michael was an eager listener and I am glad they were able to share that together. In the last years of his life, my Dad did open up more and did share some stories and Michael would nod his head indicating he had heard the story before. As much as I miss my Dad, I grieve for Michael for the loss. To him, it is unspeakable, and not something I think he will get over. They had a relationship apart from the rest of us and it saddens me it is gone for him. My Dad was the one male role model who never let him down.

But I know this; my Dad is a part of each of us. With all his lectures and explanations about things, he was teaching us. All those stupid lectures did sink in because I try my best to have good communication and to be true to my word and I smile at the silly things that my Dad thought were so funny.  And as I remember him today, I am so thankful that he was my Dad. I am proud to be his daughter and I miss the way he stood up for me. We were never super close, but I always knew he loved me and I always knew that he knew who I was as a person. He knew my character, the thing those lectures were really about and truly, I wanted to have his character. His lessons live on and in those lessons his legacy. Not fame, not fortune, just to be known by your good character. For him, it was enough, and for me, the best way to thank him is to continue that same legacy.

So, on this day, I will drive myself to Pat’s, and toast my Dad with a chili dog and remember the story he always told about when he first ate Pat’s. 

Which was when he was a little boy over in what is now a vacant lot downtown when the dogs were served out of a cart. 

And wish he was here in person to tell it to me one more time.

On Heroes

It seems daily we are faced with the moral failures of our species. Turn on any radio or TV, open any newspaper or magazine and you will be faced with countless stories of people doing unspeakable things. And I’m not talking about the criminal element, I’m talking about everyday people doing things that only a few years ago would make our jaws drop, but today they seem all but commonplace. Our elected officials verbally bully each other in the name of running for office, lie consistently to whatever group they happen to be in front of, and then in a perfect example of “the pot calling the kettle black” point at their opponent. The current Presidential campaign makes me sad for our country. "How low can you go” has taken on a whole new meaning. It is win at all costs and the costs are high, very high.

Then there is our sporting world. I just read an article and watched the accompanied video of a Utah high school girl viciously kneeing her downed opponent in the face after a dead ball. She walked away like she had every right to do so, not even breaking stride. She was not given a yellow or red card, in fact, the whistle was never blown. No one said anything. Only after the video was presented to both schools was something done. She was verbally reprimanded and said she was “sorry”. I’m assuming she was “sorry” that someone caught it on video, not for her actions.

There are countless examples of parents’ harassing coaches, referees, and other parents in everything from t-ball to college sports. The creepiest incident is where one parent started stalking a twelve year old rival of his son. Stalking a twelve year old hoping to intimidate him enough that he would lose his edge and then his own son would succeed. Ick.

Then there is Lance. Sigh. He is the latest in a long line of sports “heroes” who have fallen from grace due to doping. Today he announced that he is stepping down from his Livestrong foundation. As more evidence by his teammates comes to light, it is all but certain the whole world will acknowledge that he doped, and I wonder, will he finally confess? I just heard there is video evidence, but for years now he has proclaimed his innocence. Not only proclaimed it, but built a business on it.

There’s a word, huh? Innocence.

And it’s that saying again, “win at all costs”. I wonder how people can feel good about “winning” when they know they had to cheat to get there. How is that winning? I’m here to state the obvious: it’s not winning, it’s cheating.  If you had to physically harm someone or stalk them or take drugs, you didn’t win, no matter what the score says. And you’ve diminished the very thing we love about sports; the idea of who is best. Who can run fastest, or hit the ball with the most finesse, or ride their bike the longest. Who, by hard work and God given talent, can go out there and thrill us with their feats. And here is where innocence comes in; it’s the innocence of sports that has always drawn me in. The child-like joy and wonder when hard work and circumstance collide. Olga’s bar routine. Any race Pre ever ran. Ali and Fraser. Jon log rolling across the finish line in Kona. In those moments you are filled with wonder and inspiration and someone becomes your hero.

Heroes, or the notion of them, are in every culture. The movies or stories we love most come with a clear hero and villain. Harry is a hero; Voldemort is not. Luke, Leia, and Han? Heroes. Darth and the Emperor? Not. I think these books and movies are so successful because we all need a good hero; someone to root for, someone to remind us that we need to fight for what is good, someone to emulate.

Which brings me to Felix Baumgartner and his free fall from space. On Sunday morning I had gotten ready for church and had some time to spare so I jumped on Facebook. My friend Dan had posted the live feed for a guy jumping from the stratosphere and although I had heard something about the jump earlier in the week, I had no idea what it was all about. I clicked on the link and was instantly spellbound. What I saw was a man in a tiny capsule ascending into the air by a specially made balloon. The man was in a space suit and as I listened, I learned he would be ascending to approximately 120,000’, would then step out of the capsule, and free fall back to earth. Is this guy insane? I was scared out of my mind, but I couldn’t stop watching.

Suffice it to say, I missed church.

As I watched, they spoke of how dangerous the jump was going to be. No one had ever ascended that high in a balloon before, no one had done a free fall from space, and the list of potential problems was long. They showed graphics of the position he would need to reach; head first, surprisingly enough, and said that tumbling head over heels would be okay and expected, but a flat spin would be very bad. As the balloon ascended past 120,000' and kept climbing, I was on the edge of my seat.

When the balloon leveled out, ground control took Felix through a detailed check list. My anxiety grew as he seemed to not respond to their commands and when he did he seemed lethargic and punchy. Finally, they made it through the check list and he opened the capsule door. After a few more checks, like taking off his restraining harness, which he didn’t readily do, causing me to fall into prayer for him, his poor Mom they kept flashing to, his equipment, and for myself, as my heart was in my throat, he stepped out onto the skateboard size landing.

The words he spoke were these “I wish the world could see what I can see ... Sometimes you have to go up really high to see how small you are.” And then he jumped.

Watching him fall through space was horrible and I found myself shouting prayers. When he started to tumble I was beside myself. The tumbling seemed to last forever, and then, just as if he had planned it all along, he got himself into the head down position and continued to rocket toward earth. The cheers from mission control were jubilant and after another minute or so of freefalling, his chute opened. I cheered like crazy, jumping up and down and crying. The screen then went from grayscale to full color and it showed him soaring towards earth. His touchdown was amazing…he lightly stepped out of the sky, his chute trailing behind him, then he fell to his knees and lifted his hands into the air.

And it got me thinking about heroes and cheats. And here’s the thing, Felix couldn’t cheat. There is no way to cheat jumping out of a tiny capsule from 128,100’. There is no drug you can take to be successful for a jump like that. You can’t beat up anyone or stalk someone to ensure success; you just have to work hard, really, really hard. You have to dream big, have unspeakable courage, and then you have to put the time in. You have to invent the needed equipment; you have to test the equipment by making test jumps, each higher than the last. You have to be mentally in shape, physically in shape, you have to know your craft. He had an incredible team around him, of course, and he said straight out he could not have gotten to where he did without them, but it came down to him and the stratosphere. At the press conference afterward a reporter asked him what he was thinking just before he jumped. He said, “I was thinking, ‘Please God don’t let me down.’ But if you are standing in His Son’s arms, there is nothing that can go wrong in that moment.”

He is the definition of a hero.

he•ro [heer-oh]     

noun, plural he•roes; 1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities. 2. a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal.

And I for one am thankful that in a week of continued political bickering, Lance’s further fall from grace, and the constant negativism that surrounds us, there was a guy with a dream, the courage, and the unbelievable skill to step out of the sky and fall with grace.

On Driving

My first car was named Howard. He was a rust colored Toyota Corona that I inherited from my parents when I was seventeen. Now, I love Toyotas, but Howard was a lemon. He had all sorts of problems that I just got used to; I swear there was a 16 point check list to just start him up. He was a mini station wagon (sigh) but, boy could I pack my friends into him. In high school, people would pile in and away we would go. Boonie party? No trouble. Driving over parking blocks because Kimmy was sick, no big deal. Howard got t-peed on more than one occasion, had rabbit pellets and a chocolate bunny dumped on him for Easter, and people would write me messages in the dust on his back windshield.  So, by college, he was even worse for the wear. The hood would fly up while you were driving and stay stuck open; it leaked oil; it wouldn’t start unless the seatbelts were fastened and even when they were it would say they weren’t. No AC. The headliner would hang down on everyone but me.

Howard got his name at college, too. I ran track at Pima and after one particularly difficult workout, we were running our two mile cool down and we were a little, um, giddy. One of my favorite movies is “What’s Up, Doc?” w/ Barbara Streisand and Ryan O’Neil. The late, great Madeline Kahn has a wonderful part and she drones all her lines in this perfectly nasally voice. So, I was mimicking the lines…”Howard? Howard Banister?” and we were laughing and cracking ourselves up. We finish our run, shower, change, and head to the parking lot for the long ride home and there is my Toyota Corona and we all scream together, “Howard!” And from that day forward, my car was Howard. As much as I hated that car, I cried the day I traded it in for a POS Geo Metro. The dealer gave me $750 as a trade in, which was about $749 too much. I now drive a 4runner and I think some times that it is really just a matured Howard. All this to say, we get attached to our vehicles; they are our homes away from home. We spend a lot of time in them and they do become important to us.

In our homes on wheels, we drive around in our own little cocoon w/ climate control, our own music, our own DVDs. Our seats are cushioned and comfortable. We have visors to block the sun, tint to give us some privacy, and gps to tell us where we are going. The vehicle we pick is an extension of ourselves, too. Trucks, sports cars, sedans, vans. What you drive, whether we like it or not, says something about you. I have an aversion to vans. I never, ever want one, and on the occasions I’ve had to drive one, I hang my head a little. I remember recoiling in horror the day my Dad called and proudly said he had purchased a van. What?! “Why, Dad?!” I wailed into the phone.  “Well, it has room for my planes and my golf clubs and when the whole family gets together, we can all go in one vehicle.” I shouldn’t have been surprised; his previous car was a station wagon, complete w/ the wood panels on the side, and of course, Howard was a station wagon. What did this say about my Dad? That he didn’t give a flip what anyone thought. Marines are like that. He had been in intelligence and jumped out of planes. He didn’t need to prove his manhood w/ a vehicle. Van? Good enough for him.

But, something happens when we get behind the wheel. Since we are in our own cocoon, we think we can do whatever we want and that no one else matters. I have seen perfectly respectable people turn into Tasmanian Devils when they get behind the wheel.  They tailgate; they speed; they weave in and out of traffic; they yell at other drivers. And it’s always a little shocking, right?

What also is shocking is what happens to me. Something happens to me when I get behind the wheel. I find myself getting angry at people. I find myself yelling at them; “What the heck are you doing?!” “Hang up your freakin phone and drive!” “Are you freakin kidding me?!” They can’t hear me of course, unless I am driving w/ my window open and I yell, “He-llo!” w/ all the irritation I can muster when someone doesn’t turn right when the light turns green. And it turns out to be someone who lives a few houses up from me. And she wasn’t turning because there was someone in the crosswalk. Ouch. My face turned red and it started me wondering what it is about driving that turns me into someone I don’t like very much? I mean, I can go from singing along to a praise song on Air1 to screeching at someone is 0.5 seconds, and then resume my singing without batting an eye.

Now, there are numerous things that make me crazy about Tucson drivers, but first and foremost are the people who drive below the speed limit. I don’t get it. Why? Why are you driving slower than the speed limit on a crowded street? And always in the left lane? You are not on a country back road somewhere; you are in a thriving metropolis. If this happens I will spell out the speed limit for you while shouting, “45! The speed limit is 45!” and no, this has never made anyone speed up, but it makes me feel better somehow. When I used to have to drive around for claims, this would all but send me over the edge. And, of course, now a days, the reason someone is driving too slow is because they are texting. Don’t get me started.

So, here we are driving around in our homes away from home and we are so absorbed in our little comfy bubble, that it is hard for us to think about anyone else. Are there other people on the road? But, I’m on the road! It never fails to crack me up when I see people come roaring up to a stop sign on a side street and they are truly irritated when there is traffic on a main road. They throw their hands up in the air and roll their head around because they actually have to stop. Really? At 7:50 am you don’t think others are also going to be driving to work, too? Apparently not. Or have you ever turned right? I mean, turned right not from a right turn lane? 99% of the time, if you look in your rear view mirror, you will see Cruella de Ville back there giving you the death stare because they had to slow down. Except when you are the 99%, right? Come on, admit it! You have been Cruella giving somebody the evil eye for causing you to slow up a bit. I know I have.

And I guess, I just wonder why? Why do I get so angry? Why does everyone get so angry? What do I care if they are texting, or driving too slow? Or tailgating me to the point I can see the color of their shirt? Because I could get hurt? Yes, that is part of it. Goodness knows 15 years of adjusting auto claims has shown me what can happen to you by all these infractions. Or is it that we are angered by the lack of caring doing these things shows we have for one another?  If I choose to speed and text at the same time, in a sense, I am saying, I have no regard for you. My need to send or read a text is more important than you are. I am more important that you are. And, that is what makes us mad.

Because we are a rude society, right? The rudeness we see on a daily basis is so much the norm that when someone actually does something nice, it stands out. We have the “pay it forward” concept of doing something nice to someone else, but really, it just means it’s because we don’t normally do that sort of thing. And I mean “we” as a society. We are an oblivious society…oblivious to one another. And when we drive, in our own little world, we don’t see past the hood of our car. So, if I want to speed, or cut you off, or text and drive slow, or turn right on red while you are making a U-turn, that’s my prerogative. And, there is nothing you can do about it but get mad and stew. Or make hand gestures out your window.

So, as the angry driver, what am I to do? I don’t want to be angry every time I get behind the wheel. I like driving for the most part and I don’t want to continue screeching at people from the driver’s seat. As with everything, the change must come from me. I’m not going to change that people are rude and oblivious, but I can change how I react to people being rude and oblivious. It’s my choice to let things get to me while driving. It’s my choice to not be graceful to people. Jesus teaches us to forgive others who have wronged us and to treat others as we want to be treated. I’m pretty sure that extends to being in a car. I don’t stop believing His teachings just because I’m behind the wheel, although at times it feels like that. Love your neighbor is also something Jesus said, and, darn it, a neighbor isn’t just someone who lives next door. They are the person in the car who is driving slow or speeding or texting or cutting me off. But, one of the good things about Jesus is…He is there to help. Because goodness knows He is the only one who can turn me from Cruella back into me when I’m driving these ridiculous Tucson streets.

So, happy driving, and for the love of all that is good, at least go the speed limit!

On Snark

The definition of “snark” from Urban Dictionary is as follows:

noun Combination of "snide" and "remark". Sarcastic comment(s). Also snarky (adj.) and snarkily (adv.)

 The definition doesn’t make it a verb, but I will for the purpose of this blog. Snarking is now our National pastime. I believe snark has surpassed all major events to become what we, as Americans love to do; to watch; to listen to and to participate in. It is almost expected, that we, as Americans, must make fun, in the snidest way possible, of whatever is around us, no matter what it is. The Olympics? Snark about them! Our political system? Well, there are whole shows dedicated to snarking about the upcoming election and those involved.  Someone’s outfit? Yup, snark away. Oh, wait, I guess there is a whole show dedicated to snarking about people’s outfits, too.

How did something grade school kids do get to be en vogue? How did something grade school kids do get to be expected adult behavior? How did something grade school kids do become a form of entertainment? How did this get to be what we, as a Nation, think is funny?

I, for one, have had enough.

 The tipping point for me was the Olympics. Now, I LOVE the Olympics. I love everything about them. The history, the pageantry, the ceremony. The sports! And let me say right here, that I believe NBC has killed everything good about them, and not just this year, but as soon as ABC no longer had the rights to televise them and NBC got hold of them, well, it was all downhill from there. And, I’ll add, that I don’t think a network should be able to negotiate the rights to multiple Olympics. Since all Nations of the world are coming together in peace and harmony, why can’t the networks do the same and do a joint broadcast? And Bob Costas, et all, needs to watch everything Jim McKay ever did.  But, I digress.

 So, yes, NBC did a horrible job of broadcasting the Olympics, complete w/ the snarky look Bob Costas had on his face for the duration, but it was also every other media outlet as well. Yahoo was the worst offender, daily posting snark about slip ups, athletes, venues, and anything else it saw fit to throw snark at. Their final write up was a snark filled rant about the closing ceremony where there was no journalistic point expect to snark. About. Everything. They missed all the nuances, which, I guess was their point. They were not interested in anything but writing a snark filled commentary. But is it their fault, or are they feeding us what we want?

 FB and Twitter were also laced w/ snarky comments about everything from Gabby Douglas’ hair (really?), to saying how stupid the doves riding bikes in the Opening Ceremony was. Now, we were in NYC during the Opening Ceremony, but I had DVR’d it. Michael and Chelsea were reading posts and tweets real time, and the doves riding bikes and how stupid it was, kept coming up. So, when I actually watched the recording, I was dumbfounded. The doves on bikes were a beautiful representation of Britain’s history of cycling and the peace that the Olympics represent.  And, they weren't actually doves as I was expecting; they were people in gorgeous lit gossamer wings. We seemed to be so programmed to snark that we can’t even enjoy things anymore.

So, how did we get here? Is it a lack of tolerance? Is it our politically correct world run amok? Because it is also en vogue to be easily offended. Everyone can and should be offended by anything and everything. And since we don’t know how to let things go, if we are offended, we then must offer a snarky comment about the offense.  I am a Christian and that offends people. I don’t even have to do anything, or say anything, yet they are offended. They will ask me my views on same sex marriage, knowing my answer ahead of time, and then accuse me of being hateful or prejudice in the snarkiest way possible. Um, no, folks. If you’re only response to my views is to call me names and vilify me, isn’t that hatred?

 Hatred: n.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hatred

Hatred (or hate) is a deep and emotional extreme dislike, directed against a perceived evil.

And for the record, I believe in the Bible and it says marriage is to be between a man and a woman. My belief in that does not mean I hate homosexuals. I don’t like or dislike people based on their sexual preference; I like or dislike people based on their character. Period. There are some gay people I love dearly and some I don’t like so much, but, I’m sure you can say the same thing, right? It doesn't have anything to do with anything but their character, just like it is for you.

But, we have been taught that if someone disagrees with us, it is okay to hate them, to say snarky comments to or about them, and to get others to join in the snark along with us. They are the enemy. And even as Christians, we fall into it, right? I don’t think Jesus is a Republican and the snark some of my fellow Christians have toward Democrats and the snarky comments that are said are horrible. Jesus followed the political system of His day, the Romans, and told His disciples to do the same. We are blessed with the right to vote, and should, but I don’t think that He would want us to be lambasting those we disagree with politically (or on any other subject). I don’t think Jesus is going to buy the defense, “I was mean to them in Your name, Lord!” That’s not what He teaches and as we go into this political season, we would be better off remembering that.

Not that we can’t disagree with people. That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is that snark and the hatred that seems to go with it are tearing us apart. Our nation seems to be “us” and “them”. We are placed in categories and judged accordingly. If you believe this, then you are that, and it is a sweeping judgment with no regards to the individual. If all we do is resort to snark when someone disagrees with us, how are we ever going to get along? The point of the Olympics is finding common ground between nations in sports, right? But if all we are doing is snarking and judging each other, we will never find common ground between us and our culture will suffer for it.

So, how can we stop the snark and the hate that tends to follow? Maybe turning off the TV shows that do nothing but that. No one is really buying the shows that pit two people from polar opposite views spitting venom at each other as actual commentary are they?  It's entertainment and a poor excuse for that, I say.  Maybe not judging someone according to what the media says, but by finding out why they believe what they believe. People will ask me my views on same sex marriage, but no one ever asks why or how I became a Christian.

I think my friend Daphne Duke has a great idea. Today, she posted on her FB page that we should only post nice comments about people and she started it out by saying some nice things about some of her friends. How cool is that? The change begins with us. My friend Bizzy Orr said that she went to a conference and the speaker said that if you imagine standing at the edge of a canyon and yell out something, it will bounce back to you. So, in theory, if we yell out snark, snark will come back to us. Is that what we want? What if we take Daphne’s idea and keep it going? Not just today, but every day. Our words can build up or tear down...and I wonder how our nation would change if we replaced the snark with words of kindness, encouragement, and thoughtfulness? 

Let's find out.

On Being Single

Yes, I’m single. At this age, I never thought I would be, but here I am, a single woman in her late 40’s. I state this fact because over the past few years I have noticed that other people are somewhat dismayed about my being single. They seem to think it is shameful somehow. And I always have wondered why?  I, and other singles, seem to have been put in a category…the “single” category. When I was married I invited people over who I liked hanging with…their marital status was never an issue. But, somehow, these days, being single seems to come with a stigma and nice as some married people are, they don’t want you around.  

I do have wonderful, fabulous married friends who don’t care that I am single and invite me to whatever they happen to be doing with their husband or wife…and that is normal to me...that’s the way it should be, right?  Friends invite friends over. But, there are some who don’t do this and who seem to forget they like me as a friend, but instead only see that I am single and seem to have to point out that I am single by not inviting me to certain things. One even said, “Once you get a boyfriend, you’ll be able to come out with us!”, like suddenly the leprosy scales of singlehood that she sees clinging to me would then fall away. Did she feel ashamed when she was single? People’s prejudices come from things that have nothing to do with me, but it still smarts.

And lest you think it wouldn’t happen in Christian circles, let me share this fun tidbit. I used to attend a home Bible study and there were always lots of families there. A few days after Valentine’s Day, one of the husbands told me that I had missed a great Valentine’s party at their house and wanted to know why I hadn’t come. Several wives looked away and shook their heads at him…he didn’t get it, of course, and kept going on and on about what a great party it had been and I sure should have been there. Well, the wife had never invited me. I wanted to ask the women what they would do w/ Jesus? He was single. Lazarus and his sisters were single. Paul was single. Would they have missed out on the Savior of the world and some of His most profound followers by being leery of their singleness? And what bothered them about my singleness? They knew I was struggling at the time…why single me out? No pun intended. Of course, I left as soon as I could and felt shame…which really pissed me off.

 And, my family. Sigh. It is implied ever so subtly that there is something wrong with me since I don’t have a boyfriend. They grasp at any hint of a male figure that is in my life. When my Dad was dying, and the house was full of my extended family, my friend Rob came to see him and when he left the whole house was a flutter. They were hugging me and saying (with a sense of relief) what a wonderful “boyfriend” I had. I said repeatedly that he was not my boyfriend but they just gave each other knowing looks and beamed at me with pride. See, if I have a boyfriend, then I am okay in their eyes…if not, I’m just someone to be pitied.

And I don’t see myself that way at all. I do not think I am any less a person because I don’t have a boyfriend (or husband.) I don’t feel any shame or think that I should hang my head in any way. I am a cool chick who is fun to be around and has a lot to share. I’m good company…for myself or for any of my friends who like to hang around me. I just happen to be single. I don’t need a man to validate me as a person and my self-worth doesn’t come from a male companion, yet, somehow, in our society, I am a less than. And people are pretty blatant about it…there were friends who never, ever asked me to their house for dinner although most of our friends had been there on more than one occasion. Until I started dating Jon. Then the invites started rolling in. Guess when they stopped? And I have never been invited back.

Although I do not pity myself for being single, I do have to say there are times when I am painfully lonely. There are times when being alone takes its toll on me and facing another night in front of the TV is almost more than I can stand. Going to church alone is also something that can be heartbreaking. Being a single Christian in this day and age is not a good thing as my previous story attests and there is usually a big pocket of space around me in a very crowded church…as if they think I will taint them somehow. Holidays are also tough; especially as the years go by and I face another one alone.

I miss being in a committed relationship and the wonderful closeness it brings. The secret language you have with that person; the peeling of layers when you are getting to know them; the little things they do that make them unique. I really miss having someone to discuss things with. And to do things with. And someone to zip me up. But, a longing for a relationship doesn’t make me think my present state is not valid. Or that I don’t have anything to give or contribute. I do and I do. What a waste of time it would be to not live right now…to just be in a holding pattern of some sort and take on the prejudices that others have about being single. I have really lived these past five years; I have traveled, made new friends, taken classes, done races, and have taken the time to work on myself. Priceless.

But, although I do want a relationship, I will not do the alarming thing that seems to be happening to young and old in our society right now. I will not be with someone just so I don’t have to be alone.

It is alarming to me the startling speed at which people go from relationship to relationship. It seems that a good time to be alone and connect with yourself before you move on is about two weeks. That seems to be the time frame society thinks is good. Two weeks. Your marriage just ended? Sign up for match and have a date and relationship by next weekend.  Just broke up w/ a long term boyfriend or girlfriend? Find someone else as quickly as possible and you’ll be living with them in no time. And people do. I just heard that a couple I used to do things with got divorced. I was so heartbroken until I heard that she is already remarried. I’m talking months here.  And the answer always is, “I can’t be alone.” Really? I’d (clearly) rather be alone than with the wrong person. And I just don’t fall in or out of love that fast.

I’ve dated and I will say right here that I am picky. I’m looking for a lifelong mate, not just someone to keep me company on a Saturday night, so if I don’t have that spark with you…and not just the physical attraction spark…the spark that makes your brain hum when you are with that person, then you are probably not the person for me. I’m also not going to live with you in lieu of marriage...I follow Jesus and He frowns on that sort of thing. Since I have dated, people are mystified why I don’t have a relationship yet.

Well, I’ve been on a date with a man who started every sentence with, “I hate it when women…” and would finish with, “you don’t do that do you?” And they were stupid things…like sing to a song in the car; wear makeup; like Cats. At the end of the date, I said that I did all those things so a second date wasn’t in the cards. Then there was the guy who kept telling me I was the most wonderful, intriguing, mysterious woman he had ever met…ten minutes after meeting me.  After the second date, I had had enough of that…don’t worship me till I’ve earned it, dude. There was the very nice acquaintance who wanted to set me up with someone she knew that was separated. I nicely told her that separated is still married and that I knew God had something better planned for me than someone else’s husband. There have been nice guys but no spark, and guys w/ spark and nothing else, so no relationship. But, people hate that I haven’t settled down with one of these guys. I am extolled to “put myself out there”; “lower my standards”; but “don’t look because when you least expect to meet someone that’s when it happens”. It really kind of cracks me up…really, people, it bothers you way more than it bothers me. On each of these dates, at some time during the evening, all I could think was, “I could be home watching The Mentalist”.  Not a good basis for a relationship.

So, what is this single stigma we as a society seem to have? Should I really have to defend myself just because I’m not married or otherwise coupled up? Why is it even an issue? There are days when I am perfectly content in my life and there are days when I wish things were different. But, if I remember correctly, I had the same ebb and flow of good days and bad days when I was married. Marriage isn’t the answer to the happiness question, nor is being single the answer for misery. If you are a happy single, you’ll more than likely be a happy married; if you are a worrisome single, folks, that ain’t going away just because someone slips a ring on your finger. Marriage doesn’t make you a better person nor does being single make you a less than. If you judge someone based on their marital status, well, stop it. 

As for me, God is good and He knows my heart and knows my desires…if He sees fit to bless me with a husband then all the praise to Him. And if He doesn’t, all the praise to Him. 

On Old Friends

On Old Friends

The last few days I have had the good fortune to be around some of my oldest and dearest friends. One has known me since we were 9 years old; two since we were 13; and one since college. What I love about being around these people is that they know me…I mean really know me; my character, my likes, my dislikes, my hopes and dreams and what makes me, well, me. They are the epitome of the slogan, “a friend is someone who knows everything about you, but likes you anyway”.  And thank goodness! Where would we be without those friends who look past our quirks and irritating habits to see the real us?

And that is the joy of deep, long lasting friendships, right? It’s not only the history you have with these people; it’s the way they know you. They can support you with a word or make something you’ve been dealing with suddenly so clear because they know your personality by heart. They can be thoughtful with you or call you out on your doo-doo.  A well-meaning question, (“is that who you want to be?”) can shake you up when it is said with the edgy kindness only one of these friends can get away with. They can tease you and have nicknames for you and know you are happy or sad just by the look in your eyes. Of course, time has no meaning with these friends. If you do not speak to or see one of them for years, the minute you are in each other’s presence, it’s as if no time has passed. I feel most relaxed around these friends; they give me an ease that soothes my soul.

They are a gift.

In our 20’s, Becky and I were roommates. We had met doing gymnastics in the 5^th grade and had competed together up through our teen years. A wrist injury ended my career in high school and I didn’t see her for a few years until I bumped into her one day at Fashion Gal. I remember being so happy to see her but she stayed on the other side of the circular clothes rack while we caught up. Finally, somewhat sheepishly, she said she had gained some weight, a true horror for any gymnast, even one who had not competed in years, and stepped out from behind the rack. And yes, she had gained weight, but I remember thinking, “Um, I don’t care.” When I didn’t judge her or recoil in horror, she relaxed. I think she saw herself through my eyes. Weight was a huge issue while we were competing; we were fat tested on a regular basis, weighed before and after practice, and punished for even the slightest weight gain. So, I can see why she was hesitant. I’m sure she wondered if I would take my friendship away, but once she saw that I saw her, not her weight gain, a trust was born that has seen us through good and bad times all these later.

And she has done the same for me over the years. During college, a snarky girl that we were acquainted with asked why I had so many male friends. She said it in an accusatory way in front of a bunch of people and I have to admit that I was totally taken aback. It would never occur to me to not be friends with someone because they were male…some of my very best friends were male…and I was speechless (a rarity in those days). As she stood there glaring at me, I sputtered back, “Well, why wouldn’t I? “ Becky, in her matter of fact way, said, “Susie is an equal opportunity friend. She doesn’t care if you are male or female, black or white, tall or short, fat or skinny. If you have the qualities she is looking for, she is your friend.” The girl walked off and I just remember thinking, “Yeah, I am like that.” Thanks, Bec. And, I continue to use that line today. I AM an equal opportunity friend…and yes, people (women) still ask why I am friends w/ males. You want to know what is great about having male friends? Some of my best girl friends are the girl friends or wives of my male friends. Cool guys marry cool girls. Enough said.

Lonny is one of the aforementioned male friends. We met in Health Ed when we were 13. We had a brief conversation and that was it…friends for life. Lonny was the brother I never had; he wouldn’t so much as warn me about boys, but would tell me how they are made up and would clue me in on the characteristics of some of the ones I found myself interested in. He took care of me in a way that I hadn’t experienced before…I think it was the first time I understood what the phrase, “I have your back” meant. That’s Lonny. He has my back. Well into our college years when I found myself brokenhearted over a boy, I drove myself to his house and walked in after one knock as usual. He was on the couch watching a movie and I walked over, buried my face in his chest and cried. And cried. And cried. Now, a girl friend would ask a lot of questions and we would hash it out bit by bit. Lonny just let me cry, rubbing my back until I was all cried out. I blew my nose, asked what he was watching (The Terminator) and finished the movie with him. He never asked what was wrong, never offered advice, which is probably why I went to him instead of Becky or another girl friend. Sometimes you just need a shoulder to cry on and to not have to explain what is happening at that moment in time. He knew me well enough to know this was one of those times.  

As I recount these times and think on these long lasting friendships, I feel so blessed. I also have been comparing them to my newer friends and I realize some of these newer friends I’ve known for six or seven years! In a world filled with fair weather friends and many people who suffer from the Princess and the Pea syndrome (everyone annoys them), I again count myself blessed to have people who stick around. It is such a blessing to have people who are pulling for you and who truly care about you. And a bigger blessing is to be able to pull and care for them in return.

I had some of these newer friends over for a pool party the other day and I remember just thinking how much I liked these women. Some I have just gotten to know within the last year and others I have known for a lot longer than that, but each is so kind hearted, spirited, sincere, honest, trustworthy, that spending time together energizes me. We can share anything with each other because no one is a gossip and when I go for a week or so without talking to them, I feel off somehow. Yup…friendship is such a blessing!

And the key really is this…because there are mean people out there who pretend to be your friend and then share what you’ve told them with others and ridicule you for it; there are people who use you to get something they want and then ditch you; there are people who smile to your face and turn and roll their eyes. Right? We’ve all been hurt by these “friends. So the key is this…be the friend you want to be and use your discernment when it comes to people. Their character will let you know if they are a fair weathered friend or a friend who will know everything about you but like you anyway.

Cheers to the ones who like you anyway!

On Being "Michael's Mom"

Eighteen hours of labor. And then a C-section. That is how Michael came into the world. It was the hardest thing I had ever done, but it is not what I really remember about his birth. What I remember is the next day. It is early morning and I hear him crying…I am in the hospital and I hear him in the distance crying. The thing is, I have not heard him cry yet, so how do I know it is Michael? But, there is no question in my mind that my son is crying and he is not happy and I try to get out of bed but that is not possible. I am completely sore, stapled, and the drugs must have worn off because I feel pain. So, I start calling to him. I hear nurses talking and him crying but they do not hear me so I muster all my energy and just start screaming his name. This interrupts their conversation and within seconds they wheel Michael into the room and yes, he is crying his head off. I am ferocious and the look on my face makes both nurses apologize over and over. I reach out and they place my son in my arms and all is well for both of us.

As I hold him I think to myself; yesterday I gave birth, but today I am a MOTHER.

From that day forward my world changes. I instinctively know things about motherhood and there is so much love inside of me for this pooping, screaming, yellow thing that it surprises me immensely. My husband tells me I am glowing, and I do feel that glow from the inside out.

Fast forward a few years and Michael is in school. It is not the first day of school that I remember, it is a regular old Tuesday and I am going to pick up Michael from his afterschool program. As I walk to the building a little girl and her Mom are walking in the opposite direction…we exchange nods and hellos but as we pass I hear the little girl say to her Mom in a loud whisper…”that’s Michael’s Mom!” and, my heart grows three sizes that day. Michael’s Mom! I am Michael’s Mom! Even now, all these years later that is the name I identify with and relish. It fills me with the love I will always carry for him no matter that he is 22 and on his own and doesn’t need me in the same way anymore. 

It is who I am.

I’ve often wondered why I love that moniker so much. I think, now, it just encompasses everything that is important. It signifies the little day in and day out events that make someone a Mother and somehow makes it all worth it. Yes, I am the one who wakes up w/ him in the night when he is sick, I am the one he gets mad at because I discipline him, I am the one who tells him to clean his freaking room a hundred times before he does it. I am HIS mother. He is mine and I am his. It is that bond that binds us together forever and ever and ever.

As his Mother, there have been times that have grieved my soul, there have been times when we have laughed ourselves silly, there have been times that we cried together, and there have been times when I have been so mad I literally wanted to send him to his room until he was 35. I have prayed over him and steadied myself from saving him from a needed lesson learned.

As a mother, I am of course, proud of my son. He is still the apple of my eye and the one good thing I have done in this world. I have regrets and wish I would have done some things differently, but I have loved (almost) every minute of it. I look at him and love the person he has grown into…and looking back at the past 22 years of being Michael’s Mom, my heart again grows and I feel that glow rising up inside of me. It is love; love of a child and knowing I am still that ferocious Mom should the need ever arise.

Happy Mother’s Day

On Gossip

On Gossip

As far back as I can remember, I have never liked gossip. As a young school girl, it always hurt my feelings when my little friends would say mean things about another girl, whether I knew her or not, whether I agreed with them or not; it bothered me. And, I learned very early that if you didn’t participate in said gossip, they would turn on you. It has been a painful lesson for most of my life.

Now that I am a grown woman I wonder about what makes people gossip? And I specifically mean the kind of gossip that women do to other women. If I don’t like someone, no one knows it but me. But, these women, if they don’t like someone, they have to get everyone to join in the dislike with them. So, they bad mouth this person in a form that usually starts with, “I love Jane, but….” and what follows can be anything from “oh my  gosh, she just annoys me…she is always talking about herself!” to “oh my gosh, does she have to put LML on every FB status?” Yes, these are actual things I have heard women say about other woman. Once the “offense” is pointed out, then everyone starts to notice and gets annoyed with Jane as well. And suddenly, Jane is being (politely) ignored.

I believe that a woman who has to get everyone to dislike who they dislike is just insecure. (Or leads a truly boring life so their only excitement is of the Peyton Place variety). Jane probably displays a trait she wishes she had or she feels Jane is prettier or smarter or more together. Or whatever. Rarely do I hear someone dislike someone else over something significant…like a breach of trust or sleeping with their spouse. You know, something that is truly hurtful and truly cause for dislike.

And that is where I find myself now. And it’s odd really. You go about your business living your life and suddenly, one or two women that you are FB friends with start ignoring you; and it is so slight you barely notice it, because, of course, you are busy living your life. Mind you, these are women you haven’t been in the same room with; had a face to face or phone conversation with; and truly are “friends” you see every once in a great while. But mostly, you “like” their comments or comment on their posts…and they yours. Until, as I said, you notice that has stopped. On their side.  It usually takes me another step to realize this is happening because as I have no contact with them, why in the world would they be ignoring me? Case in point, I sent an email to one of these women with a specific question and didn’t get a response. No big deal.  A few days later I posted on her wall and she deleted it. Hmm. I don’t really know this person and can’t figure out why she would be doing this so I send another email asking if I have done something to hurt her feelings? Nothing. So then I start thinking and all the ignoring becomes clear.

I shrug it off…I don’t really know her and clearly her character is not what I thought it to be. No loss. Until…her gossip reaches a woman I believed was my friend. Not a FB friend, a real friend. A friend who has been there for me through several tough times. A friend who I stood up for when gossip came her way. And now she is ignoring me, too. And I have to say, it hurts. I have no idea what is being said. Since January my life has been revolving around me quitting my job and recovering from pneumonia. I haven’t seen people except for my closest friends and I know I haven’t offend anyone, least of all her. And yet, here I sit with the knowledge that someone I don’t really know is talking badly enough about me to reach the ears of a friend, who come to find out, really isn’t. And for me, it all goes back to the question…”Why do women talk about other women behind their backs?” And, rhetorically, what do they get out of it? A sense of power that they can influence people? Or are they just mean? Or bored? Or passive aggressive?

All this is really to say, my feelings are hurt and the loss of even one friend is hard when you have actually done something to deserve it, but stings a little bit more when you haven’t. Because there is nothing you can do. If you have wronged someone or hurt their feelings by something you have actually done, there is a chance to apologize, to make amends, to heal the friendship. But when it happens through gossip, through nothing you have actually done, only by what someone has said about you, there is nothing you can do to make it right. If they were truly your friend and you were being annoying in some heinous way, they would tell you to your face, not gossip about it behind your back to the point where others stop talking to you. Or, if a true friend heard gossip about you, they would defend you, not ignore you. So, you are left with the knowledge that people are talking, others are listening, and there is nothing you can do about it.

I am reminded of a woman I knew a few years ago who I didn’t particularly like, and she didn’t particularly like me. We were both secure enough to know that our personalities just didn’t mesh and that was that. We were cordial to each other, laughed together, discussed topics of the day, rejoiced in each other’s victories and were saddened for the other when life gave us each a kick. None of our mutual friends knew we didn’t like each other…our close friends did, of course, but it was a non-issue. We didn’t back bite each other or try to “win” people to our side. We just were mature enough to know that just because you don’t like someone, well, it doesn’t mean a thing. So what if I didn’t like her? So what if she didn’t like me? She was around for some of the most fun times I had with that group of friends. What if we had let our dislike rule the day?  Our circle of friends would not have stayed in tack and we would have each missed out on a lot of fun times.

I believe you can like people for what they are or you can dislike them for what you think they should be. In this woman I didn’t like, I was able to find things to like about her; she was a talented artist, quick witted, and I had to admire that even though she didn’t like me, she kept her mouth shut.

And I think, oh how nice the world would be if everyone behaved like she did.

More thoughts...

So, it's been over two years since my first post and I must admit I had forgotten that I had attempted to start blogging again. I am recovering from walking pneumonia and all this "resting" is boring the daylights out of me. I had posted on FB for suggestions of what to do besides endless hours of tv and reading and someone suggested keeping a journal. I quickly thought of blogging, and when I tried to create a new blog, Google told me my email was already in use. Mmm...I had to get a new password sent and then low and behold, there was my post from last year.

I thought it interesting that I wrote of character and how it affects how one handles life. This past year has had an overlying theme of character...good character, bad character, what people in general think is good or bad character. I have made many decisions this past year based on just this subject. I have quietly ended friendships or acquaintances and have equally fostered and pursued friendships or acquaintances all based on character.

I have never liked drama and with a ridiculously drama filled job, the thought of spending my time off in drama filled situations is just plainly something I'm not going to do. My stress level is way too high 40+ hours a week to spend any time with people who suck the air out of a room with their toxic presence. 1 Corinthians 15:33 tell us, "Do not be misled: "Bad company corrupts good character."

So, as I said, I have quietly stopped spending time w/ those drama type people, and have quietly filled my life with positive, encouraging people. What a difference good character makes!

I also, just recently, quit the stress filled, time sucking job of mine. Again, a decision based on character; mine, the companies, and the bully of a boss who gave me the wherewithal to say, "Enough." As in, "I've had enough." I've been free from work for two whole days and I feel the stress slowing ebbing from me.

In this blog, I would like to continue to explore character. I also am hoping to figure a few things out...you see, I quit my job, but I do not have another job. I feel fine about it; I had planned this for a long time and set things in place before I quit. I am hoping to find again the talents and passions that God has blessed me with. Being stressed for so long, talents and passions get swept under the rug. How can I serve God if I can't even remember what makes me smile? So, I invite you to come along for the ride and share your own journeys along the way.