The Good Book

Been thinking a lot about our wedding lately. It truly was a gorgeous rural Kansas day - mid April, warm, and a beautiful clear blue sky. 

I received many gifts that day;  the husband I'd prayed for, a wonderful wedding ceremony, the surprise arrival of my sisters, and a UMW-catered reception (the best kind!). And I had good friends there with me, helping turn the pages for my next chapter. 

Brooke Harrower Hartman gave me not only the gift of her presence as a bridesmaid, but she gave us a new Bible as a wedding gift. 

Over the last 18-and-a-half years, I've learned from it, worshipped from it, prayed from it, yelled at it, cried all over it, hauled it, taught from it, argued with it, consulted it, revered it ... and I've loved it. 

It is a daily comfort to me and is the instrument through which God has made something useful out of the mess that was me.  

Sure, I've had other bibles in my life, and I have some treasured hand-me-down bibles from my parents and grandparents. 

And yes, I know some of my friends think I'm an idiot for making such a fuss over a book. It's just a book, after all. But oh, what a life-changing love story it tells!

And my friend Brookie gave it to me, on the happiest day of my life.  Thank you, my friend. 

Get Real

Tomorrow, my Dave will receive his sister Sandra's kidney.  He's been on dialysis since October 2014, and it seems he's gotten more and more sick over the last six months or so.  Call it a blessing, a gift, a miracle - whatever you call it, his life is going to make a huge turn for the better a few days from now.

**********

Sometimes when I get sucked into Facebook for long periods of time, I'm struck by how everyone else's life seems rosy and easy.  Kids off to college, lovely vacations, new babies/grandbabies, family meals, weekend hikes, cute pets, the ubiquitous "throwbacks" and "flashbacks"... and don't forget the selfies!  Frankly, a lot of it doesn't seem like real life to me.  Is all that stuff real?

To be clear, I'm not casting aspersions... I myself try to make sure I don't puke on Facebook because I want my posts to be encouraging, entertaining, honest, perhaps mildly tasteless from time to time but not off-putting.  I spent decades feeling sorry for myself, my situation, my upbringing, my tragedies (self-wrought and otherwise)... ain't nobody wants to see that crap on Facebook....and besides, as my friend Paul advised, I'm learning to be content in all circumstances.

All circumstances?

OK, most circumstances.

**********

Sandra asked me a couple of days ago how I'm doing.  Please note that this is the sister who is giving up an ORGAN for her brother tomorrow.  And she asks how I'm doing.

Well, of course it made me cry (what doesn't?), and it also made me realize that I have been working very hard at staying very busy so I don't have to pay attention to how I'm doing.  I don't want to think about it.

Because the truth is - I'm scared shitless. 

I have a remarkable and impressive list of things that I'm scared about, and I let them cycle through my brain in the wee hours and steal my slumber.  Things about the surgery, his health beyond the surgery, the kids, my dad, my job, my weight, the election, our lawn, my house clutter, his sight, my shoulder, my car registration, the kids some more, back to his health again... and then start all over and throw in a couple of new things that I missed the first time around.

It occurs to me now how much I've taken him for granted, my Dave.  He is always there on the other side of the bed, every night that I've been in it for the last 18 years.  He almost always has a meal on the table when I get home from work, and the only thing I ever have to do with laundry is put mine away.  We are rarely out of milk and the larder is never completely empty (despite the frequent teenage lament that "there's nothing to eat in this house").

We sit side by side most evenings, watching something we've recorded on the DVR or binging on something we missed (finally finished House of Cards last night... a little unnerving, here in this nutty election cycle).  Our new living room is arranged such that we sit close, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder.  Sometimes I like to just tuck my left hand under his right thigh - I don't know why.  I just like it there.

He has the most beautiful blue eyes, with obnoxiously long black eyelashes, and a gut-busting sense of humor and a smile that just makes you want to smile back.

He is here when I get home from work.  Every day.  The mail is on the kitchen counter, and any packages I might have ordered have been brought in from the rain.

Is he perfect?  Oh HECK no.  He's a grumpy old right-wing Navy-vet curmudgeon who curses and loses his temper and we fight about the kids, and there are many things on which we do not see eye-to-eye... such as the pros of having a dog and the importance of a good discount on something that I'm sure I'll use one of these days.  But he's mine and I love him.

So, anyway, they're putting my curmudgeon to sleep tomorrow and putting in a kidney from his sister and even though I've heard dozens of stories about how successful and common kidney transplants are these days...

I'm scared.  Really and truly scared.  That's what feels real to me at this moment.

**********

And yet.  What is real?  Is it what we see?  What we feel?

I'm reminded of our wedding day, the day when our ceremony at Reading United Methodist Church included a surprise reading by the officiating pastor, Mike Smith, of one of my very favorite pieces of literature ever:

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day.  "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse.  "It's a thing that happens to you.  When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.  It doesn't happen all at once.  You become.  It takes a long time.  Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.  But these things don't matter, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand".

(credit: Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit)

Ah, yes, I remember now.  Love is real.  Not only the husband-wife kind of love, but the parent-child, brother-sister, sister-sister, brother-brother, partner-partner, friend-friend kinds too.  All kinds of love.  It's the only real that there is. 

Especially divine love from my Creator.  I don't even pretend to understand THAT.

And as I look over the chapters of my life thus far, love has always been the main character of the story.  Sure, I've been scared before, and mad, and selfish, and overwhelmed, etc., etc.  But I'm real.  I strive to be real, anyway.

Love makes us real.

And the rest is just noise.

Time Travel

This weekend is my 35th high school reunion.

Thirty-fifth.  Thirty-five years ago, back when I knew everything.

My hometown is a place I love and miss like an amputee must miss a limb.  Part of me is always there, this morning and every morning - remembering the sunrise over the mountains in the distance and maybe planning a summer Saturday on the lake later today.

But I am not there.  I am not there for the reunion and I am not there to see the mountain sunrise or enjoy the lake today.  I am at my kitchen table in Eagle, Nebraska and feeling a confluence of emotions that prompted this post.

It appears that I haven't posted in a couple of months now, so just to catch things up, we moved from Iowa to Nebraska in June.  The eight-month mess that was our Iowa experience came to a bitter end in early January, but because there were dozens of people to lay off and some offices to close down, I had to stay for a while longer.  That, plus I had no clue where I was supposed to go or what I was supposed to do next.  My company offered a few options (for which I'm both astonished and grateful), yet as always, God had already written the next chapter.  And it is a doozy!

**********

But in June of 1981, I was leaning on the hood of someone's car and boozily admiring my classmates' handiwork.  These unnamed champions of anarchy had managed to liberate the stone statue of Ethan Allen from in front of the local furniture store and brought him to one of our many senior parties.  There he stood, holding a six-pack and sporting a jock strap, and we all were in awe of the foolish bravery of those who brought him to share in our festivities.

Foolish bravery, though, was in amply supply among my particular set of friends in those years and beyond.  We risked so many precious things in the name of fun.  Things like dignity and reputation and self-esteem and sometimes our own lives and others' lives behind the wheels of cars we had no business driving in that condition.  I learned the hard way about "liquor on beer, have no fear... beer on liquor, you're going to be sicker", but as was usually my mindset, I thought I was tougher than chemistry and had to learn this lesson several times before I accepted it.

In 1981, the drinking age in Tennessee was 19, and as you might imagine, there were a lot of 18 year olds in my graduating class who easily passed for 19.  Though I was still 17 when I graduated, heredity had been overgenerous in certain physical attributes, so I didn't have much trouble buying beer either.  (Bartles and Jaymes peach wine coolers were my particular poison at that time, though.  Bleccch).  But there was always that thrilling moment, when I walked up to the register with my intended purchase, not knowing if I'd be victorious or humiliated.  It was a moment of inner celebration, those times when I waltzed out of the Pop Shoppe with my wine coolers or Miller Lites or whatever I'd been sent in to get.

In those days, ("back when dinosaurs roamed the earth", as my kids like to say), we couldn't get Coors or Corona in east Tennessee.  Venerated was the person who showed up at parties with one of these rare and prized libations - they'd clearly been to Colorado or Mexico and were generous enough to share their smuggled booty.

Pot, quaaludes, hash, valium, sex, mushrooms, the occasional sheet of LSD - these were usually found at the outer edges of our parties, too.  I can neither confirm or deny my participation in any of that because that would be stupid.  Suffice to say that I was stupid about some things, but eventually wised up. 

**********

So was my entire senior year a blur of parties and debauchery?  Sometimes I think so, but then I also remember a flush of pride when English teacher "Loony" June Mitchell read one of my poems to the class and praised my talent and potential.  I remember going to the "MidWinters" conference in Gatlinburg and accepting Jesus as my savior.  (Actually I think that was my junior year... have I mentioned that I'm a slow learner?   I ran away from Jesus for the next 15 years.) 

I remember the pure and unfettered joy of riding around with my best friend Anne Smith in her Cutlass Supreme 442, early spring of 1981, windows down and Yes' "Roundabout" on the 8-track. I remember giving George Hooks a haircut after Coach Whetsel's history class.  I remember feeling victorious when I finally solved a challenging algebraic equation.  I remember hanging out in the pit with Jane Austin and Missy McDonald.  I remember Ginger Gray saying that she liked my haircut.  I remember piercing Doug Hall's ear one spring Saturday afternoon down at the Boulevard.  I remember singing "Homeward Bound" in the talent show with Scott Nitzberg.  I remember listening to Seals and Crofts with Bart Yancey on the way to his lake house.  I remember telling my mom I was spending the night with Wendy Hall, the same time that Wendy Hall was telling her mom she was spending the night with me.  I remember putting on makeup with Milaray Mann in her room, getting ready to go out for the evening.  I remember thinking Jerry Spiegel was one of the coolest people I'd ever met.  I remember my cousin Ben giving me crap about my outfit.  HAHAHA, and that reminds me of the time that I came back from the bathroom to Loony June's classroom, and Janet McAfee had to tell me that my skirt was still tucked in my undies in the back.

I remember the heartache of a one-way crush and the easy comfort of a few close and true friends. I remember being grateful that I had friends in all of the different cliques - the freaks, the jocks, the geeks, the nerds, the dopers, the cheerleaders... and then the rest of us.  I remember feeling that I didn't quite completely belong in any of those groups.  At the time, I didn't feel like I quite belonged anywhere...so I remember feeling warm pleasure when I was accepted by any of them.

There we all were, poised at the edge of adulthood.  Most of us were college-bound, either to UT, another SEC school or the local community college.  Grief had already sneaked in on us, as we'd already lost some of our number to fiery car crashes or suicide. 

I'd already made all kinds of mistakes, each one feeling like the end of the world and further distancing me from all the happy people around me.  For me, happiness was always just around the corner... I could see it from where I was, but it was always just a little beyond my fingertips.  When I was 17, that made me unutterably sad.  I was relieved to graduate high school - not because I was worried I wouldn't, but because I struggled to be around everyone else's happiness when I couldn't reach it myself.

Little did I know... everyone else was reaching, too.  I just couldn't see far enough outside my own self to realize that I wasn't alone after all.

**********

Gosh, how grim if that was the end of this post!  In the 35 years since 1981, I have lived the biggest fattest joyous life!  The thirteen years between June 1981- June1994 were still a bit of a shit show, mostly by my own doing but also because life is just plain hard sometimes.

I've seen much more of the world - I've been to Nicaragua and Alaska and the Bahamas and the Caribbean and Hawaii and Mexico and all over the continental US;  in 1981, I'd only been on family beach trips, spring break and a couple of school field trips. 

Though I haven't been diving in a long time, I learned scuba and went so far as to be licensed as a cave diver and rescue diver.  I've been diving in the Bahamas and the Virgin Islands (US and BVI) and Norris Lake and Vortex Springs and Jupiter Inlet.  I've walked on a frozen lake in Wisconsin, and I've driven a SeaDoo off the coast of Mexico.  I've panned for gold in a creek outside of Anchorage, and I've been deep-sea fishing in the Gulf Stream.  In 1981, my watery experiences were mostly in pools and mountain creeks and Fort Loudoun Lake and the dark green Atlantic crashing against Daytona Beach.

I've been married twice - both to beautiful men born far away from east Tennessee - the first time for about 18 months, this time for over 18 years. In 1981, the longest relationship I'd ever had was maybe three weeks.

Since 1981, I've been to symphonies and Broadway plays and Pearl Harbor and jail and museums and Disney World and Callaway Gardens and Biltmore and biker bars and Lambeau Field and all kinds of houses of worship - cathedrals, synagogues, mega-churches and tiny chapels.  I've seen U2, the Grateful Dead, the Eagles, Aerosmith, R.E.M., Boston, Journey, Jimmy Buffett, James Taylor, Squeeze, the B-52s, Kansas, Styx, the Moody Blues, Yes, Rush, Dolly, Pink Floyd, CSN (with my dad!), the Police, Michael Jackson, Bruce Hornsby, Vince Gill, Toad the Wet Sprocket, CrossRhodes, Rhodes and Phillips, Tall Paul, and many more.  In 1981, I'd seen REO Speedwagon and Foghat and Foreigner and Journey. 

I've survived many things that I thought might break me at the time - the death of my mother, a difficult divorce, excruciating depressions, mortifying consequences of idiotic choices, the deaths of special friends and of special dogs, family estrangements, blistering hangovers,  surprising flaws in my character and the character of others.

I do plan to write a memoir one of these days, but I haven't quite yet outlived some of the feelings that go along with some of these memories.   I'm almost done with them, though.  And lord knows it is going to be one seriously funny book.

**********

All of the life I've lived in the past 35 years has been rich and full and difficult in places.  I love the saying - I wouldn't be who I am if I hadn't been where I've been.  I've turned out to be a reasonably kind and decent person, and I have learned the value of appreciating the journey. I have a comfortable life and a family that loves me and a career that makes me feel like I'm doing something that matters.  The regrets of my life thus far are mitigated by the lessons they taught me.

And most of all, I have a solid and dependable friendship with my Creator, even though He refuses to follow my script. 

**********

I know that my fellow classmates from 1981 have equally rich stories - probably different than mine, and perhaps more or less turbulent.  I am sad that I'm not there this weekend to hear them - to share stories about our moments of grief and our seasons of joy.

The passage of time has given me the gift of clearer perspective - all of us, we've always been reaching for something, at some point.  As usual, it isn't just me.  (And as usual, I'm reminded that I'm not the center of the universe after all.)

It occurs to me that those of us who've found peace in our time travel since 1981 didn't find it outside of ourselves.  There's no newer car or better house or different spouse or smaller dress size or change of scene that has given me peace and happiness.

Reasonable peace and happiness arrived in my life when I stopped trying to buy it or find it or create it myself.  Reasonable peace and happiness always show up when I give up my demand to control people and things and circumstances. 

Life is still life - it is hard sometimes and there are certain things that I can't say I enjoy.

But gosh what a life I've lived since 1981!  And how grateful I am this morning to be here, appreciating it at my little kitchen table in Eagle, Nebraska.

And I don't even know what I did with that script.

Sarah Marie of the Mountains

A week ago today, I made the excruciating decision to have our dog Sarah euthanized.   "Euthanized" sounds so much better than "put to sleep" or "put down". 

But when the kids got home and asked me where she was, they briefly looked at me in confusion... Mom, did you mean to say she's "gone?" Sarah's gone? 

Ummm.... gone where?

And that's the hell of the thing right there... if dogs don't have souls, and our souls are what go to heaven, then where do dogs go?  And kitties, and ferrets and guinea pigs and beloved horses, and all of God's creatures that have been loved by one of God's children... where are they?

The notion of a "rainbow bridge" makes the loss of a pet somewhat more bearable, but where do they go? 

WHERE IS MY DOG ??

*********
It was spring of 2008, and we were coming home from a taekwondo tournament.  Jamie had been half-hearted about his taekwondo for a while, but he went through the motions and was awarded one of those "thanks-anyway-for-giving-us-your-money" medals at the competition.  Afterwards, all four of us were in a funk, so we decided to stop for a late lunch/early supper at Olive Garden in Dunwoody.

For context, it's important to mention that I'd been dropping not-so-subtle hints to the Mister for a few months that the kids needed a dog (truth be told, it was I who NEEDED a dog).  However, not being much of a dog person himself, the Mister had not yet concurred.

After our meal at Olive Garden, and as we were headed out of the Dunwoody complex where it was located, we saw this poor fool dressed in a dog costume with a sign that said "We Have Puppies!" with an arrow pointing to PetSmart.  In a brief loss of sanity, the Mister said we should at least go have a look.

An hour or so later, we left the store with a sleek, shiny black-and-tan dachshund puppy, a crate, a crapload of doggy supplies, and a new argument about what to name her.  I was hellbent on Olive - what a great name!  And we just ate at (drumroll, please....) OLIVE Garden! Get it?  Olive?  Olive Garden?  It seemed pretty cut and dried and obvious to me.

But nobody else liked the name "Olive", so we continued kicking it around until somebody said "Sarah". 

Sarah.  SARAH.  Who names their dog Sarah, for pete's sake? 


Well, we did, that's who. 

As a consolation prize for having lost the battle for "Olive", I held out for "Sarah Marie", because southern dogs should have a double name (duh!) and there is a James Taylor song that I've always loved about a girl named Sarah Maria.  And then, once I'd gotten around to doing Sarah's AKC registration paperwork, I decided to give her something more elegant that would honor my East Tennessee roots - hence "Sarah Marie of the Mountains".

For years, Sarah was always a source of great joy as well as significant annoyance.  She barked at every noise, every guest, every movement she saw out of the window, strangers, poor Abby the Tabby... Her bark was shrill and loud, and it was most often met with a stern "Sarah, HUSH!!" from one or more of us.  And, every now and then, it would be more akin to "SARAH, SHUT THE F**K  UP!!" 

But she just kept barking.

Being a wiener dog, her sturdy little sausage body made it easy for me to swaddle her and hold her like a baby.  We both enjoyed that immensely.  She would nod off in my arms, head lolled back and little pudgy platypus feet just hanging there.


Sometimes she had what must have been thrilling dreams - she would twitch and jerk, then quietly bark in her sleep.  I think she was chasing bunnies in her dreams, but perhaps it was small children instead.

In her waking hours, she was a fierce pest control officer, barking and biting at any flies or bees that might have made the fatal mistake of flying into our home.  It's hard to have short stumpy legs whilst chasing a fly, but damned if she didn't catch them most of the time.

Dachshunds are funny little dogs in that, while they may be part of a family, they generally pick one person to whom they are most strongly attached. 

And while she was "our" dog, Sarah was most assuredly MY dog. 

Lord, how that dog loved me, and vice versa.  She followed me from room to room, and within fifteen seconds of me sitting my butt down on the sofa, she was on my lap or stretched out next to my leg.  She was like an extra appendage. I'm told that she even mourned my absence when I was away on business trips.

In the spring of 2013, my job changed and I began working from a home-based office.  Sarah was a pest, always wanting attention and being underfoot and completely interfering with work.  I started suggesting that she was lonely and that she needed another doggy friend to play with. 

This suggestion was not especially well-received by the Mister.

Then, once again, in a momentary lapse of reason, he allowed himself to be persuaded by the Boy and by the giant liquid brown eyes of a beagle-ish mutt at one of those Humane Society's adopt-a-pet events outside of the pet supply store.  Let the record reflect that I WASN'T EVEN THERE, but in fairness, they did call me to get my opinion.  In retrospect, I find that completely hilarious.  Asking me if we could get another dog?  Really??  Like I would ever say "no" to that question.

And so ours became a two-dog house, with Sarah Marie ruling the roost and her trusty sidekick Bud E. Beagle slobbering along beside her.  Buddy is not the smartest dog, but boy is he sweet.  He loved Sarah so much - I don't think it was always entirely reciprocal, but she was gentle and kind to him.  He has itchy hound-dog ears and perpetually runny eyes - often, she would patiently clean his face and his ears as they snuggled on the couch or in my lap.

They had great fun, Buddy and Sarah, always together and always (well, mostly) content.  Buddy has very little understanding of personal space, but for the most part, Sarah did not seem to mind.

 

**********

A few weeks ago, we noticed that Sarah had developed a bit of a cough.  Nothing terrible, just a bit of a wheeze that was accompanied by the kind of cough that most dogs do when they drink water too fast.  Spring had sprung, and because I've always suspected she had seasonal allergies like the rest of us, I didn't think too much of it.  After all, she was only eight years old - although she was sporting a few gray whiskers, that's not all that old.

Then, on Saturday, May 14th, I noticed that her bottom looked awful.  It looked like one of those monkey butts (an orangutan maybe?) that is inside out and looks completely gross.  I dithered for an hour or so and briefly contemplated trying to shove all that mess back up inside of her... but thankfully I remembered that I actually do not know everything (yes, sometimes I forget that), and we took her to the pet ER clinic.

They diagnosed a rectal prolapse, where the lower colon basically falls out of your butt, but the underlying problem was a bit of a mystery at that point.  They did a series of x-rays which showed several clouds in her chest and in her belly.  "Hopefully that's just a fungal infection," said the ER veterinarian.  "There is medicine to treat fungal infections - it's not cheap, but it's effective, and if she has a fungal infection, then we know just what to do."

In my retrospectively pitiable ignorance, I said:  "But what if it ISN'T a fungal infection?  Then what is it?"

The ER vet, in a gentle voice said, "then it's likely lymphoma." 

Oh.  Okay then.  Time to pray for fungus.

**********
On Friday morning, May 20, 2016, I did my morning bit like I always do.  Get up, go pee, look in the mirror for new pimples and/or wrinkles, then go downstairs and let the dogs out of their crates and put out their breakfast.  The next part is when they either pee or eat breakfast first, depending on whether they went before bedtime the night before.

Sarah didn't eat, which was weird, so I opened the back door, assuming she wanted a potty break before breakfast.  As I stood in the kitchen, I heard a baby crying.  Seriously, I heard an infant crying somewhere behind the house, almost like somebody had abandoned an injured baby in my yard.

I rushed to the window, only to see our little Sarah hunched in a "C" curve and trying to pass something terrible through her little sausage link body.  It took a minute for me to realize that she - Sarah - was the crying baby.  She was making a shrieking and painful sound I'd never heard from her before... she wailed and pushed and wailed...and it was then I realized that it wasn't a fungus.

At 10 a.m., I took her to our regular vet, Sullivan Family Pet Hospital, and I asked them to get in touch with the ER vet clinic to get copies of her X-ray films.

At noon, dear Dr. Allison Sullivan called me to let me know that it wasn't a fungal infection. 

That she could refer me to a veterinary oncologist.

That chemo was always a possibility to extend Sarah's life for a few months, for a few thousand dollars... but that Sarah would probably be in pain.

That euthanasia was probably the kindest option.

**********

I am sometimes monstrously self-centered, with limited cognition of others ... so I am somewhat embarrassed to report that I thought twice about it.  I can afford chemo, I thought to myself.  If they'll just give her chemo and pain meds, I can hug her and snuggle with her and swaddle her as long as possible.

But something... someone... pricked my conscience, and I knew it was time to relieve Sarah's pain.  To do the thing that no one EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER wants to do.

And so I asked Dr. Sullivan to let her go.  To put her down, to let her go to sleep.

I would like to tell you that I went to Sullivan Pet Hospital and held her paw as she left this life.  I wish that was true.  But instead I sat here at my desk, wracked with agony and cowardice and.. and... and I let someone else tell her how much I loved her before they "let her go".

**********

So, again I ask. 

Where is my dog??

Hang on - I just found her.

She's right here.

She's here, squarely seated in the middle of the memories of my heart, all cozy and swaddled and barking in her sleep.

 

And that, my dear friends, is where I will ALWAYS find her.

 

 



Control Freak

The sun started shining in Iowa yesterday.


At first I was confused by the bright round orb, blinding me through the filth of my salt-splattered windshield.  The wind was still 40 mph and colder than a witch's you-know-what (and if you don't know what, I'll tell ya another time), yet here was the presence of spring, all full of herself and ready to strip off the winter grays.


The trees are still nekkid this morning, and as I know firsthand from 52 winters in the south, signs of an early spring in mid-February are Mother Nature's way of reminding us who's the boss around here.  (pssst... it's not us.)  But what a blessing to see the sunshine, to see the dirty 6-ft snow piles left behind by the plows melt away and to see a weekend in front of me fat with the promise of many hours outdoors.


Just as I have less-than-zero control over the weather, or the stock market, or the apocalypse or what's on sale at Hy-Vee, today I'm reminded and somehow comforted that I am not in control.  (P.S. - Publix and Kroger, you guys need to meet with HyVee execs and copy their business model.  Just sayin'.)


But please understand - some days, the reality of my subordination to the Creator of the universe pisses me off to extreme.  He is TOTALLY doing it wrong, and apparently He has misplaced my script because this right here is one effed-up mess.  This is NOT what I signed up for.


**********
Let's look at that a little further, shall we?  What - precisely - do I think I signed up for?


Well, when I was a teenager, I thought I would live next door to my best friend on Cherokee Boulevard in Knoxville, TN, and we would be married to completely smitten, faithful, handsome and devoted WASPish (likely Episcopalian)  lawyers/ doctors/ governors/ etc. with their own trust funds and awestruck mothers-in-law, and we would have three children each, whose birthdays would be within six months of each other, and we would be leaders of the Junior League and the Dogwood Arts Council and the Library Guild.


HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!   Ummm.  No.


Thankfully, the Creator helped me see that my plan had a few holes in it and instead today we are both reasonably sane and happy mothers in different time zones with reasonably happy households and an awareness of just how goofy we used to be.  Also thankfully, we are still VERY good and lifelong friends.


The catalogue of events from the last 52 years which were egregiously unlike my script is lengthy and often laughable.  In other words... WTF WAS I THINKING??!?!??!


**********
So here I am... a control freak with no control.  If I've learned anything at all in my episodic maturation, it's that I don't have control over jack other than tonight's menu and my choice in mascara.  Ok, well maybe a few other things here and there, but they are of equal insignificance.  I have no more control over what happens tomorrow or next week or next year than I do of the weather.


Did I mention that this pisses me off?


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Surrender is a word that ekes its way into my thought process these days.  Do I fight and attempt to control my circumstances, or do I surrender them to a higher power?  After all, surrender is for wussies ... it's what people do when they realize they can't overpower a combatant or control the outcome of a battle.


Who am I fighting?  Who is my opponent?  Is it karma or nature or God or what?  It's not me... after all, I am the smartest (and most modest) person I know, with my own best interests at heart as well as those of my fellow man, as long as their best interests will serve mine.


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The sun is out in Iowa and (surprise, surprise) I had nothing to do with that.  I am grateful and in awe of it.  Maybe it doesn't suck here after all.  Maybe we are supposed to be here for reasons other than my career.  Maybe not.  Who knows?


Now I am faced with some choices about career and time zones and annual average climates.  To realize that we actually have choices is in and of itself a profound blessing. Of which I had no control.  :-)


But what to choose???  What do I do with the choices in front of me?  Do I sit still and wait for a supernatural set of instructions to appear on the coffee table in the living room?  Do I choose a path and by God go hell-bent and full steam in that direction and pray that it goes the way I wrote it?  What if what's good for me is different than what's good for my husband and/or kids?  WTF do I do??? (insert hand-wringing here)


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I surrender.  Again (dammit).  And again and again and even daily if I have to.  And again, maybe again, even this afternoon.


My Creator, my compass, the force behind all that makes my life worthy... to Him I surrender.  That may mean Pennsylvania or Iowa or Kentucky or Tennessee or Oklahoma or Alaska or who even knows???  He does, that's who.  Lord knows it's not me...


I surrender.


And man, that is one seriously beautiful early spring Saturday He's put together out there.  It wasn't even in my script or anything.

Adjectives

Adjectives rule my every waking moment. 

Seems like I have an adjective labeling everything about every thing.  Is it a good day or a bad day?  Did I enjoy a deep sleep or did I have a rough night?  Is that person a decent human being or a raving jackass?  Is my kid naughty or well-behaved?  Is my job fulfilling or draining?

Somewhere in my psyche, apparently just on the periphery of my consciousness is a judgment filter.  Everything - and I do mean everybody and everything - passes through it, myself included.  Things and people come out on the other side of the filter with at least an adjective and sometimes a more tenacious and persistent label.  If I don't have a label for it, then I can't categorize it and that is a problem for me.

I have a massive mental file room full of cabinets where things and people are filed.  My "wonderful" family, my "dear" friends, that "terrible" news, her "beautiful" baby, my "great" job, that "fabulous" sermon.  

One set of drawers right is devoted entirely to me.  The file labels in these drawers are disproportionately negative - while there are a few locations for things like "kind", "funny" and "grateful", most are not positive assessments.  Many are things that are just plain cruel.

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Recently I've  been discussing the concept of "mindfulness" with some friends at work. Mindfulness is a component of meaningful meditation, and it calls for a full awareness of the present without judgment.  I am good with it except for that last part - how can I be fully aware of the present without forming an associated opinion of it? 

WHAT DO I DO WITH SOMETHING IF I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO PUT IT??

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The last six months of my professional career have been exceptionally, extraordinarily difficult - while that's an adjective, it's also a fact.  I've been pushed so far out of my comfort zone that sometimes I don't even know where it is anymore.

So when my boss' boss came here yesterday to address our team, and he used words like "courageous" "strong" and "inspiring" to describe me, I had no clue what to do with that.  I looked at the ceiling, at my feet, at an unoccupied chair.  My face got hot and my stomach started hurting and a part of me wanted to leave so I wouldn't have to hear anymore.   None of those words seem to fit me.  Why can I not just say thank you and leave it at that?

I had no idea where to put this stuff at first because I don't have any of those labels in my own personal file drawers.  

But then it occurred to me - it's all in the Faith cabinet. It's God's unfailing strength, compassion and inspiration that gives me whatever courage I have and keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.  Of myself, I am nothing.  Only through Him am I made strong and courageous.  If people see and notice those things about me, then may I be a living witness to where I get them. 

I like those labels this morning.  I know where to find those files after all. 

The Other Shoe

This is the part where I would like to let loose with a string of expletives that would peel wallpaper and make sailors blush.  I would like to stomp my feet and pound my fist and punch a clown and maybe eat a whole red velvet cake with real cream cheese icing then throw it up someplace of my own choosing.

You see, once again, I did not get my way.  It never fails to disappoint me when I don't get my way, because my way is always the best way.  Just ask me. 

Except when it isn't.  Except when I'm wrong.  Except when my puny and worldly expectations pale in the light of God's much bigger plan.

But the other shoe has dropped in Iowa and the only assurance I have at this particular moment is my faith.  (Which is actually the only assurance I really need.)