Of Good Report

The Last Day of School

2011-06-08T10:44:00.000-07:00

I have one hour left. After spending my first year in 14 years of motherhood having my children in school all day, the remaining minutes of solitude are upon me.

It's been different than I expected. I had grandiose plans to fill my days writing music, finishing my book, reading and practicing yoga. I imagined lunches with friends, carefree shopping trips and meeting my husband on his break. There was some of each of those things, but I found that the ordinary tasks of life still remained despite my children's physical absence during the day. Laundry still needed to be washed and folded, dishes cleaned up, dog walked, floor swept and groceries purchased. Much of the mundane remained and crowded out time for more fantastic pursuits.

But I made a discovery. There is a quiet calmness that can be found in the ordinariness of daily living. It was a bit unsettling at first to have so much time to myself, time to think my own thoughts and be with myself hours upon end. But I have grown to like my own company. Most days I fill with silence, choosing to refrain from music or television accompaniment. I have found a sweet freedom in being present with my thoughts, uninterrupted, with my hands and body busy maintaining order in my home. Not since I was a young, single student in college have I had so much time in my own mind to consider.

As the last, precious quiet moments tick away, I pause. Knowing the upcoming weeks will be filled with friends and sun, swimming pools and camps, travel and chaos, I relish the gift of the present. I try to embrace the stillness, hold it deeply in my heart and remember the secret I have learned during this year. No matter what happens around me, there is a quiet place inside. The simple motions of folding, washing, sweeping and weeding can all invite me to return to the place I have visited so often these past months. The place of peace.

I am hopeful that when the bus doors open for the last time, I can invite my children to visit that gentle garden with me, helping them embrace a slower pace of living. As we work together, we can find the rhythm of reflection in the simple tasks of life.

Welcome home boys, so happy to be with you my daughter, let me tell you a secret. Here, can you help me wash this dish?

Overstated Ovations

2011-03-09T10:06:00.000-08:00

I have a thing for music.

Although trained as a classical pianist, I have a deep love for well-crafted country songs, a passion for theatre music and a closet obsession with 80's hard rock. I have attended performances from Broadway to the the Bluebird Cafe, shows and concerts of every shape, size and skill level. I love live performances where the music can move through me and sing to my soul, but I have an increasing dilemma. I do not stand in ovation for every performance. In fact, rare have been the moments when I felt compelled to rise to my feet in thunderous applause.

One such moment happened last week.

My daughter is a violinist and plays in an orchestra with other youth her age. They played in concert with the local high school orchestras in preparation for their upcoming state competition. Somehow, the directors booked a guest artist to come and perform two solo pieces, mid-concert. A guest member of the faculty at the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music, he played to an auditorium filled with orchestra parents and students free of charge. Within seconds of hearing Gao Can, I was mesmerized.

He stood, all alone, on the broad stage with his violin. No orchestra, no conductor, just a man and his instrument. As he began J.S. Bach's Preludio from Partita No.3 in E, his hands simply flew up and down the strings, his bow leaping in perfect precision. His intonation was flawless as he soared up and down the instrument. He played with grace and feeling indicative of years spent in study. It was breathtaking. Stunned into blissful submission as he began the second piece, N. Milstein's Paganiniana, my eyes grew increasingly bigger, my jaw dropped and I was transported. With every bowing and each fermata, I felt as if my soul would leap out of me. I had never heard anything like it before in my life. Carried away for what seemed only a moment, but was evidence of thousands upon thousands of hours of preparation, I found myself at the end of his stunning performance. I simply could not contain myself and nearly leapt to my feet in response. There was no other suitable way to express my appreciation for the experience of being in his presence to hear him play.

I simply had to stand.

I thrilled with the performances of the student orchestras. It was wonderful to hear their progress and development as musicians. I clapped and clapped for each number I heard, but I did not stand again. Many other audience members did, and perhaps some of them looked at me seated and wondered why. Of course I want to encourage the students - my own daughter was up on that stage. I want to honor and praise them all I can, but here's what I don't understand - when did applause become insufficient? At what point did appropriate appreciation become an insult? When did we succumb to the unspoken social pressure to stand in obligatory ovation? When did we lose the right to stand simply when we are compelled to stand?

If we rise for every performance we ever attend, what happens in the moment that we witness greatness personified? What more can we possibly offer to that artist? How do we tell him that we were moved beyond description, that we recognize his discipline in developing his gifts, that we joyed with him in the experience of the live performance to the point we simply could sit no longer? That, to me, is worthy of an ovation. Bravo, Gao Can. Bravo.

http://www.gaocanmusic.com/

Put On Your Hat

2011-03-01T10:35:00.000-08:00

It almost killed me. Watching my beautiful teenage daughter walking to the bus stop this morning. You see, it's spirit week at her school and today is hat day. She was so excited getting ready this morning. She had chosen a darling knitted hat to wear that she picked out last year and looked adorable. She put on her jacket, backpack and walked out the door with a confident stride. As I watched her walk down the street, I saw her step slowly slacken. Her head turned towards the bus stop and she saw the other students- all of them hatless. She quickly reached up, grabbed the white cap with the brim off her head and stuffed it into her pocket.

My heart ached as she stepped onto the bus. How does it happen? How do we lose our sense of self slowly in the name of simply fitting in? When does the desire for conformity conquer our individuality? Why do we let others dictate our desires?

I remember being that age. I remember dismissing friendships I had valued all through elementary school so that the 'cool' kids might like me. I remember wanting specific styles of clothes and listening to music my friends liked. It's simply a time of life when we all have the challenge of uncovering our uniqueness. The difficulty in our discovery is that we often see our individuality in a negative light, instead of realizing that the light of our singular soul is what makes us who we are.

I had a friend ask me the other day what she should call me. I laughed because she called when I was scrubbing out a pot smeared with spaghetti sauce. I teach her daughter piano and she wondered how she should refer to me with others - as a master pianist, a composer, an author? I told her to call me Anna.

I don't want a title. I simply want to stand up and claim my own life based on the joys and interests of my heart. I want to write poetry and do yoga, read books and play music. I want to tap dance and rock climb and be the drummer when I play Rock Band with my kids. I want to write plays and share thoughts and make a difference in someone's life. I want to love my dog, walk on the beach and watch the stars. I want to be totally, completely, uniquely me.

And mostly, today, I want my daughter to feel the joy of discovering how unique and beautiful and priceless she is. Oh, honey, put on your hat.

How to Say "Yes" - in Moderation

2011-02-26T10:36:00.000-08:00

In the past 24 hours I have heard from one exhausted, burned out friend after another. One is ready to run away to the beach for the weekend. Another just wants a good night's sleep with less to do. One didn't say much - she was too tired. I remembered this morning another friend asking me a few months ago how to do it.

You see, there are some of us who view a certain two letter word as akin to profanity - never to be uttered, only being heard in desperate times of complete exhaustion with extreme frustration followed by instant regret. So in deference to my amazingly talented friends and to avoid any confusion with profanity, I entitle this entry 'How to Say Yes - in Moderation'. I hope to share a few principles that have helped me in this difficult endeavor.

Yes means yes. You know the moment. You find yourself saying yes with your mouth while thinking in your mind, "Not right now, I am so tired and I already have to take dinner to the neighbor down the street who just had a baby and my husband is working a double shift and my toddler smeared lotion all over the bathroom just as I left"? The next time a request is made and your feel yourself at the breaking point, before you answer, take a deep breath. Count to 10. Pause to listen to what your mind and heart are saying. If your truly honest heart is crying uncle, politely decline. There is no explanation needed beyond, "I'm sorry. I can't today." If your heart is sincere, the other person will feel it and understand, "If I could, I would." Hang up the phone or leave the encounter, be silent and breathe again. What is your heart telling you? It will take some practice to really listen and hear. But if you have honored your truth, your heart will thank you. When we say yes, we should really mean yes. Being willing to say honestly, "I can't right now" allows us to be genuine in the times we do say, "Yes." Practicing this principle has allowed me make offers of friendship and service with sincerity, without feeling resentful. I tell people often, "I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it," and they believe me. Because yes really means yes.

Remember, not now doesn't mean not ever. Often when we are presented with an opportunity, we overlook any potential conflicts or detriments to our routine or workload and seize the moment. We think, "Well, this will never happen again!" I've moved enough times to understand the principle that there will always be another house. Our first home purchase was during the great housing boom when houses were sold sight unseen. We spent an emotional week with pressing moving deadlines losing house after house. But we kept searching and sure enough, we found another house. I sincerely believe that when we have the courage to be realistic with our expectations, being willing to pass by opportunities in the name of balance, those opportunities are not lost forever. Just because you don't do something now, doesn't mean you can't do it ever. There are lots of years ahead. Life is constantly changing. There will always be another house.

Be patient. Some things take time. Often driven, motivated people have unrealistic expectations for progress. We think we should be able to learn or finish things without delay. We find ourselves getting frustrated when those accomplishments don't meet our expectations. Several years ago I learned to stand on my head. I joined a very challenging yoga class and had been practicing for quite a few years, so I expected to make quick progress in this class. But I had never seen anyone do headstands and when I watched several women make it look simple, I was determined to follow suit - quickly. Only I couldn't. My arm and upper back muscles weren't strong enough yet. I thought I could figure out how to do it in a matter of weeks. Well, those weeks turned into months and eventually, after a year of almost daily practice, I could finally stand on my head. It took lots of patience and lots of time, but I did it. Some things just take time - a lot of time. Be patient.

"You say potato, I say potato." We all have different talents and interests. We all have different strengths and weaknesses. I have learned that this means we all have different things that bring us joy. Once I learned to let go of worrying about other people's hobbies or interests and simply sought out ways to enjoy my own, I became a much happier person. The beauty of this truth is that it allows me to enjoy others' expressions of their gifts without feeling like they are an indication of my failures. For example, when my daughter was small I took a cake decorating class with a friend. I took it simply to learn the basics so I could not embarrass my children at their birthday parties each year. It was somewhat interesting to me and I did fairly well, but after spending hours piping a realistic looking Elmo cake for her next birthday I realized that cake decorating was not my bliss. My friend, however, took off. She spent years progressing, learning new techniques, and now has a business making fabulous cakes. I am thrilled for her, sincerely. She found her passion. I learned cake decorating is not for me, so I let it go and never looked back. I found words and writing instead. Potato - potato. Discover what you love. Pursue it. Embrace it. Let others do the same. Amazing. Liberating. Joyful.

I need a nap. I canceled on a friend the other day. We have been trying to coordinate our schedules for a writing session for weeks. We had a terrible thunderstorm the night before and my dog and children were spooked by it and up most of the night. Needless to say, I wasn't at my best the next morning. I knew that if she came over, I would be useless to her because I was completely exhausted. So I rescheduled. I needed a nap. So often we neglect our physical needs in the name of productivity. And yet, our bodies are the vehicles that allow us to accomplish everything in life. Sometimes we don't get enough sleep. Sometimes we are sick. Sometimes we need to eat. We need to listen better to our bodies - honor the things they are telling us. When we listen and honor our physical needs, we are more at peace. We have more energy. We are more able to be patient with others.

I often wonder what would happen in our fast paced society if everyone were willing to say yes - only in moderation. I think we would all smile more, we would be better rested, we would be more willing to help each other with sincerity and we would be more patient. Say yes - but only when your heart tells you to. Remember that not now doesn't mean not ever, there will always be another house. Be patient. Find your own passion. And take a nap. Have the courage to find the place of balance, listen to what your heart is really saying to you. You just might hear it tell you 'YES!'

Veteran's Day Volition

2010-11-11T20:03:00.001-08:00

My baby brother went to war today.

He was anxious to go. He had been preparing and training for a long time to serve his country. I could hear the excitement in his voice as I spoke to him for the last time on friendly soil, waiting in the airport in Baltimore. He felt honor in his mission and pride in fulfilling his duty. He's a grown man, a new father, a pilot in the Air Force but somehow to me he will always be that tiny, chubby boy I held in my arms as an eight year old girl. When I first met my new brother I remember looking into his big brown eyes and wanting to protect him from the world. Those feelings haven't changed even though almost thirty years have come and gone since that day.

I grew up with strong feelings of patriotism. I remember as a thirteen year old girl walking the wall of the Vietnam Memorial in DC choking back tears. I saw so many, many names and felt I owed them an unfathomable debt. They gave their lives so I could be free. I had ancestors who had served in previous wars, but I grew up with a cloudy vision of soldiers. They were mostly symbolic to me, a vision of a mission of freedom. I felt gratitude for their sacrifices, but I could not fully grasp what the sacrifice of a soldier meant.

Until I married one.

I spent seven years married to an active duty soldier before we joined civilian life. We lived in cities where uniforms were commonplace and deployments routine. Our hearts ached with our friends and neighbors when their loved ones were sent off. Our children ate lunch and rode bikes with their children. We saw the strain and worry of wives, husbands and families. We watched them brave family life without the constant support of spouse, colored by the constant worry of their safety. We saw them shelter each other, support each others' children, and cling to camaraderie through difficult circumstances.

We saw their faces. Suddenly the symbolic soldier became real. He was my neighbor overseas while his wife received a diagnosis of breast cancer. He was my friend who witnessed the birth of his baby on a phone call. He was my friend's husband, coming home weary and thin and shaken from months in the field. He was a brother from church, worrying simultaneously about his wife's pregnancy complications and his unit's safety in the next engagement. He was the father of my daughter's friend, missing from their orchestra recital. He was a five year old's Dad on a plane to Haiti with 24 hours notice, absent from preschool pickup. He had a family. A home. A dog. A truck. A daughter. A son. A wife.

Soldiers. Brave. Honorable. Heroic. Serving our country willingly. What country? We the people. You. Me. Your child. Your sister. Your mother. Your friend. They leave and fight and serve, some of them even giving their lives so you and I could go to the grocery store today. So we could drive to work and hug our kids and go to sleep in peace. Without fear of war.

So as the day folds down here, I see my brother's face. His dark hair and brown eyes tucked under his crisp dark blue hat as he climbs on a plane in the desert. As he scans the sky and catches a glimpse of light shining over the horizon I hope he sees me. I hope he sees you. Not just a grateful nation, but a grateful person.

A soldier sacrifices self for the safety of all.

Thank you, Mike. Thank you, Max. Thank you, Scott. Thank you, Doug. Thank you, Mark. Thank you, Erik. Thank you, Malone. Thank you, Glen. Thank you, Frank. Thank you, Farrell. Thank you, Herb. Thank you, Irene.

Thank you, soldier.

I see you.

A Sight to Behold

2010-09-29T06:00:00.000-07:00

I was a sight to behold.

I was scheduled to meet at a parking lot at 9:15 to carpool with some ladies to a nearby city. I had offered to drive since my vehicle would accommodate most of the group. I had mistakenly determined that I had time to workout before I left in the morning and by the time I left my house I was running behind. I threw my knee high boots in the car with my lunch and sped away, driving in my stocking feet.

I arrived just as they were gathering as a group before departure. I pulled up, threw my boots on my feet, turned around to the back seat and saw the stray magazines, rice cakes, puzzle pieces and booster seat strewn all over. I jumped out, car still running, and tried to hurriedly collect the embarrassment that had overcome my vehicle. As I was frantically junk collecting, one of the ladies came around to the side of my car and said they wanted to say a prayer before they left. Having already made them late, I tromped around to the group, boots unzipped, arms full of garbage and a car seat, laughingly stated, "Well, I'm a mother!" and bowed my head to pray.

Now this was the first time I had met some of these women, the first time I would spend any time with most of them and I was a mess. But the reality was at that precise moment I could do nothing to change it. Yes, I could have gotten up a half an hour earlier to be sure I had time to work out, I could have skipped my workout and cleaned out my car and perfected my outfit before I left. I could have done a hundred different things to ensure that moment didn't happen, but I honestly had done the best I could that morning. And because I recognized that I had done all I could and still came up lacking, all I could do was laugh. I thought, well, if they don't like me after this, they never would have liked me anyway! I ended up having a lovely drive chatting and sharing with these women. I let the tragic moment go so that I could embrace the remainder of the future.

It's taken me years to have this kind of a moment. In the past, I would have been mortified for days, weeks over the fact I was so humiliated and my car was a mess. I would have avoided those women ever after, worried about what they had thought or still thought of me. But I've come to realize that perfection is overrated and there is too little time or energy to waste on worry - especially worrying about what others think.

As I was dropping everyone off later that afternoon, one woman chuckled that she would never forget how I looked standing there, boots unzipped, arms filled with vehicular overflow bowing my head to pray. I hope I never do either. I hope whenever I start to feel the panic of perfection rising up within me, I will take a deep breath, unzip my boots, laugh a little and bow my head to pray.

3:42 pm

2010-09-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

The house is strangely quiet for a moment. A Saturday afternoon lull in the chaos of projects, chores and birthday parties. Gray clouds loom and swirl in the wind, threatening a deluge but withholding their splendor of moisture, sitting simply between my tired eyes and the sun. I look out my front window and see a lone flag blowing quietly in the wind.

My heart lurches, stirring in the silence of the memory. Cascading images suddenly fill my heart and mind. The shock, the uncertainty, the anger, the sorrow, the eerie silence of people huddled around television screens, watching, wondering, waiting - the image of a lonely flag flying in the wind.

I still feel a sense of sadness, of loss. It somehow never seems right for me to have a 'normal' day on this anniversary. I lost a friend that day, but I also lost a sense of innocence and trust in the world. I couldn't understand then how people who lived so far away could feel enough hatred to destroy families and lives in such a sudden, violent, shocking way. I still don't understand it. I sometimes wish I could go back to that morning when I dropped my now teenage daughter off at preschool and relish the innocence of that moment. It was such a lovely, simple morning until...

I feel simultaneously removed and connected to that day. Removed by time - years have spanned the days and weeks of normalcy returned since then. Removed by distance from the terror - recognizing that fear is only granted by permission. Removed by healing and children and inches indicating their growth and mine since then. And yet connected - connected to my fellow Americans who grieved and mourned and angered with me that day. Connected by loss and fear and wonder at the why. Connected by the waves of minutes and hours and years that slowly carried us each away from that terrible day and then back to it again each year as we remember.

The silent flag blows softly in the darkened, threatening sky. The wind blows my memories, twisting them into certain remembrance. The sorrow swirls and sudden tears drop unbidden down my face. I notice them only as they fall and begin to mix and mingle with nature's sudden agreement. The somber heavens finally open as the rain descends, drop by drop, soaking the flag as it circles in the wind.

Need a Hand?

2010-04-30T06:25:00.001-07:00

On the way to school this morning, my son's bike chain came off. There I was, struggling to get it put back on having very little success when a man rode up. He was on his child's bike. I don't know who he was - must have been a neighbor - but I had never met him before. He asked me if I needed a hand. I told him I did, he showed me a little trick to get the chain back on, told me how to tighten the chain and rode off. He must have seen me out of his window and rode to my rescue. It was so kind, so unexpected and so needed.

Riding back home I couldn't help but think of the newspaper article I had read the night before. A homeless immigrant from Guatemala was working construction in New York City. He came across a man and a woman arguing and stepped in to try and help. He was wounded in the process and left, lying on the street. The article said nearby security cameras showed dozens of people simply walking by him. When firefighters finally arrived hours later, the man was dead.

How many of us see someone in need, know that we can help, and do nothing? I wonder what our world would become if we could be like the man I met this morning. We would see someone struggling, get on our bikes, ride across the street and ask, "Do you need a hand?"

Mother Moment

2010-04-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

Today was the Awards Assembly at my son's elementary school. The parents are invited to come to a little assembly at the end of each quarter where they honor students for grades, reading, writing etc. It's one of those times when you sit quietly for an hour waiting for your own child's ten seconds up on the stage so they can see you smile and applaud.

As the hour wore on, I clapped and clapped for other children, waiting for my son's turn. When his name was called for perfect attendance, my heart fell. I knew that he had missed four days early on in the quarter from an illness. They were handing out certificates for a free kid's meal to one of my son's favorite restaurants. He walked slowly up to the stage, reluctantly took the certificate from the principal and looked out at me in the audience. I knew that he knew he didn't deserve the award. As the parents and students applauded, my son turned back to the principal. In front of all of his peers, he told the principal that he hadn't earned the award. He wanted to give it back.

I would rather have been sitting in that assembly for that moment than to see him get any other award. He had been honest, in front of all of his peers, in a setting that must not have been easy for him. It was more important for him to live consistently with the values we have tried to instill in him than it was for him to eat at his favorite restaurant.

I got a little weepy and wished I had taken a picture. More than I want my children to be intelligent or successful or well liked, I want them to be good. It was one of those unexpected moments when the past nine years of full time mothering this boy suddenly seemed worth all the sacrifice.

Never give up teaching your children. You never know when they might surprise you.

9:22

2010-03-29T06:26:00.000-07:00

9:22 am -

Dishes waiting. Laundry sitting. Writing pressing. But all I hear is the blissful silence of solitude. It is such a welcome respite from the chaos of the weekend that I hardly dare to disrupt its peaceful invitation to just sit and bask in its presence.

Silence is a longed for guest in the home of my heart, but all to often its invitations get blown away in the gusty winds of driving ambition. It is difficult to sit in the silence when your inner voice automatically moves to the mode of chaos management, listing carefully off all of the tasks to accomplish before some arbitrarily placed deadline threatens to create an internal implosion.

Listen. I can hear the clock ticking in the background. I feel the rhythm move in my heart. Is it an indication of time squandered or time savored? In the push to forever get somewhere else, I am missing the moments. The now. The silence that surrounds me in the absence of the rush of the morning, the weekend, the pressing push of time.

What happens at 9:22 in the morning, when instead of washing or sorting or anything, I simply sit? I'll tell you what happens. Acknowledgement of my own simple existence. Understanding of my singular importance within the spinning world of wonder. Recognition that my quiet self, my simply beating heart, my breath in and out, are enough. I am a wondrous creation, excepting any accomplishment or lack thereof.

To sit is to simply be. To marvel at my eyes that can see beauty, my mind that can recognize truth, my heart than continues to bring life to every portion of my body without any conscious effort.

In the stillness.

May I seek your company more readily, welcome guest. You rarely come uninvited, unintended. Your presence brings calm and respite. You must visit more often.

It is 9:22. You have somehow found me this morning.

I softly open the door to my heart.

Please, come in.

Another Blog

2010-03-09T18:28:00.000-08:00

For my readers who may be interested more in my faith, I will also be posting at www.praiseworthywords.blogspot.com.

Thanks for listening!

I Lost My Balance

2010-03-05T13:29:00.000-08:00

I was careening through my living room with the vacuum cleaner blaring. I had a class to teach at my home in just twenty minutes, I was still in my pajamas and had assigned my five year old son to do the dusting. He was dutifully dusting the bottom of the end table when I turned quickly, knocking over the lamp. As I rushed to save it from its impending doom, I started to fall myself and accidentally stepped on my son's hand. He started to cry and as I tried to comfort him I said, "I'm so sorry, I lost my balance."

As soon as the words left my mouth I recognized the depth of them. Boy, had I lost my balance. I am getting ready to move - again. For those of you who have enjoyed the tranquility of stability, let me assure you that moving to a new place can be exciting, but it is also one of the most stressful things a family can experience. With it comes lists of minor repairs, projects, sorting, packing and decluttering. Last weekend we started with the garage, clearing out all the muck and dust and unused items, sending all the sneeze inducing offenders to goodwill or storage. I caught the bug that day, the 'muck it bug' I call it. I reach a point in every move that I see everything as clutter and want to get rid of or organize every item we own. It can do wonders for showing your home, but it can also wreak havoc on your sanity. I worked for hours and hours this week, clearing out closets, thinning out bookshelves and sorting through clothing. My house is a showpiece, my soul is a mess.

You see, I got so driven to accomplish this 'very important task' that I forgot about all the other things that are important to me. I didn't spend much quality time with my family, outside of loading or unloading boxes from the truck. I didn't go to my yoga class at all this week - my haven of physical and emotional balance. I didn't read. I didn't write. I didn't eat well. I didn't sleep well. But man, my closets are clean!

I'm convinced that I have to learn this lesson again and again and again. For whatever reason, my intrinsic drive often pummels over my internal voice of balance and contentment. In yoga when we practice our balance poses, we have to concentrate dutifully but in a relaxed state or we fall over. That's not fun when you are standing precariously on one foot or upside down in a headstand. We must remember to breathe or the tension creates imbalance which can lead to injury.

I keep coming back to balance - this art of learning what to let go of, what to hold onto, when to breathe and when to rest. My body is begging for it. My soul is requiring it. My sanity depends on it.

Maybe one day it won't take a frenzied household appliance and a careening light fixture for me to recognize it.

On Contemplating the Meditative State

2010-02-25T07:48:00.000-08:00

I was recently on a cross country flight. I had three transfers and by the time I boarded my last plane I was already exhausted. I usually request an aisle seat to accommodate my gangly legs, but due to a weather rescheduling, I was seated near the window. I sat next to a fragrant, unkempt man and just behind an enamored couple who couldn’t seem to wait until they reached their final destination’s hotel room to express their affection. My long legs were crazily cramped and I was in the full state of crankiness before the plane even left the ground. As the elevation rose, so did my irritation. I couldn’t wait to get off the plane I had just boarded, but finally convinced myself that the flight was short and it would all be over soon enough. I buried myself in my magazine, grumbling.

After we had reached altitude, I briefly pried my eyes away from my mindless magazine so the flight attendant could hand me my drink. Before turning back to deepening distraction, I happened to glance out the window. I saw deep crevices that stretched out for miles. It was breathtaking. “Is that the Grand Canyon?” I asked incredulously. “Yes, it is,” he responded casually. He apparently sees this marvel every day, but the flight immediately changed for me. I stared out my window, my magazine sliding forgotten down my seat. Miles swept by as I sat slowly sipping my drink, savoring the grandeur of nature displayed below me. What I saw out of my tiny porthole to the universe was remarkable. I realized I was up in the air tens of thousands of feet and yet the canyon seemed to go on forever. I studied the flowing turns, the mighty crevices etched into the rock over eons of time by a mighty river that from my perspective looked like a simple, flowing stream. Grace. Beauty. Wonder. Truly a canyon that could be called nothing short of grand.

As the plane began its descent, my mind again became rooted in reality, but one that had become altered somehow. As soon as I had uttered the words, Grand Canyon, I became oblivious to all of my immediate surroundings once I was focused on beauty. In an instant, I experienced feelings of calm and childlike wonder. My immediate irritations fled and I felt gratitude for the privilege of witnessing one of nature’s mighty miracles from such a unique perspective.

In that moment I understood a little better the beauty of being in a constant meditative state. It is not found only by becoming completely disengaged from present surroundings. It does not always require one to ignore humanity and close the eyes in a quiet, darkened room. In many instances the meditative state is one of choosing to be truly aware. As I sat on a soaring plane, I chose to fully observe my present circumstances. I could have become so entangled in my irritability that I would have missed the view of a lifetime.

The irony is that the canyon would have been there the whole time, whether I had chosen to see it or not.

On Humility

2010-02-24T05:25:00.000-08:00

So, how do you graciously give a reading of a poem you have written about pride without being prideful? Don't worry - God has it covered. First, He'll be sure to schedule your reading at the same time as the Winter Olympics and a Billy Joel concert and in the same venue as a world famous dance performance. Then He'll send you a zit the size of Texas right in the middle of your forehead that refuses to be concealed with makeup. Lastly he'll make sure that your husband is sitting firmly on your skirt so that as you go to stand up in front of a room full of people, you have a split second where you are certain the entire audience will know whether or not you remembered to put a slip on that morning.

How to effectively teach a lesson on how to not be prideful? Never fear - He has it all under control.

The Business of Busy-ness

2010-02-10T05:55:00.001-08:00

Life sure seems to get in the way sometimes. I heard once that I should be grateful for all the experiences I have in life that distract me from my writing because they give me something to write about. I wonder if that means when I am eighty I will finally find some quiet time to work on the projects that keep haunting me. You see, I have all these ideas floating around in my mind. They speak to me at random times, while I'm rinsing dishes or stirring soup or folding laundry, and I worry that if I don't capture them now while they are dancing freshly in my mind that they will wander off into the dark and scrambled recesses of my mind and disappear forever.

So I keep my laptop handy. I try to carve out a couple of hours here and there when I can. But mostly I hope - I hope that when the chaos of everyday life settles to the point where I find myself without busy children and schedules running amok the glimmers of light and inspiration will still be there.

Off to fold the laundry. Pirouette anyone?

Violence is...Violence

2010-01-18T05:29:00.000-08:00

The clock read 12:43. The screaming outside my window had woken me up out of a dead sleep. My heart started pounding and I felt the familiar fear return. The elevated, angry voices of men and the desperate, pleading voice of a woman reverberated through the windows and sent panic into my soul. I didn't know what to do, again.

My mind raced back to my childhood home. I was eight or nine years old and had the singular privilege in my home of having my own room for a while. I had been soundly asleep when I heard the screaming, the voices raised in anger and hatred outside my window. My eyes popped open, and I checked to feel my racing pulse. I felt frozen. I don't know how long I stared at my ceiling, willing the voices to stop their horrible tirades, but at some point I slipped quietly out of my bed onto the floor next to the window. I peeked quietly through the metal blinds on my bedroom window, only to see a woman waving a gun crazily at a man. It was the neighbors two houses down, whose house I instinctively avoided. Whatever courage I had found to crawl out of my bed instantly failed me at the sight of the gun and I slumped to the floor in horror. The noise was so deafening to my childlike ears that I couldn't believe it hadn't awakened anyone else in my home. I wanted to run as quickly as I could to my parents room that was just across the hall, but my body felt covered in thick ice. Somehow my young mind told me that they had seen me look out the window and if I moved, I would be shot. I was paralyzed with fear. I don't remember how long I lay crumpled next to my window, freezing, but that memory is etched with precision on my psyche.

The clock read 1:04. The anger was escalating. I got up to call the police, but neither of my cordless phones were in their chargers. I was afraid to turn on any lights, unsure if the police arrived and emotions escalated any further they would somehow be able to determine the source of the caller and direct the anger to my home. I checked on my sleeping children, my husband was snoring soundly, even my dog was oblivious to the chaos nearby. So I went back to my room to pray. It seemed the only logical solution at that point. I needed to feel comfort, so I turned to the only Source of comfort that has never failed me. The pleading girl finally convinced the tirade to return indoors. The voices became more muffled, but no less violent.

My mind fled to our apartment in a huge city. My husband was attending graduate school and we had rented a place in the nicest area we could afford. It had its drawbacks, but in general I felt safe at home with our little daughter and newborn son as long as I had all the doors and windows locked. I was constantly aware of my surroundings and learned to live on the edge of fear most times. It was one of the things I disliked about city life as compared to my simple, small town upbringing. It was the middle of the night again, this time the challenge of a shared wall brought the violence right into my home. I could hear the woman screaming, pleading for the man not to hurt her. I heard his rough, bellowing voice threatening with hatred and horrible intentions. This time I had a husband laying next to me. I woke him up and we listened to the terror, again unsure of what to do. Surely we weren't the only ones hearing this. Surely someone else would call the police. If we did call, would we be safe? Would the situation escalate further? I didn't doubt the malice of his intent or the sincerity of his demands. My babies were sleeping in the next room. As the glass started shattering through the wall, I couldn't stand my proximity. The fear so enveloping, I grabbed my pillow and escaped to the furthest end of my little apartment away from the anger. The next day as I was leaving to take our daughter to preschool, the woman was outside her door waving a gun, a policeman there told me to go back inside immediately. I watched through cracked blinds again until the situation was under control. I went outside to ask the officer what was going on and he told me not to worry. Not to worry? The woman was evicted shortly after, but the fear lingered. I felt so relieved to move away from that place.

I guess somehow I thought that if we finally lived in a certain zip code or obtained a certain income level that those haunting voices could finally be put behind me. As I lay in my bed listening to the violent screams coming from the home next door, the home with a swimming pool and hardwood floors, I realized the universality of pain and anger. I wonder what had happened so many times before in that home, for it to finally reach the point it did last night. The moment where the anger and pain spewed outside of the walls and into the proximity of public perspective. I wonder why such terrifying displays are referred to as 'domestic violence'. The word domestic to me invokes visions of June Cleaver, freshly baked bread and white linens blowing crisply on a backyard clothesline. It doesn't bear any relation to what I heard outside my bedroom window last night. It should just be called violence.

I never know what I should do in those moments. Succumb to the fear that permeates my soul, race to the phone to call authorities to stop the horror for the people I'm hearing, drop to my knees for comfort and plead for everyone's safety. In that moment of now all too familiar terror, I found myself in mourning that I was there again - amidst the anger, too near to the violence, too close to danger. When will it ever stop?

I guess you never really know what people are dealing with. Tread lightly. Walk softly. Speak kindly. You never know what the voices were saying or what hearts were hearing the night before.

Helpless in Haiti

2010-01-16T07:47:00.001-08:00

I sat at my kitchen table yesterday morning staring at the newspaper. Pictures of bleeding children, suffering people scrabbling through the rubble of what was once their lives, tears streaming down their faces. As their tears quickly became mine and I felt the moisture touch the pages of newsprint, I couldn't eat my breakfast. My half eaten bowl of cereal sat suddenly unwanted off to the side and I looked at my glistening glass of pure, clean ice water. People were dying from lack of water, the reporter said. Water. And all I had to do today was turn on my tap, place my glass underneath and drink from the fountain of life. I sat feeling helpless and guilty. How could I eat when people were dying, bleeding, suffering?

I heard of some religious leaders blaming the earthquake on wickedness in Haiti. Now I don't pretend to understand all the ways of God, and surely this natural disaster can be placed in no one else's hands but His. But the God I know would hardly punish an already poverty stricken, suffering nation with more calamity to humble them to recognize His hand. The Haitian people are decidedly religious, one report I read of a woman running down the road screaming, "We know you are the greatest, God. We know. You don't need to show us again!" So I wonder if in the midst of this horrifying devastation, God is not testing the faith of the devastated, but ours.

He surely has heard the cries and prayers of His suffering children there, even before the earthquake started. But have we? I wonder if God allowed this to happen so that we could no longer ignore the wearied, broken hearts of His children - their cries and sorrows suddenly front page news. I wonder if He is forcing us to finally see what so many of us have been choosing to ignore. I wonder if the calamity could have been stayed by His loving hand not if they had repented, but if we had.

I have been plagued by these thoughts, wondering what I could do to help. I have given my donation to the Red Cross. I contribute regularly to my church's humanitarian aid fund which has already begun to send hygiene kits and basic supplies over to Haiti. My husband will be working all day tomorrow, Sunday, to ready more soldiers to leave for Haiti. So many around me here in the military city where I live are giving more, yet again. I spoke with a neighbor who, with guilt in her voice, expressed her hope that her husband would be spared this assignment. You see, he just returned home from the war. He has already been gone for months and months, sacrificing himself to protect the innocent. The thought of having him leave already, even in the midst of the visible suffering, is incredibly difficult for their family. Yes, the soldiers are trained. Yes, this is why we have a military. Yes, they will go if they are asked to go. They will continue to sacrifice again and again to not only keep our country safe, but to provide hope and comfort and protection to weary nations throughout the world.

But I wonder. I wonder if every person in the world could view this tragedy for what it really is - a human tragedy. I wonder if instead of sending in our obligatory donations to the Red Cross, relying on our wonderful but wearied soldiers, and then turning off the news so we don't have to hear about the horrifying conditions in Haiti, we each rise up and do something. Something significant. Something of sacrifice. If God is testing us to see how we will react to His suffering poor, are we willing to get on our knees? Are we willing to humbly ask Him what we as individuals, with our unique set of talents and resources can do in this moment to make a difference?

Could we who have medical training leave comfortable homes and incomes to sacrifice our time and talents to help the wounded? Could we who are patients of those individuals walk into their offices with resources or donations or skills to keep their practices afloat in their absence? Could we who are their employees, their neighbors, their friends rally around them and send them over to help? Could we offer assistance to local firefighters, rescue personnel and those trained to deal with such significant situations so that they can go and help? Could we carpool their children, walk their dogs, shovel their walkways, buy their groceries? Could we forgo a dinner out, a new suit or a family vacation to contribute more? Could we fall to our knees in gratitude for our own blessings and then get up and go to work to share those resources with those in need? I wonder what would happen if suddenly private citizens everywhere were willing to sacrifice in significant ways in order to help those in need?

What can I do? God has given me the gift of words and I felt impressed to write today. What can you do? I don't know, but God does. We can each ask God that question, and when we ask with a heart willing to follow what He whispers, He will guide us. He will lead us to the resources and people and places where He can best use each of us. He wants us to help. He needs us to help. He can use you with your unique set of skills and circumstances to bless the poor and needy in every time, but especially now. When the cries of His suffering children can finally no longer be ignored.

Balancing Act

2010-01-12T07:43:00.000-08:00

It's days like these that make me remember when I was a little girl. I grew up in a small town with not much going on from day to day, so it was a huge deal when the circus came to town. I remember how excited everyone would get and it would build for days before the actual event. I wasn't anxious to see the clowns, the lion tamers or even the man being shot out of the cannon. I remember being mesmerized by only one act - the tightrope walker. I remember my heart pounding as he walked up the enormous ladder to the tiny landing. I was flabbergasted when I realized there were no harnesses or safety equipment for him, just a very long pole. I sat transfixed in my seat, watching every careful step forward, waiting as he wobbled at times, using the enormous pole to recorrect himself and keep from falling. I'm sure I held my breath from the moment he stepped onto the wire until he made it safely to the other side.

I have had to learn how to be more careful in my life. This past year I have been plagued with illness and injury. As a woman who has never failed to find intrinsic drive to motivate myself to push harder and reach higher, I've had to return over and over again to the principle of balance. I have a fetish for calendars and lists. I love getting a new calendar each year and turning over a new page each month. I used to look forward to filling it all with with neat, organized events that were designed to help me accomplish my goals. I've had to learn to let go of much of that this year and simply focus on getting from day to day. As my health has slowly returned to me, I have found myself gravitating back to my old ways. It's been especially difficult at the start of this new year. It's time to set goals! It's time to make lists! It's time to fill up a new calendar!

I spent the morning yesterday making a six month plan, complete with daily, weekly and monthly goals. I was so excited and motivated. I was even feeling proud of myself that in the goal setting session I recognized some limitations on my time and decided to postpone several large scale tasks that will require some significant chunks of time that I simply cannot carve out for a while. So I just set them aside for now. I felt like I had found a happy balance between drive and realism. Then as I went to bed, I started feeling unwell again. That led to another sleepless night, another difficult morning just trying to accomplish the mundane, leaving me with a list that today felt impossible and unrealistic, even with the edits.

Perhaps it's my pacing. Part of the tightrope walker's ability to actually cross without tragedy was that he moved slowly, deliberately. If he had simply bolted out, he surely would have tumbled to his demise. He would take a step, then wait to let the rest of his body adjust to the new position, using his pole to help him find that place of quiet calm before taking the next step - and so on and so on until he reached his goal.

Guess I'm just in a state of constant adjusting, waiting for my body to get used to this deliberate pace and granting myself the time to find a place of balance before trying to move forward any further.

Just a daily balancing act...welcome to the tightrope!

Tradition, Tradition

2009-11-27T13:36:00.001-08:00

I am a traditionalist. I grew up in the same town, in the same house, in the same room until I left for college. I had the same friends from preschool all the way into high school. I grew up in a family and a town where change was a rarity and I liked it that way. Holidays were especially important, entrenched in moments that repeated themselves year after year. I remember the stir it caused in my extended family when we moved our Christmas day celebration to a new location - it was big news.

When I got married almost fourteen years ago, I had no idea that my traditionalist ways were about to be greatly tested. My husband decided to pursue a career that required lengthy and varied training. This meant transferring to many different schools, all of which ended up being in different states. After just a few years, we moved thousands of miles away from any family member, making it even more difficult to carry on the traditions I had loved as a girl. I tried to make the best of every occasion and learned to adapt to the existing circumstances of my life, but a part of me still longed for the upbringing I had known for my own children.

Last week, thoughts of turkey dinners, extended family, hot pies and tradition started haunting me again. We had planned to travel several states away to visit with friends who have become like family for the Thanksgiving festivities, but they had an unexpected flood in their basement. Our sleeping quarters were under water and they needed the time for home renovations, so we were left without plans. I was inclined to stay home and host another dinner myself - not unlike many I had done in the past where we invited others without family to join us for a feast. But my husband really wanted to get away, so he started looking at beach houses to rent. It's cheap to visit the beach in the winter - too cold, too windy. He found a beauty of a cottage at a beauty of a price and suggested we travel there, turkey, trimmings and all for this traditional holiday.

Accustomed to variance in my visions of tradition, I agreed. I, too, love the beach. I just never anticipated celebrating Thanksgiving there. Packing the morning we left, filling paper bags with Thanksgiving foods, suitcases with sunscreen and swimming suits, my mood swiftly declined. Where was tradition? Where were the memories? What kind of heritage was I giving my children? Who has Thanksgiving at the beach by themselves?

We schlepped everything, dog included, into the van and drove the few hours to the beach. We arrived just before sunset. I suggested we stop by the ocean before unschlepping at the cottage. As we parked, set foot on the sand, and saw the waves rolling gently inward and outward, the sun sinking in crimson delight, my tension melted away and I thought, who gets to have Thanksgiving at the beach?

The sun rose slowly through the fog on Thursday. Forecasting over 70 degree weather, we decided to buck tradition altogether, seize the sun filled day and head to the sea and sand. We read, we jumped waves, we tried skim boarding, we dug giant holes and we walked along the ocean. We ate cheese sandwiches for lunch and snacked on licorice and gummy bears on the shore. We stayed until the sun was waning and the cool breezes licked our faces, reminding us it was November after all.

We cleaned up at the cottage and drove through the sleepy beach town trying to find anyplace open to eat. As we heartily downed potato soup, fried shrimp and salad I couldn't resist one last try at tradition. I asked everyone to share something they were thankful for. My daughter said, "I'm thankful we could spend Thanksgiving together at the beach."

I realized then that I was giving my children memories. I was giving them a wonderful heritage. Not one where the dishes and company were always the same. Not one entrenched in sameness and solidarity. Not one that they would necessarily continue generation after generation in their own homes as they grow and leave me. But I was giving them the heritage of love. I was leaving them the legacy of spending time together having fun as a family. I was giving them the ability to be grateful for time away, the ability to celebrate a holiday based on gratitude by being grateful for the moments they had, however untraditional they were.

They, in turn, were giving me the gift of a new definition of traditionalist.

Can You Do Me a Favor?

2009-11-17T07:00:00.001-08:00

My neighbor called me last week to ask a favor. She is my good friend and we do things for each other all the time - pick up kids from school, watch the dogs while they play, borrow potatoes and get the paper when we're out of town - you know, neighborly kinds of things. So I fully anticipated a request for eggs or carpool when I saw her name on the caller ID that morning.

"Good morning!" I said.

"Hi Anna, do you have a minute?" she asked, her voice cracking a bit.

"Sure, what can I do for you?" I replied.

"I wonder if you would pray for me today," she said.

She then proceeded to share with me how worried she was that morning. She was anticipating an encounter associated with her job that she was dreading. She was emotional and vulnerable and needed a friend in that moment. Not just any friend. One that would pray for her.

"I know you are a good Christian woman," she said, "and I need extra help today. Will you pray and ask Him to help me do this?"

Now I share many things with this wonderful Christian woman, but not my faith. We have openly shared our beliefs with each other and even attended events at one anothers' churches. We have doctrinal differences that we have always respected with kindness. But we share a deep belief in a loving Savior who will help us in our times of need.

I have never been more touched at a request than I was that morning. My friend had granted me the priceless gift of trust in that moment, asking me to pray to the God I know and love on behalf of her, a woman I know and love. I listened to her, encouraged her and assured her that I would pray for her. I got off the phone and immediately went to my bedside and knelt in fervent prayer for my faithful, fearful friend. As I did, I felt comfort, peace and assurance that she would be all right.

I saw her at the school that afternoon as we were picking up our children. I knew her meeting had been just prior to that. As she walked over to me, she looked almost joyful.

"It went wonderfully," she shared. "I felt the words just come to me and I knew what to say. I feel so much better. Thank you for praying for me today."

All I could do was tearfully hug and thank her - my sweet neighbor who taught me by humble example what help really is. It's more than a cup of sugar and picking up mail. It's trusting and loving a friend enough to share fear, express concern about a difficult experience and asking that person for a specific, immediate prayer. It's asking someone to lighten the burden, to share the load, to pray in faith.

Since that encounter, I have tried to think if I had ever done such a thing. I certainly have had many moments in my life when I needed the faith and prayers of friends, but for whatever reason I didn't call. I have heard of people's illnesses or difficulties, and said I would pray for them, but rarely have I done so immediately or with such specific fervency as I had that morning. I couldn't think of any good reason why. Maybe I worried that I would feel weak or inadequate in my faith if I had to request the help of others. Maybe I thought asking for help would overly burden my friends. Maybe I thought I simply had to endure my difficulty or worry alone. I have begun to recognize how wrong and selfish I have been by denying others the opportunity to help me, to pray for me. In my friend's simple request for help, she lifted me. She asked for a prayer. She asked for my faith. I'm starting to see what a beautiful request that can be.

So, can you do me a favor?

Published

2009-11-12T07:00:00.001-08:00

Well, the day arrived unexpectedly yesterday. The day every author waits for to be able to declare themselves an official writer - publication.

Monday morning I wrote a short story on a service project some youth from my church did here in my city. They placed flags on gravesites at a local veteran's cemetery. My good friend took some beautiful pictures and I sent them out to a myriad of local newspapers, hoping for some human interest coverage. On a whim, I sent the story to a national publication. By Tuesday morning, I had received an email from a colleague congratulating me on my story - published by the national paper. Today it is their top story.

It speaks to the state of our nation, I think, that a story about teenagers placing flags on graves would be national news. You see, they're not just any teenagers. They are children of military families. It also speaks to the state of our nation that my story has not received any local coverage. Not a bite. You see, I live in a military town. Here it is not big news that children have parents who are deployed. Here people honor veterans and soldiers ever single day. It's nice to place flags on veterans' graves, but we give our fathers, our husbands, our brothers and our mothers to this country every single day. We send them off for months at a time, wondering if they will return. We go to birthday parties and meet gold star wives - women widowed by the ravages of war. We have displays at school showing how many veterans are connected to the children there and we see row after row after row. We have breakfasts with veterans where many men and women show up in uniform to eat with school children knowing there are many, many more who wish they could, but are eating MRE's in the desert thousands of miles away from their children. We don't need to wear yellow ribbons or fly flags to remember our veterans. Our loved ones wear the flag every day on their uniforms and the strings pulled on our hearts from here to wherever they are too long and too strong to be represented by a little yellow string.

I wondered yesterday, as the nation celebrated Veteran's Day, if they thought of my friends, my neighbors. I wondered how many private citizens took the time to honor a soldier, a veteran in some way. I wondered as they went about their lives, grocery shopping, working, flying on a business trip, if they recognized that every piece of that freedom was bought by a soldier. It was bought by his family, by his children who sacrifice each day without him home, praying for his safety. Each moment of freedom in this nation is a moment someone sacrificed for.

So if my story touched anyone, lent any light or hope about our country, I am grateful. But my greater hope would be that the story would prompt a flood of gratitude to our soldiers, to their families, to their children. They are the ones who need to be remembered and recognized. They are the ones who are powerful and resilient and amazing.

I hope that one day these beautiful young people will not have to know the normalcy of sacrifice that exists here. I wish I could write a piece that would be the top story here, one that meant our soldiers were safe, our families were together and they wouldn't have to leave again. I long for the front page story of freedom from oppression, from hatred, from war. Until that happens, I hope that their sacrifices are never forgotten. I hope there's not an American soldier alive who thinks his efforts aren't appreciated or remembered by his countrymen.

I hope we as a country never forget how we got our freedom - now that would be newsworthy.

Photo by Amanda Anderson

Milestones

2009-11-04T10:46:00.000-08:00

My odometer hit the 100,000 mile mark today. I knew it was coming. That line of nines for the past several trips had told me it was coming. I dropped my son off at preschool and noticed it was only seven miles til the turnover. But when I left for my next errand, made a quick phone call and went on auto pilot running errands, it happened. And I missed it. By the time I looked down it was two miles over.

I wonder how many milestones I miss in life because I'm busy running errands or simply on auto pilot. Sometimes I know they're coming and then when I'm in the moment, my mind is racing to consider the next task and I miss the present.

Still trying to learn to slow down, to better anticipate the precious moments that come and pass so quickly in life. Trying to capture the times that are - let go of what is past and stop anticipating what is to come.

Learning to mark the milestones...

It Doesn't Take Much

2009-11-02T07:14:00.000-08:00

I think we make service too complicated. We work at raising our children and serving our families day after day and somehow still feel guilty that we're not doing enough to help other people. We feel like if we're not at a homeless shelter or cleanup project, it isn't really serving. We worry that unless we spend hours helping others at an immense personal sacrifice, we're not doing enough. But I learned this week that sometimes service can be simple. I discovered that God has a way of using us to serve others in deeply personal ways, if only we let Him.

Many months ago I bought a picture that had particular meaning to me. It has hung on the wall next to my bed since then and brought me significant comfort and perspective. A couple of months ago I was asked to share some thoughts with a women's group and brought the picture to share. After my remarks, one woman told me how much that picture had touched her, so the next time I was at the store where I had bought it, I picked one up for her. It didn't take much time, it wasn't expensive, and I simply stuck it in my bag.

The picture sat somewhat forgotten until a crazy day last week. I was trying to prepare food, costume my children and get out the door to a Halloween party. It had been another full day and I was already exhausted at 5:00. A friend called me and said she had been making chicken pot pie and it had taken on a life of its own. She had way too much and asked if she could bring dinner over. I had just begun to wonder what I could quickly throw together for my family before we left and readily accepted her offer. The pot pie was like manna from Heaven in that moment. She had no idea when she called that I was on the verge of an early evening collapse. She didn't, but God did.

Minutes before we had to leave for the party I remembered my trunk. At the end of the festivities we would hand out candy from our beautifully decorated car trunks. Already racing the clock, I realized I hadn't decorated the van and sent my children scrambling through the house to grab some pumpkins and pictures to throw in. As we hurriedly drove away, I looked with dismay into the back seat. It was strewn with bags. Some days I just about live in my van, so I always have an assortment of bags with me in case I have time to write, run to the gym, or prepare a lesson. I was so embarrassed that I hadn't even had time to clear out my mess, but rushed on to the party anyway. I hoped no one would notice the chaos when it was time to open up the trunks.

We got to the party, started to eat and play games when I noticed the woman who had talked to me after my presentation. I hadn't seen her for over a month and I suddenly remembered the purchase I had made weeks before. I walked over and told her I had something for her. She looked at me, a bit surprised, and said, "You thought of me today?" "No," I replied, "I got it a month ago." It then dawned on me that I actually had it with me. The picture was in my embarrassing disaster of a backseat. It was in one of my bags. I quickly said, "I'll be right back." I ran out to my now gratefully full van, got the picture and brought it inside. As I handed it to her, tears instantly welled up in her eyes and with considerable emotion she said, "You have no idea how much I needed this. And that I needed it - today." She told me later how lonely and discouraged she had been feeling that day. She had wondered if God really knew her and remembered her. She had prayed for comfort, to know if she was loved. When I handed her that particular picture, in that precise moment, she knew. I had no idea how much she needed that picture right then. I didn't, but God did.

Saturday afternoon I had my son make a phone call. He had scored the winning goal at his soccer game that day and was so excited. He had already called both sets of his grandparents when I had the passing thought that I should dial another number. I had him call my sweet friend who has been going through some tough times. He told her all about his soccer goal and chatted happily for a few minutes, then hung up. Off we drove to his team party to celebrate. She called me last night to thank me. She told me how that day she had been struggling, dealing with a difficult situation and was on the verge of tears. Then her phone rang. When she heard my son's innocent, excited voice talking about his accomplishment, it lifted her heart and helped her get through her day. She said I had no idea how much she needed that call at that exact moment. She's right. I didn't, but God did.

Service doesn't always have to be big. Most of the time it's simply thinking of another person and letting God work His miracles through us. He's that good. He can inspire us to serve in ways that only He knows will help. He can use kind neighbors, tired Moms and even little boys to help someone else. It doesn't take much. Sometimes service is a chicken pot pie, a simple phone call, and a messy van.

In Memoriam

2009-10-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader,

If you ever find yourself in the darkness, the deep kind filled with despair and indecision, the kind that feels never ending, like there is no way out, I want to promise you there is. You may feel like you are the only one who feels the way you do. You might stand in a group of people and feel totally alone. You may hear comments or half conversations and be convinced that others are speaking unkindly, ignoring you or can't understand how you feel.

Let me tell you a secret. We all feel that way sometimes. We all have moments when we feel uncomfortable, inept and alone. It's a huge risk to open up to another human being. When we open up we risk being rejected or feeling stupid. Maybe you've felt that. We all have. Some of us cover up our feelings of rejection with bravado and ill treatment of others. Some of us choose to talk endlessly so that we never have to feel the silence of our sorrow. Some of us walk around all day pretending everything is wonderful and come home and cry ourselves to sleep. Some of us feel constant anxiety and fear of rejection. But all of us feel, reader. All of us understand.

You may feel like you will never feel any differently - that life is pointless. You may decide in that moment that life is not worth living anymore. You may consider doing something drastic, something final in that moment. Perhaps you think nobody will notice or care. If so, I wish you could have been with me in my car last week to see the faces of shock, terror and grief as the ambulance arrived. I wish you could have heard the cries of disbelief and anguish over a life cut so short, so suddenly, so pointlessly. I wish you could hear the expressions of grief by close friends, blaming themselves for the words not said or the signs not seen. I wish you could feel the sorrow of strangers feeling the loss, sharing the burden of grief. I wish you could see and feel the ripples of a life stilled in such a sudden and tragic way and the never ending wish that that life were still with us.

I hope that you would consider, for a moment, that your life touches others. Your presence, your breathing, your essence carries beyond yourself in every moment to other people. If they knew, if they really knew of your deepest feelings they would tell you that you are not alone. They would plead with you to talk to someone about how you're feeling. They would want you to know that life is worth living, even when it's hard. They would want you to know there is hope.

There is a way out, a different way. I promise.

Take a walk - notice the creations around you. Consider the care with which they were made. You are infinitely more important than the most perfect flower or tree. Find an animal and spend some time with it. Softly stroke its fur or wing. Feel its innocence and peace. Listen for its heartbeat and consider the gift of your own. Write your feelings down, the sad ones, the scary ones, the silly ones and the insecure ones. Validate for yourself what you are feeling. Recognize that you have words to speak. Things to say. Things worth saying. Listen to a song, not one filled with anger and despair. Find music that speaks of hope, of peace. Listen carefully to how you feel as you hear it. Let its beauty fill you. Read a book about someone who knows what it is to suffer, study how they have fought the darkness. Learn from them. Try to emulate them. Study your medications. Sometimes certain medicines that work wonderfully to help us with asthma or anxiety can cause devastating effects on our minds. Perhaps adjustments need to be made. Read about your family. Find out if anyone else in your family, present or past, has had struggles like you are having. Sometimes our heredity betrays us with our genetics and we have to fight the demons harder than others. This is not an excuse or a source of blame, it is a pathway to treatment and understanding.

Finally, reader, talk to someone. If you still feel the darkness, the despair pulling at you and dragging you into the place of no return, tell someone. If you can't speak the words out loud, write them in a letter. Not a final letter, but a letter to someone you know would want to know. Then wait. Wait as long as it takes. They may not know what to say or how to help. Their silence may not be one of carelessness, but of fear and uncertainty. If they don't respond, tell someone else. Tell and tell and talk and talk until someone listens, really listens. Then let them help you. Open up and let them listen. Let them understand your world of sorrow. Let them lead you to people who can show you the way out of the struggle. Let them remind you that you are not alone. You are not beyond help. You are of infinite worth.

There is a way out. I promise.

Balance

2009-10-27T05:35:00.000-07:00

I constantly struggle to find balance in my life. I often feel pulled in fifteen different directions all warranting my time and energy at once. When I place my focus on one area, I feel guilty that I'm not doing something else.

I was sharing my struggle with a friend the other day and she told me about her Dad's boat. She said that there is a mechanism on his boat called a 'trim tab'. If there is ever imbalance in the weight distribution of the boat, you can push a button and weight will be distributed to the opposite side to create balance that will keep the boat afloat. She explained that it was a slow, careful process to determine what is the proper weight distribution for the boat to be perfectly balanced.

I have considered carefully since then the balance of my own boat. I think I'm carrying a lot of unnecessary weight around on my boat. I've thought about what items in my boat simply need to be jettisoned. Sometimes I allow others to place things on my boat without permission and then spend the day working to adjust my trim tab to compensate for it. Sometimes I place unneeded weight on my own boat, not realizing the time and energy it will require to have it there. Other times I place undue importance on things, making them heavier than they need to be. I also realized the imbalance created when I try to carry loads that are designed to be carried well by other boats. You see, it dawned on me that no two boats are alike. We are all designed differently to carry different loads, chart different courses through life and accomplish different things. I need to stop looking at any other boats in comparison, and simply focus on balancing my own.

It's a constant readjustment, working that trim tab. Seeking balance, day by day.

Ship ahoy!

Monday Morning

2009-10-26T08:03:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's just Monday morning. Maybe it's the clouds and cold permeating the scene through my window. But it's only 11:00 a.m. and it's already been a day for me.

The dog started barking at 5:30. Dead dragging, toe freezing, pull myself up with every ounce of energy I haven't got kind of a morning. As I was making lunches with the last crusts of bread I could scavenge due to my sinking dread of returning yet again to the grocery store, I was inundated with paperwork. Flu shot papers, sign the reading record, testing reports, everything that was tossed aside with backpacks and lunchboxes on a whimsical Friday afternoon. Shoes and jacket thrown over my still pajama clad self as I went into the garage to remember that my son's bike chain had come off last week - its disrepair another casualty of the weekend. Dashing in the van to cart him to his destination, only returning home to find the dog had made a chew toy of my daughter's headband. Her departure joined by simultaneous barking and frenzied response as her friends rang the doorbell. Out she went. Moment to breathe. Only a moment.

Turning then to see my youngest still in pajamas, upset already about the fact that I wasn't allowed to join him in the preschool field trip today. Too many moms signed up and I wasn't high enough on the list to merit chaperone status this time. Finding shoes, coat, lunchbox & pizza party money, I had just pulled out my cereal bowl for a moment of quiet to myself when the garage door opened and in trudged my terribly sick husband who had earlier dragged himself to work only to find after his arrival, he was in fact too sick to be there after all. After getting him settled, I realized my time for breakfast and a shower had disappeared and it was suddenly time for preschool carpool, hearing again how much I was wanted at the field trip. Coming home to walk the restless dog, pick up his business all over the back yard, start the load of towels that had been left soaking all over the bathroom floor and throw the remaining dishes left from last night's dinner into the dishwasher that had been left sitting on the table as I ran out the door to a meeting for church.

10:30 - finally - breakfast, read the paper, a moment of silence and solitude.

I have been trying for months, years really, to understand how to take things in stride. How to find balance amidst the demands of my family's busy lives. I've made significant efforts to simplify, to slow down, to be content. I feel like I'm making progress, I'm changing and slowing down and then I have a Monday morning...

I guess part of motherhood and raising a family is learning to be fluid. Trying to take life as it comes and not let it phase you too significantly. People eat, dirty their clothes, come and go and then do it all again the next day. And the next day and the next. There's really no such state as 'finished' in a busy household of growing children. I guess the trick is to be present, truly engaged in the moments that are important - saying goodbye, holding hands during prayer, saying I love you, hugs before field trips, cold Sprite when you're sick. The rest of it will all wash away with the day, and into the next and beyond. I guess I'm learning to move with the current of life, trying not to feel drowned or let it wash me away by clinging to the buoys of meaningful moments along the way.

Off to finally take my shower...

Of Plants & Blooming

2009-10-22T12:38:00.001-07:00

I have a houseplant that hates my house. I have tried it in every room in my house, including the bathroom, to no avail. It would do fine for a few days, then the leaves would start to droop, sometimes yellow and even fall off. After months of this plant's tenuous survival as a houseplant, I finally moved it outside to my screened in porch. Within a day, it was thriving. I couldn't believe the difference it made simply moving it to the right location.

I have heard the phrase 'bloom where you are planted', but I think sometimes you need to plant yourself where you will bloom. Many times we place ourselves in situations, relationships, organizations or otherwise that do not allow us to thrive. We put ourselves in the front window when really we need to be on the back porch. The beauty of life is that we have choices. Even when we are surrounded by circumstances not of our choosing, we get to choose how we react. We get to choose how we feel. We get to choose how we will handle it. We get to decide on the location of our heart.

So if it's not working, try a new spot. Maybe you need to plant yourself where you will bloom.

Perspective

2009-10-19T16:17:00.000-07:00

Are you having a bad day? Feeling sorry for yourself? I was this morning. Until...

I had the opportunity to help someone. A single mother of three whose youngest son was almost killed in an accidental shooting two years ago. She was moving because the small house she had been renting was in foreclosure - her landlords simply hadn't paid the mortgage with her rent checks. She only had a couple of days to find a new place that would accommodate her son's wheelchair and ongoing medical needs. Her nursing hours had been cut, so she had been up most of last night caring for him. Her parents had come to help, but her father was limited because he is in the early stages of Parkinson's disease.

All I did was wipe down things throughout the house. She came in with her son in tow, smiling from ear to ear. She got right to work, talking and laughing as we cleaned. She took everything in stride, even when her carpet cleaner blew up. Her biggest concern as I went to leave was that she had taken all the food over to her new home and didn't have anything to feed me for lunch.

Hungry? It was the last thing on my mind. I had driven to that home seeing only the difficulties in my life. I was hungry then, but for perspective, not pastries. I needed to see all the things I had to be grateful for. I needed to be lifted by a woman who had every reason to be bitter and angry and feeling sorry for herself, but who laughed and smiled and worked. I left there feeling filled, despite the empty refrigerator.

There is always a reason to be discouraged. You can always find a reason to despair. But there is always someone who has it harder. There is always someone you can help. There is always a reason to seek for joy. There is always something to be grateful for.

Perspective. It's what's for dinner.

You Never Know

2009-10-12T07:04:00.000-07:00

I lost a friend two weeks ago. A young friend. He was 17 years old and in the prime of his life. He had gone to the track near his home to run, working on one of the final badges he needed to earn his Eagle Scout. When he didn't come home, his Dad went to look for him. He found him - face down on the track. He was gone.

I was able to attend his funeral last week and was amazed that all of his family members spoke. I was so touched by all of them, but particularly his mother. She talked about that Monday. She had been out that afternoon and called home to find out if the family needed anything from the store. Her 17 year old answered the phone and excitedly said, "Mom, guess what? You're going to be so proud of me. I'm going to earn my Eagle Scout!" She responded, "That's great. I am so proud of you. Now hand the phone to Dad." Life - a quick phone call, a simple verbal exchange, but those words ended up being the last words she ever spoke to her son. "I am so proud of you." What a comfort to a grieving mother that she hadn't said anything she would regret. She could have reminded him to take out the trash or asked him why he hadn't made his bed that morning. She could have felt rushed in the craziness of her afternoon and simply said, "That's great. I'll talk to you about it when I get home - please hand the phone to Dad." But she didn't. She had a moment to connect with her son in a loving, positive way, and she did. She said, "I am so proud of you."

Those words have been haunting me the past two weeks. Each time I hang up the phone or send someone off for the day, I replay the last words I said to them. If they were final words, would they be comforting to me, to them? I find myself listening to my words more carefully. What am I really saying to those around me, especially to my family? In the bustling busy-ness of life, am I taking the time to connect, to uplift, to simply say, "I am so proud of you."

I was at a birthday party with one of my children on Friday. I spoke with two other mothers there, both women I knew from my neighborhood. We are all so busy that most of the time our interactions consist of waving to each other as we pass by in our cars. But as we watched the children roller skate, we had a few moments to connect. I found out that one woman had recently survived a massive blood clot. She had been in the ICU for days following what she thought initially was a pulled muscle. She has four children. Another woman told me of her recent scare with breast cancer, her husband overseas on a difficult job assignment. She also has four children. She spoke to me of her brush with mortality and the wake up call she received. She has been rushing for so many years, this experience has taught her to slow down, to breathe, to connect. She realized how fleeting and fragile this life is. The reality is that you never know. You never know when your time will come.

Am I ready? I don't suppose I'll ever really know that for sure, but I feel the wheels of time spinning under my current daily routines, asking me if I am. If a blood clot or breast cancer or genetic heart defect took me tomorrow, what would others remember as my last words to them? I'm trying to preemptively edit myself, to hear what I say even in seemingly mundane conversations differently. I want them to hear, "You are important to me. I love you. You are the breath of my life. You are my everything. I am so proud of you. Now hand the phone to Dad."

Because, you never know.

I'm Alive

2009-10-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

This Kenny Chesney / Dave Matthews duet is one of my new favorite songs. Take a listen. Sometimes we make gratitude complicated.

"Breathing in and out's a blessing, can't you see?"

"I'm alive and well."

Amen.

Hooray!

2009-10-07T10:44:00.001-07:00

My husband ran over our son's bike last night. The brand new bike he just got for his birthday. He hadn't put it away all the way, so my husband caught the end of it as he pulled into the garage after a very long day at work. My husband felt horrible, the destruction capping off the day he'd just endured. He hesitated telling our son, but knew he'd have to before the next morning when he'd want to ride it to school. He walked to the front yard, told our son he'd crushed the training wheel on his new bike. Our son jumped up and down shouting, "Hooray!" He was thrilled that now he'd get to learn to ride his bike without training wheels. Dad and son spent the rest of the evening mastering the art of two wheeled biking, having a wonderful time.

I wonder if we should try to see our trials in life and shout, "Hooray!" for the opportunity to learn something from them. Somehow I think God is waiting for us to embrace all our life experiences as chances to learn and grow, to finally ride on two wheels.

Hooray!

I Need a Break!

2009-09-30T05:46:00.000-07:00

"I need a break," she said with desperation in her voice. Sorting and folding five loads of laundry, potty training preschooler in the background, home schooled high schooler in the kitchen, other kids already off to school and a gravelly cough in her throat, I'm not sure how my friend was even able to hold the phone. She lives in another state, or I would have gone over to her house and shooed her out the door for the morning. Her husband has been working very long hours at work, including most nights and weekends, for months now. She has been braving the homefront virtually alone, trying to keep up with all of her endless responsibilities. Her husband is willing but not able to help, so she's been burning both ends of the night to keep everyone happy. Everyone, that is, but herself.

This dear woman has spent the bulk of her adult life in a full time caregiving role. She has been selfless and dedicated and amazing. She willingly relinquished ambitions of further education and career for herself to raise a family. She has been doing it for almost twenty years now. Her children are phenomenal. Her home is immaculate. Her schedule is relentless. I worry about her.

"I guess I'll just have to wait until all the kids are out of the house before I can have a day to myself," she half joked. We have been trying to get together, meet part way, for months now. Each time she is unable to unravel herself from the complicated commitments of a large family to get away. We're in the midst of trying yet again. The problem is she's too good at what she does. She has sacrificed her own needs and desires for so many years in an effort to please and support and uplift her family that they simply don't understand why she would need to get away - to have some time alone. Isn't she happy? Doesn't she feel blessed? Why wouldn't she want to be with her family?

She is blissfully happily and mightily blessed, but she is tired. Understandably exhausted. She needs to reconnect with the woman that is uniquely herself. She needs to remember what it feels like, for a day or two, to be called by her own name instead of "Mom". She needs to wake up one morning and simply decide to do whatever it is that she wants to do. She needs to find an hour of solitude to sit by the beach to simply exist in the moment. In the quiet. To stop running, helping, erranding, fixing, feeding, cleaning, laundering, chauffering, pleasing and pushing herself. She needs to stop for a day or two. She needs some rest. She needs more than just a morning to sleep in, her soul needs rest from the chaos of the everyday. She needs to find and feel the beating of her own heart so she doesn't resent the demands placed on it by so many others.

"Am I normal?" she asked. Normal? She is unequivocally human. We cannot expect to give unceasingly without allowing ourselves time to recover. We need rest. We need respite. We need regeneration. But aren't we supposed to be charitable and selfless? Yes, but we must not forget to include ourselves in the equation of love, kindness and charity. If we who are primary caregivers do not love, honor and cherish our own needs and desires, how can we expect anyone else to?

Didn't the Savior Himself go into the wilderness to fast and be alone for forty days before beginning His ministry? Didn't He rest when He was wearied - even in the midst of the storm? Didn't he understand the need for nourishment during His sermon on the mount and stop to feed everyone, including Himself? Didn't He retreat often to recover and restore His strength? Even He who was gifted with almighty heritage required rest from the relentless demands of His life.

When we grant ourselves the gift of time we become more patient and willing to grant that gift to others. When we find the way to honor our heart, it is nourished and grows more capable of loving those around us. When we recognize our own unique qualities we can more easily see those same traits in others. When we listen to the voice of our own soul crying out for rest and recuperation, we can release hidden resentment when other voices request the same. Honoring the self is not selfishness. It is actually the key to selflessness. Heeding the divine within ourselves allows us to more easily comprehend the infinite essence of others. When we love and honor all of God's creations, we find the key to loving like He does.

So give yourself a break. You may just find it will make you a better person after all.

Vaulted Vision

2009-09-27T20:21:00.000-07:00

We cannot hope to see God's face
Until we've seen His hand.
We cannot hope to recognize
Or even understand
The mercy of the Holy One,
His watchful, tender care,
Through blessings that surround us
'Til we see His workings there.

His hand is seen in tenderness
Of mother's first embrace
Of tiny infant placed nearby
Her wearied, grateful face.
His hand is witnessed carefully
Each time the sun doth rise
Then arcs upon its course along
The never ending skies.

His hand extends to weary hearts
Who suffer on their way
Through other hands who minister
And care for them today.
His hand is quiet, gentle, seeking
Place on every head
Who seeks to feel His presence
More than worldly praise instead.

And as we train our eyes to see
The smallest grace from Him,
Our vision will be opened to
The majesties within.
Our noble born inheritance,
His children we'll be known
As those who've seen His hands
We'll know His face when we are home.

Anna M. Molgard

© 2009 Faithsong Publications, L.L.C.
www.faithsongmusic.com

Here's a Kicker

2009-09-27T20:13:00.000-07:00

Boy, you try and increase your writing output, taking care to post things you feel confident about when suddenly out of the blue you get thrown down a notch or two. I just got a notification from Google that they thought my blog was a spam blog. I'd never heard of such a thing so started looking at their links. In particular, they said "Spam blogs can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text..." I had to verify that I am an actual living, breathing human being, writing and posting on this blog. Glad my work is reaching someone - in all its nonsensical, irrelevant glory. Write on! :)

Homesick

2009-09-26T19:25:00.000-07:00

Homesick today. Interesting though, I haven't lived in the state where I grew up for over ten years. I find that I'm feeling homesick, but not for any one place in particular. I feel a longing for snow capped mountains, for bustling cities and soothing beaches. My heart wanders to the west coast, east coast, midwest, deep south and across the sea to Europe. It searches for the hearts I've felt connected to over the many years and longs, somehow, to be with them again. My version of heaven is a way for all the lives I've known and loved to miraculously be connected again, reunited in a way that I can feel the love and friendship of kinship once again. Home is where the heart is - and mine is all over the map.

Storms

2009-09-25T16:36:00.001-07:00

What do you do during a rainstorm? I hate the cold, so I usually do all I can to avoid getting wet, stay inside and curl up with a good book, a favorite movie, or bake with reckless abandon. Well, we had a rainstorm here today and my dog had a different idea. He decided it was the perfect time to go outside to find his favorite digging hole. It had become a virtual swimming hole and he thought it was the perfect time to excavate the wet, sopping mud. I didn't realize he'd gone outside until he came bounding in the back door, raced around my living room furniture and sprayed muddy water everywhere. He had soggy mud on his face all the way past his eyes, the slopping mess covering his legs and stomach, dripping off onto the floor. I grabbed his collar quickly before he did any more damage to my carpet and said, "First, grab the camera, then fill up the bathtub!"

I think the next time I face a storm in my life, I'll try to be more like my dog and look for the puddle to play in instead of the shelter to hide me from the rain. He was a terrific mess, but he was incredibly happy and pleased with himself. He hadn't even noticed the cold or the rain or the impending thunder. He was too busy splashing and digging. I'm not sure that every cloud has a silver lining, but every rainstorm makes a fine, sloshy mud puddle to pounce in.

Searching?

2009-09-24T07:31:00.000-07:00

I am married to a man who can't find anything. I can describe to him in detail where to locate a particular item, he will go in that room, wander around aimlessly looking, only to return and tell me the item is not there. I will then walk directly in, go to the precise place I so carefully specified and find the item within seconds. I used to think he did this just so that I would stop asking him to get things for me, but then I started to go with him just to see. I watched him search under, over, and all around the spot never being able to find the intended item. This exchange has happened so many times that I developed a catch phrase for it. It now simply feels like a reflex to say, "Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there!"

I read an article in the USA Today this week that has me thinking. It was on Tues, Sept. 22, 2009 in the Life Section, page 7D and was entitled "15% now check 'no religion'" by Cathy Lynn Grossman. According to an 18 year survey directed by Trinity College based on a sampling of 54,000 adults, 15% of Americans now say they have no religious identity. Just over 1100 of those people were surveyed more closely to determine their specific views on God. The results of this more finite survey indicated that 21% of those men and 36% of the women definitely believe in a personal God. There was another segment (25% men and 22% women) who recognized a higher power, but no personal God. The rest of the people surveyed were either unsure or certain that God does not exist at all.

I respect every person's right to make decisions and judgments for themselves. I have a high regard for religious freedom and tolerance in this country. I witness on a daily basis families who sacrifice significantly to protect that freedom. But because of what I have experienced in my own personal life, I am inclined to say, "Just because you don't see Him, doesn't mean He isn't there."

I have witnessed His hand guiding my family throughout the years. I have seen Him lead me to specific people, places and even books when I have needed guidance or help or inspiration. I have seen Him inspire other people to be attuned to my needs and minister to me in loving ways. I have observed His tender care in the creation of beautiful things in this world. I have participated in the miraculous experience of childbirth three times. I have watched Him save, at different times, the lives of each of my children in marvelous ways. I have seen Him in the sorrow of death and loss. I have seen Him in the shadows of tragedy. I have seen Him in darkness, despair and grief, carrying me through the suffering to the other side where hope lives.

I know God lives. I know that He loves His children. I know that He is a very personal God who is interested and involved in the very details of our lives. He wants us to keep looking, keep searching, keep hoping.

Just because you cannot see Him, doesn't mean He isn't there.

Refill

2009-09-23T06:30:00.000-07:00

I just refilled my almost deflated tires. It's amazing how much better my bike rides now. It's smooth, balanced and requires much less effort on my part to ride well.

It got me wondering about the rest of my tires. When was the last time I refilled? I could use some balance.

Anna's Refills...

Reading a novel just for fun
Yoga
Biking along the river
Lunch with a good friend
Fine chocolate
Reading to my kids
Snuggling with my dog
Spontaneous outing with my husband
Time to aimlessly wander in a bookstore
Napping
Sitting and pondering in nature

I think I'll go curl up with my dog and a book and maybe take a little nap. Feeling like I could use a refill. I'm sure the rest of the day will require much less effort if I do.

What are your refills?

Morning Meanderings

2009-09-23T01:30:00.000-07:00

I turned over in bed and the clock blinked 4:07. AM. My mind has woken me up again, though in a surprisingly different way today. It was racing with thoughts, but not the panic stricken, surely I have missed something or forgotten to sign a paper or buy the pickles I had signed up to bring to preschool today kind of thoughts. No, these thoughts were free and inspiring and motivating. I rolled over, padded softy in bare feet into my office, careful not to awaken anyone, and turned on my computer. My right eye refused to adjust to the light on the screen in stark contrast to the darkened solitude surrounding me as the small digital clock on the lower right hand side of my screen read 4:27. I rubbed it patiently until my vision finally caught up with my mind. What in the world am I doing up at this hour?

I love to sleep. I have dreaded mornings for as long as I can remember. I think it stems back to my childhood when I first really discovered reading. I grew up in a small home with three brothers and a sister. My parents are both night owls, especially my Dad. He still stays up until all hours of the early morning to read. I was in the sixth grade when the "Babysitter's Club" series of books came out through the Scholastic book orders I received at school. I was starting to do a bit of babysitting myself for some families in the neighborhood and the first volume caught my eye, so I used some of my hard earned, $1 an hour earnings to purchase the book. Upon its arrival I stayed up late into the night devouring it. In such a full house, the late night hours were the only quiet ones I could find. In time I ordered and savored all thirty some odd books in the series. I remember reading until I fell asleep with a book on my chest, lamp light still blaring in the stillness. I would wake up often after midnight, put my book on my nightstand, turn off the light and go back to sleep. This relished ritual gave me much needed solace and respite, but wreaked havoc on my morning routine. I remember hitting the snooze button multiple times on my alarm clock. With each exhausted expression of fatigue I created another justification for an additional seven minutes of sleep. "I'll lay here and pick out my outfit in my mind. That will save me time." Seven more minutes of peace. Horrible interruption. "I don't need to blow dry my hair this morning. I'll just let it air dry." That heavenly seven returning. Annoyance revisited. "I can just pull my hair back this morning." And on and on until I would find myself grabbing cold toast as I ran out the door, late again to school, hoping I had on matching clothes and that I had remembered to brush my teeth. All because of that book I couldn't put down the night before. The nightly cycle continued year after year until I vehemently dreaded mornings.

As I grew older, especially during my college years, I struggled to find the time to accomplish all that was demanded of me. I read several books which said to utilize the early morning hours of your day. They were the most productive since they were when you would be the most 'fresh'. HA! Fresh was hardly the word I would use for myself at that inhuman hour of the day, but I was willing to try. I have vivid memories of dragging myself out of my warm, soft bed on a cold, winter morning in the west at 5:00 AM to walk in the darkness over the music building on my college campus. I had a requirement for my piano performance class to practice a minimum of three hours a day. I would have much rather practiced late at night, when my brain was used to the creative process, but unfortunately I was a lowly freshman and had been given the very last pick of times for use of the practice rooms in the basement of the music building. The only way I could find a solid three hour block each day was to practice from 6-9 in the morning. I never did get used to it. Often after working hard for a couple of hours, I would lay my head down on the piano just to 'rest my eyes' for a minute, only to have a more senior student knock on my door and awaken me just in time for my 9:00 class. Freshness? More like groggy, sloggy, bleary eyed freshman. I kept at it all that first year, but never looked forward to the time. I never once bounced out of bed, anxiously awaiting my time of solitude. I always dreaded it. Every morning.

I was grateful for the following year when my slightly increased seniority and acceptance into the music program granted me much more favorable practice room hours, and I quickly abandoned the hair brained idea of early morning anything. I then realized one of the incredible advantages of university life was the ability to create my own schedule. I never again scheduled a class before 10 AM and resumed my late night habits. I would often go running at 10 at night just to activate my brain and then come home to write papers until 2 in the morning. It was wonderful and I lived that way throughout the remainder of my university career.

Those college years passed, marriage came, then first time motherhood found me feeling that returning sense of increased responsibility accompanied by decreased ability. After taking care of my beautiful newborn all day long, I was too exhausted to stay up late anymore. I didn't know how other mothers even found the time to shower and do the dishes, let alone pursue any personal interests. I was feeling dumpy and disorganized, so I reached back for that promised oasis of time in the early morning and started setting my alarm to get me up before the baby each day. I rediscovered my love hate relationship with my alarm clock as I would drag myself up to shower and get ready each day, leaving some extra time for cleaning. But as time progressed, the allure of that extra hour of sleep overcame any vanity I had acquired at that point and I gave it up. It hardly felt worth losing sleep over being perfectly coiffed for my infant and I certainly wasn't motivated to bounce out of bed for housework. The adage had failed me again. Really? THIS was the great secret?

I tried it again sporadically for running, gardening, housework, and reading, all to no avail. None of the anticipated rewards outweighed the immediate benefit of increased sleep, so the grand ambitions would falter and my love affair with the snooze button continued. I concluded finally that I was simply not a morning person. I never would be, so I quit trying.

Then I started writing again. I have vivid memories of English class my Junior year of high school. Our teacher emphasized writing and constantly assigned us essays to write. That was back in the dinosaur ages before the internet and when most people didn't even have a computer in their home. My Dad owned a small business in our little town, so I would go up in the evenings after his work day and write my papers there on his computer. I distinctly remember staring out the window just behind the computer into the shadowed stillness and feeling a kind of blissful abandon with the silent darkness. Nobody was there to interrupt my thoughts. I could leave my busy, noisy home and find a soundless oasis where my ideas could flow freely. I relished that time.

Only recently have the words come to me again in the stillness. Poems have awakened me in the early hours, their meter and vocabulary calling me out of sleep, begging me to put them to paper before they disappear back into the sanctity of the quiet night. Lyrics linger in that half awakened state between sleep and consciousness singing to me. They float and find themselves uniting into verses, song structures, reminding me that unless I arise and record them, they will travel back into the creative chasm from whence they came. Words and ideas haunt me kindly but insistently until finally articulated. The promised island of solitude has finally found its way to me, or perhaps I to it. I realize now that the soul awakens early not by intrusion of alarm, or by outside imposed direction. The mind and the heart can only overcome the overarching needs of the physical body when compelled by a deep longing. A connection to self that requires awareness of innate desire. The sun will only rise on the soul in stillness.

The key to finding this silent island oasis is not productivity, it is creativity. What stirs your soul? What resonates deep within you in a way you can neither explain nor deny? Where does your mind travel while your hands are occupied in mundane, routine tasks? What connects you to yourself and the divine within you? Release expectations you feel placed on you by others, by society, by your former self and listen. Just listen. Listen in the silence for the beating of your own heart. It will speak to you. It will teach you. It will lead you to the haven of creativity that is uniquely yours. Then the mornings will call to you and beckon you into the stillness. For there is where brilliance is born.

Buddy

2009-09-22T08:18:00.000-07:00

Puppy Love

2009-09-22T06:45:00.000-07:00

I have a dog. Those of you who know me will echo a recent post from a friend on Facebook who said, "YOU have a dog?!?" You see, I have never had a dog before. I grew up in a home with reluctantly allowed pets, only kittens I had found in the yard and begged my Mom to let me keep. My Mom had some frightening experiences with dogs as a child that never really left her and although I never remember her telling us outright that she didn't like dogs, we all knew. Dogs were scary and mean and we should stay away from them.

That ingrained dislike, or what I now recognize as misunderstanding, of dogs stayed with me throughout my life. I remember one afternoon playing on the playground with some friends after an elementary school day. We were on the swings and a stray dog came walking by. Now, had I understood dogs, I likely would have stood still, allowed him to come to me and greet me if he wanted and then let him go on his way. But I didn't understand dogs, so I kept swinging, agitating the poor thing to the point he started nipping at me. I know now he thought I was playing a game, but I thought then that he wanted to hurt me. So I hopped off the swing and ran. Yup. He chased me. I remember running around the playground, crying and praying at the same time. Surely God had mercy on his poor, panic stricken daughter that day and sent the only Animal Control officer in town to the playground at that moment. I was saved from this 'menacing' dog, misunderstanding and fear further ingrained into my psyche.

My children, however, have grown up surrounded by dogs. I married into a dog family. Not just any dog family, one who can have over 50 dogs at their yearly family reunion. Labradors, chihuahuas, beagles, poodles - you name it, someone in my husband's family probably owns or has owned one. My children LOVE dogs and have absolutely no fear of them because they have more understanding of how they think, how they act, and how they love.

My children had begged me since they could talk for a dog of their own. My husband was close behind them, though somewhat more tolerant of the fears associated with my canine deprived upbringing. I've had every excuse in the book over the years for not getting a dog. The easiest was that for many years we were renters and couldn't have pets in our apartments. Once we finally had our first home, I was pregnant with our youngest son and told them that we had a baby instead. That seemed an inadequate replacement to them, but helped to dissipate the issue enough that it died away for a time. When we moved to another state, our home didn't have a fence. I told them then that we couldn't have a dog without a fence. After several months when my husband had finally completed the fence, I found myself at last without an excuse. So I started to consider getting a dog.

Plagued by misunderstandings and lingering negative feelings about dog ownership, I did what I always do when embarking on a new adventure in my life. I go to the library. I check out books - lots and lots of books - and saturate my mind in the new subject. I need to read and study and learn about it. The more I read about dogs, however, the more overwhelmed I felt. I had no practical experience whatsoever with dogs. What's the best way to housetrain him? Should we keep him in a crate or not? How much would we feed him and when? How would our family schedule accommodate his needs? But beyond the practical concerns was the ingrained fear and dislike I had for dogs. I had learned to tolerate them in my husband's family over the years, but I didn't think I could invite another living being into my life and merely tolerate him. What to do?

My husband found a breeder about an hour from our home. It was on the way to the beach where we went most Saturdays this spring and summer and he asked me if we could just stop and look at the dogs. I reluctantly agreed, feeling fairly educated about the animal itself but increasingly unsure how I would react upon meeting our possible companion face to face. The day arrived and we pulled into the driveway of the breeder's home. It was a small, country place, fairly isolated from other homes in the area. As we got out of the car, I understood why. The smell hit me with force and I recoiled momentarily. Their entire back yard was sectioned off into kennels inhabited by various colors of Labrador Retrievers. They all began barking and jumping excitedly to greet us. The kind breeder and his wife came out to meet us and instantly set us at ease. We had previewed some of their dogs on their website and liked the look of the white labrador, so they took us over to the section of the yard where the white labs were. We saw the adults running and playing together in the yard and with each enthusiastic acknowledgement of our presence, my anxiety increased. I didn't think I could do this after all. I was back at the playground being chased off my swing. We talked and asked about litter arrival dates and parenting lines, but inside I knew I could never do it. Then they asked if we wanted to see the puppies.

They took us inside a little cabin that was their office and viewing area. We told them we were hoping for a male, so they brought in a group of seven little guys who were only about four weeks old - pups from their most recent litter. They said all of them were sold except for one and they would be starting the selections once the puppies reached eight weeks. If we purchased one of these dogs, we would have the last pick. The children were instantly on the floor, loving and romping and playing with the puppies. They were all full of life and energy. I watched them with increasing anxiety. How would I ever tell the children now that they couldn't have a dog after all? Then I noticed one little guy off to the side. He was squirming around, but certainly not getting into the middle of the chaos that was ensuing nearby. I reached over and gently picked him up. He was sleepy, so once I picked him up and held him against my chest, he tucked his little head up right in the crook of my neck and fell fast asleep. His tiny heart beat rapidly and I could feel his softness and vulnerability. He was singular serenity in that moment and my heart melted into oblivion. I held him while we visited, expressed interest in the possibility of a purchase, but promised nothing. We would have to see. We would have the last pick, after all. I knew that I could take home that puppy, but I couldn't handle the more energetic dogs. What are the chances that he would be the one left?

We came home, talked a lot and decided to put a deposit down on that litter. We made it clear to the breeders that when we came down to meet the one that was left, we reserved the option not to take him and transfer our deposit for a later litter. I knew I couldn't manage the more enthusiastic puppies. They were gracious and understanding and even began posting pictures online for the future owners to see their growth. The dogs quickly changed so much that I began to question if I could remember which puppy was the one I had loved instantly that day. As each family visited the breeders for selection, they would post online which puppy had been chosen. There was one, sweet faced little man I had hoped was that lovey pup, but couldn't be sure without being with him again. I told my husband that if I had to pick from a picture, he would be the one.

The time finally arrived for our 'selection', really a formality as far as choice was concerned, but the meeting held great significance for me. Could this possibly be our puppy? We drove the hour in anticipation and excitement, hurried into the rear cabin and they carefully brought him in. Within minutes I knew. It was him. That sweet little floppy faced puppy who had snuggled right up to me. The one whose picture was my perfect pick. He had such a calm, even temperment. He came right up to us with love and sweetness in his eyes. He was so wonderful with our children and they instantly took right to him. He ended up falling asleep on the couch with our daughter snuggled up right next to him. We knew. He would be our dog. I couldn't believe it. What are the chances that we would stop by for a casual inquiry at a breeder's, they would have a litter of the kind we wanted with only one dog left and that the very animal we had hoped would be ours would be the last one picked? Some would say fate, others call it destiny, I call it love.

I think that true love can work miracles in life. I felt in that very first moment of meeting him a love for another living creature that I had never felt before. It was an affection for an animal that I had previously feared that was instantly replaced with devotion. It was unanticipated, unabbreviated, uninhibited love. Why wouldn't he be the one to come to our home? We loved him. As we realized what was happening in that moment of singular sentiment, tears filled our eyes. My husband asked what we should name him. I said, "Buddy" and agreements resounded.

I have a dog.

Pinkies & Piggy Toes

2009-09-21T06:32:00.000-07:00

I think that God has a sense of humor. Not the kind that would make fun of others or be crude in any way, but I have to think that He must sit back and just laugh along with us sometimes as He tries to teach us the lessons we need to learn in life.

I have been a slacker writer for months now. I have piles of ideas, half finished projects, but nothing complete, nothing submitted, nothing to the point that it's useful to anyone - including myself. So since my kids started back to school a couple of weeks ago I have been praying for God to help me find balance in my life and asking Him to help me accomplish what He would have me do. I set a goal to write for two hours every day. Every day. I think in the past three weeks it's happened twice, maybe three times. Something was always coming up.

Last Monday morning, exactly a week ago, I slammed my pinky finger in the truck door. Hard. To the point I was holding back tears and gasping like a small child. My finger swelled up to the point it desperately hurt if I even bumped it. The nail turned completely black and pounded for days. I met my writing goal one day last week. Just one. Things came up. So this morning I was hurriedly doing the dishes before getting my kids off to school when I dropped a trivet on my toe. A trivet is not a made up word, contrary to my husband's insistence. It is a scrolled metal rectanglar object used to protect the table from hot dishes. This morning, however, it felt equivalent to an eight pound weight being slammed onto my innocent little toe. More almost-tears, more deep breathing, frustration, then suddenly laughter. How's that for an answered prayer?

I went to a writing workshop on Saturday and a local poet, Neil Ray, said he doesn't use the term 'writer's block'. When he gets stuck he calls it a 'wham bam koo' which means a rebirth. Well that pummeling metal trivetation on my toe felt like a 'wham bam sock it to you ma'am, get up off your can and write already' moment. Can't go shopping, running, yoga-ing, erranding, or anything with this throbbing little toe. Nothing to do today but write.

I started thinking about the last several months, trying to decide what has kept me from writing. Sure, I've been busy. Who isn't busy? I have three kids, a dog and a busy husband. But it's been more than that. I have an entire book outlined. I had set a goal to have three chapters ready to submit to publishers for consideration by September. Haven't touched it since I finished one chapter in June. I have a musical play only needing two new songs and final editing. I set myself a deadline for December. Haven't looked at it since May. I have piles of poetry sitting in notebooks and journals, not posted, not submitted, not published. I haven't even posted on my blog since April. Why?

I think in many ways obscurity is easier than mediocrity. You know the saying, "It's better not to have tried at all than to have tried and be dismissed as irrelevant". I can't be a disappointment if my work is never seen. I recognize that writing only for myself is somewhat selfish, but it's also been supremely safe. The unknown outcome still holds the promise of possibility whereas the known contains certain rejection, acceptance, or in the worst case - ambivalence. Writing requires a significant amount of vulnerability, a willingness to share openly the deepest insights and imaginations of my heart. In sharing, submitting, and publishing my work, I risk having that essence of myself edited, criticized or dismissed. But I realized something this morning as the teetering ten ton trivet hit my toe. In my fear of uncertain rejection, I have been missing the possibility of connection.

In the writing workshop Neil said that as writers we not only write to express ourselves, but we write to express for others what they feel but cannot seem to articulate for themselves. In my hobbited state of safety and reluctant fear, I have been in denial. I have denied not only myself, but others the ability to communicate, to share, to experience that resilient human connection of spirit that occurs when another person seems to say the words written deep within your heart. The ones you didn't know were there until you find them perfectly expressed by another's pen.

So I'm writing again...with my blackened pinky finger, swollen piggy toe, and God's laughter ringing in my ears.

Street Signs

2009-04-23T18:10:00.000-07:00

I live in a city that has evolved over time. When I moved here, the GPS technology I now rely on was still very new and quite expensive, so I learned to navigate the city the old fashioned way - with a map. Each time I ventured out to find a new location, I would carefully study the map, eventually learning my way around the labyrinth of the city streets. I loved discovering new routes and I especially enjoyed finding unusually named streets. One of my favorite discoveries was Notblake Drive. Why? I once worked for a home builder and when the company was working to develop a new area of the city for housing. One day the developer brought the plat maps into the office which included all the proposed street names. Curious as I read the street names and saw the likes of Jennie Lane and Davis Drive, I asked the developer where the names had come from. He told me they were the names of his grandchildren and informed me that the land developer got to choose the names of the streets. Notblake Drive always makes me laugh and wonder what poor Blake ever did to the developer of that particular neighborhood!

Just recently I discovered a new street name that gave me pause, perhaps because it wasn't the street sign that caught my eye first. There was a short, unpaved dirt road leading to two small houses. They were very humble in construction, in size and amenities. Only one had a small, very well used vehicle parked out front. There was not much to speak of as far as landscaping and there were certainly no boats, four wheelers, or other "toys" parked out front. After seeing the homes, desolate and isolated by worldly standards, I saw the name of the street. Truly Blessed Drive. I wondered about the people who lived in those homes. The buildings looked like they had been there for ages and I wondered if the residents themselves had developed that rudimentary street and been the ones to decide what to name it. I wondered about what was truly important to them. It was fairly obvious that their material possessions didn't create their happiness or their definition of being blessed. I wondered about their families, what they had been through together. I wondered how many times a day they counted their blessings, recognized the beauties that surrounded them, hugged their children, told someone they loved them and helped another person. I was certain that what happened inside those homes was a far greater indicator of their definition of blessed than what was seen on the outside.

I thought about another neighborhood I had seen recently in a coastal resort town, filled with luxurious homes, swimming pools, tennis courts and gated entrances. It had street names like Magnolia Drive and Emerald Parkway and was littered with foreclosure and short sale signs. I wondered if the people who had lived in or purchased those homes, some now shackled with burdensome debt they could no longer carry, felt truly blessed. I wondered if their homes were filled with gratitude and wonder at all the glories and beauties that still surrounded them or if all they could think about was what they were losing.

I wonder if the state of our happiness actually depends upon our willingness to choose our perspective and very little to do with income, zip code, or balance sheets. Perhaps as external economic conditions force us to cut back, downsize or relocate, we can remember what it takes to feel truly blessed. Eyes to see, ears to hear, hands to help, mouths to speak kindness, and perhaps even a well placed street sign.

Of Weeds

2009-03-28T19:20:00.000-07:00

I was weeding my flower bed the other day. It was a sunny, quiet morning and it was just me and the weeds that had grown up over the winter and were threatening my newly resurrected dianthus and daylilies. I had been dreading this impending chore, knowing some of the roots were deep, some of the weeds had been ignored and grown larger than I'd cared to admit, and it's just a yucky, tiresome chore. But as the morning progressed, I noticed something. The soil was soft and forgiving. The weeds came out fairly easily. What should have taken all morning, was accomplished with minimal effort in a couple of hours. It had rained the day before.

I wondered about the weeds in my life. Ones with deep roots. Ones that had grown comfortably over time. Ones that didn't seem significant at the time so had grown slowly, but certainly, over time. Ones I simply hadn't wanted to tackle, knowing the effort it would take.

Often we wonder why it rains. Maybe God simply knows we have some weeding to do.

Motivation

2009-03-27T10:59:00.000-07:00

I was recently invited to become a permablogger on an exciting new blog (details forthcoming soon). In some communication with the other writers, I was asked to share a short biographical sketch of myself. Most of the other writers were complete strangers to me and here I was being asked to condense my life into two short paragraphs that would capture the essence of me.

I found myself in a quandary. What information was pertinent? What information would be superfluous? Which life experiences from the last 30 some odd years should I share? It felt much more important than a simple "25 Random Things" list on my Facebook page. It seemed to me an exercise beyond a mere resume or listing of job qualifications. I had already been invited to participate, so what aspects of my life would I choose to define myself as a person? Who am I? Really?

I've heard the expression 'wearing many hats' before, but as an actress I like to think of my life in terms of the roles I play. Maybe it seems a bit more dramatic and exciting that way, especially on the days when the roles merely change from laundress to housekeeper to cook. But in acting, the portrayal of the roles are always an extension of the character's motivation. Why would that character make that choice? What drives that person to behave or interact in that certain way? So behind all the various roles we have in life there is what drives us, our character motivation.

Think about what you would say if asked to encapsulate your life for perfect strangers in a matter of a few words. Consider not only what you would say, but ask yourself the soul searching question of, "Why?"

I love the song by Julie de Azevedo entitled, "A Window to His Love." There is a line in the song that says, "I want to be a window to His love, so when you look through me you will find Him." After a lifetime of self-evaluation, perhaps I will have reached this point of purely charitable character motivation. That is my hope - to one day be motivated purely by a Christ like desire to reach out to others, to help them find Him. I hope to someday reach the point where my all roles can be driven by that true character motivation and my life can be encapsulated in three mere words. Woman of God.

Sounds Like Life to Me

2009-03-06T12:32:00.001-08:00

Sounds Like Life To Me (Darryl Worley)

Video Code provided by MusicRemedy.Com

Today I was running errands. One of my stops was to fill up my van with gas. When I was young I swore I would never drive a minivan. It seemed like the ultimate in giving into suburban, Mommy life and I didn't want to ever admit that about myself. However, when I was pregnant with my third child and about to outgrow our current vehicle, I found myself at the Honda dealership with my husband coercing me into test driving an Odyssey van. I went kicking and screaming, but found as I drove it I liked the way it handled, I loved the flexibility of the functions and I absolutely LOVED that I could push a button from my keychain or the driver's seat and either of the side doors would open. With all of that and the fact that a nice used van was considerably less than an SUV, we purchased the van.

I've driven that van for the past five years as my babies have grown into children and young adults. I was so thrilled with its reliability, despite some dents and scratches, stained carpet and a few flat tires. I was ecstatic when we paid it off in full last month and we wouldn't have a car payment. Hondas can last forever!

So today as I was driving away from the gas pump and heard a huge crunching sound, my heart and my stomach met somewhere in the middle. I slammed on my brakes, wondering what in the world I could have possibly hit. I opened my door and saw a stationary 3 foot tall cement post placed just after the gas pump. What purpose it could possibly serve is beyond me, but it succeeded in scraping the entire driver's side of my van, smashing in one of the precious sliding doors so that it no longer functions.

I met my husband for lunch in tears. I felt so stupid for what I had done and I now had a huge symbol of stupidity wherever I drove. He was kind and caring, reassuring me that it was just an accident, no one was hurt and our insurance would take care of it.

On the drive home, I remembered the new song (link posted above) I had heard the day before - "Sounds Like Life to Me" by Darryl Worley. My favorite line is "the only thing for certain is uncertainty." It helped me realize that accidents, trials and disappointments are just a part of life. There is no such things as a perfect life without problems. Perfection in progression comes by granting ourselves the grace to make mistakes and move forward.

I also remembered a portion of the book "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch. I first saw him on an Oprah show giving his last lecture that he had presented at Carnegie Mellon where he was a professor. He had been invited to give a hypothetical last lecture of his life to his students and colleagues in a few months as part of a lecture series there. In the meantime, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He decided to give, literally, his last lecture in honor of his three young children. Following this lecture, he worked with an editor, Jeffrey Zaslow, to write words of wisdom and perspective to his children, words that have reached out and given perspective to many others.

In his book he tells the story of a day his wife backed their van out of the garage right into his car, which she didn't realize had been parked there. She was so worried about his reaction and spent the day preparing the perfect evening to soften the news. Randy reacted without anger or frustration. He had been taught that vehicles were utilitarian devices designed to get people from point A to point B, not expressions of social status. He told her that since the damage was simply cosmetic, there was no need to get them repaired. Thy still functioned properly and did what they were designed to do. So they drove dented cars. He said they became a statement in their marriage that not everything needs to be fixed. (The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch, 2008, p.85-87)

Prof. Randy Pausch passed away early in the morning on July 25, 2008, at his home in Virginia.

I'll bet his wife still drives that car.

I Wish I Had 100...

2009-02-18T13:42:00.000-08:00

I was back in the second grade classroom yesterday and the students had a writing project. The title of the piece was "I Wish I Had 100..." . The students filled in the wish and wrote why they made that wish and what they would do with it. Many of the students wished for 100 dollars and then listed what they would buy with the money. My son wished for 100 pies. He really likes pie. Another wished for 100 of himself so he could do lots of things at once. One girl wished for the money, but wrote that she would use it to buy clothes and food for people who are poor. Made me wonder what I would wish for... 100 days on a tropical island with my family? 100 months of maid service? 100 years of a life lived well? What would you wish for?

Grace from Grief

2009-02-09T12:30:00.000-08:00

It's amazing to me how God can make something good out of something terrible.

As I was waiting for an appointment this morning, I read a story about a young 25 year old man who was at his church when a couple began having a heated marital dispute. In the midst of trying to break up the altercation, he was shot and later died from complications resulting from the gunshot wounds. His parents, in their grief, decided to donate his organs. Because he was young and healthy, they were able to harvest and use five different organs for immediate transplant. In the bitter moments of one family's tragedy came immense joy to five other families - many awaiting certain death of their loved ones without those transplants. Several of the organ recipients attended the memorial service for the young man, overcome with both grief and gratitude. The heart recipient told of the young man's mother coming over to him and listening to his new heart - a living, breathing part of her son, now sustaining another man's life.

As I was driving home, I saw a man riding his bike down the road, full speed, an enormous smile on his face, with no legs. I'm sure he never anticipated his journey through life with no legs, but there he was training for a race nonetheless. He was making something wonderful from his tragedy and in doing so spread joy to a perfect stranger who saw his enthusiasm as he pedaled his wheelchair bike down the road with his hands.

There's nothing so terrible in life that God can't make something good come from it.

Grateful

2009-02-04T19:21:00.001-08:00

Today, I am grateful.

I'm grateful that I am healthy enough to exercise. I have a friend who has such severe health problems that she never knows when she will be well enough to even leave the house, let alone exercise.

I'm grateful that I have the means to go grocery shopping for my family. I read in the newspaper about people lining up for hours for a free breakfast from Denny's. One woman said that after she paid her rent she only had $10 and used it to buy gas.

I'm grateful that my father is still alive and I can tell him that I love him. I have a cousin who wrote a beautiful tribute to her father to give to him on Father's Day. She didn't give it to him in time - he passed away and she used it as a tribute at his funeral. I love you, Dad.

I'm grateful that my husband is home. I have many, many friends whose husbands are serving overseas in dangerous military assignments. They worry every day about them. They are amazing examples of fortitude and faith - keeping their homes and families running alone.

I'm grateful that my children are growing and healthy. I have a friend with newborn, premature twins and was in the hospital with one all day yesterday. She is still worrying about him, unsure of his progress and condition. Her husband is gone, too.

I'm grateful that my heater works. It has been unseasonably cold where I live and I saw a man today walking the street, wrapped up as tightly as he could be against the bitter wind. I wondered if he had anywhere warm to sleep tonight.

I'm grateful that I can read. I have met two women from other countries who can neither read nor write English very well, living in America and raising families here.

I'm grateful for my sight. I have a friend who works at the Center for the Blind in my city who reminded me that if I think I'm having a hard time, I should go there. Those people understand what difficulties, and opportunities, really are.

I'm grateful that I can choose how to see, and be in the world.

Today, I am grateful.

Black and White

2009-01-26T07:15:00.001-08:00

Today was black and white day at preschool. All of the children were to wear black and white clothing of some kind, then they would have a black and white snack, do black and white activities and apparently have a fantastically fun black and white day. The school sends the parents a calendar at the beginning of each month detailing all of these important events in the lives of our four year old children. I dutifully hang mine on the side of my refrigerator each month and hope I remember to glance at it in time to be adequately apprised of each upcoming occasion.

I had three extra children in my home for three days and nights prior to this morning. After an exhausting weekend of doubled everything, I was pretty proud of myself that I had managed to get my children up, dressed, fed, out the door with lunches made, orderly backpacks, clean clothes, and combed hair. So when we walked into the preschool this morning, I was anticipating a feeling of accomplishment and looking forward to a well deserved quiet morning to myself. As my son skipped in wearing his forest green henley shirt with khaki brown corduroy pants and his new Batman shoes, I noticed all the other children dressed in their black and white and suddenly remembered the black and white day square so carefully posted on the preschool calendar at home. I started quickly into the world of 'mother guilt' that plagues even the most stalwartly self-confident mothers at times. How could I have forgotten black and white day?

As I was hanging up his coat, I began apologizing to the teachers. I kept feeling like I should have remembered somehow. I felt so bad for him and quite embarrassed for myself. Then I noticed how little my son seemed to care or even notice. He was busily placing his butterfly nametag on the attendance rainbow. He was giving me high fives, noticing that it was his turn to be the light helper today. He was thrilled to be back amongst his friends after a week of snow days. He didn't care that he looked different. He knew he would still get the snack and be able to do all the activities. He was simply happy to be at school, dressed just as he was.

As I drove away, I took my cues from my son and realized how little that 'mistake' in my mothering mattered in the grand scheme of things. My son was happy. He had crawled on my lap earlier that morning to read together. He had grabbed me around the legs as I was making sandwiches and said, "I love you, Mom." He kissed me before he went to get dressed. After the older children had left for school, during the half hour before it was time to leave, he asked me to play a game with him. I usually shower during that time, but not today. I played with him. We were having so much fun, laughing and being together that we lost track of time and were a little late getting away. And in we walked together to school, hand in hand, smiling and laughing and happy, dressed in green and brown.

I came home, circled the date on the preschool calendar and put a happy face on it to remind me. Motherhood isn't measured by perfectly dressed children. Success isn't determined by calendars or agendas or checklists. Lasting influence is largely determined over time. Character is nurtured by cherishing even the smallest moments of happiness. Fulfillment is found by sharing the short, fleeting footsteps of our children, before they grow so large and independent that they walk successfully away from our immediate circle of significance. Happiness is hard to quantify, impossible to counterfeit or conceal. Marks of masterful motherhood are multi-hued, vibrant and variant - anything but black and white.

We Choose

2009-01-13T09:06:00.000-08:00

I am on my third week of terrible ear pain, untreatable thus far by modern medicine - a terrifying situation for a musician. As I was returning to the doctor's this morning for further treatment I was a little behind schedule. I parked my car, locked it and started running into the clinic, worrying about the possible implications of my situation when I saw a man limping out into the parking lot. He had a huge leg brace on his right leg and was struggling to maintain his limited momentum in order to make it to his car. I slowed immediately to a walk, suddenly very grateful for my legs, for my amazing ability to be able to run.

We choose every day, in every moment, how we will see the world. We determine by that perception our place in it. We decide whether to be worried over impending catastrophe or grateful for current miracles. We shape our own existence by our perspective, by our willingness to see the possibilities in our lives. We choose to be the victim, the survivor, or the hero of our own life story.

We choose.

Beauty in the Midst

2009-01-05T03:04:00.000-08:00

I don't live in a very beautiful town. There are pockets of loveliness and a growing number of people expressing the desire for a more beautiful city and working towards that goal, but due to the transient nature of where I live there doesn't seem to be much of a sense of ownership and pride in the maintenance of our bit of earth here. There is an abundance of litter, unkempt yards, abandoned lots and dilapidated properties. Overall, the beauty of God's creations have been overrun by man's relative neglect.

Several weeks ago I went for a run along a fairly busy, main road of town. As I ran, I saw mile after mile of debris, rusted cars, and crumbling fences. Trash cluttered the sidewalk and surrounding areas. I passed a little stream choked with litter where a small family of frogs was trying to eke out their earthly existence. I was increasingly discouraged, not only by the lack of overall concern for beauty, but more so for what it represented about our society in general - an acceptance for filth and disarray in our lives.

As I pounded along the pavement, I was suddenly and quite literally stopped in my tracks. In the midst of the filth was one property, one vestige of hope. It was a modest home, not unique in scale or grandeur, but it surpassed its surroundings soundly in beauty. The bushes were all trimmed neatly, the home was in pristine repair, flowers carefully plotted and planted, immaculate in every regard. Surrounding this lovely oasis was a low iron fence, carefully plotted and designed to secure and complement the property. Within the careful protection of this fence was a place of beauty, order and peace.

As I stood, stunned by the contrast this little piece of land presented, I was instantly filled with hope. Hope that in the midst of an increasingly evil world, beauty could still be preserved. Hope that goodness springs possible through considerable effort - careful tending, pruning, weeding and planting. Hope that with the creation of a carefully crafted, graceful fence, refinement can remain in full view while still protected from the filth surrounding it on every side. Hope that beauty can not only be found, but created, cultivated, captured and shared. Hope that there is yet hope for us all.

The Purpose Driven Life

2008-12-29T17:08:00.001-08:00

I highly recommend the book "The Purpose Driven Life" by Rick Warren. It is so insightfully written and offers perspectives on God's purposes for all aspects of our lives. Wonderful read.

World

2008-12-26T08:40:00.000-08:00

We see the world as WE really are.

Your focus determines your feelings.

What kind of world do you want?

You decide.

History starts now.

I Wonder

2008-12-21T11:16:00.000-08:00

I Wonder

I wonder, as she held him closely,
Wrapped in warm and swaddling bands,
Did she wonder what her Father
Asked from tiny, trembling hands.

I wonder, as they brought him presents,
Gifts so treasured and so rare,
Did she wonder at the offering
Held within her tender care?

I wonder, as she saw him walking,
Learning, stumbling, awkward steps,
Did she wonder where they'd take him,
Feet just finding balance yet?

I wonder, as she saw him carving,
Working there by Joseph's side,
Did she wonder how he'd use his hands
To serve, to bless mankind?

I wonder, when she saw him teaching
Elders, priests in holy place,
Did she wonder what he'd teach her
As he grew from grace to grace?

I wonder if she hugged him tighter,
Stroked his head and held his hand,
Sensed the weight of future offering,
Sacred, sacrificial Lamb.

Anna M. Molgard
©2008 Faithsong Publications, L.L.C
www.faithsongmusic.com

This piece may be copied for noncommercial use.
Please include copyright notice & blog address.

Unplugged

2008-12-20T15:00:00.000-08:00

The kids are home for Christmas break and we decided to do an experiment. We have been feeling like there has been too much outside influence on our family, so other than my occasional post and a quick email check, we are unplugging our family from the computer and television. It has been such a quiet, wonderful day. We spent the morning making towers with playing cards and my second grader became quite adept - making one seven stories tall all on his own. He even looked up the Guinness World Record for house of cards and learned he only has 68 more stories to go! We went to the library and checked out loads of books and bought a new 1000 piece puzzle at the store for the family to work on together. I'm so looking forward to this break! We're unplugging from media and plugging into our family.

Christmas Day?

2008-12-18T16:58:00.001-08:00

We got a box today filled with Christmas gifts from my parents today. I opened the box and said, "Look - presents from Grandma & Grandpa!" I walked in the living room with two in hand to put under the tree when I heard a little voice say, "Wow - it's a Webkinz!" Yup - the four year old. I guess I forgot to mention they were CHRISTMAS presents and he was thrilled to get a gift. Sorry Mom. But he loves it.

We Need to Pray

2008-12-14T12:04:00.000-08:00

My second grade son is such a sweet boy. He always has been. He is always thanking me for things I do around home and telling me how much he loves me. He brings me flowers that he picks, weeds really, but the sentiment is the same. He genuinely wants to do and be good. He is kind, sensitive and loving with a very tender heart.

This week we had kind of a scare where we live. We were issued a tornado warning in the early afternoon, an unusual occurrence for our part of the country. I received a telephone call from the local weather station where I had subscribed to receive weather alerts. It told us to take immediate shelter and the warning would expire for our county about 25 minutes later. This was ten minutes before my oldest daughter was to be released from school and walk home. I didn't know what to do. My immediate response was one of panic and fear - wanting to protect my sons at home with me and worried about my daughter who wasn't home with me. I told the boys I was worried about my daughter, but that we needed to go in my closet. It's the only room we have without windows and where we keep our emergency supplies. But my second grader said, "Mom, I think we need to pray." So the three of us knelt right where we had been standing and he said a prayer asking Heavenly Father to protect us from the tornado and to watch over his sister. We stood, walked into my room to go in the closet for safety and I turned on the TV to monitor the progress of the storm. I no sooner had turned on the TV than the weatherman announced that the tornado warning for our county had expired - 25 minutes early. My sweet son then said, "Mom, we need to pray again." As I knelt with these two little boys and said a prayer of gratitude for our safety I recognized the great faith in my son. Where my immediate response was one of fear, his was one of faith. Some may say this was mere coincidence, that the warning would have expired early without his prayer, but I know better. I was there. I heard his prayer. Fear and faith cannot coexist in the same heart. Oh, that my heart can be like that of a child - full of faith. That my first response can be - we need to pray.

Easy Trees

2008-12-12T12:24:00.000-08:00

Quick and easy recycling. Take two tomato cages, turn them upside down and wire the tops together. Take discarded Christmas tree branches, wire them to the cages and you have great decorations for your front porch. They look like miniature real trees. The price is right and no waste!

What did I just post?

2008-12-12T12:12:00.000-08:00

Within minutes of my last post, my four year old walked in the room showing me what he had done with the stamp he received at school yesterday for his good behavior. He had managed to stay on 'green'. I just picked up my older son - the second grader - from school. He was crying and upset that he had to pull a card and ended up on yellow. So much for the streak.

Motherhood - life's most humbling career.

Do You Still Love Me?

2008-12-12T08:58:00.001-08:00

I have a four year old son. Not just any four year old, a very mischevious, light hearted boy. One who has won his way out of many moments when he should have been reprimanded by flashing his winning smile, shrugging his shoulders and skipping away. He is incredibly social with a multitude of friends, imaginary and otherwise. He is my youngest and loves to be the center of attention. Always.

He goes to preschool four mornings a week. His teachers have adopted the current method of classroom discipline using the stoplight as a monitor for behavior. If the children are good, they remain on 'green'. If they begin to misbehave and need a warning, they are moved to 'yellow'. On the rare occasion the child will not listen and requires the highest degree of preschool discipline, they are moved to the 'red' portion of the stoplight. If they have stayed on 'green' with an occasional 'yellow' warning, they get to choose a small toy or treat from a treasure box at the end of the week. However, if they are ever relegated to the red zone that week, they are restricted from taking part in the ritual of the treasure box, watching as their friends who have behaved choose their treasures. The ultimate tragedy for a four year old.

Santa came to visit my son's preschool this week. What should have been an exciting and happy day turned into chaos for the preschool teachers and by the time the parents arrived to pick up the children, half of the class had been moved to the red light. My son, even though being told he would not receive his treasure the following day, was not concerned. He had received two new books and an entire bag of candy from Santa that morning. He was more than content to misbehave, get his Santa goodies and not receive his treasure the next day. When his teachers expressed their dismay at his lack of concern over his misbehavior or the consequences, it was my turn to intervene. I knelt in the hallway outside his classroom and talked to him about the importance of having respect for his teachers. I told him about the privileges he had lost at home and we established consequences for any future misbehavior. As we drove home, I reminded him of his older brother's 'no red' good behavior streak which is now in its second grade year. Still relatively unfazed, when we arrived home I told my young son that he could only have his Santa treats once he had written a note apologizing to his teachers. It took him quite some time to form the letters in his crude handwriting and write out the words in the short letter. At this point he finally started to express some remorse for his behavior. He told me sincerely that he was sorry and that he would listen better at school. Relieved that I had finally made some headway in my 'sorrow for the stoplight' campaign, I set him at the kitchen table with his now earned Santa treats and went to work on the computer.

A few minutes later, as I was busily typing away, he crawled up into my lap. He gave me a huge hug and then pulled my face in front of his. His eyes were large and questioning as he asked, "But Mom, do you still love me?" Tears quickly filled my eyes as I hugged him tighter and said, "Of course. I will always love you, no matter what you do." Instantly reassured, he ran back to the table to finish off his chocolate kisses. I sat quietly staring at the computer screen. I couldn't get my tears to stop for some time. I felt so guilty that in my desire to discipline this ever mischevious boy, I had forgotten to teach him the most important part. That even though I didn't like his behavior, I would always love him. I am his mother. Nothing he could do would ever change that. Ever.

I then realized how grateful I was that he had asked the question. Rather than feeling that he had infinitely disappointed me, he asked for love, for forgiveness, for compassion. I sat in the quiet of the afternoon, picturing a loving Father in Heaven, waiting for me to come to him. Seeing my heart filled with guilt and remorse for my behavior, waiting for me to ask the question, "But Father, do you still love me?" I saw Him patiently waiting and wanting to shower me with love, forgiveness and compassion. Because even when He doesn't like my behavior, He will always love me. He is my Father. Nothing I could do would ever change that. Ever.

Thanks to the Troops

2008-12-12T08:55:00.001-08:00

Xerox has a website where they have postcards drawn by children to honor our troops. You go to their website, choose a postcard, write a short message and they print and send them to soldiers serving overseas. It just takes a minute. Thank a soldier today.

http://www.letssaythanks.com/Home1024.html

A Soldier's Christmas Wish

2008-12-10T10:41:00.000-08:00

As the wife of a soldier, living where we are surrounded by men and women who sacrifice their lives for the freedom of our country, we have many friends and neighbors who are celebrating the holidays without their loved ones. I received this poem via email from a cousin who served in Iraq at the beginning of the war. Please pray for our soldiers. Remember them and their families who sacrifice so much, so often without complaint, to preserve our freedoms.

A Different Christmas Poem

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,

I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.

My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,

My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,

Transforming the yard to a winter delight.

The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,

Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,

Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.

In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,

So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,

But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.

Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the

sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,

And I crept to the door just to see who was near.

Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,

A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,

Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.

Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,

Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,

"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!

Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,

You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,

Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..

To the window that danced with a warm fire's light

Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,

I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."

"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,

That separates you from the darkest of times.

No one had to ask or beg or implore me,

I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at 'Pearl on a day in December,"

Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers."

My dad stood his watch in the jungles of 'Nam',

And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I've not seen my own son in more than a while,

But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.

Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,

The red, white, and blue.. an American flag.

I can live through the cold and the being alone,

Away from my family, my house and my home.

I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,

I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

I can carry the weight of killing another,

Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..

Who stand at the front against any and all,

To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."

" So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,

Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."

"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,

"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?

It seems all too little for all that you've done,

For being away from your wife and your son."

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,

"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.

To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,

To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

For when we come home, either standing or dead,

To know you remember we fought and we bled.

Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,

That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."

PLEASE, would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many

people as you can? Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our

U.S service men and women for our being able to celebrate these

festivities Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe. Make people

stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us.

LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN

30th Naval Construction Regiment

OIC, Logistics Cell One

Al Taqqadum, Iraq

Christmas Wish

2008-12-07T11:45:00.001-08:00

I volunteer at an elementary school once a week. Nothing much; helping second graders do some reading, labeling books, marking papers. The classroom is at the far end of the school, so each week as I make the journey to my assigned classroom I walk by a number of displays of children's work. There were school buses at the beginning of the year, various sorts of flags around Veteran's Day, and turkeys galore at Thanksgiving time. The displays have always been amusing, creative and innocent, but none had ever caused me to stop for even a moment in the hallway on my way to the second grade classroom at the end of school. Until Wednesday.

The bulletin board was filled with stockings. Each had the top portion filled with glued on cotton balls to simulate the real thing. Each had been colored with various shades of Christmas hues. Each had a center portion of lined paper. Each had written upon it the child's Christmas wish. I glanced, expecting requests for skateboards, game systems or any number of popular toys. I then stopped suddenly and turned around for a second look, certain I had been mistaken. I stood in the quiet hallway filled with stocking wishes and read. The first stocking said, "I wish my Dad didn't have to work so much." The stocking just above it read, "I wish the Jones family had enough food to eat." I was stunned, and humbled. I wondered how many of their parents had seen their stockings. I wondered if that father had picked up extra shifts or a second job to pay for Christmas gifts. I wondered if that child would rather give some food to another family than to have another present under the tree. I wondered if anyone at home had asked those children what they really wanted for Christmas and if they knew how little it would cost them to grant their children's wishes.

In a society that constantly reports on the insatiable greed of the upcoming generation, I invite you to walk down the hall at your elementary school. Learn what children really want for Christmas. You. Your time. Your love. To help. To serve. To give. Maybe, if we listen closely enough, our children can give us the greatest gift this Christmas. The ability to grant their truest wish.

Backstory to a Blog

2008-12-07T10:24:00.000-08:00

I finally did it. I joined the world of blogging. I fought creating a blog for a long time, reliving memories of late night scrapbook parties where my pages were never fancy, my pictures sub par, and I felt the unstated pressure to have each layout be worthy of publication in a magazine. I couldn't fathom willingly submitting myself to the stress of falling behind on blog posts. I pictured myself literally running away from those infamous tags. I imagined berating myself at various events that I hadn't remembered my camera yet again and wouldn't have any photographs to post. So I ardently refused jumping into the world of blogging and felt relieved at having one less thing to feel guilty about.

But then something changed for me. I realized that this medium has the potential to uplift and edify and teach beyond simply sharing updates on daily life. It can reach out to friends and strangers alike, uniting them through triumph and tragedy in this experience we call life. I have long been a writer of lyrics and poetry, seeking to record and capture life in moments. In doing so I try to create windows of insight into my own understanding of the world. I often see light through those windows that gives me peace, clarity and even hope. I have come to the realization that every person has a unique view of the world - a lens, a color, a view that may provide depth, shadow and color to another person's perception of life. My hope is that in sharing the view from my window, perhaps the light I see in my life might somehow be reflected in your life. And in your reception of that simple offering, your light may somehow reflect upon and enlighten mine.

So I write for light. I seek for things that are virtuous, lovely, of good report or praiseworthy and share them in the hope that light will increase in my heart - and in yours.