Remembering BJ

Note: I wrote this for the funeral of BJ Chipman. He had been a lifelong family friend, who lived a very different kind of life. He died without "official" family. He will be missed and remembered.

I took a friend to my parents’ home for Thanksgiving this year and as we were driving to Grant County from Louisville I told him who would be there to eat with us. After reciting the list from memory, a list that really doesn’t change that much, he asked, “So how does BJ fit into your family?”

I laughed and tried to figure out some kind of answer.

Truthfully, I had never really given it much thought. In my 50 years, I didn’t remember BJ not being around—He was certainly around when I was young enough to call him J.B. and wonder why everybody laughed.

In my mind, he was just as much a part of the backdrop of the farm on Salem Road as the smokehouse or the milking room or the cattle on the hill.

In the winter, he was in the stripping room.

In the summer, he was sitting in a plastic chair on my grandparents’ porch.

 On mother’s day, he was walking up the road with flowers from his yard for Nana.

More often than not, he was at my grandmother’s table with a full plate in front of him. I think she used to pull off some sort of loaves and fishes miracle when BJ showed up for a meal. The way he ate I was never convinced there would be enough for all of us, but somehow there was always plenty.

In recent years, after my grandma died, he became familiar with my mother’s and my uncle’s cooking skills – In fact, in the early fall, BJ told me that my mom was a good cook. When I said “I’m not sure she’s up to my grandma’s level,” he chuckled and said with a wink “You didn’t hear that from me.”

One of my most vivid memories of BJ was when I was little, and, my dog, Snoopy, would sit in front of BJ as he sat close to the heating stove in my grandma’s living room – with his worn out boots, and long hair and straggly beard. Snoopy would just kind of stare at him and growl – all 10 pounds of her. She just wasn’t sure what to make of him. I think most of us here have probably had that same thought at sometime about BJ.

40 + years later, Back in the summer, my current dog, Grace, all 100 pounds of her, tried to wrestle the chewing tobacco out of BJ’s pants pocket, and then she sat with her rear end on his boots, leaning into him, and practically forced him to pet her. She is smarter than Snoopy was. Grace was smart enough to look past the grumpy, disheveled exterior, and recognize BJ for the soul he was. A soul that was worthy of love and affection.

Back to the question: How does BJ fit into your family? The answer is fairly simple. He is family.

Somewhere along the way his journey became entwined with my family’s journey. In fact, he’s been tangled up with Dunn’s for 5 generations – from my great-grandparents down to my own children. His stories won’t be lost as my kids tell stories to the next generation of Dunn’s about this odd guy with long hair and a straggly beard who joined hands with the rest of us as we prayed around the table – after, of course, Eugene told him to take off his hat.

So on behalf of BJ’s family, let me thank you for serving as the hands and feet of Jesus in the gifts you have given him these past few months and weeks. Thank you for the food you brought, for a TV that is special enough to only play Gunsmoke. Thank you for visits and calls and prayers. Thank you for seeing past his gruffness and loving him even when he was hard to love.

 Today, BJ is delighting in the presence of a mother he loved and a dad he never knew. I selfishly like to think he’s already eaten with my grandparents, because I know how much joy that would bring them all.

But most importantly, now BJ has found peace in the presence of his Creator. The worries that took up so much space in his mind, but aggravated the hell out of the rest of us, have been relieved. He finally knows and believes what the rest of us knew about him all along, that BJ Chipman was born and lived and died, with the Divine inside him all the time, that he is worthy of love and redemption

So now we release him to our Lord even as we miss him and grieve for him and remember him, because that’s what families do when they’ve lost a treasured member.

 

O, For Grace to Trust Him More

Even after all these years of church services, Sunday School classes, retreats and even Prayer Meetings, I can honestly say that I really don't understand prayer and the way it works. From childhood, I've been part of services, where the Saints spent time praying on their knees, no less, for "the sick" and "the lost."  They asked for wisdom, for patience, for clarity and understanding.

My own prayers have never been so brave. Truthfully, I've always been a little afraid about what I would do if I prayed and God didn't answer. It just doesn't make sense to me that the person with the longest prayer chain is going to be healed. What about the mother who is alone as her child is dying? Does God care less for her? Does it mean that if I don't pray or forget to pray that someone may stay sick or "lost" because of me? I know, right. Lots of questions that are easily answered by most folks, or at least that's how it seems.

Last evening, as I walked, which is my own form of prayer, I offered up my usual prayers of confession and gratitude. This was less than 24 hours after my mental illness had threatened to rear it's ugly head. I confessed that I had chosen to check out at times, and I was thankful for the presence of the ones I love so dearly.  As I kept walking I couldn't help but be amazed at prayers that had been answered that day that had not even been on anyone's list.

The sun was brilliant and warm at my parents' farm, and I had not even thought to ask God for it. We saw a buck run across the open field with the most beautiful dog in the world chasing behind him. I walked the woods with the man I love (a man I didn't even ask God for, come to think of it) and a daughter I adore, who both gifted me with their presence and love.

I ate with two healthy parents. I shot at targets with a pellet gun with my two beautiful sons. Sons that were getting along with each other on a holiday and even loving on their mom -- a true Thanksgiving miracle that guess who didn't pray for. Even the kite I like to fly at the farm went higher than it had ever been -- seriously. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

I kind of doubt that ten years ago I would have prayed for God to let me be a nearly 50 year old divorced mom, living in a house my parents own, driving a practically new 98 Chevy Van, continuing to pop Prozac and indulge in therapy while teaching 3rd grade where there are as many bedbugs as kids, but they are exactly the blessings that I am most thankful for. . .

My new prayer: O, For Grace to Trust Him More. . . God knows what is best for me. . .  

Election Day 2012

I watched the election returns this year with Walter. Unfortunately, I was already home by the time it was announced that Obama had been reelected. W. sent me a text filling me in on the news. I did a little victory dance in my head because I was too lazy to get out of bed for a real one.

I know, right. A little anticlimactic considering the importance of this election, but what's a teacher that has to get up at 5:30 am post election day going to do?

Post-Election Day 2008 I woke up at Ten Broeck Mental Hospital to ask the lab tech taking my blood if Obama had actually won. That was probably the only sane question I had asked in awhile or would be asking in the few months that followed.

As I've written many times before, that day ultimately led me to a 40 day stay at Renfrew, a residential treatment center for women with eating disorders.

This year election day the news was from my dad's family, reporting that one of our beloved "great-grandsons" (my cousin), Joseph, had suffered a heart attack while at college. (Joseph's only 20.) A fellow student performed CPR and then the EMT's were able to restart his heart with electric shocks. As with any large family that loves one another, the phone calls, emails and facebook updates don't always leave consistent information, but as of today, he remains in critical condition, with pneumonia while he is in a medically induced coma. Luckily, his EEG report is normal and we are more than hopeful for his recovery.

Joseph and his family have laid heavily on my heart and mind these last few days, and it has caused me to wonder what's the purpose of working so hard to find peace and contentedness when shitty things will always happen, no matter how "recovered" I might be.

Four years ago I was in the hospital from a brain that was starving, sleep-deprived and over-medicated. Today, I am well-fed with a clear mind, but Joseph is in a hospital with a heart that has failed him. So, what's the purpose of the 1000 plus days of my recovery in between these two election days?

Honestly, I'm not quite sure. Four or five years ago, I wouldn't have thought of Joseph every hour during the night. I would not have asked God to encourage and be a presence for his mom and dad, his grandparents. I would have spent my time counting calories, cutting and weighing myself -- there wouldn't have been time for anything else. The numbness in my heart and mind would have guarded me against any feelings for Joseph.

So while today seriously sucks and the days ahead could continue to be painful for my family, I continue to choose life and love because the ache in my heart serves to remind me that I have loved and been loved, that I have taken a risk to share in the joy and pain of the world around me. My feet are on the ground as I continue this life I've been given -- experiencing the moments as they come.

God bless Joseph.

A Tuesday Prayer

Thank you, God, for showing up today in so many ways. I guess I should really say, Thank you, God, for allowing me to actually see the many ways you showed up today.

You showed up in:

• Amelia's goodmorning hug.
• Joe's and Justin's outstretched hands and sneaky grins, telling me they miss 3rd grade.
• the radishes, and lettuce and spinach and arugula, my 3rd graders harvested this afternoon.
• Grace's afternoon romp around the yard.
• mom and dad's collective voices telling me they love me.
• an email from Aunt Blanche.
• a hug from my girl.
• a pat on the back from my boy.
• W's unexpected visit, just to "hug my neck." (He's so southern!)
• a song from itunes.
• a book on my nook.

You are completely old school and 21st century - the alpha and the omega, the sunrise and the sunset, too much to comprehend on a Tuesday night. You were there with me in the darkness where you reminded me that I was created to be a child of light. You are with me in this goodness and you will stay constant when shadows creep in again.

Forgive me for my impatience, for my constant struggle to "fix" things, for my inability to see my fellow human beings (especially the ones who truly annoy me) with your eyes.

Thanks for letting me see you today, God. I'll be looking for you tomorrow as well.
Amen

Words

 So very many words are floating around in my head this evening, but they don't seem to have a particular order or feel. They actually are starting to get on my nerves, in a really weird way. I thought I would try to get a few of them down on "paper" to maybe clear my mind before my bedtime rituals begin. I'm not sure if this counts as "free writing" or what but I'm kind of doubting that a poem will spring forth or anything, but what the hell. . . here goes.

Warning to reader:

1. Please do not try to figure out anyhidden meaning because there isn't one. 
2. Give up on trying to sequence any thing. It's just a big messy circle, much like life.
3. Don't worry that I've stopped taking my prozac. This is just regular crazy. you know, the good kind.

Random thoughts:

1. My twins talk alot.
2. Grace loves the rain.
3. I love watching "Hoarders" TV show, and that really disturbs me.
4. Sometimes rain makes me sad.
5. I don't like to be called a poopyhead, even by a 3rd grader.
6. I feel guilty that I haven't talked with my mom as much lately. She's done her time with me in the dark and she deserves to share in the light.
7. I'm glad Sam is happy and living in New York.
8. I wish Will would get a haircut.
9. School is tough this year -- it's kind of like my own little mission field. These kids need love and consistency and then just a little bit more love. It's an honorable profession, but it's exhausting.
10. I really like the idea that Bo put his new strawberry bed close to the house -- really cool stuff.
11. I can't believe that I am allowing myself to love and be loved by Walter.
12. I wish Rufus would not walk on the keyboard.
13. I wonder if my writing will ever get back to normal.
14. I never eat just one Krispy Kreme -- I always eat them two at a time.
And finally, what is normal?

1.  

Summer Love

Summer Love

My summer officially ended on August 15 – the first day my 22 3^rd graders showed up to Room 206—although I did manage to extend my vacation for a few days to go to Manhattan and watch Sam make his NYC debut in After the Circuit.

As is my post-Mental Breakdown 2008 tradition, I’ve been reviewing my summer and its happenings (or non-happenings) the past few days and again I find myself extremely thankful.

What I did this summer:

1.       Visited the Speed Art Museum, the Newport Aquarium, and the Science Center with Jax and Milla.

2.       Rooted the Reds on to victory with Cathy.

3.       Bought a bathing suit AND went to a friend’s pool.

4.       Went to breakfast with school friends every Tuesday morning.

5.       Enjoyed time with my extended family at the Collins Family Reunion.

6.       Went fishing with my dad.

7.       Went to the church picnic.

8.       Flew to NYC with Cathy to see Sam’s play and at least another 100 touristy things, including riding the subways and hailing a taxi.

Of course, I could write about the tons of books I read, all of the games I played, all of the walks I took, all of the conversations with my kids, with my parents, with my friends. I could also include how I DIDN’T weigh myself, count calories, skip medication or spend more money on therapy than movies and meals out. You know, a lot of the same boring stuff I wrote about last summer, although, amazingly, it still isn’t boring to me

This year, though, has brought a whole new layer of living that was not even on my list of things I needed, or even wanted, to do.

 I have discovered new love. This love takes the form of an actual man.( I mean, really, who would have ever thought of that.) This beautiful man knows my secrets and has not even flinched. Apparently, he is drawn to me because of, not just in spite of, the broken road I have walked. (He’s great and all, but I didn’t say he was rational!)

 So, this summer I decided to love him with a heart that is wide-open and fear-less.

What did I do this summer? I  allowed myself to love him and, even more amazingly, I allowed him to love me in return.

And the Summer of Love 2012 has been even better than last year’s rock tour.

Objects Are Larger Than They Appear

I went with my friend, Cathy, to a Cincinnati Reds game this past weekend. It was the first time I had taken my bff to my old stomping grounds. The baseball game was a perfect excuse to give Cathy the private tour of the ‘hood that was the setting for my childhood.

There were quite a few momentous stops on the tour. . .

1.       907 Monte Lane – where I spent my teenage years.
2.       301 W. 6^th Street – where Mom and Dad lived when I was born
3.       235 W. Robbins Street – where my great-grandparents lived
4.       254 W. 8^th Street – where I spent my childhood
5.       Main St. United Methodist Church – where I learned the 23^rd Psalm
6.       3^rd District Elementary – where I learned to play Jacks and the difference between stalagtites and stalagmites.
7.       Covington Jr. High School  - where I learned – well, I actually learned to pitch pennies
8.       Holmes High School – where I not only survived but thrived in spite of being afflicted with the terrible disease of being a teenager.

There were a few more drive-bys where I pointed out where friends had lived, where I first began teaching, where my dad used to manage a gas station. I’m not sure Cathy actually said it, but I’m sure she was quite impressed with my early years. I mean it could probably be a made-for-tv movie or something.

What amazed me most was how small buildings and houses and streets appeared. I mean, my mini-van could hardly squeeze through the alley behind our 8^th Street house, and I know for sure that all of my dad’s tools could not possibly have fit in the building that used to stand on a now empty slab of concrete that runs next to the alley.

I seriously rode miles up and down the sidewalk on my blue bike with a banana seat and spider handle bars in front of our house but now I’m not sure if Covington itself spans more than a mile or so. And I’m certainly not sure how my Popaw Dunn managed to get so many acres and acres of beautiful flowers in a postage-stamp sized yard.

After thinking on it overnight, I’ve figured out what’s going on and it isn’t some crap about me being bigger now than I was then so there’s some kind of distortion or something. Who would believe such convoluted logic?.

The real answer is that the buildings, homes, yards and alleys are still big and beautiful, just like they were 40+ years ago. I could not possibly have learned to go the distance, love without fear, laugh with wild abandon, be who God created me to be in such a seemingly small, drab, limited space.

Clearly, when I was giving my tour, I was looking at all of these holy spots with my eyes, when in reality I lived there with my heart. And we all know that love is actually bigger than it appears when you are looking with your eyes.

Fishing with Dad

I ended up not going to see my dad for Father’s Day. I think there was a little miscommunication. I thought he was taking my mom to his sister’s for a wedding shower, when in reality she went with a different sister, and Dad ended up being home alone. So much for Daughter of the Year Award. Actually I was never even in the running; I’m awful about cards and gifts and such.

So, when I talked to Dad on Father’s Day, I told him that I wanted to come up to his farm early the next morning and go fishing with him for awhile. Honestly, he didn’t seem too thrilled. . . I was a little taken aback. I mean, really. Me, Dad, fishing. . . wouldn’t anybody be thrilled?

He kind of paused and said he didn’t think it would be a good day, he doubted that the fish would bite because of the heat or thunder or something that I wasn’t listening to because I was still recovering from the blow of him NOT saying “Hey, hey , fishing with you would be the best Father’s Day gift any dad in the world could have.”

Anyway, I kind of blew him off, telling him that the fish would bite, that I would come early, that I would leave Grace at home so there would be absolutely no distractions. I mean, Come on, Dad, it’ll be fun.

Later that same day, I called my mom to make sure Dad wasn’t sick or had something else planned that he didn’t want to share – remember, the miscommunication piece at the beginning? My dad is very good at suggesting very strongly (aka telling) me what to do but is equally bad at being honest with what’s going on with him. Due to that, my mom has served the last 50 + years being my dad’s interpreter to the rest of the world.

So Mom says he’s fine. Come on. Of course, he wants you to come. She’s so good at healing my bruised ego.

Monday morning finds me eating an early breakfast with Mom and Dad. Then Dad and I go out to dig for worms, which proves to be more difficult than I had hoped for and only served to reinforce Dad’s thoughts that fishing would most certainly be a bust.

Within 5 minutes of tossing our lines in the water, Dad was pulling out a nice-sized blue gill. I matched him within the next 5 minutes. We ended up catching a turtle, a bass, and several blue gills in fairly short order. The best excitement was when the turtle ended up eating some of our fish being held captive on our stringer. We ended up throwing the still living fish back in the water because of our outrage at what this turtle had done.

Oh, and we also talked about Popaw Collins and his fishing experiences, and how my dad, when I was little, would get a fish on his line and then hand me the pole to reel it in.

 He also said “Jerk now. You’re going to lose it” a couple of times during the morning. He said that my hook needed to be in the water in order to catch one. (OK, so it takes me awhile to bait and cast.)  We talked about my kids, my mom, how lucky we were. The two of us stood there with our feet planted firmly on the bank, with nothing on our to-do list but just be.

When we walked back to the truck, I told Dad that I fished by the moon so I knew the fish would bite. (Dad doesn’t share; I simply lie.) He told me he was surprised, and he thought I would be disappointed if I got up there and the fish weren’t biting.

Silly man. He thought I was there to fish.

Ordinary Days

It has been awhile since I’ve posted anything on this blog and I’m not exactly sure what’s up with that.   Nothing terrible has happened; in fact, lots of good things have filled my days and caused me to sleep well at night.

I’m satisfied and content with my job, my friends, my children and my family.

 But eating lunch with friends or going to a birthday party with food served doesn’t seem to be blog-worthy anymore.

Keeping my feet on the floor and feeling the good and the bad are part of who I am, not a choice that I make each day (or not so long ago, a choice I made every hour.)  

You know, I’m just walking the dog, mowing the grass, hanging out with friends, going to church, hugging my kids, opening my mind and heart and allowing them to love without fear.

 Just ordinary stuff. Not much to write about, I suppose.

I’ve started to re-think that though since reading a note from our Music Minister in my church’s Order of Worship. Apparently, after the celebration of Pentecost Sunday, the church enters into the Ordinary Season of the liturgical calendar. This season lasts until Advent and officially ends the high church season.

On a practical level, that means the banners in the sanctuary won’t be changed for awhile. The bird, aka Holy Spirit, won’t be swooping around in the sanctuary. The Grim Reaper won’t be extinguishing any candles with his hands and the choir is stuck with green stoles for awhile.  If you look closely, even the Christ candle is gone.

The liturgical seasons that Kathy (Music Minister) wrote about caused me to think of the season of my own life.  I like to think of it as early autumn, since most of the women in my family have lived well into their 90s. (You know, I’m hopeful for a few Indian Summer days left in me to raise just a little bit of hell.)

But I’m coming to think that maybe a comparison to the liturgical calendar’s seasons would be more appropriate than the traditional four seasons..

If I take that route, I’m, without a doubt, in the Ordinary Season, and with any luck, I’ve left the High Church Season behind; honestly, I’ve never cared much for poinsettias and lilies.

The last few years of my life have had their share of loneliness and reflection the Lenten Season often brings.

 I’ve even had a couple of my own Good Fridays, when I was left feeling that even God had forsaken me.

I like to think of my time spent in Residential Treatment as my time of Advent, preparing for something spectacular, the discovery of a life worth living.

My own personal Christmas and Epiphany occurred as those shepherds and magi, looking all the world like family and friends, rejoiced with me in this life-changing realization.

My Easter and Pentecost took the shape of sheer joy in finally knowing that I was not alone, that it was actually possible for me to be so much more than what I had become. . . .finally, there was hope, unending, undying hope. And, after a deep breath and a relaxing of my shoulders, I’ve entered into this very beautiful time of the Ordinary.

(Technically, I don’t even fall under the anorexia category anymore. Apparently, now I’m just an ordinary crazy. )

Trust me, though, there is nothing more extraordinary than the ordinary. The church following the teachings of Jesus, without his constant physical presence (remember, no Christ candle.) Doing the everyday work that we are called to do without the pomp and circumstance that the high church season often brings. While technically it is the Ordinary Season, I’m starting to think that it is possibly the most holy season of all.

In my own Ordinary Season, I’m beginning to realize that this is the reason for all of the other seasons. For the last several years, the Ordinary Season has been my goal. So now, just like the church, I will live and work and love with all of my heart, knowing that being ordinary is being exactly what God has created me to be.

Post-Easter Ramblings

I’m always wondering about the Holy Week thing, the pinnacle of the Christian Tradition, I suppose.

Secretly,  Easter is one of my least favorite services in the church. It’s just a bit too showy, too loud, too in-your-face for me.   A lot like a pep rally, which kind of implies a victor, which means someone was defeated?  I know in my head that the loser is supposed be sin or death or evil or something dark, but for some reason it also feels like all of the other faith traditions are losers as well. I think the pomp and circumstance of Easter can cause me to feel a little uneasy, maybe a little “us” vs. “them.”

I thought maybe it was my own depression and anorexia that drew me to Lent, that dark time when it seems appropriate to be sad and sacrificial, but after a couple of years on the mental health bandwagon, I’m beginning to understand that it is who I am spiritually, intellectually and emotionally that draws me to the more somber experiences of Christ’s story. Or maybe it’s those stories that seem most remarkable to me.

Honestly, His resurrection is probably the least important thing that draws me to Him.

I mean, come on, the whole rolling the stone away, some angel/gardener telling them the tomb is empty (cue in “Low in the Grave he lays”) I think my stomach still hurts when I remember Mr. Story, an old man from my childhood church with a huge bass voice bellowing . . “Up from the grave he arose!” And the pipe organ matched him note for note letting open every stop and pedal. All that was needed was fire works on the river with a radio announcer screeching “And this one belongs to the Reds – I mean, Jesus!”

I personally feel that Jesus, being into fishermen and spending time in the woods when he needed to regroup, just wouldn’t be that flashy if left to his own devices.

What touches me most in the Easter story is Jesus’ own longing and need for companionship during this difficult time in his life. It gives me greater confidence in my own calling out for others to walk with me, stay with me, sit with me when my own worries start to haunt me. If Jesus asked for his peeps to watch with him, then maybe the need to just “be with someone” is what God has created in us. Maybe?

I like to think I’m big and bad and everything I need I can muster up for myself – but that’s just misguided thinking from being a descendant of Kentucky Appalachians, whose pride, not sin, often keeps them (us) from reaching the truly good stuff in life.

Back to Jesus.

The love story for me is the women who stay near the cross during Jesus’ crucifixion. They cared for him during his life and now they will stay in his despair. They come to the tomb that morning to prepare his body in keeping with their tradition, not to see if he had risen. Maybe, the risen part wasn’t even necessary for them. Jesus had already given them forgiveness and value. He had loved them to the point of really changing who they were; something even more spectacular than coming back from the dead, as far as I’m concerned.

The intellectual part of me knows that the whole hoopla of the Risen Savior is the very foundation of the entire Christian movement (and the little girl part of me knows that my Momaw is rolling in her grave since I just referred to the resurrection as “hoopla”), but I like to think that even if those women had found his body that morning, if they had spent time in touching and cleaning and preparing his body that as they were working, they would have talked of his teaching, his grace, his transforming love, and I just don’t think they would have saved all of that for themselves.

I think Christianity may have taken a little longer to catch-on and our Easter services might be a little more sedate, but I have to think that life-changing love would have found its way. Love always does. For me, that’s the real miracle.

Fun with the Fam

The last few weeks have been crammed with lots of nothing and everything all at the same time. I have bits of paper and post-it notes, the backs of church bulletins and folded index cards full of notes and quotes and words and thoughts from those weeks but I haven't taken the time to fully flesh them out for a blog post.

As I walked this morning though and found myself smiling to myself, I knew a post was in order that reflects the pure joy in my life, in the midst of the nothing and everything.

Mom had ankle surgery almost two weeks ago. The week before that Carly and the boyfriend came to Louisville for Spring Break. Carly complained that Brandon (the boyfriend) loved Grace (the dog) more than her (the daughter). We ate spaghetti and watched TV. They (C., B., and Will) went to see their grandparents and try out my mom's recovery equipment, i.e. wheel chair and scooter. Turns out Will plays wheelchair basketball better than regular b-ball, and Carly finally got the scooter she always wanted. They came home with treasures from their great-grandparents' smokehouse and re-enacted an episode from American Pickers on the History channel.  

My mom's surgery went well, but in the waiting room, this creepy guy kept pacing back and forth in front of me with a huge belly, covered by a medium size tee shirt, desperately in need of suspenders. It wasn't pretty. He completed the look with a plumbers crack. When he turned around I discovered that the front side to a plumbers crack is more scary than the crack itself! I prayed he would make a best friend who would tell him to pull his britches up.

Two days later, I met my parents at their farm as my mom was returning home from the hospital. I thought I told my dad that I was coming, but apparently I didn't say that out loud. Mom cried and whispered "Thank you, Jesus" when I responded to her question that yes, I could most definitely spend the night. It may have been the first time my mom needed me, and it felt really good. Through the pretty sleepless night, we learned a lot about each other. Mostly that she pees much faster than I do. I would help her get situated on one toilet then run use the other toilet myself. She consistently beat me. It was worth a laugh or two in the middle of the night.

Will and I visited the following weekend. While there, we watched the U of L basketball game, then shot the pellet gun during half time, as we pretended we had just finished cross-country skiing and were preparing to shoot for the Olympic team. Of course, our targets were empy Domino's boxes from the pizza we had just eaten.

During the miserable second half of the game, Mom discovered a virus on her e-reader that took the form of some pretty nasty porn. She was appalled and outraged and disappointed and disgusted and every other one of those kind of words. In fact, she was pretty close to tears. Naturally, it froze and she was left with some pics she wasn't enjoying. When I reached to take it and try to fix it, she jerked it away, yelling that there was no way I was going to look at that "filth." (This is probably a good time to remind readers that my twins that were playing with rehab equipment are 23 years old and my own eyes that were too young to see porn will soon see 50.) Anyway. . . during the ensuing argument between Mom and me the losing Cards began a comeback. Soooo, Mom and I had to continue arguing (loudly) until the Cards had won and were on their way to the final four. Not that Will is superstitious or anything but CLEARLY it was our argument that pushed them forward. After that win, my mom is now sporting a Cardinal Red cast in honor of our victory.

Oh and I forgot to mention that somewhere in there I took a fake swing at my dad, who in turn lifted me off my feet and turned me upside down -- again, I'm 49. He's 71. Needless to say, we both felt that the next day. You know, I've never quite figured it out, but he's always had a thing about picking people up. . . oh, well.

So now, my mom is on the road to recovery, the twins, the boyfriend, oh, and the Cardinals are on their way to New Orleans for the final four. Dad is hanging out clothes on the line for my mom and mowing grass. I'm helping some eight year olds make paper maiche planets.

My lenten journey has not been the one I imagined. Instead of silent prayers and quiet meditation, it has been full of unplanned tears and laughter, wheelchair basketball, potty races and porn on my mom's Nook.  Thanks be to God!

A Lesson Learned

Be still and know that I am God.
Be still and know.
Be still.
Be.

Love and Money

This last Tuesday I ended up needing to help out my girl a bit on a school assignment. Long story short, I had to read a couple of articles from professional journals for her and write 75 word summaries for each article. I've been accused (by her) of bailing her brothers out too much in their academic endeavors, so I was happy to have the chance to "spread the love."

Anyway, one of the articles I had to read described a research project comparing the way individuals view money to where they find themselves on Maslow's heirarchy of needs. I thought the results were a little surprising. It turns out that the higher you are on Maslow's list, the less importance you place on money. In other words, folks that are at the self-actualization level (or in spiritual terms, folks who have decided to be what God has created them to be) have little need for money. And it's not because they know that God will provide a great car, big house, perfect health and a happy marriage; it's because they know that ultimately, God is enough.

This was a fairly radical concept for me. I guess, like most people, I thought that money could bring you access to those other rungs on Maslow's ladder -- like food and shelter, safety and security, respect from others, friends and family. I also thought maybe money could help you hang on to those things as well.

Turns out that all of the needs we use money to meet are not really needs once your walk with God goes beyond walking and you just "are" with God.

I know I like money as well as the next person. It buys my jeans, puts gas in my van, pays the vet bills, gets my movie tickets and picks up my restaurant tabs. I have health insurance and a retirement account. Things that reinforce the crazy notion that I am in control of my destiny. Because, since I have a retirement fund, of course, I'll live a healthy life and just drop dead from working in my garden at the age of 99. . . because only folks with no retirement end up in nursing homes, right?

Seriously, I've visited enough nursing homes to know that's hogwash.

I have also lived long enough and experienced just a bit to realize that people driving really nice cars and living in really big houses often have really shitty lives to match.

 I've learned that sometimes losing it all lets you know that you really have everything. Because security from money isn't really security and friends that respect you because of your status really aren't the kind of friends that come calling when you find yourself in trouble.

I wish I could say I was so "self-actualized" that money did not even play into my thinking, but that would be a lie. I still have a "need" for really great jeans and gas in my van that only money can bring. But I'm starting to realize that it's not the jeans but the person wearing those great jeans that brings me contentment, and its the people I'm headed to be with and the dog riding shot gun that gives me joy, not the full tank of gas.

I think the Beatles may be right, Love is all you need and the real thing can't be bought with money. My prayer is to someday live that way.

A Prayer on Sunday

Dear God,

The sunshine was nice today. So nice that I skipped the church scene and headed to Mom and Dad's farm. . . with Grace in tow. Oh, and Will tagged along, too.

Grace and I walked the hills and found deer bones and other treasures. She rolled in turkey poop and drank from the holler. I felt my leg muscles cramp a little as I walked up the hill. The kind of cramp that lets you know you exist and that you're not just dreaming.

Today your creation was more beautiful than the stained glass windows in the sanctuary,  and the sound of the birds singing in the trees was sweeter than the stately pipe organ that played at my church today. You were with us, Grace and me, as we walked, and you were with my friends at the church as they gathered. Kind of like magic, but better.

There were people I don't know who were suffering today, Were you there, too?

Amen

Prayer #2

Dear God,

Thank you for a 70 degree day in February.
Thank you for good friends and long visits over good food.
Thank you for conversations that weave in and out, over and under, with laughter and tears and deep affection.
Thank you for an evening walk with my dog and my boy.

Thank you.
Amen

A Prayer

O God,


A colleague of mine, actually a teacher who retired a couple of years ago, committed suicide on Monday, but, of course, you already know that. She was only 59 years old, but then you know that, too. But, I guess the answer that you know but I don’t is, Where were you?

When I think about her, God, all alone and desperate and hopeless and exhausted, my chest actually hurts. You see, I know what that feels like. I know what it feels like to appear to the world that you have everything when deep inside you there is nothing but fear and chaos and loneliness. A little more than three years ago, her obituary could have been mine.

Why didn’t you whisper a little louder in her ear, God, like you did for me? Why didn’t you send friends and family that refused to let go? Her mother, God, why didn’t you send her mother to hold her together until the confusion and fear subsided?

Since it seems to me that you kind of let the ball drop for her here on earth, please, God, meet her in heaven and hold her tight and remind her that the scary stuff is over and that she can rest well in your arms.

Teach those of us who remain in this crazy world to care for each other rather than judge, to listen more than we talk, to speak and share honestly of our hurts and struggles and fears, to wrap our arms around one another until the pain eases.

Let her sleep, dear God. Let us all sleep well tonight; knowing that your Peace will comfort us, even on the darkest night.

Amen

Puberty and Menopause

It's been a crazy week, and I'm not exactly sure why. I'm starting to think that it might have something to do with (I'm swallowing hard before I type this) my age.

I like to think that I could not possibly be vain enough to have any concern about something as arbitrary as a number, but I then remind myself that I'm the same person who used to weigh herself every hour all night long. So, on second thought, maybe it's appropriate for me to be a little wigged out about the big 5-0 that will catch up with me this November.

I was reminded this week by a friend (ok, my therapist, I just wish she was my friend) that this time in my life (euphemistically called middle-age, even if I seriously doubt to see 100) is similar to puberty. Certainly my hormones are going crazy. For the first time in my life, I find myself boiling from the inside out at the most random times, with the need to rip off my clothes and stand in front of the freezer. I also feel like I spend more time looking for my keys than actually using them and I've started keeping my movie ticket stubs so I can remember the movies I've already seen.

It's funny as I'm writing this, but in the throes of struggling to find a word that is on the very tip of my tongue, it's really not so funny. Just like puberty, I suppose.

 Dealing with unpredictable acne, first loves, and the poorly-timed realization that tampons are much easier to put in than take out, wasn't very funny. Feeling like no one understands and it is quite possible you are losing your mind but no one seems to care, isn't very funny either. I just thank God that all of those old people in their 40s and 50s were so wrong when they tried to convince me that being 14 was the best time of my life. (Note to audience: If your life was better in high school than now, your time on the therapist's couch is overdue.)

Besides the physical changes that come with nearing 50, I find myself asking many of the same questions I asked at 14. What is my purpose? When is "too late?" Does the phrase "better to be safe than sorry" have an age-limit? When I retire, who will I eat lunch with? Will there be more people for me to love who will love me back? Will I have that hump on my back? Can my teeth last another 50 years?

Thankfully, I'm not 14. I'm 49. Old enough to know that tomorrow has a way of taking care of itself. Old enough to know that each season of life is a gift to be received and embraced. Old enough to know that God is only in this present moment -- even if that moment finds me standing in front of the freezer.

Love - Redneck Style

I've made a new friend this school year -- David's* mom.

David is in my third grade class. He is a few pounds overweight, wears his jeans like most good plummers, writes journal entries about a dad who uses drugs and doesn't answer the phone when his son calls. He takes his backpack to the office on Friday so that it can be filled with enough food to get him through the weekend. He takes medicine twice a day to help him be able to attend to his own thoughts for more than a few seconds and his favorite word is "actually."

Looking at David with middle-class, white eyes, it was easy to put him on the shelf with the other kids that come from poor, unstable homes, with too little love and support, but then I met his mom and I looked at David with new eyes.

That first meeting was unforgetable. It consisted of  a conversation between the two of us that one of her boys kept interrupting. In my best teacher-voice, I said, "Your mom and I are talking now. When we're finished, then you will have a turn to talk and ask questions."

With the next interruption, David's mom looked at her younger son and said, "Didn't she just tell you to shut the hell up?! This is important!" (Translation: Your teacher and I are discussing your education right now. She asked you to be quiet. Now show a little respect.)

Since that encounter, she has been a regular Tuesday morning volunteer in our classroom community. She comes in at 10:00 with a 20oz. Diet Mountain Dew and purse with a clasp that says "Redneck." She lets my students use her iphone's internet for research and loves on them like they were her own.  She sometimes struggles with thirds and sixths during math games, but who among us doesn't?

You see, David's mom is much like a Mama Bear when it comes to her cubs. She will seriously take you out if you mess with one of her boys. No one is safe. You can say what you want about the woman when you compare her to the world I live in. . . she spends too much money on Bingo and cigarettes. The food choices she makes are not the healthiest and pro-wrestling might not be the best spectator sport. But the woman loves those boys, and it's not a passive love either.

She makes sure that her kids do not fall through the cracks. She wants them to be educated with challenging work while guided with a gentle hand and heart. She will not tolerate bullies or office staff that sometimes tries to dismiss her as an uneducated, second class mom. She wants her children's case workers to do their job and she dreams of the gentle, strong men she is raising her sons to be.

Underneath her rather gruff exterior, she has a heart of gold and a tender spot for all women who are struggling to raise their children. She even offered her home to another mom who was in danger of losing her own kids, due to homelessness. In her words, "It's just not right to have your kids snatched away just because you can't pay your damn bills."

She's taught me a lot this year, that love is honest and sometimes loud. It is persistent and has strong opinions as to what is "just not right." She's taught me that sometimes love drinks diet Mountain Dew and smokes too many cigarettes.

Turns out David is probably the luckiest little boy in my class. I pray that all of my children experience that same kind unflinching love.


*name changed to protect the very fortunate

For the Times They are a Changin'

The only thing constant is change, right?

 

Yeah, yeah, whatev. . . as Carly would say.

 

We all do a good job of giving lip service to change, but when the shit hits the fan, that's a different story. 

 

I, for one, am not much of a risk-taker, which translates into I don't like to mix things up too much.

 

 If I'm feeling good just walking around, why would I want to chance that by getting on a roller coaster? If I always get the chicken quesadilla at Q-doba, why take a chance on the bean burrito?

But when you think about it, I'm not sure either of those would qualify as a real change. A radical change, anyway.

I think we've all heard those country songs about "the good ol' days when times were bad." In fact, after watching a marathon of Little House on the Prairie or The Waltons, it's fairly easy for me to romanticize those days. I mean I would seriously love to sleep in a loft and say goodnight to John-Boy -- except, well, when it's really really cold in the loft or I really want a Big Mac instead of the beans Grandma Walton is cooking.

I mean, let's be honest, in terms of political and social position, unless you were a white, rich, straight male, life pretty much sucked, even out there on the prairie or up on Walton's Mountain.

And, if we're talking political/social, maybe, we haven't changed at all. . . when you really think about it, with the exception of a light-skinned black president and a couple of women in positions of power, it's a little deja vu all over again.

I'm starting to think that the change most of us complain about maybe isn't change at all. A new schedule, a new route to get to work, the latest technology, even taking the chance on the bean burrito might be different, but at the most they are nothing more than a very insignificant change.  

More than just an updated cell phone or even a new bridge in the East End of Louisville, maybe what the change we need is a change of heart. A radical change.

Schools and churches are notorious for being behind the times when it comes to those easy changes like technology or structure or schedules. . . and in my experience, they have been just as notorious in complaining loudly to those fairly easy fixes.

What if they were mandated to go big? Radically big?

I wonder what would happen if the teachers in my building were given the following objectives in place of the state's newest academic curriculum.

 This year teachers will:

•  care about their students emotional growth as much as their cognitive growth
• make eye contact with each student every day
• know something non-school related about every student
•  share something about herself with her students
•  forgive
• love
• give second chances 

I've got a feeling that teaching the state's new curriculum would be a piece of cake within the context of those important changes.

Really, maybe everything would work out, if we only changed our hearts because if our hearts are changed nothing else would really matter. . . not even when things needed to change.

Do-Overs

In true anti-Norman Rockwell fashion, my Christmas holiday consisted of pretty good stuff AND one major scene, complete with stomping feet, raised voices and slamming doors. Of course, Sam was the main character in the scene, with me as the supporting actor. Translation: Sam was making the noise and the noise was directed at me.

This was a scene we've practiced several times in the last few years, but this one had a different ending, with me telling him very quietly that I would not allow him or anyone else to treat me in such a way and that if he continued he would need to leave my house. (Isn't it amazing that it only took three years of therapy before I was able to say those words!?)

He continued. . .

I told him to leave. . .

Tough words to say and tough words to hear.

Just this last week, he sent me an email apologizing for his behavior and asking me to forgive him.

Part of me wished that I could punch a rewind button that would give us both an opportunity to relive that moment of discontent and make choices that would have been healthy for both of us. But what fun would that be. . . besides it takes big mistakes to learn big lessons.

So, with his apology, I smiled to myself, thanked him for the note and returned him to his honored place in my heart and home. I didn't even bother to say "Go and sin no more." I'll just enjoy this calm and try to stay strong during the next round of thunder and lightning.

I'm thankful for love that is strong enough to endure a slamming door. I'm thankful that even after 25 years of being his mother there are still lessons that only I can teach him. (Who would have thought that teaching him to ride his bike would have been easier and take less time than teaching him how to treat women?)

 I'm thankful for being able to grant (and receive) do-overs. I'll be there to give them as long as my kids need them. After all, God is willing to do the same for me.

Radical Living

Apparently, all of the cool people this year have narrowed their New Year's resolutions down to where a single word is the focus, like "healthy," "thoughtful," and "quiet."

With this new trend, I'm thinking that the topic should be broad enough that I ought to be able to find enough wiggle room to actually find myself successful in  keeping a resolution.

On the other hand though, if you want to get philosophical, I suppose that the one word focus could actually call for a lifestyle change rather than just cleaning all the french fries out of the van or losing 10 pounds (just an example, Mom, no worries) and checking it off the list.

Anyway, not wanting to be left behind by the cool crowd, I went with the single word thing for 2012. After way too much thinking, I chose the word "radical." (I seriously hope that New Year's resolutions aren't like birthday wishes because I just blew it, if that turns out to be the case.)

Honestly, Will and Carly were a little shocked with my choice of words. . . seems that their working definition for radical took on a negative spin, as in terrorists and such. Certainly not what I was going for.

My friends at school seemed to think I was radical enough. I tend to say what's on my mind at faculty meetings and can turn into a mother bear when my 3rd graders are on the receiving end of any perceived injustice, but I think all of that falls into the category of opinionated or protective.

I want to be radical, as in "all in" or "no fear."

 I want to respond and receive and react with no regard for being thought a fool, for opening myself to hurt, for being judged. I want to love hard, with all of me. I want to laugh until I cry and when I'm sad, I want to do that ugly-I-might-throw-up cry.

 I want to pray without ceasing.I want to forgive my ex and, more importantly, myself. I want to give (and take) second chances.

 I want to believe when there is nothing around me that supports that belief.

It's taken years for me to finally embrace the simple life I've always known I was meant to live. I'm hoping this year will give way to radical living in the midst of simplicity.

If it doesn't work out, I can always clean the french fries out of my car or lose 10 pounds -- just kidding Mom!

A New Year

"For everything there is a season. . . "

This text from Ecclesiastes was the focus of Sunday's sermon.  Our youth pastor reminded us that there is never a day when everything is right for everyone. Christmas is always December 25, but death finds those we love, loneliness creeps its way into lives, addictions don't take a day off, even when you put the holiday on the calendar every year, for years and years.

But, the opposite is also true. Days that live in infamy like September 11, 2001, December 7, 1941, November 23, 1963. . . days that were too terrible to forget also recorded their share of joy. Somebody's child was born. Someone married. Sixteen year olds got their drivers' permits. Families were reconciled. A third grader learned her times tables. A biopsy came back negative.

Life is seasonal, and fortunately, our seasons rarely coincide with someone else's season. Kind of like at a funeral home where you hear random bursts of laughter. Sometimes the sadness is so overwhelming that without the cycling from tears to smiles our hearts and spirits would surely break.  And if we were all drunk with giddiness at the same time, I doubt if we would ever move forward, for often contentedness brings complacency.

In my own season of sadness, I found hope in seeing those who had made it to the other side, more or less, in one piece, often thankful for their own season of sadness. (I'm just glad they kept their thankfulness to themselves. Trust me, nobody wants to hear it until you're also on the other side.)

And in my seasons of joy, I find that I'm able to be present. . enjoying the goodness without too much fear as to the next season. Because finally I know, that God is in all seasons, that when I'm low there will be others in a different season that will keep me from the drowning in despair, that in my own spring I will care for those in the darkest part of winter.

Sometimes, it feels like my seasons drag on and on. Other days, I think I might go through the cycle a couple of times in an hour. I think the meaning of bittersweet is actually having a different foot in completely different seasons.

This life stuff is complex. My dog, Grace, refuses to do "seasons." She's prefers the Beatles to the Byrds. She chooses to just "let it be." She's much further along in her spiritual growth than most.