Starfish Heroes

 

 

I was watching TV the other day, and the host of the show was surprising a woman with life-changing gifts:  cash, kitchen appliances, a new car, etc.  As each new gift was revealed, the woman wept with emotion.  Her life was truly impacted by these gifts.  I was reminded of the lottery winners who, when asked what the first thing they were going to, reply ‘Buy my mom a house’ or ‘Make sure my little brother goes to college’ … a huge, life-changing gesture.

In my (almost) 49 years on this planet, I’ve yet to be in the position of giving someone such an extravagant, life-changing gift.  I’ve never given a car to anyone (even my own children – sorry, baby!) and I’ve certainly never given anyone $20,000 or paid off anyone’s mortgage.  I also realize I will probably never be able to make a magnanimous gesture of that scale. 

I used to think that unless a kindness was of a life-altering level, it wasn’t really a big deal.  I devalued and discounted the kindnesses I was capable of, because they weren’t Oprah-level or lottery-winner-buys-mom-a-house sized blessings.

Then God made me aware of the “small” blessings I’ve experienced:  a meal was delivered to my family when I was recovering from surgery.  A car was loaned to us when ours was totaled in an accident and the insurance company was balking at paying.  A friend offered to babysit overnight when my husband was out of town and I was overwhelmed with two toddlers.  A gift card to the grocery store was mailed anonymously to our house when we were going through a financial rough spot.  The impact of those gestures was, indeed, life-changing.  Not on a “We’re paying off your mortgage and giving you a new car!” level, but on a personal, intimate level.  It’s humbling to have to accept a $50 Kroger gift card, but it’s an amazing feeling to know that someone cared enough to do that, and they loved us enough to do it anonymously so that we wouldn’t feel uncomfortable in their presence.  (That was 20 years ago, and I still don’t know who it was … if you’re reading this, please know that gesture was appreciated!)

I still struggle with the idea that my little gestures can have any impact.  That little voice of doubt and self-loathing gets loud sometimes.  (“Don’t flatter yourself, Sandra; it’s just a chicken casserole.  It’s not like you’re buying them a new car.”)  But then I’m reminded of how much that chicken casserole meant to me when I was the recipient, and I remember how it was so much MORE than “just” a chicken casserole.  It was a feeling of being connected, of knowing someone cared.  It was a gesture from the heart, and those are truly priceless.

The ones that really get to me are the gestures that you don’t even REMEMBER that had an impact on someone’s life.  When my daughter (now 19) was a newborn, we started attending church.  We walked in to a new church for the first time ever and I brought my six-week-old baby to the nursery.  I was introduced to the woman who was on nursery duty and she said she worked during the Sunday School hour; that for the church hour, someone else would be there.  When church ended and we went back to get her, the same lady was there.  Our baby was asleep in her arms and she said she didn’t want to wake her, so she just stayed in the nursery through the church service so that the baby could sleep.  She didn’t even know us, she certainly didn’t know our daughter, we were newcomers to the church … but she loved my baby that much that she sat in the nursery, holding a baby for over 3 hours.  I knew at that point, that was the church for us.  It was that church, those people, who showed me who God was, what love was, and it was in that nurturing, loving environment that I came to be saved.  Had it not been for Julie’s loving my child those three hours, I don’t know that I’d have made Hillendale my church home.  Literally, Julie’s holding my child was a life-changing event in my life.  Years later, I mentioned it to Julie and she had no idea what I was talking about.  She had no concept that, one Sunday, 10 years earlier, she had fundamentally changed my life. 

On the other side, I had a friend who had been through some struggles in her late teen years.  I was about 15 years older than she was, and I watched her make poor decisions, but I didn’t know what to say to get her to see the consequences of her actions.  Many, many years later (maybe 15 years), she told me how grateful she was to me for always being kind to her when she was younger, and how she appreciated how I always treated her with kindness and love.  She said she felt judgment and condemnation from others, but never from me and she was eternally grateful to me for being so supportive of her when she was going through her struggles.  I was floored.  I never knew that she felt such kindness from me – I was just being me. 

Lately, I’ve been aware of all the little blessings in my life:  I got a thank you note in the mail from someone that said the sweetest things; I got a hug at Kroger from a woman who wanted to thank me for raising a Soldier; I had someone tell me that they always enjoyed my Facebook posts;  I invited myself over to a friend’s house for dinner and they eagerly agreed, and we had the best time (and I made a trifle that actually turned out LOL!) … little gestures that the giver may not even realize had an impact on me, but they all did. 

It’s like that story about the man who found thousands of washed-up starfish on the beach one morning.  He was throwing  them, one by one, back into the water.  A passerby asked him why he was bothering, he couldn’t possibly make a difference with the thousands of starfish on the shore.  The man replied, “No, but it makes a difference to this one starfish.” 

So yeah, while I’d like to be able to buy someone a car, or pay off their mortgage, or other huge gesture, that’s not gonna happen.  But I will run across starfish in my day, and I can make a difference to that one starfish. 

And if anyone is feeling like their starfish-gestures aren’t being noticed or appreciated, I would like to suggest that they are.  Those of us who are on the receiving end of those hugs, those kind words, those chicken casseroles, those anonymous gift cards are truly moved.  Sometimes, holding that sleeping baby can be the thing that literally changes someone’s life.

Keep on, my friends.  Keep on loving those babies.   Keep on giving hugs in Kroger.  Keep on sending a “thinking of you” card or sending a “Hi, how are you” text message to someone you’ve not seen around for a while.

Speaking as a starfish, I can say with certainty that those “little” gestures can be huge.  I will never forget Julie holding my sleeping Michelle; nor will I ever forget being handed car keys and being told, “Keep it until the insurance company gets things straightened out.”  And the … relief … of being told, “Bring me those babies.  I’ll bathe ‘em, feed ‘em, and put ‘em to bed.  You can pick them up in the morning.”   And when you tell someone, “How about us getting together soon?” and they reply with, “Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  How about this Friday?  Our house?  I’ll cook.”

Little gestures.  Starfish gestures.  Life changing gestures.

So I’m not Oprah.  I’m not Ellen.  I’m not a “buy my momma a house” lottery winner.  But to that one starfish, I am.

And to all of you who have been starfish-heros in my life, thank you.

Your gestures are HUGE in my eyes and even if you don’t realize it, I do. 

My prayer is that I may be a starfish-hero to someone else, in the same way that so many people have been starfish-heroes to me. 

You starfish-heroes are precious to me, and the kindnesses you’ve shown me and my family are not forgotten, even if you don’t know you’ve been a starfish-hero to me.

Body Blows and Wintergreen Pep-O-Mint Candies

This has been a tough week for me.  As the details of most of it aren’t mine to share (and because the details don’t really MATTER), I won’t get into specifics, but it was just one of those weeks.  You’re going along, all happy and content and thinking things are humming along pretty darn well when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, life smacks you upside the head.  You stagger, but you recover and you think, “Wow, that sucked …” and then while you’re still shaking that off, something else comes along and knocks you to your knees.  And then, while you’re still struggling to get back to your feet, something else comes along and kicks you in the teeth. 

And it goes on and on and on.

After a while, you get almost afraid to answer the phone, or the door, or check the mail because you don’t think you can handle another punch to your security.

Yet still the trials come.  After a while, they don’t even have to be “trials”.  It may be something that any other time might just be a nuisance or an irritation, but when you’re already on the floor, bleeding from the blows, it doesn’t take much for an irritation to become a major head shot.

That’s how my week was.  It seemed that the more I tried to fix things, the worse I made things.  I said and did the wrong things; I said too much when I should have kept quiet, I was quiet when I needed to speak.   I was so totally in over my head in dealing with situations that I never saw coming, situations that I was totally unprepared to deal with.

I was up at church on Wednesday and someone I know saw me in the ladies room.  I had been crying.  She asked me if I was OK and I said I was feeling overwhelmed.  She took that moment to put on her Sanctimonious Scarf and tell me that I just needed to pray more and trust God.  Then she started quoting song lyrics to me about “trusting Him in the storm” and telling me that my faith would get me through.

Wow.

Don’t get me wrong, my faith is bedrock strong and I am secure in my position as a Daughter of the King.  When crisis hits, the first thing I do is turn to prayer.  I do trust Him, and I know He’s got everything under control.  But that doesn’t stop me from, now, at this moment, being scared.  And lonely.  And overwhelmed.  And honestly, being told that my doubts and fears and concerns are because I’m not a good enough Christian, that my faith is shaky and that if I really believed in the Bible, I’d not be scared … um, no.  Sorry.  Quoting song lyrics to someone who is literally weeping in the ladies room probably isn’t going to do the trick.  Just FYI.

Sunday, in service, I had on my Happy Face; the “Look, everything is perfect in my world, can’t you tell?” persona that I tend to wear when I’m in church (because I want to be seen as a “good Christian” and a “good Christian” never has doubts or fears or concerns or worries, never cries and never shakes her fist at God and never questions Him, right?) but inside, I was a mess.  I stood in His Holy House, in the presence of God Himself and I didn’t feel a thing except scared.  And lonely.  And confused.  And angry.  And worried.

Then the worship leader said (and I paraphrase) “You may be feeling wonderful this morning, you may be happy and excited to be here and you may be filled with joy.  But someone next to you is scared.  And lonely.  And confused.  And angry.  And worried.”  I felt the tears well up, so I covered by rummaging in my purse for a piece of hard candy.  (A Wintergreen Pep-O-Mint always helps.) 

The worship leader continued.

“Some of you may be feeling that God is silent, or that He isn’t listening, or that He has left you.  If you’re one of those people who are, right now, in a good place and everything is going well and you’re feeling secure and confident in life, that’s wonderful, but be aware that the person sitting right next to you might not be.  They may be wondering where God is, and wondering if He hears them.  They may be feeling overwhelmed and lonely.”

I swear, if at that moment, Rick had said, “If you’re one of those people, please raise your hand so that we can hug your neck and pray with you”, I’d have raised my hand.  And folks, I was brought up Lutheran.  We do *NOT* raise our hands in church.  Ever.  And I certainly don’t draw attention to myself in church.  But at that moment, I would have.

We left after church, didn’t stay for Sunday School.  We used the excuse that we had to get home because my inlaws were coming over for a Father’s Day lunch, but that was just an excuse.  I just didn’t want to be around people because I was feeling so vulnerable and I knew I was one hug, or one concerned “How are you?” away from a crying jag and I don’t have time for that.

So that’s where I am today.  And that’s probably where I’m going to be for the next few days.  I am hanging on by my fingernails.  I don’t know that I can take one more thing … I’m fighting with everything I’ve got to deal with the things this past week has dumped on my plate.

I am feeling overwhelmed.  And scared.  And I am worried.  But I am NOT doubting God.  I am NOT weak in my faith, nor do I need Scripture or song lyrics or platitudes quoted to me.  Being scared, being overwhelmed, feeling like you’re barely hanging on is NOT a reflection of my spiritual health.  Life is hard.  Life is VERY hard.  Sometimes, it flat out sucks.  But that’s OK, too.  You always need Jesus.  But that doesn’t mean you don’t also need friends, a good crying jag and a big bag of Wintergreen Pep-O-Mints.

I have no doubt that this next week will have me making more mistakes.  I will say and do the wrong thing.  I will yell when I should hug, I will hug when I should back away.  I will over-compensate and I will hover, and then I will realize what I’m doing and I’ll back off too much.  I will over-explain and I will be silent when I should speak.  But I will also be praying.  I’ll be reading my Bible and I will be asking God for guidance.  And I will *REFUSE* to accept that my being afraid / scared / worried is because I’m a “bad Christian” or is a reflection of a lack of trust in God, or is proof that I don’t love God. 

When all this is over, I will sigh a deep sigh of relief, and I will be thankful to Him for getting me through this series of storms.  I won’t, however, feel guilty about being scared spitless while I’m in the midst of the storm.

So if you see me this next week (real life, or on Facebook, or whatever), understand why I may not meet your gaze, or why I may suddenly duck into the ladies room.  I may not be responding to texts and emails, and I may not be feeling very social.  But I will.  Eventually.  God will get me through this.  Of that, I am certain.

And if you see me suddenly rummage in my purse for a Wintergreen Pep-O-Mint, I probably wouldn’t hate it if you offered me a hug. 

And you know what?  If you’re feeling like I am, feel free to ask me for a Wintergreen Pep-O-Mint.  They come with hugs and understanding.  And I won’t quote song lyrics to you.  Promise. 

Family, InLaws and all that involves!

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about family.  Not so much my immediate nuclear family (me, husband, kids) but my family of origin (parents, sibling, grandparents) as well as my inlaws.  I think that’s one of the curses of being an amateur genealogist, you spend so much time looking at family and family ties and family connections that it forces you to think about your own.

Growing up, I had a small family.  It was my parents, my brother and me.  That was it.  We lived six, seven hours away from either set of grandparents and we’d make a twice-a-year obligatory trip to see them for a long weekend, but we were never close.  My mother had one brother that I saw maybe four times my entire life (he had  ...has? … four sons and I couldn’t even tell you their names) and my father had one sister who never married and never had children.)  The impact of extended family on my life was minimal.

Growing up, I never really thought about inlaws, or extended family, or cousins or aunts and uncles … it just wasn’t relevant to me and I never knew any differently.  I knew my mother didn’t get along with my paternal grandmother, but then again, my paternal grandmother wasn’t the sort of woman that people got along with.  I could tell you stories … Lord a’mercy, the stories! … but that’s for another post.  Needless to say, she wasn’t warm-n-fuzzy, and as I only saw her twice a year, and then only for one afternoon each trip, she had little impact on my upbringing.  My paternal grandfather died when I was very, very young; I never knew him.

When, at the tender age of 19, I met the man who would become my husband, I wasn’t thinking of joining families.  “Family” was just some near-strangers who lived 6+ hours away and who I saw twice a year.  I assumed (“when you ass-u-me, you make an ass out of u and me” … anyone else remember that?) that once we got married, our “family” would be him and me and maybe, some day, in the far off future, some children, but I didn’t even take in to account extended family.

Boy was I young and naïve.  And wrong.  Thank God, I was oh-so wrong!  I married a man who came from a large, close family.  He grew up in a small town in Kentucky where both sides of his family had long, established roots.  His mother was the youngest of eight children, and all of the siblings were close.  He grew up with aunts and uncles that were as important to him as were his own parents, and he grew up with cousins that were as close as siblings.  He knew his grandparents, not as twice-a-year strangers, but as an integral part of his childhood – for the first 10 years of his life, he lived literally across the street from his grandparents.  To him, family wasn’t a twice-a-year obligation, it was a blessing and a joy (and sometimes a nuisance and pain in the butt J ) but good or bad, like it or not, family was family and they were there, they were staying and they were in your life.  Period.

Wow.  This wasn’t the way I grew up.  Not at all.

As I got to know his parents, I came to love them more than I thought I would.  I had a preconceived idea as to what our relationship would be like (after all, mothers in law and daughters in law NEVER get along, right?) so I had to overcome those self-imposed hurdles.  I had to get past the idea that she was going to hate me just because I was the daughter-in-law and we had to work through some rocky patches, but I can say, with confidence and complete assurance, that our relationship today is solid and secure and I love her deeply and I genuinely think she is one of the most amazing women I’ve known. 

And his grandparents?  Oh, his grandparents!!  I got to know them and love them more than I realized.  They have both gone on to Glory now, Popaw in 2009 and Mammy is 2012 but their presence is still a daily thing in our lives.  It was Mammy who started me on this genealogical journey I’m on; she asked me if I could find some info on her family – and look what that started!  J  It is her collection of photos and memories that I have inherited and I hope to pass that on, one day, to my descendents.  I truly loved those two people for they taught me about family and life, about God and about repentance, about forgiveness and acceptance.  They showed me humility and grace; generosity of spirit and gentleness of soul.  They showed me contentment in circumstances and grace in the face of heartache.  They loved me, and the knowledge of that fact alone is enough to make me weep with astonishment.  They loved me.  They didn’t even know me when I came into the family, but they didn’t care.  Their grandson loved me, and therefore, they loved me, too.  Over the next quarter-century, they came to know me and love me on my own merits, but at first, they just loved me because he loved me.  That was all they needed. 

Wow.  Mind-blowing.  When I was a pre-teen, my mother once told me, “When you were born, I thought I’d love you.  But I didn’t.”  I said, “But you eventually came to love me, right?” and her response was, “Well, you didn’t make it easy, did you?”  For an insecure, unsure person who grew up knowing that her own mother didn’t like her, certainly didn’t love her, didn’t even really want her … this idea that love and acceptance was NOT based on what I did was life-changing. 

Then, about five years ago, my son fell in love.  They were both in high school when they started dating, and as their relationship progressed, we all came to realize that this wasn’t just a high school infatuation.  We got to know her as their relationship grew and she slipped easily and seamlessly into our family until soon, it was as if she had always been a part of our lives.  If she had any of those adjustment issues that I had faced 25+ years earlier, I never saw it.  When they announced their engagement, no one was surprised; we all welcomed her with open arms.  (I hope she remembers it the same way; if there was any hesitancy it was unintentional).  When they married, I was overjoyed to welcome her into my heart – and yet another misconception about “family” that I carried from my bizarre upbringing had been shattered.

Now I was a mother in law (!) and I realized that I loved my new daughter in law without reservation and without hesitation.  I loved her, not just because my son loved her, but because of who she was independent of him.  And with my new daughter-in-law came a whole new group of people:  her parents, her brother … I now consider all of them as my family.  Her parents and her brother have eaten meals at my table, and we’ve joined families for holidays and celebrations; we celebrate each other’s joys and share each other’s sorrows. 

My idea of family has so changed.  Growing up, extended family was something that was distant and removed; they were an obligation and a duty, but not a joy.  Family was something you strove to distance yourself from – not something you embraced joyfully and eagerly.

I still am not close to my family of origin.  I doubt I ever will be, but I’ve come to be OK with that.  God has shown me that family doesn’t have to be people biologically related to you.  He has put parents and grandparents (and aunts and uncles and cousins) in my life who have shown me what family can be, what they should be – and most importantly to me, they have shown me that even when things DON’T go smoothly, and when rough patches happen, family is still family.  You can’t just delete people from your life because they don’t fit in with your idea of what family is. 

I am still, at the mature age of 48, still trying to overcome some of the crap from my childhood.  When you grow up hearing that you were a mistake, that your mother wishes you had never been born and that the only reason you were here was because you were conceived pre Roe v. Wade, that can cause you to have a shaky sense of self-esteem.  God has been good to place people in my life who have shown me that love is NOT conditional, love doesn’t have to be earned and that a genuine, sincere family isn’t necessarily a family of biology and blood and DNA.  Thru genealogy, I feel a connection to the family that has gone before and as my family has grown thru marriage and babies and inlaws, I know I will have a connection to family that hasn’t even yet entered my life.

But I also know with 100% certainty, that due to the wonderful people that God has put in my life, I know that the family that I’ve yet to know will be cherished and loved.  And to my anticipated audience of my future great-great grandchildren, I hope you know that I love you already.  Even 100 years before you’re conceived, I love you and I pray for you.  I welcome you to the family and I hope you come to know that you are part of a long legacy of love and family.  Some of it is good, some of it is bad and some of it we want to sweep under the rug, but we don’t.  We are a family.  All of us.  Those of us biologically related and those of us related by nothing but love and our hearts.  We are family.  And that’s enough.  That’s everything.  Trust me.  Being able to say, “I belong.  I have family.  I have love” is a gift that I didn’t get until my adult years, and I cherish that gift every single day.  I hope that you, my future, anticipated descendents never know what it’s like to not know that you are loved, you are accepted, you are cherished.  I hope you always take comfort in belonging, in knowing you have a place of security and comfort.  But if you ever do have those doubts, please know that I, even tho I don’t know you yet, I love you and I assure you, you have a place in the lineage of love that makes up your family.

Happy Birthday, Beloved Husband!

Birthdays in our house are kind of a big deal.  We actually don’t celebrate birthDAYS, we do a whole birth weekend.  And if we can swing it, a whole birth-week.  There is a special meal of the celebrant’s choosing, gifts (I *heart* gifts LOL), and general fussing over.  When the kids were younger, our attention was focused on them and their parties.  We adults got the back burner (as it should be) when it came time to birthdays although we always did do a cake and a special dinner and a few gifts.  One year, when my son was 4, for his daddy’s birthday, he went to the store and bought his daddy the most special, wonderful gift in the world.  He bought him the best thing he could imagine – the one gift that, in his 4 year old world, was the one thing that was unbeatable.  He bought his daddy a plastic dinosaur.  He couldn’t think of a better gift, and he was going to give his daddy this gift.  My husband, upon opening the wrapping paper and finding a toy dinosaur, expressed such delight and joy that you’d have thought he had been given Super Bowl tickets.  That dinosaur was proudly displayed on my husband’s desk for years (it may still be there, I’ll have to ask) and when people would ask why he had a plastic dinosaur sitting on his desk, he’d puff up with pride and say, “My son gave me that!” 

A few years ago, when my husband turned 50, our daughter went to the parking lot where he parks and decorated his truck.  Imagine his surprise when, upon exiting the bus, he was greeted with this:

He loved it, by the way, and kept it decorated for about a week.  And people *did* honk, which was the coolest thing ever! 

Today is my beloved’s birthday.  As it’s on a Thursday, we are making it a whole birthday weekend.  Tonight, we are doing a small at-home party:  he picked the menu (fried pork chops and fried potatoes … he only gets fried foods once a year LOL) and banana split cake for dessert.  We will do gifts (I *heart* both giving and receiving gifts, so that’s my favorite part!) and candles and Daughter and I will sing, badly but with great enthusiasm.  Sunday we are doing a big family thing with the extended family – and while our son won’t be with us, his wife will be, so for that we’re grateful.

Happy Birthday, Love of my Life.  You are a blessing to all who know you, and I am honored and grateful to have shared your life for all this time.  And while I don’t know that we will ever be able to top the plastic toy dinosaur, and I am not going to decorate your truck, I hope that your birthday is still wonderful and that you know just how much you mean to us, your family, and how much we love you.

God's Penguins

It’s amazing how, in the span of a few hours, I can go from sheer joy to flat-out blinding rage.

My son has been in Africa for a month now.  Skype has been amazingly uncooperative.  Either we’d have an audio connection but no video connection, or we’d have a static-filled audio connection and a frozen video connection, or we’d get disconnected after a few seconds.  If there was a simultaneous video and audio connection, there would be such a lag it was like watching a badly dubbed 1970’s era Japanese Godzilla movie.  The majority of conversations I’ve had with my son have been over  Facebook Chat, and that was based on the integrity of his internet strength, which is questionable at times.  This morning, my phone buzzed to let me know I had a Skype call.  I was expecting a blank screen and a static “Hi Mom” but to my great joy, I saw his face (and oh!  What a face!  I love that face!) and heard his voice … in sync with the picture … and we were able to Skype for almost an hour.  It was amazing!!  We laughed, we talked, we had a wonderful conversation.  It left me in a great mood – better than great – and on that high note, I left the house to run errands.  My first stop was the bank. 

Near the first of the year, this was all over Facebook:

 

The gist of it is simple:  Week 1 you put $1.00 in a jar.  Week 2, it’s $2.  By Week 52, you’ll have $1,378.00 saved.  We both thought that was a great idea for Christmas.  We happened to have a glass pickle jar that I had soaked the label off of, and had washed it out and was saving it for some unknown purpose (but couldn’t throw it away as it was a perfectly good pickle jar!) so that became our savings jar.  We were quite diligent about putting money in each Friday but then, being us, we got lazy.  It started when I needed to pay the yard guys and I couldn’t find my checkbook, and I already owed them one week so I didn’t want to ask them to wait AGAIN,  so I *borrowed* $50 out of the pickle jar.  Then that next Friday (Week 20) we forgot.  The next Friday (Week 21), he asked me, “Did we put last week’s money in there?” and I said, “No, and we never put back in the $50 I borrowed”, so now we were up to $91 ($50 + $20 + $21).  We intended to go to the bank, truly we did … but forgot.  Today is Week 22 ($113) so this morning I went to the ATM to get out $120.  Once the transaction was complete, it gave me my receipt and told me to lift the plastic cover and take my money out of the window.  Except that no money ever was spit into the window and the cover never opened.  I waited, I wiggled the plastic cover, I banged on the machine … nothing.  No money.  I immediately went into the branch and told them, and their response was a very cavalier and nonchalant, “Well, we’ll see if at the end of the day our ATM is $120 over.  If it is, we’ll refund you the money.”  I said, “But what if the dude behind me was getting $10 and instead, he got HIS $10 and my $120?  Then your machine will balance, he’ll have scored an extra $120 and I’m out of luck”.   The manager told me that they could open an investigation, but it would be 3-5 business days before they had to resolve it.  I didn’t get the impression they were all that worried, but why should they be?  They’re not out any money.  I am.  So the poor pickle jar sits, still waiting for me to put in $113 (and at this rate, I’ll owe another $23 before I get the $113 in there!) and I am working myself up into a state.  I just don’t trust Corporate America to do the right thing and as it’ll be awfully hard for me to prove I didn’t get my money, I’m afraid it’ll be my word against theirs.  I didn’t even finish running my errands, I was SO upset at the bank that I couldn’t think straight.

All this, before noon.

I left the house on an amazing high and came home so mad that I could spit nails.

I’ve already accepted the fact that the bank is probably going to screw me out of $120 – the bank who owns the ATM isn’t my “home” bank, I’m not a customer of theirs, so they have no incentive to keep me happy.  I hope I’m wrong, but I’m old enough and cynical enough to know how this piece of bread is gonna be buttered.

Why is it that a good feeling can wear off so quickly, but a bad feeling can stick with us all day?  I suppose there is some deep Spiritual insight that I could (should) get out of this, but I’m not gonna lie.  I’m mad and I want my $120 and I don’t want to learn a Life Lesson from this.  I don’t want to grow, or become more spiritually mature or anything else.  I just want my stinkin’ money. 

And I want my son home from Africa.

And if he can’t come home, I want a RELIABLE Skype / internet experience so that I can at least maintain a reliable connection to him.

And I want the four boxes I sent him to arrive.

And I want to know that we are going to be able to afford the next three years of college for my daughter.

And I want my dog to live forever and not get old and sick and eventually go to Rainbow Bridge.

And I want my knee to stop hurting.  Surgery was in February.  This is almost June.  Enough already.

I want a whole day where I don't worry about money, or my children's safety or the health and well-being of my loved ones.  I want a whole day where I can have something good and wonderful happen and that feeling lasts.

Just yesterday, I told a friend of mine this story:

I heard Luci Swindoll speak at a WOF conference once and she shared about her adventure to Antarctica. She is a photographer and had asked God to send a whale her way so she could photograph it. And she just knew she would see one. Toward the end of her trip, she was on the boat and wondering why she hadn't seen a whale. She was so sad because she wanted to see this beautiful, epic creature of God. About that time she noticed a couple penguins on a glacier. Then more and more. She said there were hundreds of them, playing and performing. It's as if they had been waiting for her to come and were posing for her. How fun and amazing that must have been!! What a sight to see!!

God told her she was so busy looking for the whale, that she almost missed the penguins He sent.

Today, you saw some of God's penguins.

Deep down, when all is said and done, that's what I want.  I want to see God's penguins.

I just don't want it to cost me $120 to see them.

 

 

 

 

An Accidental Memorial Day EOFO Outing

When you have a loved one who is deployed, or who is serving in our military, they are never far from your thoughts.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my son and say a prayer for him, and for the others I know who are serving.  On days like Memorial Day, my thoughts are a bit different.  I am humbled and frequently brought to tears by the remembrances of those who have paid the Ultimate Sacrifice, and my mother’s heart breaks for those Gold Star mothers who bear a burden and a grief that I fervently pray I never, ever will know.

My husband, who knows me better than anyone ought to know any other person, does his darndest to keep me from wallowing in self-pity and to stop me from fixating on things I can’t change.  (Philippians 4:8 comes to mind:  Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.)  Since this weekend was an EOFO weekend, we took an EOFO trip, but on Saturday.  Hey, it counts.  We ended up in Schulenburg, Texas where we toured several Painted Churches.  The area was settled in the 1850’s by Czech farmers, and there is still a strong Czech / German influence today.  It was a wonderful trip and the churches were breathtaking.  One of the churches was in the town of Praha, Texas.  Praha has a current population of less than 25, but at its peak in the 1880s, Praha boasted 700 residents.  The population dropped dramatically during the 20^th century, and never got above 100.  During the Second World War Praha had the unfortunate distinction of being the U.S. town with largest ratio of war deaths to residents. The largest number of deaths occurred in 1944, when 9 soldiers from Praha were killed. Three small identical chapels were built in memory of the dead. 

Nine Soldiers.  Nine families.  Nine mother’s hearts broken.  All out of a town of less than 100.    

Mind you, we didn’t know of this aspect of Praha when we headed out – we were just going on an EOFO outing. 

This being Memorial Day weekend, I have been thinking of those families.  Not just the Praha Nine, although they are in my thoughts, but all the families today who are remembering a loved one who gave the Ultimate Sacrifice.

Being an amateur genealogist, I know quite a bit of our family history.  My mother traced my side of the family several decades ago so I have been focusing mainly on my husband’s side of the family.  Between both lines, we have ancestors who I can document have fought in every battle from the Revolutionary War forward.  My children come from a long, long line of Americans who have answered the call of their country when asked.  My grandfather fought in World War I, my husband’s grandfather fought in World War II, we both have numerous ancestors who fought in the Civil War, we have at least one on each side who fought in the War of 1812, and we both have several ties to the Revolutionary War.  When doing research on either side, it is a safe bet that any male ancestor who was between the ages of 15 and 40 during the early 1860’s will have a Civil War record.  It humbles me to realize I am but one woman in a long line of women who have watched a loved one go off to war.  So many brave young men, so many brave families left behind, so many hopes and dreams and prayers and tears and kisses … it really puts things in perspective.

As I stood at the memorial in Praha and wept for those nine Soldiers and their families, I thought “This was a stupid EOFO outing; the last thing I need is to be reminded of the fact that, sometimes, Soldiers don’t come home” but in hindsight, I think God’s hand was in that trip and He wanted me to go there, that day, this weekend, at this time.  He wanted to remind me that I am but one of a long line of civilians who love and miss and pray for and remember and long for their Soldier.  He wanted to remind me that what my son is doing is honorable and right and respected.  He wanted me to feel a part of something bigger than myself, bigger than my own understanding, my own reality.

I am one of those women who cry easily … so the fact that I stood in Praha and wept isn’t surprising.  Another church we visited was founded in 1877.  There is a large cast iron bell that predates the church; it was purchased in 1876.  When I was reading the informational card to my husband (who was trying to navigate unmarked country roads in the pouring rain), I read the part where the bell has rung at weddings and funerals and Sunday mornings for over 13 decades.  Then I got to the part that said, “More recently, while the cities still smoked, the mournful clang of the bell marked the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks on New York City and Washington DC.”  I actually had to stop reading because I choked up.  Yes, I cry easily.  I cry often.  I cry over things that most other people wouldn’t.  It used to bother me, and it used to embarrass me, but I have come to accept it as a part of who I am.

I will continue to cry when standing at a memorial to nine young men who gave the Ultimate Sacrifice.  I will pray for them and for their families.  I won’t be ashamed or embarrassed when the National Anthem makes me teary.  I can’t help it, it’s how God made me and how I am. 

Today, as every day, I will pray for my son and for the other sons and daughters who are standing for freedom and for America.  I will remember the Praha Nine, and had it not been for my husband and his insistence on EOFO outings, I’d have never even known of those nine Sons of Praha.  I do believe God led us to that place, at that time, for His purpose.  For that, I am grateful.  For my husband, who won’t let me become someone I don’t need to become, I am appreciative (if not at the exact moment he’s forcing me to get in the car, then later) … and for our nation’s sons and daughters, our husbands and wives, our brothers and sisters who are carrying forth a tradition of service and honor that has been laid out by generations before, I am humbled and proud.

Thank you.

You are not forgotten.

I *AM* a Brave Little Toaster!!

Bravery is one of those words that are hard to define.  I think most of us would agree that certain people are brave:  Soldiers, firemen, police officers, Junior High teachers … bravery is a commonly accepted description of certain people or situations.

For other people, the term “bravery” is more fluid.  I have a relative who has never liked driving.  As she has gotten older, her fear of driving has escalated to the point where a trip to WalMart, just a few miles down the road, is anxiety-producing.  She’d rather not go rather than have to drive.  She goes shopping on the weekends or the evenings when her husband can drive her.  So for her, driving on the freeway would be a definition of bravery.  We all have our own definition of bravery that we apply to society in general as well as to ourselves.

When my children were little, they loved a movie called “The Brave Little Toaster”.  We still use that phrase in this house, when describing something that we’ve done that is brave *to us* even though the rest of the world may not agree.  I don’t think that anyone, using any yardstick, would describe me as brave, but certain things bring out an almost irrational fear in me.  I don’t like bugs.  I know most people don’t, but I REALLY REALLY don’t like bugs.  We have a Guard Gecko we’ve named Spike who hangs out by our front door.  One day, Spike got a case of the stupids and came inside my house.  I knew Spike was harmless and I didn’t want to hurt him, so I made my son catch Spike and take him outside.  I, of course, being the Brave Little Toaster I am, stood in the other room, hand to my mouth, and made terrified gasping noises.  I’m sure that my son appreciated my help.  When insects are outside, and I’m inside, we have an uneasy peace, but if one of them dares to enter my home, they will find themselves drowning in a pool of Raid.  Then I toss a paper towel over the lifeless body and I wait for my poor, long-suffering husband to come home.  I will call or text him and say, “I was a Brave Little Toaster.  It’s underneath the curio cabinet.”  He knows what that means.

Just recently, I came home to find that a little, tiny field mouse (which has become a “huge as a cat” wharf rat as I retell this story) had chewed thru the window screen and was trapped between the window screen and the pane of glass.  He was outside, of course, but I could SEE him from inside the house.  He wasn’t smart enough to exit from the same hole thru which he had entered, so there he sat, trapped.  Again, I channeled my inner Brave Little Toaster and called my poor, long-suffering husband (who was at work, 40 miles away in downtown Houston) and I think I screamed, “A mouse!  It’s a mouse!” and then I burst into hysterical tears.  He had to come home and take the screen off the window before Mickey could scurry away.  I stood in the other room, hand to my mouth, and made terrified gasping noises.

I have come to realize, however, that even scarier than bugs and unwelcome critters in my house is dead things.  We had a bird once fly into our window.  He hit the glass so hard the window rattled, and then he slid, lifeless, down the glass and laid like a rock on the ground.  I almost wet myself.  It was ghastly.  I knew I needed to dispose of the body, but the thought of actually DOING that almost made me have a panic attack.  I closed the blinds, cried, and waited for my poor, long-suffering husband to come home.  Much to my delight, apparently Bird was only dazed because when my poor, long-suffering husband came home, Bird was sitting up.  As he walked over to it, Bird shook his feathers and flew off.  However, over the course of the past 27+ years of marriage, poor, long-suffering husband has had more than his share of backyard surprises to deal with.  The paper-towel-covered-Raid-soaked bug is bad enough, but when Shadow catches one of God’s Woodland Critters, that’s not nice.  We also had a raccoon apparently just die on our back porch.  No idea why, but I opened the door and there he was.  Ugh. 

The absolutely most terrifying critter-related incident happened about 15 years ago.  At that time, we still had Kitty, who was the BEST CAT IN THE WORLD.  I loved that cat, and when, after 17 years, she went to Rainbow Bridge, I grieved more than I thought possible.  Kitty was my heart and soul and I still cry a little when I think of her (I’m a bit teary now, just typing this.  I really loved that cat.)  Anyway, Kitty, in her sole-moment as Great Hunter, decided to catch and present to me a gift.  I walked into the living room early one morning and there, in the center of the floor, was a dead mouse.  It had two puncture marks in the neck and it was quite, quite dead.  Kitty was sitting next to it, looking quite proud of herself.  My poor, long-suffering husband had already left for work and I knew the kids (who were toddler aged) would be awake soon.  I couldn’t let them see this, and I couldn’t throw a towel over him and wait for my poor, long-suffering husband to get home, so (oh, I’m almost having a panic attack just remembering this) I disposed of him.  *shudder* Truly, I earned my Brave Little Toaster Badge that day.

Yesterday, I was up at church.  In the Children’s Wing, there is a huge fish tank.  It’s gorgeous and is quite popular with the kids, who often run over to look at the fish.  As I was walking through the Children’s Wing, I noticed something laying on the floor right in front of the tank.  As I got closer, I realized it was fish-shaped.  I guess one of them jumped out of the tank, because he was laying on the floor right in front of the tank.  Flashing back to the horror of the Mouse Gift from 15 years ago, and knowing I had to get Mousie out of the house before my kids woke up, I realized I had to get this fish off the floor before the kids showed up.  I could feel myself start to panic.  This wasn’t a ‘throw a paper towel over it and call my husband’ type thing.  I looked around, praying that someone … ANYONE … would come down the hallway, but no one was there.  It was just me, and the dead fish.  I knew I had to pick him up, I did not want one of our children to see that, but it was a DEAD THING.  And dead things totally freak me out.  I actually cried a little … I was terrified.  I got a paper towel and snuck up on the poor dead fishie.  I was going to scoop him up and throw him away and try not to hyperventilate and pass out first.  As I bent down to pick him up, I realized it was a fish-shaped leaf.  It was a LEAF!  Not a dead fish!  A leaf!  Oh, happy dance, oh, joy! 

When I got home, I told my poor, long-suffering husband the story.  I knew he would appreciate the Brave Little Toaster aspect of it.  And he agreed with me that, even tho it wasn’t actually a fish, and I didn’t actually have to dispose of a dead thing, I still get Brave Little Toaster points for the fact that I was GOING to do it.  That counts.   

We all have differing definitions of bravery.  And what may be a huge Brave Little Toaster moment in our lives might not even be a blip in someone else's life.  I'm sure that most people would have scooped up the dead fish (and we're still calling it a fish because that's better than "Sandra almost peed her pants upon seeing a leaf") and not given it a second thought, but to me, it was a HUGE thing.  So I'm taking credit for being a Brave Little Toaster and I hope I remember to give myself credit for those Brave Little Toaster moments and I don't discount them just because it was a leaf.