On Having a Bad Year

As I look back over this year, I feel so many different things; frustration, sadness, disappointment, loneliness.  It has been a difficult year all the way around and even having to write about it seems to give it more credit than I care to, but in writing, one has to deal with both the good and the bad. And, in writing, a catharsis can come when things held hidden are brought into the light.

As I review these past 365 days, I go straight to 1/1/13 and what a horrible day it had been and how it seemed to set the tone for the entire year. I was healing from my back injury from August and was feeling optimistic and happy. And then I fell. It was so stupid! I was making bread and was carrying cookie sheets into the kitchen and had turned my head to look at something and missed the step. Since my hands were full and I was at an angle, I fell smack on my right hip and shoulder…the exact two spots that had been injured in the first place. So, I started off the new year with a couple of curse words…not a good start at all.

And that is pretty much how my whole year has gone. Excited with expectations of wonderful things happening, but instead, having something not so good happen instead.

What I have felt keenest has been the loss of a close friendship. This happened in March, during Easter, and now, here at the end of the year, I’m not sure it will ever be the same. This was a ten year friendship that I would have sworn nothing could ever shake. In the simplest of terms, my feelings were hurt deeply, I was asked to say why, I did, and it was greeted with an amount of uncaring that I didn't believe possible.

And here’s why it still hurts; my character was never considered. Anyone who knows me at all knows that it takes a lot to make me mad or upset. They also know that if I do get mad or upset, I get over it quickly. My philosophy has always been, let’s talk it out and move on. Since I am someone who is not easily upset, shouldn't the fact that I AM upset speak volumes?

That is one of the problems with having a bad time, you really find out who your friends are. When you start to say words like “lonely” or “disappointed” people, well, some people, treat you differently. Like you've uttered words that have no business in polite society. Or suddenly you are not worth their friendship because you are not your usual happy-go-lucky self.

So, let’s tackle the big one…loneliness.  Just for grins, the next time you are having a bad day, say to someone that you are fighting loneliness, then watch their eyes. You will see alarm in them, like you have startled them somehow. And I have to wonder why? Everyone is lonely now and then and it is a valid emotion just like any other. Why such a stigma with loneliness? To me, it meant that I was mourning the loss of a good friend and that brings a void. Then when some of my sweetest friends up and moved out of Tucson, and my social circle dropped by half, well, yeah, I’m going to be lonely.

It doesn't mean that you should look down on me or that I am pitiable in some way. The most social person in the world can also be horribly lonely. It just means that I have told you how I am feeling. Maybe it means you should invite me out for lunch instead of judging me or fearing that if you are around me, you’ll catch my loneliness somehow. And for goodness sake, don’t use my loneliness as a way to feel good about yourself. You know who you are.

Another part of this year has been not being able to be physically active. I don’t think I can write another sentence about my stupid back or all the physical pain I’ve had this year, except to say that I am still not running or biking or swimming or kettle-belling. My spirit is raring to go, go, GO, but my body is still saying, not yet. Not yet.

The biggest heartache of the year, of course, was Phil dying. I know I have written about it many times since it happened, but I have to say, it hurts just the same as if it were yesterday. For anyone new, Phil was my son’s best friend, roommate, bandmate, co-worker, partner in crime and his death was so horrible that all involved are still reliving it and grieving it. I miss him terribly and it hurts me to see my son struggle so with it all.  One of Phil’s girlfriends came to pick up Michael one night when he was home for Christmas and collapsed in our driveway crying. And there was my brave son, consoling her while fighting though his own grief. He has nightmares where he relives the night, where he sees Phil but can’t get to him. As he was telling me this I asked if Phil has come to him yet.  He shook his head no. I told him once he does, it will get better, the dreams will subside, and Phil will help him move on.

Now, as a brief explanation, for anyone who has never lost someone, at some point, they come back to you. Before I had experienced loss, I didn’t believe this at all and when people would say things like this, I would smile politely but think that their imaginations are what visited them, not their dearly departed loved one. And then Jon died. He came to me quickly on a beach in San Diego and sometimes comes and turns off the water to the kitchen sink just as he did when he was alive. My Mom didn’t believe in this at all until this year, three years after my Dad had died, when she came home and a golf ball dropped right next to her ear, bounced once, and landed perfectly in a dish on a table a few feet away. She called me perfectly giddy and that was a turning point in her grief.

So, last week, a few days after our conversation, Michael came home and said that Phil had come to him in the most irritating way possible. Okay, so a little bit of backstory here; Phil was a sweater, like he would drip with sweat and it was gross and Michael would tease him about it and it is one of the things that brought us laughter in the days after he died; Phil and his sweat. So Michael lifts up his outer shirt and shows me a huge pit stain on his right side. I bit my lip trying not to laugh. It seems Michael is sweating uncontrollably, but from only his right pit. As he was ranting, I was doubled over laughing my head off because this is SO Phil. A practical joker to the end. So. Freakin. Funny.

This year has mostly been about clarifying for myself what friendship means. Who is a friend and who, sadly, isn't. It has been a year of being alone. Ack. Of realizing, that I am alone and learning to live with that, because, it is where I find myself right now. Alone. I went on two dates and neither were promising. My closest friends have never lived here, but close friends, the ones that have moved, have left a hole in my world. And without being able to run or ride or any other social exercise, that friend pool has all but dried up. So I have cherished the friends who remain; the friends who don't care that I have had a bad year. The friends who send me funny texts; the friends who still seek my council; the friends who make room for me in their life.

In the midst of all this pain and sorrow, I’ve had to learn a lot about myself. I’ve learned what I will and won’t put up with, even from close friends and family. I’ve learned that I would rather be alone than compromise who I am. (A sobering reality as I live that one out.) I've learned I would rather end a friendship than agree with you that it is okay to treat me in a way that hurts me. I know who I am, sorry if you understood that a bit too late.

I've learned that laughter can come at anytime from anywhere. I’ve learned that the people who ‘get’ you are gifts from God. I’ve learned what friendship is and isn’t and I’ve learned to cherish those who value it. I’ve learned to live with profound loss. And I’ve learned that a good hug can heal what ails you.

I've learned to rely on God and seek Him even when it seems He is not there or responding.

I've learned that in just about eleven hours from now, a new day, a new year, a new moon, is waiting.

New. Fresh. Begin.

Let’s go.

On Not Letting the Grinch Steal Your Christmas

It seems this time of year nice, normal people, suddenly turn into the Grinch. They Grinchily gripe about everything; the traffic, the rude people, how it’s all “too much”, and they proclaim gift giving as a waste of time and money. You see them frowning at you in the store and honking at you on the roads. They look as if they just sucked on a lemon and any sort of cheer on your part seems to send them over the edge as they glare at you with squinted eyes.

And it can be easy to start believing and adopting Grinchy ways yourself because, traffic is horrible; (where do all these people suddenly come from?!) people are rude everywhere, not just at Costco; gift giving can be tedious and one can start to believe that it is a waste of time and money; and I caught myself frowning at a super cheery bell ringer for no other reason than the person walking in front of me was looking at her phone and not walking fast enough into the mall. My reflection in the glass of the door made me stop and pause for a moment. I don’t want to be Grinchy and sour looking, I don’t want the irritations of this time of year to cloud the absolute joy I feel over this season. What I want is to spread that joy…and there is my choice…spread Grinch-iness or spread the joy of the season.

Now, I love this time of year. I love the trees, the lights, the get-togethers, the figuring out the perfect gifts for people, the music, the movies, Rudolf, Charlie Brown, the baking, the giving, and the story that makes it all happen in the first place.

You know that phrase we've all said at one point or another, “they think they are God’s gift”? And, ‘to the world’ has fallen off the end, but we all know it is implied. Well, Jesus was God’s gift to the world. A perfect gift. Which is why, to me, gift giving is not a waste of time and money. It represents this precious gift that was given on that Holy night. Love came down and humbled Himself to be born in a smelly ol barn. For you and for me and as Luke 2:10 says, “I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.” (emphasis mine)  All people. A gift for all people! The Messiah came down from heaven for all people, not just the Jewish people, as was thought. What a precious gift! Joy to the world! Indeed!

So, clearly, I love this time of year and want to spread that joy, but I also understand fully that this time of year can bring on loneliness and heartache. It can remind us of what we don’t have instead of what we do have. We miss horribly the people we have lost. Our lives don’t match up with our perceptions of what our friends have and most certainly not with the Norman Rockwell scenes in just about every TV commercial. And that can hurt. A lot. It can remind us of our aloneness and our isolation and that what we might think of ourselves all year long is true…that we don’t match up. And what if that is true? What if we don't match up? Here's where the 'for all the people' comes in. It didn't say for only the people who (look) like they have it all together. Nope. All the people means, well, ALL the people. For the happy, for the lonely, for the exceptionally sad, for the person who has everything. ALL. If you're sad, it's okay to be sad, even at this time of year. 

If you’ve read this blog at all, you know that this year has been especially difficult; my health issues, good friends moved away, Michael moved, and we lost Phil. We lost Phil. I still am reeling and missing and reliving and mourning. And within the last week, a betrayal and a black-balling from some family members was set to take the wind out of my sails.

But no. There is no place for strife. This is a time of forgiveness and acceptance. And in my sadness, and yes, loneliness, it is a time to perhaps break from tradition and spend time with people who really want to spend time with me. It is a time to really relish the season, because, sadly, no one is guaranteed another trip around the sun. I miss my Dad. I miss Jon. I miss Phil. I miss my Grammie. If your choice this season is to be spiteful and vindictive, well, shame on you. Time is ticking away and as I said, there are no guarantees you or I will be here to see another one.

So, open your eyes. See the wonder. Go find a homeless person and give them a coat and gloves. Buy them a breakfast burrito and some coffee. Clean out your closet and donate all the stuff you don’t wear anymore. Swallow your pride and figure out why you are hating on that family member or friend. Is it worth it? Hug someone.  Sing Christmas carols. Do something for someone else with no expectations of their returning the favor. Thank someone who has made a difference in your life. It’s Christmas. Do. Something. Do it with joy and your heart will sing. It will forget its loneliness and open like a flower to the sunshine. And then, don’t stop. Keep going and live your life in a way that the giving of the season will be a way of life for you the whole year through.

And if you start to feel a little Grinchy, remember, Love came down from heaven for you. Wonderful, perfect you.

Merry Christmas!

On Thanksgiving

Growing up, Thanksgiving was one of my favorite holidays. I love food and a whole holiday centered on a gigantic dinner was right up my alley. The tradition of my grandmother and mother cooking in the kitchen gives me a warm feeling inside and after my Grandmother passed, it is on Thanksgiving that I miss her most.

                                                                                                                             

I think it was somewhere in my teen years when I realized that the day wasn’t truly about turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, but about the idea of giving thanks. I was not a Christian back then; I had a rough belief that there was ‘a’ god, and any thanks to him were more along the lines of, “good food, good meat, good god, let’s eat!”.

My understanding of being thankful was the year my Mom was in the hospital for a breast lump. She was in for three or four days and it just happened to be over the holiday. Now, sometimes I just know things and I knew it was nothing. I kept telling everyone it was nothing but everyone was still very worried and upset. So, when the tests came back Thanksgiving morning that she was fine, at the table that night everyone said a heartfelt thank-you that she was okay and the light bulb popped over my head. “Oh, thanksgiving!”

When I was going to school in NYC, it was to be my first Thanksgiving away from my family. I was homesick and couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck at the Y for the holiday. My Mom suggested I go see our extended family in upstate NY, so I boarded a bus to Elmira, and was instantly surrounded by my cousins. At the Thanksgiving table I remember feeling so incredibly thankful for this extended family; to be with my cousins and aunts and uncles, oh my, but it was wonderful. They took care of me and it really took the sting out of not being in Tucson. Plus, Sonny made me calzones for the trip home…score!

After I got married and Michael came along, being thankful was easy. I had so many things to be thankful for and the holiday took on new meaning as I made new traditions with my own family.

One of the things I loved best about the holiday was the day after…it was the official start to the Christmas season. Stores would unveil their Christmas displays and their decorations and as a kid, it was quite magical. As an adult, the anticipation of the upcoming season was eagerly awaited and it made it all so special. I looked forward to hearing the first Christmas carol and looked forward to the joy that time of year would always bring.

This brings us to now and a trend that just makes me cringe…the Black Friday nonsense. Now, Black Friday has been around since the 1960’s and was dubbed accordingly since that was the day the stores accounts finally went from red to black. It was a part of what I described above; people hitting the stores to see the Christmas displays and start their shopping. But, it is only in recent years that the stores have started promoting cheap prices and opening at 5am. Then 2am. Then, hey, why not just open on Thanksgiving evening?

So, today, some stores will be open all day and some will open at 8pm. And I hate it. Really, really hate it.

This is supposed to be a day of being with your family and just enjoying each other. Of cooking together. Of truly giving thanks for what you have right at this moment.

When did we start letting corporate America dictate what we do on this holiday? Just because they say ‘jump’, doesn’t mean we have to ask ‘how high’?

And think about this now, in the past few years, they have told us that if we want a chance to get a good price on a TV, we have to be at their store in the wee hours of the morning. Now, they are saying that Thanksgiving really isn’t a big deal. Eat your meal, then go line up. Their commercials are all cheery and fun, showing Moms forgoing cooking to go get that good deal. Blech.

Yes, I’ve heard all their excuses; they need to do this because the stores are not doing well. All year long they barely make it, so the only way to balance their sheets is to open their stores on this national holiday. 

May I suggest if your store is in the red most of the year, that perhaps you are running your store incorrectly? You can’t tell me that the only way to make your store profitable is to show such utter disrespect for your employees and for the very customers you say you care so much about.

Because it is about disrespect. How corporate America decided one year that they didn't care about  their customers and cared even less about their employees. They care about money. And wouldn't it be fun to see how high we can make these people jump? What kind of person suggests this and what kind of person thinks this is a good idea? The first year someone was trampled, the first year someone was killed, well, they should have said enough is enough. But, hey, they made a bunch of money, so they decided to up the ante, right? It is beyond disrespect…it borders on evil, really.

And are any of these decision making people going to be working today? Will they be helping maintain the crowds or helping someone who gets knocked down? Not a chance. No CEO, CFO, President, or board member is going to leave their family or their table to work in their stores. Nope. They have hourly employees who really need a job to do that for them.  And if one of those employees gets hurt? Ah, well, collateral damage.

That some people actually go line up in the middle of the night and risk the chance of being hurt (or worse) and leave their family or perhaps forgo cooking all together to go stand in line, boggles my mind. I don’t understand it. It’s basic, really. Just because they open their stores and dangle tantalizing “deals” in front of us, doesn't mean we have to go. We can stay home with our families and shop tomorrow. At a reasonable time. And what would happen then? What would happen if they went to all this trouble and no one showed up? If they paid millions of dollars for TV commercials with big celebrities and no one cared? We teach people how to treat us and we've taught corporate American that we’ll do anything for a “deal”. Because if we put our national foot down, if they said ‘jump’ and we said, ‘um, no’, we’d ALL be enjoying this day today. The stores would stay closed and they’d open at 9am tomorrow because that is what we've told them to do.

But, yes, I know this isn't our reality. People have told me there isn't anything we can do and this is the face of retail now. And it makes me sad. Truly sad. And angry.

For me, I will boycott all the stores that are opening today. I boycotted Target last year and didn't set foot back in their stores until February. I didn’t miss it at all. So this year, along with Target, I will boycott Kohl’s, Macy’s, Old Navy, and whatever other stores decided to join the Walmart generation and open today. I know it won’t change a thing, but it will make me feel a whole lot better. Because, you know, those stupid tv’s will be there tomorrow and that great deal, really isn’t that great. Stay with your family, because, here is the thing, they might not be here tomorrow. The best deal is truly those people gathered around you.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. 

On Ironman Arizona

Here are the top 10 things I love about Ironman Arizona.

1)      Mike Reilly. The voice of Ironman. He starts talking at 5am and doesn't stop until well after the final person finishes at 12am. His job is to calm the athletes, but keep them energized; keep the thousands of spectators calm and energized; encourage, inform, give history of IM, give history of a competitor, break bad news to competitors, and he does it all with grace and finesse. Every competitor lives to hear him say their name followed by “you are an Ironman!” Last night he announced his son across the finish line. It felt so nice, he said it twice.

2)      The energy. There is nothing like the palpable energy at an Ironman event. Even at zero-dark thirty, it is just electric. The 2659 (yesterday’s count) athletes are like ping pong balls popping all over the transition area and everywhere you look are their family and friends giving them all the love and support they need. Spectators are dressed in coordinating t-shirts, bright pink wigs, funny hats, and anything else that will make them stand out to their athlete amongst the throngs of people. The clapping, cheering, sign waving, hooting and hollering, well, it makes a very long day a lot of fun and gives you and them the energy it takes to make it to the finish line.

3)      The poignant moments. There are moments at every race that take your breath away. The beautiful sunrise as the canon sounds to start the race. A 65 year old finishing in eleven hours. A competitor exiting the water 20 seconds after the cut off time and watching him being told his race is over. Witnessing someone stumbling along on the run and seeing them come back to life as the crowd cheers for them and yells their name. Watching someone in sheer pain who just keeps going. Seeing one of your friends have the race of their life.

4)      The Stories. Every competitor has one. As you stand there cheering, you naturally start talking to the stranger next to you and you find out their athlete’s story. Or, if you are in ear-shot of Mike, you’ll hear him talk about the competitors. “Mom of four and getting her doctorate, cheer her on folks!” “Heart transplant recipient who never thought he’d live to see another day!” “This guy has stage three cancer and is in chemo!” “This man has served our country in Iraq as a Marine…thank you for your service!” These one line nuggets make you connect with the thousands of athletes and with the stranger standing next to you.

5)      The Comradery. The triathlon community is one of the friendliest most supportive groups out there. Total strangers cheer you on and encourage you no matter if you are on a training ride or you are in the race. On race day, there is a ‘we’re all in this together’ attitude amongst the spectators. You stand for hours waiting for the few seconds that your family member or friend whizzes by you, and you recognize that race day is really about the hours you spend waiting. Good friends and new acquaintances make for a great day.

6)      The People Who Didn’t Get the Comradery Memo. There’s always some, right? These are the people who don’t seem to realize or care that there are five thousand other spectators around them. Their athlete is the only one that matters so  they will all but knock you over to get a good viewing spot, or just walk up and stand right in front of you, or stand on the run course so that the competitors have to run around them, or will come stand rightnexttoyou and pretend you are not there. But, these people make the day interesting and you make new friends as you look at someone else and shrug and smile at these people's rudeness.

7)      The Laughter. There are always competitors who dress up in some way. One year a guy had a teeny, tiny speedo on under his wetsuit and then exposed his cheeks and had something written on them in red ink. I don’t remember what it said because we were laughing so hard. Yesterday a guy on the run course was dressed like Forrest Gump. “Run, Forrest, Run!” could be heard and the dude finished in 11 hours. There was another guy dressed as the ASU mascot with horns, a jersey and a cape. Another guy looked like Fabio with his flowing hair and unzipped, off his shoulders jersey. Not sure he was trying for that, but the sight of him did make us laugh. Something new this year was spectators holding full blown photos of their athletes face. So funny and cool. Spectator signs are always good for a laugh. Someone in my group had a sign that said, “Embrace the Suck” which made people on the bike laugh out loud.

8)      The Pros. Some of the best triathletes in the world have competed at IMAZ. The course is flat and fast and some great times get posted. I’ve seen Chrissie Wellington, Chris Lieto, Matt Reed, Michille Jones, Jordan Rapp and so many others race and it is mind boggling what they can do. The lead male pros were out of the water in well under 50 minutes yesterday. And the first one across the finish line did it in 8:03. 8:03! That is amazing. Another thing about the pros is their bikes…their gorgeous, aero, tricked out bikes. Mmm, yeah. I like the bikes.

9)      The Possibilities. When you watch an Ironman you notice a few things. One is that athletes come in all shapes and sizes. And I mean all. Big, small, really big, really small, very tall, very tiny. Then there are the challenged athletes, amputees, paraplegics, cancer patients or survivors. And it stuns you, really. Not their size or their challenge, but their spirit. That they are doing a 140 mile race. That all these two thousand + people are swimming, biking, and running and are overcoming or have overcome themselves to get there. Because, really, Ironman racing is all about your mind. You can condition your body to do the distance, but your mind can shut you down very, very quickly. Fifty yards into the swim, a girl walked up the ramp I was sitting by and said she was done. She had gotten kicked in the stomach, threw up, and called it a day. Nothing the volunteers said or our cheers changed her mind. I’m sure she is regretting that decision at this very moment. But, you think, if they can do this race, if they can, what can I do? Can I overcome whatever has been holding me back from being a better me? What changes can I make in my own life? Am I letting getting kicked in the stomach take me out? Or am I enduring the pain for the sweet finish?

10)   The Finish. In Ironman, there are time cutoffs for each leg. The swim cut off is two hours and twenty minutes after the start. The bike cut off is 5:30pm. And the run cut off is midnight. So, you get 17 hours to complete the race. Fittingly, the finish line is like a huge dance party. Mike Reilly is there and the music is pumping. There is a big screen so you can see athletes approaching and there are bleachers along each side of the finish chute. As athletes approach, Mike says their name, age, hometown, etc, and you cheer for every single person that comes down the chute. If someone is hurting, the crowd cheers them in with a deafening roar, anything to get them across the finish line. You see people collapse, you see people crawl, and you see people jump for joy. As midnight approaches, the pros that won the race come down and cheer in the last few people. And as midnight approaches the crowds get thicker and the cheers get louder. This is the only sporting event where the last place person gets bigger cheers than the person who won the race. It is emotional, watching this person. And the euphoria is closely followed by heartbreak as it is tragic for the person who comes across at 17:00:01. They are not an Ironman. And you see them running for it, they see the clock, they understand it is ticking against them and some make it, and some don’t. It is a day of heartbreak and a day of unabashed joy. It is a great day and one I am glad to participate in.

Congrats to all you Ironman finishers out there!!!

On Loving Books

On Loving Books                   

My love of books comes from my parents, well, my Mom really. When I was a little girl, my Mom would read to my sister and me every day. In the morning, in the afternoon, and always at night. We would sit on the couch, one of us on each side of her, and we’d listen to her voice as the story unfolded in our imaginations. I don’t ever remember her refusing us a story, even if she was in the middle of doing something, if we asked for a story, she’d stop what she was doing and read to us.

I think one of the first memories I have of books is the way they smell. Some of the books were older or from the library and they had that wonderful, indescribable smell. I would stick my nose into it and breathe deep. You just can’t get that from a Kindle, right?

In trying to put into words why I love books, I am taken through my memory to certain points in my life where the book, and the story within it, became so big that I was transported. That I was right there and the emotion spilled over into my tiny life and that words on a page could do that just fascinated me.  I also distinctly remember being in first grade and the teacher announced we were going to read about “Dick and Jane”. I was so excited! Then the books were laid down before us and we read stunning words like, “See Dick run. See Jane skip.” I remember thinking it was the worst book ever written.

And it’s because at home we were deep into the worlds of Winnie the Pooh, Old Father West Wind, and Roald Dahl. Dick and Jane had no chance whatsoever.

I remember the first time I discovered a book on my own. It was The Lonely Doll by Dare Wright. I was enraptured. The beautiful photographs of Edith the doll and her new friends the Bears and how they formed a family just bowled me over. I read that book so many times it fell apart. One of the best Christmas gifts was a copy of that book that my Mom gave me a few years ago. I wondered if it would hold up for me, now that I was grown? And yes, yes it did. I love it still.

As I made my way through school, story time was always my favorite part. It seemed I waited all day for that wonderful time in the afternoon when the teacher would pull out a book of fiction, settle in, and read to us.

One of my most vivid memories was in the 5^th grade. Our teacher, Mrs. Purcell, who was gruff and irritable with short, poufy black hair and pink lipstick that was always on her teeth, started reading us Where the Red Fern Grows. And, oh, how I loved that book. The vivid details of Billy’s longing for his coon pups and how he worked two years to save up that $50 to buy them just took me in. I was right there with him in the Ozarks and fell in love with Old Dan and Little Ann as soon as they were introduced. My memory is of the day, well, the day we learned their fate. It was hot and stuffy in our classroom but no one was moving. We were all on the edge of our seats and I was close to tears as Mrs. Purcell’s emotion filled voice quivered as she read. As the tragic scene unfolded Mrs. Purcell suddenly stopped reading and put the book on top of her head exclaiming, “Oh my, this is so sad!” She took a few minutes to contain herself, getting a sip of water and clearing her throat, then continued on. And I cried; tears running down my cheeks, my head on my desk. The ache I felt was real, absolutely real. I remember going home and hugging our dog Rusty and crying into her fur, telling her the story of those two dogs and the boy who loved them.

And it wasn’t just fiction I loved. That I could open a book and read about someone else’s life amazed me. I read about Helen Keller, Amelia Earhart, President Lincoln and so many others. Or I could read about another civilization…it was simply fascinating. 

In high school I ended up working in the library helping Mrs. Kim for first period my Junior year. I loved it. All those books! I would roam the shelves and find treasures galore. One day I pulled out a book with the title, The Princess Bride S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of High Adventure and True Love. The ‘good parts’ Version Abridged by William Goldman.  To say I loved it would be such an understatement. He wrote asides and commentary and his wit was amazing. It was laugh out loud funny. And all those years later having forgotten about that gem of a book, there I was sitting in a movie theatre with my boyfriend watching this movie when suddenly it dawns on me that I am watching that book come to life. And, may I say that is one of the only times I have liked the movie as well as the book.

College brought Shakespeare, Keats, and Japanese poetry. Marriage came and when I was pregnant and on bed rest, I read about Mary Queen of Scots, Charlie Chaplin. I also read Gone with the Wind and absolutely understood why the movie was five hours long! Motherhood brought the return of children’s books and I delighted in reading to Michael. I raised a reader and that makes me proud. I continued the tradition of reading to him and we enjoyed many, many books together. We read almost the whole Hardy Boys series and The Great Brain series.  I tried reading him the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, but he really only wanted to hear Farmer Boy. Then one day he told me he wanted to read a new book by himself…some book about a boy wizard my sister had told him about. I was thrilled and that series started him off on his own reading course. He went through Narnia, the Shire, and every Goosebumps he could get his hands on.

It wasn't until two years ago that I picked up that book about the boy wizard. I was out of things to read and lamenting this to Michael who told me all seven books were sitting in his closet. I picked up the first and was astonished how good it was…I think I read it in a day. As the story got going and I finished one book and went to get the next, I wondered how people had waited between books! It took me three weeks to get through them all and I kept texting Michael… “what happens to Neville?!” “I love Dobby!”  Then sobbing, “I love Dobby!”  He was great…telling me to just keep reading. He did reassure me about Neville (Neville’s a badass, Mom!) and Hagrid, as I was threatening JK with a confundus charm if she touched them. It was cool to see him laughing at me and getting excited for me as I made my way through the series. Ms. Rowling has a wonderful way with words and descriptions and I could see Hogwarts, et all, as clear as day. I went through the series again earlier this year when my back was so bad and I marveled again at the detail in the world she created.

The power of books, of words, is what I love so much. Before I was a Christian I held that “book” (please see me doing air quotes with a look of derision on my face) as not a book. As not anything, really. Then one day I was in a grocery store and saw them advertising a book. A big sign said, “Wars! Sex! Betrayal! Love Stories! Revenge! The Bible!” It made me laugh out loud. I mentioned it to my cousin, who was a Christian, and she gave me a Bible, which promptly was tossed on my shelf.  At the time I would argue with any Christian who dared speak to me and spoke against the Bible with all the force I could muster. Until one asked if I had ever actually read the Bible? She sweetly told me to have a read before I continued to talk against something I knew nothing about.  So, I picked it up and it didn’t make any sense to me. I started in Genesis and after a few chapters was confused and a little overwhelmed. Nertz to that. Back on the shelf it went.

But, pick it back up I did and I learned a lot about it. It is a book of the law, of Israel’s history, of poetry,  of wisdom, of prophecy, and, of course, of Jesus. I learned that the Old Testament was the covenant between God and his people and the New Testament is the new covenant between God and all people, which is Jesus. That, blew my mind! I always thought they re-wrote stuff and called it “new”.  The day I learned that Jesus is the living word, and that He is alive in the words, blew my mind again. It seemed an easy jump from loving words on a page to loving the Word. As a Christian, you discover the power it has and you suddenly understand and see things in it clearly.  It has affected me more than any other book. I have been reading and studying this book for over 25 years and it never ceases to amaze me. New nuggets of wisdom and love are discovered and cherished. I write in my books and my first Bible, the one my cousin gave me, fell apart. It is in a drawer, the type too small for me to see now, even with my glasses, but oh so cherished. The Bible I bought for myself after that is showing signs of wear and tear now. I sometimes look at the old one to see how I marked certain passages and marvel at the insights I have now.

I am thankful to be a reader. I love discussing books and recommending books and am thrilled when someone likes a book I like. I joined a book club a few years ago and have read some great books. The Help. The Book Thief. Room. We've had some great discussions over these books and have forged great friendships in the process.  And, as it should be, the friendships have taken over the club and the book discussions are minimal these days, but I love knowing we've all read the same book and can exchange our thoughts, if only for a moment.

I've spoken to people who don’t read and I must admit I feel bad for them! I just picked up Sense and Sensibility and the language, the exquisite detail, seeing myself so much in Marianne, and trying to tell someone who doesn't read about it and watching their eyes glaze over…I just don't get it. There is a whole world out there ready to be explored…and it makes me sad that they don’t experience it. Even if you meet another reader, but read totally different genres, at least you can discuss and share, but with a non reader, there is nothing to say.

So, I normally don’t end my essays with questions, but I do wonder what books made an impact in your life? Is there one that you read over and over? What is it about books that fascinate you? And by all means, if you aren't a reader, I’d love to know how that came to be?

Happy Reading!

On Being Who You Are

On Being Who You Are

I was standing in line at the store the other day and there was this boy, maybe 8, dancing around, oblivious to where he was or who was around. His harried Mom scolded him, which didn't seem to faze him at all, so the level of her tone changed until, inevitably, she got his attention and the dancing stopped. She leaned in and spoke words I could not hear, but understood none the less. The boy looked doubtful and I thought, “Yes, kid, never stop dancing!”

It seems from almost the beginning of our lives we are taught to be something other than who we are. Our personalities are chiseled and chipped at until we conform to what our parents and our community thinks we should be. Their values are instilled in us, which can be good, but at the expense of our personalities, I think that can be bad.

Because there is something more about being who we are…I mean the deep down who we are. The person we were created to be, the person we are when no one else is around. The person you are (were) before the world got a hold of you. Do you know who that person is? Are you comfortable with them? Is this the person you show to the world, or do you show a carefully constructed version?

Being a Christian, I am confronted frequently with the carefully constructed versions of who people are. In church, we shouldn't be afraid to just be who we are, right? But there seems to be an unspoken rule that we have to be happy and have it all together when we go to worship God. When I was a fairly new Christian, there was a greeter who would always greet you enthusiastically. She’d ask how you were. “Fine. How are you?” And she’d say, with a small head tilt, “Blessed.” And I always just wanted to poke her in the eye. Because it was so fake. She didn't care how I was doing and maybe her life was blessed, but seriously? That’s your answer every time? Or the classic hand shake pull. You know what I’m talking about if you've ever entered a church. The person at the door extends their hand to you, so you go to shake it, and instead of a warm greeting, they pull you through the doorway. Okaay. And I’m not just bagging on greeters here. I think it’s a symptom of that carefully constructed facade we have for ourselves and others that keeps real interaction from happening.

This is why I appreciate my friend Jim so much. He should really be the poster boy for being who you are. When you ask him how he’s doing…he tells you. Good. Bad. Or anything in between, he’ll tell you. He’s real. When he prays, there is no fuss or muss. He talks to God how he talks to everyone else. The first time I heard him pray was on a mission trip to Rocky Point and I couldn't help but open my eyes and look at him, a huge smile on my face. It went something like this: “God. You love us. Man. How do you do that? That’s so cool. You sent your Son for us? We don’t deserve it, but You did it anyway! Cool!” Jim hates shoes and goes barefoot whenever he can. He is forgetful and mixes stuff up. He does a million things at once and would give you the shirt off his back. He loves his wife and family. He will tell you straight out what he thinks. He is who he is and there is no pretense. He doesn't take your facade either. If he asks how you are and you say, "fine". He asks again. 

If we could all be that comfortable with ourselves, right?

And here’s why; God made us exactly who we are. He made us each different…no two of us are alike, even identical twins have different personalities.  He made me to go out into the world and be…me. Not you, not anyone else, but me. So why do we struggle so with who we are? Is it that distant voice from childhood telling us “don’t”? Why do we look in the mirror and not like what we see? And I’m not just talking about how we look, but that yearning we have for wanting to be different than who we truly are. The Jims of the world are so refreshing aren't they? And how boring would the world be if we were all alike anyway. Nothing would ever get done! We’re all gifted differently Ephesians tells us, and rightly so, so why do we seem to struggle with who we are?

And, I get it. We all have had someone, maybe a close someone, maybe a not so close someone, comment on who we are. “You’re too _____________” and fill in the blank with whatever they said about you. Or we were just being ourselves and were happy doing it, only to have someone rejects us outright. Or we really wanted to fit in with a group and they just never accepted you. They were nice to you, but would walk away to go off and do whatever it was they were going to do, leaving you wondering why they didn't just invite you along as well.

All of these things cause us to doubt ourselves and even if you have a strong self-worth and don’t really care about what others think, these situations causes a sting that we want to fix right away. Because it hurts to think that who we are isn't good enough.

Even the strongest of people will go through points in life where they lose who they are. The loss of a close friendship, a divorce, or a bad break-up can cause us to question everything and make us lose sight of who we are.  And when we are lost, we unfortunately can let others define us. We can let their words or judgments shame us because we, essentially, believe we are divorced or lost that friend because of who we are. Because the underlying theme becomes that because you are who you are, you don’t deserve love.

This is what I believed after my divorce. If only I was someone else, this wouldn't have happened to me. But, no.  I am divorced because my husband broke every vow. He didn't love, honor, or cherish. He bolted at the first signs of sickness and did not forsake all others. And I ended up confusing what I was (a wife, a divorced woman) with who I was.

And I wish I could sit here and tell you that I figured that out quickly and went on my merry way. Um, no. I made soul crushing mistakes putting on that façade and pretending to be who I thought the world wanted me to be. And it was exhausting. Because I would edit myself.  And it was straight up fear. Fear that I would be rejected again for being who I am. And when people do pull away or reject you again, it’s not because you are being who you are, it’s because you aren’t being who you are.  People know when we are not being real with ourselves and with them. All the work we put into these façades and people see right through them anyway.

So, it becomes a gift when someone likes us just for who we are; a sweet precious gift. And it happens by accident sometimes. Through all the heartache of my divorce, there were some wonderful people who liked me in spite of my intense sadness and self-loathing. Most were from work.  I think that is why work friends seem to really stick…because they see you eight hours a day and really, you can’t fake a personality for forty hours a week. My work friends knew when I was cranky, knew when I was happy, knew when they should just stay out of my way. They knew I was honest, fair, kind. That I like to laugh, don’t like to be interrupted, and that stress kicks my butt. They knew when I needed a break, a hug, or a bag of peanut M&M’s. They knew if I said I was sick, that I was really, really, sick. And they knew they could come to me for anything. They taught me it was okay to be who I was. That just because I was going through this horrible thing, I was still me, and that they liked me. Seriously, a precious gift.

But let’s not confuse being who we truly are with the thought that if we are, everyone will like us. We need to realize that some people just aren't going to like us. They’re just not. Your personality will rub them the wrong way and there is nothing you can do about it. And there is that temptation to try and get them to like you, and sometimes we get lost in that space, don’t we? Because we start to change who we are for someone who doesn't even like us and that is dangerous ground. Someone once told me to be careful not to cross an ocean for someone who wouldn't cross a puddle for me. What wise words. Because we can start to go overboard before we realize what we are doing. We start to compromise who we are for someone who isn't worthy of us.

Why? Because we want to matter. We want to be important to people. We want to matter in their lives. No one likes to hear someone say, “Oh, we’re going to meet our good friends,” as they walk away from you. And that’s the thing about being brave enough to just be who we are. When we become who we are, we will matter to the right people.

At one of my birthday dinners, my dear friend and I were talking about how we got to be 50, the roads that led us to where we are right now and our divorces came up.  She had sent her ex-husband a note about one of their sons and said that he, and the world, wants to pretend that entire marriage never happen and asked what, as a participant in the marriage, did that mean for her? Did those years and those boys not mean anything? I knew exactly what she meant.  They mattered. The marriage had mattered. The ripping apart of a family is excruciating and the ripples extend for a long time. You see the ripples in your kids and there is no pain like that, let me tell you. But that ripping does not take away the marriage or the family it created. It mattered greatly.

And mattering is what I struggle with in my marriage to Jon. Because there are very few who see that it mattered at all. So I have grieved alone in all of it. We met seven years after my divorce and he did give me that precious gift of liking me for just who I was. I had reached the place of knowing, this is who I am, this is what I want, and that is a strong place to be. He liked my quirks, he liked that I spoke my mind. He liked that I saw him, not ALS. We were in love and despite his having that horrible disease, we married. That he left shortly after we married doesn't negate anything. Anything. He regretted it almost as soon as he had left but continued to push me away in an effort to protect me. When the full explanation came, a few months before he died, I wept for us, for what could have been, and for the joy we missed out on. What gave me peace, though, was that I had mattered to him. He had loved me for who I was and I mattered.

Why did it all happen the way it did? I don’t know. But I believe God’s promises. He promises that he can turn a horrible situation into something good for His purpose. I may never know why, this side of heaven, this all happened, but I believe He will, and has, used that situation for His good. And that’s enough. Because when we understand God created and loves us for who we are, and that we matter to Him, oh, is that ever freeing.

On Facebook

I love Facebook. I think I’ve been on it for 5 years now and at first it was mainly to keep me connected to the triathlon club I was in; coordinating workouts, social events within the club, etc. As time went by though, it opened up my past. Friends that I had lost contact with over the years suddenly where sending me friend requests or I was seeing them in the “people you may know” section. Catching up with people and seeing how their lives turned out was wonderful. Sending quick notes or posts, or even better, scheduling time to meet up in person, has been great. Friends of our youth have a certain knowledge about us that, maybe, as time as gone by, we may have forgotten about ourselves.

While I love FB, I know of many people who don’t. They say it is evil; that is a waste of time; that no good can come from it. I clearly don’t agree with those viewpoints at all. As with life, FB is what you make of it.

One of the biggest evils I have heard is that FB breaks up marriages as it causes people to cheat or to otherwise get themselves into trouble. I wholeheartedly disagree with that statement. You know who cheats? Cheaters. You know what makes people cheat? Bad character. If you are looking for trouble, you’re going to find it no matter if it is at work, on FB, or standing in line at Starbucks. I do not believe that an innocent person suddenly gets on FB, gets a friend request and suddenly, through no fault of their own, starts an online affair or flirtation that progresses into a real life affair or flirtation. Why? Because decisions have to be made with FB. (And in real life, too) Do you accept the friend request – yes or no? Do you respond to the overtly sexual comment – yes or no? Do you decide to tell this person something personal about yourself – yes or no? Do you decide to hide the content from your significant other – yes or no? It’s not FB, it’s the person. People were cheating long before FB came around and if someone is using FB to cheat, it’s their bad character, and nothing else.

Now, as I got into FB, I developed rules for myself. I (generally) don’t accept a friend request from someone I don’t know, even if we went to the same high school and we share 20 friends. I truly want my “friends” to be friends. I will also de-friend you if your content is not what I want to be seeing in my news feed or if we have stopped being friends in real life. I have had friend requests that I have mulled over before accepting or declining and I have mulled over sending a friend request to someone. The point being, I am in control of what I am doing within FB. Just as I am in control over where I go on the Internet or what I watch on TV, I have made my FB life an extension of my real life. As far as an evil aspect goes, as stated, I believe any situation has the potential for evil. But, your character is what guides you, right? If you’re a person with bad character, your bad character will come through. If you want to use people and manipulate them or bully them on FB, I am most certain that is what you do in real life as well.

If you go to my page you will see, I believe, that I am a Christian; that my friends and family are extremely important to me; that I have good days and bad days but I am generally an upbeat person; that I love music and movies; that I am athletic; and that I have two dogs that I love but drive me crazy. (cough, Timber). If you see me in real life, you will see, I believe, that I am a Christian; that my friends and family are extremely important to me; that I have good days and bad days but I am generally an upbeat person; that I love music and movies; that I am athletic; and that I have two dogs that I love but drive me crazy. (cough, Timber).

One of the things I love about FB is just being able to catch up with people from different aspects of my life. I had great high school and college experiences and seeing those friends, even if only on FB, makes me happy. I think when we are young, we take for granted that we see these people every day and that they become the backbone of our lives, so to speak. The familiarity of their presence, the way they know you, the way they stick up for you. And once we graduate and life takes us in different directions, you feel an absence that you can’t put your finger on. Until you see that face again, smiling at you from a FB request. For me, it answers the questions…how are they going to turn out? I love seeing their page and what they’ve done with the time they’ve had between now and the last time I saw them. Some of these people were so very important to me and time and distance doesn’t necessarily take any of that away.

Keeping up with friends who have moved away is also something I love about FB. Tucson is a transient town and people come and go so quickly around here. (Two points if you get the movie reference) Seeing where life is leading them and what is happening to them is something I look forward to and it makes my day to know they are following me as well. As yet another close friend packs up to leave, I’m glad I’ll have FB to watch her kidlets grow, and to see her new life in a state far, far away.

Another thing I love about FB are the clips people post. Some are funny, some are inspirational, and some are thought provoking. Some are of food. I’ve been introduced to new bands, new books, new blogs, and new websites. Some clips I disagree with, some I don’t bother to click on, some go un-noticed. I love pet pictures, I love Tj’s posts, I love the randomness of what comes up at any given time. I love that I can express my thoughts on subjects of the day, or just my day. If I’m down in the dumps, people can support me; if I’m having a great day, people can celebrate with me. I can tease you about your song choices or love of certain McDonald’s gastro sandwiches. I can watch your children grow and hear all about your vacation. On my page, you can see endless pictures of Timber staring at me. Hound.

I have heard that FB is time suckage. For me, that is not the case. I don’t do Farmville or Mafiaville or Jewelville or any of that sort of thing. And I don’t accept requests from you on that stuff. No judgments, that’s just not my thing. I don’t labor over writing posts or responses. I’m not on it 24/7. Now, since I’m not working, I’m certainly on it more than when I was working, but for the most part, I don’t have it open all day long and am not checking it every few minutes. For me, it truly is just another way to connect with the people in my life, whether they live across town or across the country.

Not that I haven’t had bad or weird experiences. I’ve had old boyfriends send me messages and get uppity when I didn’t rekindle feelings we had when we were sixteen; I’ve had people send me lengthy messages asking why I de-friended them; I’ve had someone pretend to be a well know Pastor and send me personal messages. All of these situations just let me understand how to use the “block” and “delete” tools, as well as the privacy settings. But, just as I have bad or weird experiences in real life, I’m not ready to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
So, thanks for your posts and inviting me in to a slice of your life. And thanks for never getting tired of photos of my dogs.

On Having a Full Plate

My thoughts have been quite jumbled lately. It is hard for me to collect my thoughts as so many seem to be swirling through my head at any given time. I have sat down to write many times, but there are too many directions to go in. I have had more loss since Phil’s death; the loss of several friendships at once; the loss of a church; my son will more than likely be moving away; and dammit, but my health just seems to be further declining, now with some pretty severe stomach pains.

There is a lot on my plate…the plate is so full, I just can’t seem to even see it anymore. There is too much and everything seems to have settled into a haze just beyond my grasp. Which is fine. I can’t find the energy to even deal with it all, anyway. When something comes up, I pull it forward, deal with it alone, then push the plate back into its hazy place. It is emptying slowly but surely.

The loss of friendships is probably the most difficult for me. I am heartbroken over it. It is baffling and I swing from immense pain to being quite pissed off. I was encouraged to share my thoughts but instead of solutions or apologizes, their position was defended. Two simple words could heal all, but, they will not be forthcoming. A declaration to never give up on the friendship by them was taken back within a week. “Peace” was claimed on their end, and that was that. And, I wonder why? If you hurt me, whether you meant to or not, whether you have a good excuse or not, and we have a ten-plus year friendship, and I tell you that you have hurt me, why wouldn’t you make amends? Why wouldn’t you use those two magic words? I have no answers for those questions and the situation has just become one more thing that I have to get through.

The church thing is unfortunate and sad, but judgment and intolerance seem to have a permanent home in our churches. Churches, American churches, preach to marital status. If you are married with children, then the American church is very, very happy to have you. If you are anything but that, you are not their demographic and they truly don’t know what to do with you. This is so far from what the Bible teaches it boggles my mind that they are oh so proud of it all. This particular church has a young pastor who preaches that women are less than. He preaches it, he blogs it, and he, as I found out, lives it. Unless he is related to you, he will treat you with indifference, unless he is being downright rude, each being acceptable behavior for him. And people within the church make excuses for him; that’s just the way he is. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Are you kidding me?

Um, here’s why it’s a problem. He is preaching by the flesh instead of by the Holy Spirit. He is living by fear instead of grace. And, Jesus, who should be his model, treats everyone equally. He loves you no matter who you are; male or female; married or not; childless or not.

1 Timothy 5 teaches us to treat every Christian like mother or father, sister or brother. Jesus also preached and ministers to EVERYONE. This guy has removed words like “whosoever” “all” “the world” and has replaced those words with “only those I feel comfortable with”. So, when a single female (me) asked for much needed prayer when Phil died, I got no response. Ever. Not a “someone will call you as soon as possible” or “I’m sorry for your loss”. This is real, this happened. A pastor of a church ignored a request for prayer. How can you, as a pastor, decide to ignore someone in need? Whom are you truly serving? Ministering to the people in your congregation is a major job description…how can you decide, “ah, I just won’t talk to or pray for women because they might make me stumble?” Pushing your sin on a whole gender is wrong, buddy. Why don’t you know that?

More questions ricochet around my mind; Does he not know the meaning of the word “ministry”? How can he read the Bible and feel comfortable deciding not to minister to certain people? How can he judge like that? How can he add to the Bible, something it teaches us NOT to do? If he has a problem ministering to women, why is he a pastor? And worst of all, how can the people around him let him get away with such unChristlike behavior?

Questions, I again, have no answer for. But I am so thankful, too, that I have wonderful Christian men in my life who ARE doing it right. Who treat me like a sister and support me in good and bad.

Michael leaving is a good thing and I am excited for the opportunities that await him. He has had further loss as well, and I grieve for the place life has him right now. I want him to know that it will all be okay, that he will go on to do great things, and that yes, life will kick him again. I want him to be buoyant and see beyond the pain and sadness to the horizon. Good stuff is waiting; just keep going. Good advice for both of us, I think.

My health. Bleh. I’m sick of talking about it and wondering how I got here. Thoughts of my past and all I have put my body through haunt me a little. Gymnastics, dance, track, running, skiing, ice skating, weight lifting…I swear my body is just rebelling. The days when I could ask my body to do anything and have it respond in kind are long gone. I wonder if I will ever be able to run again? That, is just too much to think about.

As for my stomach issues, it is my gallbladder, which needs to come out. Since I can’t see the surgeon until mid-August, I decided to do a cleanse that some people have had great results with…well, what a disaster! The pre-cleanse has you drink a LOT of apple juice. Like. A. Lot. Plus, no fat or protein. I made it through that just fine and went on to the day of fasting. I was doing great and then bam, a searing headache and nausea so bad I couldn’t hold my head up. I was eventually able to keep an aspirin down and feel okay this morning. The pain is still there but I can at least hold my head up. I don’t know what caused such a brutal headache…no protein? All that sugar from the juice? The funniest thing about all that was when I woke up at 1am, thanking God the nausea had cleared, I found I couldn’t move. I put my hand down to find Timber, all 90lbs of him, snuggled right up next to me with his head across my stomach. The dog knows when I don’t feel good, that’s for sure! So, I’ll bide my time until I see the surgeon and hope the pain doesn’t keep me from missing more fun activities. I missed a reunion, a good friend’s b-day party, and the whole just-not-feeling-good every day does get to me. The days I have energy I’m like a whirling dervish. Hoping those outnumber the bad days!

So, a lot on my plate and I’m just trying to stay positive. I relish the little things throughout the day that are positive; friends calling to check up on me; invitations to get out of the house; time with my son who is staying here until he leaves in a few weeks; the monsoons. God is good, even in this time of trial.

I am so thankful for my faith in times like these. Being able to pour out my heart to God and ask Him these questions that rattle through my brain. He is bigger than all these things and will sort them out in His time. For me, I lean on His comfort and His teaching that this is only a season. And will try to use this time of sorrow to learn His path for me and to have Him strengthen me as I go through it.

Blessings to you.

On Death and Dying

The call came in the wee hours of Wednesday morning. I saw it was Michael and I wondered if his stomach flu had kicked in again. His words were even and monotone. “Mom, Phil’s dead.” He said it so quietly, I asked, “What?” even though I had heard the words. “Phil’s dead.”

Phil is dead. I still can’t believe, or understand, or comprehend that this beautiful boy is no longer here. No longer Michael’s best friend. He and Michael met, if not on the first day of school their freshman year of high school, then a day or two later. And they seemed to be best friends immediately. Two peas in a pod.

Memories of their life flood back to me. The video game sleep overs. Coming home from work one day to find my front living room furniture pushed aside with their band equipment in its place and them rocking a song. Phil entering our house with his familiar, “Hi, Mom.”

The crushing effect of Michael’s words hit me hard for so many reasons, because the sad part is, we’ve been here before. Twice before actually.

Michael had five close friends in high school; Phil, Nick, Aaron, Chris and Stephen.

Aaron died first. March 2008. It was devastating. The boys were in their Senior year of high school and Aaron’s death was more than a shock. Michael, Phil and Aaron had just been at the house playing music then ended up at Phil’s for a sleep over and had stayed up all night talking about their futures as well as goofing around at Udall park. Michael and Phil ended up back at my house raiding the fridge and seeing how long they could stay up since they hadn’t sleep the night before. When the call came, I told the person they were wrong, that Aaron had just been here, that they had the wrong Aaron. But, no, they did not have the wrong Aaron; he was killed riding down Mt. Lemmon on his motorcycle. I called out to Michael and carefully told him the news, to which he said the same thing. We just were with him, you’ve got it wrong, Mom. Aaron’s death seemed exceptionally harsh because of the promise before him. He was a tremendously talented musician. He would sit on my couch and casually play a guitar while talking with Michael and the beauty of his riffs were incredible. The boys took it very, very hard and eventually honored him by tattooing his name in Hebrew on their wrists.

Then, in 2011, Stephen died. Stephen was the troubled kid of the group. Bright, funny, smart, but troubled. He was a lethal soccer player, loyal friend, but depression seemed to surround him and in their Junior year, he ran away from home. His Mom would call to see if we had seen him or had heard any news and I would keep her up to date with any tidbits Michael had. I couldn’t stand the thought of him sleeping behind dumpsters so Michael and I would drive the streets at sundown looking for him. Then one day, there he was, walking his bike down Broadway. We pulled alongside and I told him to get in. I fixed them both dinner then went to call his Mom. He stayed maybe two weeks before he left again, eventually joining the Army and asking for infantry. He committed suicide while on leave here and the day I met his Mother face to face was the day of his funeral. I remember standing at his grave with Michael beside me, Phil behind me, and Nick and his parents beside Michael. The boys were sad, of course, but not surprised. Poor Stephen, maybe now he had found some peace.

And now, Phil.

Phil was the happy-go-lucky one of the group…everybody’s friend. His goodness is what strikes me now and what I’ll miss most. Driving his Toaster, wearing his neon, being his funky self and not caring what anybody thought. His friendship to Michael also makes my heart ache because I wonder how Michael will fill that void. Where Michael and Nick have a deep, we-can-share-our-deep-dark-secrets-and-you’ll-understand friendship, Michael and Phil had the everyday friendship. They seemed to do everything together; their band, their jobs, their circle of friends. They each had their own life, but shared everything. Their future was so tied together that Michael’s sense of loss goes to a depth that reaches beyond what he should have to be dealing with at his young age. Phil, from what we understand, was at a party and drown in an apartment complex pool. Michael was supposed to be there but that stomach flu had kept him home. His parents are very private and have asked Michael to help. They are worried about him, as we all are.

We have dealt with death frequently…not only these three boys, but Jon in ’07 and my Dad in ’10. We are familiar with grief. Michael grieves silently, alone. I grieve openly and want people around me. So, we rub each other the wrong way during these times. I want to help and hold and he wants me to leave him alone. He will sit by himself on Sunday, when we go to bury Phil. He may let Chelsea and Nick near. I will sit with Nick’s parents. His Mom and I scared for our sons. How will they cope burying Phil? How will they cope with the loss? How will they cope with being the ones still here? The questions of why are innumerable.

My mind can barely go to his parents. Phil was their only child and how do you go on? How do you bury your only child on Mother’s Day? My heart grieves and breaks for them. My feeble words of what their son meant to me, to Michael, they seen so small. How do you express gratitude for the wonderfulness of their son in our lives?

My prayers have been feeble as well. I have prayed for comfort and the peace that passes all understanding for everyone involved. But, my words fail me after that. My grief is too big right now. I have grief and worry and questions and know this won’t be over after the service on Sunday. I reached out to the Pastor of the church I have been attending and got no response, so now I have anger, too. And the verse on their wall yesterday was… Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. -Galatians 6:2. Apparently practicing what they preach is not their strong suit.

When death comes, I think about life. It is the everyday stuff we all take for granted. And the big ideas and philosophies we hold are all nothing if we do not live them out every day. Tomorrow never, ever comes. Today is the day the Lord has made, let us give thanks and be glad in it. Jesus tells us to love one another. Not judge others, not elevate ourselves, just love everyone. Death makes me think about my life and if I am even making a difference. Do I love? I get so hard on myself because I know how quickly this life can end…am I doing enough? Am I living my words?

And I look at Phil’s life, cut too short, and I see all the people he affected. The words people have written are of his goodness; of how nice he was; of his friendship. And it makes it easier somehow to know of the legacy of goodness he left behind. He did not talk about being a good person, he was a good person.

So, rest in peace, beautiful Phil. Your legacy lies before all of us and we are all better for knowing you. While we grieve your passing, Heaven rejoices at your entrance. I’m sure you and Aaron are riffing with Stephen bobbing his head in time. Thank you for showing us what love is. Miss you and love you always.

On Boston

On Boston

This past Monday, something unimaginable happened. Bombs exploded at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. I knew several people who were running, but was not watching it on line like I do Kona. I had a busy day and had just got back from running several errands. I fixed myself some lunch and turned on the TV to watch some DVR’d shows. But what was on the screen I didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. As what I was seeing caught up to what I was hearing, I started to cry uncontrollably. They played the tape over and over again and I still couldn’t understand…my brain could not wrap itself around what was happening. I pulled my lap top from the office, lunch forgotten, and tried to search for my friends. Were they safe? Thank God for FB because one by one they posted that they were okay. Prayer requests poured in for their friends who had gotten hurt; people were frantically searching for their loved ones. The Hoyts (teamhoyt.com) were running their 31^st Boston Marathon and the four hour mark is when they normally finish. Where were they? Their FB page was full of people pleading for info on their whereabouts and safety. Finally it was posted that they had been near the 25 mile mark when the bombs went off and were safe.

As the coverage continued and the injuries explained my mind became numb. I knew instinctively that it wasn’t the same terrorists as 9/11. I knew they were young and from here…they had to be. No one but people from either the running community and/or Boston knows the significance of that day; of that race. It was specific, what they did. It was intentional. It was cruel. I know that sounds like I am stating the obvious, but the way it felt was personal. To me, to everyone. More so than Newtown or Aurora, because they targeted everyone.

And maybe I feel it is personal because this is my community. My peeps. I am a runner. I run…injured back notwithstanding. I race. I’ve done 5k’s, 10k’s and a few ½ marathons and I’ve spectated at just as many. The running (and triathlon) communities are simply the most positive, encouraging, fun, open, accepting communities out there. Everyone is happy on race day; everyone is smiling; everyone is cheering on strangers. Even if you have a bad race or get injured or bonk, there are people there to build you up, cheer you up, and support you. People cheer you in whether you are first or last. And as Boston is the mecca, well, it just cut me to the core. Those bastards.

As the investigation got going I just didn’t want to hear about the people responsible. I thought it was one guy, young, as I said. Once they announced that it was two, I understood that and just hoped the media would not name them, would not tell us all about them, not plaster their high school year book photos for all of us to see. Then they released the video of them walking with the bombs on their backs and it just made my heart hurt. And the questions just popped into my head…what happened to you two to make you hate your fellow man so much that you’d lay a bag at their feet to explode? They were so young…and everyone had such nice things to say about them. Which makes it harder somehow. And eerie, as reports that the younger brother went back to school as if nothing had happened and that the older had a wife and young daughter.  

The answer to the whys, for me, is always the same; we live in a fallen world and in a fallen world, until Jesus comes again, evil exists, reigns even. We are a people that kill each other. If we feel hurt, or forgotten, or tossed aside, as our culture loves to do, or people disagree with our point of view, we let our anger build, we focus on ourselves, and in our hurt and anger, we take it out on the people who we perceive as hurting us. Cain killed Abel because he was jealous of God’s praise to his brother and God’s rebuke to him. Why did these two brothers turn their hate on the people of their own community? Only the coming days will tell us that…but quite frankly, I don’t care.

Because there are a million other ways they could have handled their anger, disillusionment, or self-loathing. A million other ways to share their point of view. I don’t believe there is any good explanation or justification. Bad childhood? Wah. Ignored by people? Welcome to planet Earth. People don’t like your point of view? Try being a Christian. Led astray by some subversive terrorist group? Yawn. It’s almost a cliché now isn’t it? And knowing why won’t un-shatter the lives of those lost, maimed and injured. It won’t undo that they brought their stupid violence into an event that has been around for over a hundred years. Into an event that celebrates the wonderful spirit of human competition from world class runners to the weekend warrior who busts his or her respective butt to train and push themselves to qualify. It won't undo that we now live in a world where people bomb sporting events.

I know a lot has been said about the city of Boston and the wonderful, heroic people who rushed to the fallen, seeing things no one should ever have to see, in their eagerness to help. My words fall short in my admiration for these people. What I feel for what they did cannot be expressed adequately. There is no way to honor them properly, but my heart swells to a fullness I can’t describe when I think of what they did. And the fallen and injured themselves. The little boy who died and his sister and mother both gravely injured; the two brothers, who each lost a leg. A newlywed couple, each losing a leg. The one man who lost both legs but was able to help identify the suspects. Such bravery. Such heroism. Such an example of that human spirit that no bomb can ever, ever shatter. The Yankees playing ‘Sweet Caroline’; Chicago posting in their paper that they were the Chicago Red Sox, Chicago Bruins, Chicago Patriots, etc. Beautiful examples of ways to love each other. Simple really.

Now that one is dead and the other captured and apparently fighting for his life in a hospital, their crime will become a footnote. It has already faded, not because it is insignificant, but because the goodness of people has already out shone their violence. The police, FBI, AFT, and all the other agencies swooped down and made a statement that no one that does wrong will prevail. The crowds that lined the streets to cheer on law enforcement after the capture was unprecedented. And they deserved every, single, cheer.

As I looked at pictures of the day, Farther Along by Josh Garrels came on my IPod and his words and the haunting music brought fresh tears. It’s posted below…his words are true. In this fallen world…”I wonder why, the good man dies, the bad man thrives, and Jesus cries because He loves them both.” It is hard to understand and make sense of this stuff and I do try and look for the miracles, but the idea that my Saviour grieves for those two bombers humbles me and again takes me to a fullness of heart that has no words.

On Being Injured

On Being Injured, or Hurt, or Sick

I injured my back in August trying to pull Timber away from a stray dog that had attacked him. Timber is a good sized dog…86lbs and is tall. When he leans against me, his head it at my rib cage. So, when he got attacked and started pulling, I pulled, he pulled, I pulled and a displaced rib and raised hip later, I have been in a good amount of pain ever since.

And this is just the latest in a long line of injuries and sicknesses that I have endured for most of my life. Right off the bat, I was sick. When I was born, three weeks early, I almost died from RH poisoning. Basically, my parent’s blood did not mix right in me and I had to have a transfusion to keep me alive. I guess I wasn’t supposed to make it…between being a premie and an RH, my time was almost up before it started. But, make it I did and it seems since then, I have gotten more than my fair share of illnesses or injuries.

Let’s see, there was scoliosis in grade school, which I obviously still have; mono in high school; a wrist injury that ended my gymnastic career because I didn’t tell anyone about it until it gave way on the bars during a routine; my big honkin calves started when I ran track in college, swelling so much and into such rocks that I used to have to go to the trainer before and after (sometimes during) practice to get icy hot massaged into them; debilitating migraines; Fifth Disease in my mid 30’s, which is basically a childhood disease but when you get it as an adult it knocks you out for 3-6 years. And it took them 3 years to diagnose me; severe tendinitis in my rt elbow, which I still deal with; plantar fasciitis; a stress induced rash on my hands that was so bad I had swollen bubbles on my hands and fingers; injuries from my 70.3 crash; various pulled muscles, strains, and the like just from running and being active; pneumonia; and now this back injury that just won’t go away.

And, this being my 50^th year, I’m getting tired of it. All of it. It is hard for me to remember a time when I haven’t been in pain in some way or another; a time when I haven’t had to endure something to just freakin exercise. For years I’ve had no sustainable fitness and that is majorly frustrating for me. I barely train for races because, let’s face it, the odds of me getting hurt in some way is so high, I really just can’t stand the disappointment anymore. So, for the past few years, I train just enough to get me through the race and always wonder what I could do if I could actually train to my full potential. I wonder if I’ll ever know.

It’s not just the physical pain; it is the emotional pain, the shame, the embarrassment, and the enduring of what people think of you. Because people think less of you when you are hurt. Maybe not at first, but eventually they do. They believe somehow that you aren’t doing all you should, or you are milking it for attention, or you are weak. Their actions and attitude toward you shows you exactly what they think of your little injury or sickness…and sometimes that judgment hurts worse than the injury itself. If I come to your house and my back hurts to the point where I can’t get off your couch, and you go and leave me, well, that speaks volumes. And I wonder…do you want to shame me into getting better? Do you honestly think I’m doing this on purpose? The actions would say yes to those questions. You think it is my fault and if you are just mean enough, in a nice sort of way, I’ll understand you don’t like me injured and bounce off the couch healed.

Or, I’ll grab the next plane out of there and now have the added pain of broken trust to deal with as well as an aching back.

And I wonder why we are like this? Why do we look down on people who are hurting? Be it emotional or physical, our noses get really long when looking at people with either of these maladies. Unless you break your leg spectacularly on national television and get the support of a nation, you will have to go it alone and endure the judgment that comes with it. My yard is a mess and the neighbors judge; my house is a mess and people judge; my body is expanding and people judge; I am not as happy go lucky as usual and people judge. I complain about my circumstance and people judge. I’m cranky and people judge.

So, what I do is push. I push too hard too soon because I have been taught since childhood that no one likes you when you are a less than. And if you are injured, you are a less than. The second I start to feel better I walk farther. I add in some sprints. I’ll do burpees, pull ups, and hold a plank for two minutes. I’ll start planning how long it will be until I can run and calculate when I’ll be able to race again. I’ll start to feel like I belong again, only to have my body tell me otherwise and I’ll be back on the couch resting and dreading the coming judgments. Because the other side of all this is how isolating being injured or sick can be. And this is just one more thing you have to deal with. No wonder I push.

This being my 50^th year, I just have to say, all this is not in my plans. How can I accomplish anything I wanted to do this year if I can’t get off the couch and am seemingly losing friends who are annoyed with my circumstance along the way? Because, as I’ve learned, no one is going to come sit on the couch with me. My visions of being somewhere fabulous as I turn 50 (NYC or Disneyland or the beach) with my friends and family around me are slowing fading away. The 15lbs I want to lose by my 50^th is also getting further and further from reach. Let me tell you it’s quite difficult to lose weight when you can’t do any sustainable cardio…and I’m going on six months without now. What makes turning 50 better is the great things you wanted to do throughout the year; and really, those things aren’t possible from the couch. And I really, really, really don’t want to be in pain anymore. Any. More.

But, short of a miracle, and I’ve prayed diligently for one, the pain is here to stay. I’ll try another doctor for another opinion, I’ll try more physical therapy, but I am starting to lose hope. Because this is all very hard. Being alone, enduring all this alone with no support, is very, very hard.

Luckily, the Bible is filled with people who were cranky and complained or lamented; Moses crabbed about the Israelites, David wailed his sorrows to the heavens, Solomon wrote a whole book bemoaning how meaningless life is, and I actually wondered if maybe he wasn’t suffering from a back ache at the time. Job, well, Job lamented his circumstance and then had three wonderful friends who blamed him for his predicament. Oh, and then there was his wife who told him to just curse God and die. Yowza.

All this to say, I know I am in good company.

I know God is big enough to take what I’m giving Him right now. I’m still praising Him in this storm, but, man, some days it is hard to sing of joy when I’m going on month six of almost daily pain and the curtailed life that goes along with it. And I’m talking PAIN here people. I can take a lot of it, but, I may have reached my limit. It's exhausting, really.

So, what do I do? Where do I go from here? It is the same old thing; I just keep getting up every day. When I get knocked down by all this, I have a good cry and just get back up. Again. Because as hard as this is, I don’t know what it looks like to stay down.

 

And I want it to stay that way.