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.

On Waiting

Waiting is hard for me. 

As a Christian, the Bible is full of situations where someone has to wait. Moses waited for 40 years in the desert, David waited and waited and waited to be King, Abraham and Sarah waited into their nineties for their first born, Isaac. David and Abraham had been told by God that they would be King and that Israel would come from them, respectively, and then endured the wait to glorious results. And after Moses’ wait, he led the Hebrews out of Egypt, parted the Red Sea, spoke w/ God and so much more.

So, why is it so hard for me to wait on God?

And, it is HARD for me to wait on God. Really, really hard. I'm ready, God! Let's go! But, no.

I’ve been waiting for years, it seems. To find…something.  And every time I try to “make something happen” as it were, well, nothing happens. And what I keep hearing from God is, “Wait.” “Stop.” “Rest.”

The situations in my life seem to support those murmurings. I have applied for jobs all over the country and have had few bites. I have been injured since October and can’t run or bike or swim or hike or dance or any of the other physical things I like to do. And I seem to be following Moses in that God hasn’t yet shared His plan for my life.

Not that I am just sitting here twiddling my thumbs…although some days that seems to happen. Everyone is working during the day when I am wanting to go do something and there is only so much cleaning, organizing, TV watching, writing or reading I can do. And sometimes the days do stretch out with nothing to do. I tell myself to be grateful for this time of rest and remind myself how ridiculously busy and crazed I was a year ago when I quit my job. How this time is really for resting of my mind and spirit, and my body as well, so it would seem. Most days are great…I wake up when I want to and have more freedom than I’ve had in 20 or so years. My days are all mine and that is so very sweet.

Yet, I find myself yearning for….something.

When I talk to God I tell Him what I think should be happening right now. “God, wouldn’t it be great if…” and I fill in the blank for Him, like He doesn’t already know what would be great for me. I see Him patting my head and scooting me away. When I lament to friends, the response is either them telling me to shut up as they trudge off to work, or they remind me how gracious God is and that He will provide more than I can ever imagine. And the line from Star Wars always pops into my head; “I don’t know. I can imagine an awful lot.”

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen (Hebrews 11:1, KJV).

When I quit my job a year ago, it was truly on faith. Faith that God, in His promises, would take care of me. He has taught me many things in this year, a year that has sped by faster than any other in memory, and I know that I must continue to wait and have faith.

Have I mentioned that is hard?

Here’s why…because when the fears of the world creep into my brain I turn from God and entrust myself. Because it’s scary not knowing what is going to happen. I have hope on one hand and fear on the other and sometimes fear wins out. So I pack up my car and drive to San Diego to interview for a job I know I will hate; a job in a field I just left, but that is in one of my favorite places on earth. And the interview goes well until I ask the question every adjuster out there wants to know of an employer. What is an average pending? (Pending is the open files an adjuster is working). Now, for reference, at my last job my average pending was 90ish. And, as I have said, I was crazed. And the reply is….150. For two full seconds my eyes are wide and my mouth is gaping open. I control my facial features, but not the horror as I calculate just how many claims that is a week. A. Freakin. Lot.

So, I am waiting. And really, not just for a job, or a wonderful man, or friends that are here since all my close ones seem to move away. I’m just waiting for the next chapter of my life because it really, really feels like one is closing.

I just really wish it would hurry up already. In the words of Vizzini…

“I’m Waiting!”

On Lance

On Lance

Against my better judgment, I found myself watching Lance’s interview with Oprah. I didn’t want to watch for many reasons, but I almost couldn’t help myself. I wanted to hear it from him; I wanted to hear him say it and hear his explanations, if he had any.

In my fifteen years as an adjuster, I have interviewed thousands people. The key to any good interviewer is the ability to listen. People will tell you a lot, if you let them, and after so many years of interviewing people, you learn when people are being honest, and when they’re not. There are cues people do that let you know something is amiss. Their tone becomes monotone or suddenly becomes animated; they don’t answer the question or their answer doesn’t make sense.

So, almost immediately upon tuning in, I knew Mr. Armstrong was not being truthful. His tone was even with no inflections; he moved constantly, leaning back and forth, rocking side to side and crossing his legs and arms, almost hiding his face with his hands at some points; he was not connected to the words he was speaking until he was asked how he doped. He didn’t answer, but then said it was “smart”. His eyes lit up and he smiled. It was the first true statement he had said.

The whole thing to me was upsetting. Lance’s story has been a great one and an important one in my life. Jon was a huge Lance fan. They had raced against each other in youth triathlon years ago and Jon had always followed his career. As a special education teacher, Jon had posters of Lance up in his room. Not of him on his bike or winning, but when he was sick with cancer; bald and skinny. The greatness of his story…overcoming cancer by sheer will it seemed, then going on to win, win, win, captured the world’s admiration. Jon used the story to motivate his kids, and himself. I know thoughts of Lance got Jon through Kona.

One of the first trips Jon and I ever took was to go see Lance speak at a convention. Augie Nieto the founder of Life Fitness had been diagnosed with ALS about the same time as Jon. It had been a little under a year for both of them and, at that point, the effects were slight. Mr. Nieto turned Life Fitness’s annual convention into the start of “Augie’s Quest”, which was his quest to raise money and awareness for ALS, much like Jon would do with the Blazeman Foundation and the War on ALS. The keynote speaker was Lance. After Ironman, Jon and Augie had been in contact with each other and Augie invited Jon to the convention. Since it was in Vegas, we took a flight over and met up with some of Jon’s friends who had driven over from CA.

The convention was top notch, with amazing food, amazing energy, and amazing events. While at the sushi table, I reached for the tongs at the same time someone on the other side of the table did. Our hands touched and we both pulled our hand back…I looked up into the face of a very handsome guy. He was short and had on a sweet leather jacket. “After you,” he said with more charm than anyone should be allowed to have. I smiled, and when he smiled back, I realized it was Lance. Man, those eyes are blue! I giggled, got my sushi, handed him the tongs, smiled, he smiled again, I continued giggling, and moved on down the food table. When I got back to my seat, I told Jon, who HATED sushi and hadn’t wanted to come with me to the table, who I had just encountered. His face read several things; “Damn, why don’t I like sushi?!” then, “Lance!!!”  He bolted up out of his seat and took off to find Lance. He never found him and from that day forward, rued the day he decided he didn’t like sushi.

When Lance got up to speak, the crowd of several thousand became so quiet you could hear a pin drop. He spoke eloquently; forcefully; with purpose and encouragement for those in the crowd who had ALS. His speech really was to them alone, and I could see the effect on Jon. He seemed to swell and gain courage from the words. I think, really, that is when the War on ALS was born.

So, in watching Lance’s interview, I could only think of Jon and how crushed he would be. Well, not crushed, this is Jon I’m talking about. He would have been super, flipping, MAD.  Irate. And rightly so. For me, as I watched Lance continue to lie, I was struck by how caught up he was in his own little world of lies and deception. How he had the self-awareness and emotional intelligence of a teaspoon. That the only person he was lying to was himself. We all know, Lance. We all can see it. Yes, you bullied the guys on your team to dope. Yes, you called honest people liars and sued the pants off of them. Yes, you had people close to you try to pay off USADA. No, you’re not sorry for what you did. Yes, you are very, very sorry you got caught.

And I could only think, “What a waste!”

Your whole life is built on a lie, dude. You are morally corrupt. And it’s just such a waste.

In reading all the articles, blogs, and commentaries about Lance, everyone has put their own spin on it, and everyone has come up with a lesson to be learned. Or given him a pass to go on to triathlons or marathons, which I personally hope does not happen. They wonder if he will realize what he has done. Does he understand the impact his lies will forever have on his kids? Oprah said she hopes he becomes a better man.

For me, I’m just sad. And, I already knew these lessons. I already knew that pride comes before a fall. I already knew that a life of lies cannot be sustained. I already knew that sometimes God gives us over to our folly in hopes that His grace in the situation will lead us to right our wrongs. And, I already knew that when we don’t, God will step aside and let the chips fall where they may.

This is not the end to his story. He will continue fighting his war on himself and the world. If I could talk to him I would tell him this…Fix your stuff, dude. You’re angry at your father…go find him and have some conversations. Take that freakin chip off your shoulder and realize, even if you never race again, you are so blessed. Listen to your ex-wife…she is wise and if you listen to her you will come to understand that honesty is everything. Start by being honest with yourself. Eighty six the people you have around you that thought all this was a good idea. Go ride your bike, for the sheer joy of it, not to prove you are somebody to the world. Find God. That emptiness you feel will only be satisfied with Him.

And so, as his life work is scratched from the record books and from our thoughts, I think I will remember him in that space and time when he was someone to someone I loved. Because when I need motivation, I think of Jon.

On Looking Back

On Looking Back           

At the end of every year, the media starts churning out end of the year lists along with the top stories; top celebrity scandals; top pop culture trends; and whatever else is deemed worthy for us to remember. I think it is good to look back, good to remember where we’ve been, and this year, I think, has been particularly difficult. Not for me personally, but for our nation. We went through a horrible political season with mudslinging, and let’s face it, out and out hatred for one another. We no longer value one another. We no longer can tolerate anyone who has an opinion that is different from ours…and the election showed that in spades.

We also took killing one another to new heights. If we don’t value each other, I guess it is inevitable, but the lengths that these evil people have gone to show their hatred makes me shudder. And it is evil. They are evil people…gun control or mental illness or what have you…but they planned meticulously, they knew what they were doing, and that is evil. Should we talk about gun control and mental illness? Absolutely. But, let’s also talk about hatred and evil. If I value you, I’m not going to stock pile ammo and spend weeks planning how to kill you. We need to talk about how we can’t seem to cope with life’s ups and downs. Or our anger.

Adultery scandals continued to roll across our television screens and newspapers, this year taking down the head of the CIA, among others. We can’t even seem to value our spouses.

And our financial world is dangling on that darn cliff they keep talking about. They’ve reached an agreement for now, but I wonder how far will we, the people, fall if our elected officials can’t get it together? Pretty darn far, I’m afraid. It seems the only thing they can agree on is to give themselves a raise. Sweet.

Locally, we didn’t fare much better…little Isa is still missing; shootings and killings are a daily event; people are dying on our roads weekly; there is an arsonist on the loose, and Jack’s BBQ closed.

So, I wonder what lies ahead for us in 2013? It seems the momentum has been carrying us along now in the wrong direction and it is supremely difficult to turn things around once they start heading anywhere. So, how bad is it going to get before we do something about it?

Or, am I just focusing on the wrong things here? Have I succumbed to the media feast of negativity? As I always do when the world gets too big, I look inward. What did I accomplish in 2012? Did I value those around me? Did I live up to my expectations for myself?  I’ve never been a goal setter, but I do have ideas that I try and put in to place at the beginning of every year. They are basic ideas like “trust God more” or “be more social”. These seem more tangible to me and can be lived out through the year in many ways…much better than say, “run every day” or “read the Bible for 10 minutes each day”. Both good things, but could become a chore rather than the life changing or life growing ideas they should be. Or worse, something I stop doing January 25th because I've missed a few days.

So how did I do? Did I trust God more in 2012? Oh yeah. You can’t quit your job without another one and not trust God. And, here’s the thing about that…when you say to God, I want to trust you more, He’ll give you situations so you, well, have to trust Him more. It’s one of those things that Christians joke about…don’t ever pray for patience, cause He’ll  put you in the most patience inducing situations ever. Same, same. But with that trust, comes the peace that passes all understanding. When Jeremy was here in October, we were discussing my financial situation and although it is distressing, he commented that I don’t seem that concerned. And basically the answer is, I have to trust God. Matthew tells us that not a sparrow falls from the sky that God doesn’t know about…and to me that means, He’s got my back. In leaving my church, that also meant I had to trust God. Although I loved the church, I hadn’t really been able to get involved. The music and teaching was great at first, but I was never really a part of their community. Once the teachings started to slip, I felt God’s nudging me to find a place where I could be involved and be part of a community. I have found a new church, but it is always difficult to fit in at first. I’m not a young married with children, which seems to be what every church is about these days, but I have joined a missional community group and am starting to get to know people. And, I have to trust that God has me there for a reason.

Which leads me to the “be more social” idea…how did I do with that this year? Pretty good. My idea was to not make more friends or to join more groups, but to be more social with the people who were already in my life. Instead of succumbing to the busyness of life, I tried to be intentional about inviting people for coffee, lunches, movies, or hikes. And it’s always a little daunting at first, right? I mean, it shouldn’t be, but it is. What if they say no? What if they don’t return my call? What if we do meet for coffee and the fun friendship we have in a big group doesn’t translate? What if I ask people over for dinner and no one comes? But, what I found is that people do want to do things and once you are on their radar, they will in turn invite you to things. And people do say no, but it’s usually because they truly can’t, not for all the horrible reasons we think up in our head. And sometimes it is awkward, and sometimes an invite goes unanswered, but it is worth it to find those people that you click with and whose company you enjoy.

So, I find that looking back on our nation and on life is really about growing. Our nation seems to not value itself anymore. Our nation seems to be about greed for the ones in power. Our nation seems to not be able to cope with disappointments or anger. But with those struggles, our nation is looking for ways to grow beyond that; and I am happy that the debates have begun. Go democracy! And the question becomes, what can I do about this stuff? Yelling my viewpoint from the top of the Empire State Building isn’t going to change a thing. But, as I always say, the change starts with me. I can value myself and others; I can be generous; I can learn to cope with disappointments and anger. And the start of a new year is great for that, right? Looking back shows us where we faltered and where we succeeded and we can look to the future and say how we want to grow and how we want to do better. I mean, no one ever says they want to watch more TV or gain 10lbs in the New Year. No, we see the New Year as new opportunities to better ourselves and the world around us. And, looking back, my world did get better last year. I grew as a person, I grew in my relationship with God, I deepened friendships.

And as I shift from looking back to looking forward, I am excited about finding a few new ideas to carry me through the year…what is flitting through my head is “finish things” and “love more”.

 

Yowza.

 

Happy New Year!

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.