If You Give The Mamma St. Francis of Assisi…

Pastor’s message was a bit of a wash for me this morning.  Naturally, that had nothing to do with Pastor’s message.  I was uncharacteristically distracted.  My busy brain switched channels like battling siblings during Saturday morning cartoons.  I was supposed to be in 2 Corinthians, but I composed a to-do list for the day.  When the time came to reflect upon Luke, I remembered a theological grievance and turned to Acts instead just to prove to myself how right I was to be offended.  I noticed who was in front of me, and oh, look… didn’t she have her parents with her today?  And Oh, my, how it touched me to see three generations of a Mommy friend!

And like the mouse in If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, I was all, oh, that reminds me that I should email this other friend about something and where’s my iPhone (Give me credit, I did NOT actually pull it out during church), and oh, yeah, had I signed up for a parent duty for kindergarten this week?  Of course, that made me remember that I hadn’t helped the Oldest Girl research pediatric sleeping disorders for her latest Language Arts independent learning contract and, did I mention, The Middle Girl turns 9 on Tuesday?

Oh, yeah, 9.  And you know what?  In lieu of her usual BFF bash, she wants to have a Mother Daughter dinner this year.  Don’t even get me started about having the mothers of her friends here for dinner, because I am in recovery, damsel-it, and I won’t go there.

Meanwhile, Pastor is about to wrap his message on the difference between sharing Jesus and talking about Jesus, and he reads this quote:

Preach the gospel always, and when absolutely necessary, use words.

—   St. Francis of Assisi

And after I say to myself, “God, stop reading my intracranial email!”

I think, yeah, this is why I came today, to be reminded of this one sentence.

So, here’s how The Mamma plans to operationally implement St. Francis of Assisi:

1. Make my Sunday to-do list before church each Sunday.
2. Ask forgiveness as soon as I first realize I have trespassed against someone.  (Like today in church was the first time I had considered that maybe I owed the party an apology… Please!)
3. Wait for Meet & Greet time to reunite with friends.
4. Keep up with school emails and/or delete all by Saturday night.
5. While I’m at it, keep the Sabbath, and commit to a no homework policy on Sundays unless it cannot be avoided.  (Let’s all agree, it could have been avoided in this case.)
6. Actively choose the life I live.  No one who knows The Mamma thinks that she would host that dinner for The Middle Girl if she didn’t secretly want to thrill and delight her daughter with the experience.  Own your choices, Mamma!

Lather, rinse, repeat, and now, generalize!

Get out of your own selfish, self-absorbed head.

Oh, and call your mother, carry a meal, take on someone else’s burden, and when in doubt, shut up and do good… metacognitively and verbally!

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

iGoogle Ice-cream

In Starbucks Siren, I opined that a googol is a big number.

A googol is actually a mighty big number.

Any guesses out there how many zeros are in a googol?  10, 100, 10,000?

For those of you that chose 100, pat yourselves on the back!  A googol is the number 10 to the 100th power:

10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000!

So, Google, the search engine gurus, created an intentional homophone of this mega number, coined by a 9-year-old Milton Sirotta in 1938, as the name of their search engine.  Milton’s uncle,  mathematician Edward Kasner, made hay with young Milton’s concept in his book Mathematics and the Imagination.  Even the book title itself mainstreams the fancy of any one who googles as a verb.  Google made its own hayday with young Milton’s term.  They fractured its spelling to Google and began to sell their promise of a googol of ready hits on any topic you could want to search and have become their own irrefutable icon in the tech community.

So, a couple nights ago I was swapping sass with a new reader, Sara, and suggested in a comment that Google was delicious enough to have its own ice-cream flavor.  She insisted that I patent the idea immediately.  In the in-between, the fam and I have formulated a couple of possible recipes and seek your opinion.

Just what googol of yummies should be in iGoogle Ice-cream?

Please note we’ve been design intentional… two Os make us reach for things round, and a time or two we went clever (Google can be a life saver with research, thus Life Saver Gummies…)

BTW, I know you’re out there and reading.  I can hear you breathing.  This time the question is neither rhetorical nor esoteric.  Let’s hear your voice or ideas.  One voice, one vote.

I plan to tabulate your responses, research patents, and plot a pitch to Google!

iGoogle Ice-cream i: Vanilla bean ice-cream, Life Saver Gummies, mini-chocolate chips.

iGoogle Ice-cream ii: Chocolate ice-cream, Fruit Loops, coconut.

iGoogle Ice-cream iii: Mocha ice-cream, yogurt covered almonds, toffee chips

iGoogle Ice-cream iv: Cherry ice-cream, milk-chocolate covered cherries, white chocolate chunks.

iGoogle Ice-cream v: Vanilla ice-cream, pretzel rings, brownie-batter ripple

iGoogle Ice-cream vi: Coconut ice-cream, graham cracker, dark-chocolate covered peanuts

iGoogle Ice-cream vii: Caramel ice-cream, macadamia nuts, hot fugue ripple

iGoogle Ice-cream viii: Chocolate ice-cream, Oreos, Nilla wafers, chocolate-chip cookie dough

Raise your hand if you can tell I gave up ice-cream as part of my back-to-fitness New Year’s regimen!

I think I slobbered all over the keyboard.

Excuse me, I need a napkin.

And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
and drool on my chin!

Starbuck Siren

Greek mythology teaches us that the Sirens are mythical creatures with the head of a woman and the body of a bird.  Native to Sirenum scopuli; three small rocky islands, they lured mariners to their watery graves with their seductive melodies of their irresistable songs.

In the Odyssey, the Argonauts were able to dodge the sinister song of the sirens because their dude, Orpheus, recognized their predicament in time to pull out his lyre and sing his own Hallujah clearly and loudly enough that it drown out the sirens’ sexy and deadly tunes.  A bit of a maverick, Orpheus was clever enough to travel to the underworld and return.  A classic epic-hero-kind-of-guy, Orpheus travelled to hell and back in a bold attempt to rescue his wife, and knew how to weave and dodge.  In another trek close to the sirens’ island, for example, Orpheus instructed sailors to stuff wax in their ears to secure their safe passage.  Orpheus himself, however, had an appetite both for the sirens’ voices and their wisdom.  Lore told that sirens would impart mysteries to each soul that came close to them, a sagacity that quickened the spirit and mind.  He wanted him a double scoop of those goodies, so he ordered the crew to tie him to the mast such that he could hear their beautiful songs without willingly throwing himself forfeit to their fiendish hymns.

Now I am going to tell you something that might seem totally unrelated.

Don’t say, “Again?”  I can hear you when you say that.

CNN reported today that Starbucks has changed their logo.

For those of you that don’t know, I am a Starbucks girl.  If you don’t know my regular order by now, well, I guess you don’t really love me.  I think the only legal tender could be Starbucks gift cards.  The only way to gift a better experience is to give a Barnes & Noble gift card… books and beans, Baby.  Shaky Zen, and you know I love me the juxtaposition of trying to meditate with the quad pump shakes.

As you can see below, the use of the Starbucks Siren has evolved since 1971.  Clearly, the Siren was a somewhat closeted figure, and come 2011, Starbucks is all done with their Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policies.

I began with a brief overview of Siren lore for a purpose, People.  Let’s recall that Sirens are like mythological serial killers.  Before there was ever a CSI crime lab, these seductresses stole the lives of innocent sailors for seeming sport.  As much of a Starbucks fan as I am, I still gotta wonder how this murderess became a coffee selling icon.  Does the coffee lure innocent people to spend ridiculous amounts of money for an addictive drug and smash their financial peace on the rocks of their corporate island?

Or is the swift and heroic Starbucks consumer like Orpheus?  Will the go-juice administered by a friendly barista imbue nuance to aid our recognition of predicaments?  Will a venti skim quad shot no-whip Mocha stimulate in us enough acuity to prompt when to pull out our lyres and sing our own Hallelujahs clearly and loudly enough that it drowns out the sexy and deadly tunes of the world?  A bit sleep deprived and overworked, is the Starbucks consumer instantaneously transformed like Superman in a phone booth to become clever enough to travel to hell and back and return?

As delicious as are their $12 scones, and really if you have tasted the raspberry, I know you will back me up on this, does any modern day consumer have a yen for the sirens’ voices and their wisdom?  Lore notwithstanding, we’ve got Google to impart mysteries to souls that draw nigh.  Google sagacity quickens the spirit and mind… Do you know how big a google is?  It’s a big number.  I already got broadband, of course I want a double scoop of those goodies.  I order coffee so I am awake enough NOT to willingly throw myself forfeit to fiendish hymns.

I love Starbucks, but consider tea as I reflect.  Is it the product or the allure that sings the Siren’s song?

Yeah, I admit it, the wench can sing, but I think she looks better from the closet after I’ve had a cup of coffee.

And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Neither Nor

A tale my husband told me last week continues to vex my peace.

We were able to NOT ONLY celebrate our anniversary this year, but do so without kids because of the incredible generosity of a Mommy-friend of mine.  This woman not only tended my kids, she took them to her house overnight so that we could, <gasp> sleep-in the next morning.  I think if you look in the OED under Mommy friend, that exact example is listed as an ace connotation!  Before you think I have wandered off the conversational path again, trust me, ok?  I am getting there.  Given the delicious novelty of the event and venue, The Husband and I agreed that we would not discuss The Children.  As we bath the children, feed the children, raise the children, keep the children from killing each other, praise the children, minister medical and emotional first aid to the children, tutor thie children, drive the children form event to event, and keep each other from killing the children together 24/7, not talking to each other about the children for a whole night is more of a challenge than you might expect.

Perhaps for want of content, it was on that date night that The Husband told me the story that thunders in my ear like a souped-up Chevy Geo with too much bass at a traffic light.  The Husband shared that he had been thinking about what a former colleague had told him while recovering from hip replacement surgery.  This former colleague is a pretty hip guy, super charismatic, a successful builder of teams, professionally savvy, a supportive husband, and a great dad.  You like look at his outsides, and you think, “Yeah, rims to fins, he’s the whole package.”  Given this public persona, therefore, it jolted The Husband, and me (still) by extension when he told my husband, “Self.  Work.  Family.  Pick 2.  You can’t be good at all 3.”

To his credit, The Husband did NOT throw the get-well potted plant on the speaker’s head.  Instead, he challenged the guy, “Come on, Buddy, look at you.  You can’t tell me that.  Look at you.”

The guy’s response it the vex piece.

He explained to The Husband that it’s actually much more dire than that.  He pledged that he could have honestly said you can only pick one of the three, “If you want to be excellent, if you want to be a true master, then you can really only pick one thing.  Like now, all my energy is in me.  Rehab.  Physical therapy.  I see my kids right now maybe a half hour a week.  I know all I can do, and what I have to do, is get myself strong again.  If you want to be excellent, you can only pick one.  If you want to be good, you can pick two things.  If you try to pick three, you will fail one of them.”

“If you pick three, you will fail one of them.”

Let’s review the list:  Self.  Work.  Family.

I’ll save you the pandora’s box that opens once one considers the order of that list… DON’T GO THERE.  Let my perseveration serve you, and let’s simply conclude that the list is not alphabetical.

Now let’s admit where we are…

Mono-focused?
Bifurcated?
Or just one sleazy, poligamist Don Quixote tilting at windmills and shooting for all three?

I gotta guess you know where I stand.

I’m like that multipurpose printer you got at Staples that never really worked right.  I want to print, fax, copy and butter your toast all on my own strength.

Not!

Ya’ll remember what happened to the printer in Office Space? That’s my success multitasking life without God, except I take the bat to my own head.  I don’t even need an to wait for an outraged consumer to go postal.

I am neither for Self, nor Work alone.
I am neither for Work, nor Family alone.
I am neither for Family, nor Self alone.
I am neither ignorant there are more permutations possible, nor willing to type them all out; that’s so not the point.
I am neither for conceding to suck at a core value nor, willing to admit that is necessary for success.

I am not a Math girl.
I am not a formula.
I am not an equation that needs reduction.

I stand among royal Company.
I am a New Creation.
I got Fruit.
The Fruit.
Neither one, nor the other,
but all the juice I’ll ever need to serve
GOD
Self,
Work,
Family.

Look at that, stop relying on my own, futile strength, and all of a sudden, my limits are neither lids nor forever.  They are just like a point on the map, baby.  I am here.  Now.  Today.  Don’t blink or go potty, though, cause I am on the move and I won’t be here tomorrow.  I’ll be there.  Simple.  Be still.  Plans to prosper, Baby…

For example, there was a time when my vex would have stayed irritated. Ida, you remember her, right, what I’d done… like for a time I should’ve legally changed my name to Ida Shoulda Done. Oh, yeah, baby, Ida woulda told that guy a thing or two about playing uncle in the orchard, pouring poison into my husband’s ear. I woulda been neither charitable nor mute.  I woulda been neither respectful nor cute.  That was then, though.

This vex Here, doesn’t burn, it grieves.

Really, guy, really? Is that what you believe?

I wanna strap the Turbo Charge of Life on his back like a passenger bag, and fill his Sigg bottle from the Well of Love.

Then he’d be neither tired, nor alone.
Then his limits would neither be his own, nor finite.
Then his Hope would neither be compartmental, nor cynical.
Then his Heart would neither be brittle, nor cold.
Then his life would neither be futile, nor small.
Then his Love would neither be limited, nor mortal.

I am vexed.

I don’t want to slap this guy, I just want to hug his heart and say, that idea neither belongs here, nor is longer welcome.

There is a better Way.

And as much as I want to let my Light shine, folks, there just ain’t no way present context and relationship allows me to tell this to him today.

Neither do I accept that as an excuse, nor will I forget my stand.

With this, as it should be for me with all things, I will wait with Hallelujah on my lips with sober expectation for Direction.

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!

2010 Take-Aways

Along with lists and count-downs, (See Banned Phrases…) New Year’s is infamous for inventories.   We have been socialized to reflect, resolve and redefine ourselves with each New Year.  The number one New Year’s Resolution is to lose weight/exercise more.  After the food-glut highway between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, many of us gain up to 15 pounds, and it makes sense that getting our diets under control will safeguard our health and finances in the long run.  (Who has money to keep buying clothes in bigger sizes?)  Smoking cessation is another common New Year’s resolution.

I appreciate resolutions.  I am all about calls for personal growth or improvement, and have made New Year’s resolutions in the past.  This year, however, I am most clear on what I take away from the previous year, rather than what I hope to do differently.  I feel like I have finally learned some personal and precious truths and that it is time for me to now apply them in the year ahead.

As dysfunctional as it sounds, let me own my behavior and admit that I was at Barnes & Noble three days ago in the Self-Help section doing some reading about a topic for a friend.  Before there was Doctor Internet, there was Psychology and its scared text, the DSM IV Revised with which the somatic could self-diagnose.   Believe me or not, I really was in that aisle on behalf of a friend, however, while there, I read one of the most liberating sentences I had encountered all year.  While scanning an overview on a particular illness, I read, “…in many cases by ones mid 30s to early 40s, people mature out of this disorder.”

It was as if I heard the tumblers of a safe unlock.  My toes clenched so hard that I rocked on the back of my heels to keep my balance.  I could smell the fresh-baked cookies from the café as my thoughts turned to Praise.

In one sentence, presumably researching on behalf of someone else, I read the tag-line of my biggest take away of the year:  You can heal without even realizing you’re better.  The hope of it still delivers enough visceral impact to make me shiver as I type and my breath has become more shallow.  The very antithesis of despair, this idea asserts that sought growth may be incremental and subtle enough that it occurs beyond recognition.  That which you once were fades like blue jeans into a new pair of pants through good care and use.

I am in love with this sentence and transfixed by the idea.

From 2010, I take away the realization that I have matured out of at least one of my disorders.  My hallelujah is clinically less broken.  Sure, I still have plenty of work to do on my issue model, but I am certain that Love wins.

Effort matters.

Prayer heals.

God reigns.

On New Year’s past, I have weighed more and less than I do now.  I’ve been actively working out and never near the gym.  I’ve lived inside and outside of abuse.  I’ve hoped and bargained.  What is different this year is subtle, but distinct.  I have chosen to rise up and lift my voice in Praise.  I dwell in possibilities more often than I rehearse anger.  My incomplete and insecure Surrender has been matched by infinite Grace.

I Believe.

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

List of Phrases Banished from The Family’s English for Mis-use, Over-use and General Uselessness for 2011

Today is a day of many lists.  We’ve heard the count down of the Top 100 songs on the radio on the way to the mall for the biggest sale of the season, and tonight they will drop the ball in NYC.

One of our family favs is the list of banished words.  This year’s list includes several technology terms like “viral,” and “Google,” as well as “Facebook,” as verbs.  A couple of nuggets from Sarah Palin made the list like, “refudiate,” and “Mamma Grizzlies.” I won’t miss, “I’m just sayin,” also listed, but will grieve, “epic.”  The list is compiled using public input on words that are regarded as “so over,” (BANNED) from mis-use, over-use or uselessness.

Our family comprised our own List of Phrases Banished from the Family’s English for Mis-use, Over-use and General Uselessness.

From The Children:

“It’s gonna be a big day.”

“Don’t forget to set your alarm.”

“You got this one wrong.”

“That was due today?”

“It’s due tomorrow.”

“Sectionals are today.”

“Get out your planner.”

“Quality work matters.”

“Time for bed.”

“Have you played your violin?”

“Whose turn is it to do the litter box?”

“No, no, not like that, like this…”

“Are you paying attention?”

“How long have you been on the computer?”

“Brush.”

“Should you be eating that with those braces?”

“When is that due?”

“Be careful.”

“Do you hear me?”

“Do you understand me?”

“What did you say?”

“No means no.”

“What is the problem?”

Anything that begins, “How many times have I told you…,” “Did you remember to…”  “Don’t tell me…” “Don’t forget…,” or “What did I say about…”

From the Parents:

“My bed is wet.”

“Can I go?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“No I didn’t.”

“My soccer game is at 9:00 a.m.”

“The cat puked again.”

“She won’t clean up.”

“I didn’t know.”

“There’s a dance Friday night.”

<At any meal> “I don’t like it.”

Anything that begins, “I forgot..,” “It’s due tomorrow…,” “I got assigned a long term project today…,” “Can I invite…”

Though the words vary, I think our family is in consensus on it’s more fun to play and eat ice cream than do homework or chores in 2010.

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Facebook Tag Sends Pic of 12 Year-Old Granddaughter French Kissing to Grandparents & Family

Reasons A Mamma May Be Forgetful

It is common for mothers, even those under the age of 30, to be forgetful. While it may feel like you have Alzheimer’s at this young age, it is more likely that there are other reasons that affect your memory.  Before you fret that you  have actually lost your mind, consider these triggers associated with forgetfulness.

Stress

Need I say more?  We color-code family calendars.  We put post-its on the front door.  We jot notes in Sharpie on our wrists so that we see them when we drive (a great way NOT to forget to pick-up a kiddo at location other than the usual carpool time or place), our phones beep reminders at us, and we can’t make an appointment for a pap smear unless we have our kid’s soccer schedule posted by time and field.   These examples show two things… we are busier than we probably should be, and, nonetheless, we get even busier trying to implement strategies to get ‘ir done.  Such constraints lead to stress.  We all know that stress wrecks havoc on the body, but it can do a big number on the mind as well.  Memory is a prime target for stress.  The basic formula is the more stress we are under, the more we may be forgetful.

Reasons You May Be Forgetful at a Young Age – Holiday Problems

Holiday disorders, such as hyper-cookie-consumptionism and hypoensitivity to dietary cues that inhibit compulsive eating, have been known to affect one’s memory. If you have a family member with is known to have binged on Sweedish cookies, especially during the Thanksgiving to Christmas corridor, then there is a good chance that you may have or develop it yourself.  A logical question is to ask how excessive cookie ingestion can cause memory issues.  This becomes crystal clear when you stand in the middle of your own kitchen dressed only in a thong, at 1:27 a.m., with a tuperware full of sugar cookies in your hands, and you’re mindlessly eating them one after the other while shopping Ebay for black velvet paintings of crying clowns.   The brain is kind, people, there are things that are simply too traumatic to remember.  Furthermore, who wants to remember that as the cause for having to go up a pants size in January?  Life is hard enough getting the kids back into the routine of school and practices, let alone being held hostage to such unwelcome memories.  In order to experience the best memory that you can if you have a hyper-cookie-consumptionism or hypoensitivity to dietary cues problem, you may need see a doctor or nutritionist for necessary medications or treatment protocols.  Then again, you could just STEP AWAY FROM THE COOKIES.

Reasons You May Be Forgetful at a Young Age – A Lack of Sleep

A lack of sleep is known to cause forgetfulness. However, this cycles us back to stress, as many people often find they lose sleep when they are stressed. When we are tired, we often do not think clearly and make irrational decisions like eating cookies in the middle of the night in our underwear.  It’s not that we would not prefer to sleep, it’s simply that we have too much to do, not, however that we can remember what that is so we color-code family calendars.  We put post-its on the front door.  Wait a minute, did I already say that?

Reasons You Shouldn’t Worry If You Are Be Forgetful at a Young Age

1.  If we can’t do any more than we are doing, our best has to be good enough.

2.  Cookies are yummy.

3.  We can’t afford to lose anymore sleep.

The season of raising children is a dense time of saturated experience and emotional intensity.  There is only so much nuance and detail a brain can store without loss of our joy, pace, or humor.  I don’t have to remember how high The Boy’s fever was when he got the H1N1 last year, and we were worried The Oldest Girl might catch it too and impact her heart.  That was a lifetime of fears and tears ago. Some of you remember more along the way as you raise your kids up.  Some of you remember less.  However, what matters is if our children are well and that Love wins.

Realizing that  I get it right more often than I get it wrong isn’t vanity, it’s sanity!

Maybe I’ve been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!

Walmart, December 23, 6:12 p.m.

Walmart on any day, at any hour promises a contrast exercise.  From the Lexus sedans to the Ford Fiestas in its melting-pot parking lot, to the Nine West to slipper clad patrons, it’s a panacea of diversity.  On the eve of Christmas Eve, it’s a circus of dysfunction.  There I was, amid the a sea of people intent on getting their tables and trees ready for the holidays, more than a bit tipsy with anxiety.  I confess that I don’t really like crowds.  Like a sentinel, I patrol my personal space.  I walk on the balls of my feet to protect it, and have perfected the dodge and weave of a good wide receiver.  It’s hard, however, to maintain a space bubble in Walmart in December.

I was there by choice.  Our beloved children have gotten more savvy to the Christmas train in recent years, and we had chosen to defer some stocking-stuffer shopping until the 11th hour to help insulate their surprise and our planning.  Naturally, I regretted the wisdom of this decision before I entered the store.  Though I went in with a mission specific list, alone, and stealth like reconnaissance infantry, I had sweat on my upper lip before the greeter greeted me.

Anyone with heart carves a special place for Walmart greeters this year.  The news story that a centurion greeter was pushed to the ground upon her 100+ year-old keister by an angry shopper who thought she was not moving quickly enough on Black Friday was all over the internet and fresh in my mind.  I took a moment to wish him a Merry Christmas.  This greeter was a senior too, and I confess I lingered to wonder about his safety before I followed his directions to the Entertainment department.

On the walk there, staccato snipets of family dialogue peppered my walk.  I think there is something sinister in the ventilation systems of Walmart stores, some airborne contaminant that makes Mommies especially ill tempered and sweet children sour into vats of tantrums and tears.  Last night was like this on steroids.  There were no jingle bells in the air.  Clenched-jawed parent units scolded child after child, “BE QUIET!”

“I SAID NO!”

“STOP TOUCHING THAT ALREADY!”

“NO!  I TOLD YOU WE WERE NOT BUYING ANY JERKY!”

“NO!  I’M NOT CARRYING YOU!”

I rehearsed exit strategies as I made a detour around the candy aisle.  That was too much to even consider.  I promised myself that the last thing that the children needed was more candy.  A more than cynical veneer had begun to shellack my attitude when a woman approached me from behind.

My first response to unexpected physical contact is generally a flinch and recoil, but I registered in my periphery that it was an older woman just before her arm reached around my shoulder.

“Do you remember me?”  she inquired, brows up and eyes open wide with kindness.  Her smile was an question mark of hope.

She was with a young woman, 12-13 by the looks of her, and I rapidly flipped through my mental Rola-dex the grandmothers that I knew who had adolescent granddaughters.

“No,” I smiled down at her admitting my inability to remember. “Help me, I want to remember,” I promised.

The reconnection that followed read like Jodi Piccoult.  Long story short, she was not a grandmother.  In fact, she is at least 12 years my junior.  She had been my student during my first years of teaching high school just out of college.  In fact, I had been quite fond of her.  She had been a bright, creative, free spirit who had much more talent than self-discipline.  The girl with her was her daughter, 12, the same age as our oldest.  She broke off to ask her daughter if she remembered that crazy teacher that she used to hide from in high school, who used to chase her all over the building to see if she had done her homework, and told her that I was her.  She told her daughter that I did that because I would never give up on her, and that I knew that she could do the work.

I hardly noticed.  I admit I was busy doing the math, trying to figure out how old she was when her daughter was born.

And then, my former student, in front of her child the same age as our oldest, told me that she was terminally ill.

She told me how happy she was to be able to Christmas shop with her daughter as it was likely she would be, “Gone or unable to next year.”

The noise of Walmart ceased.

There was only silent perspective and her voice.

“Thank you,” she said to me, “I’ll never forget how you never gave up on me.”

Sweet Jesus.

I was so rattled that I had to call The Husband, “I don’t even know what’s in the cart,”  I said to him, “but I have to come home.”

“Come home,” was his reply.  “Now.”

He had heard it in my voice.

I was not home long before I shared the story with him.  The Oldest Girl was there, but I had not considered the impact it would have on her.

Silly me.

The Middle Girl came down this morning to report that The Oldest Girl was up writing in her journal and praying late into the night.

She reported this in tones of irritation, not respect.  The Middle Girl’s precious sleep had been interrupted.

Used with permission, this is the letter The Oldest Girl wrote.  She had hoped I would deliver it to my former student, but alas, I lacked the wherewithal to request her contact information.

Dear Former Student, these then are my 10 year-old daughter’s words to you:

“Dear __________,

Hello, I’m <The Oldest Daughter>, <The Mamma>’s daughter.   I’m so sorry, and I have something to share about myself.  When I was really young, I was diagnosed with the coarctation of the aorta, because the doctors didn’t find it until several weeks, there were other complications.  However, the doctors diverted an artery [from my arm to repair my heart], and everything worked out.  I was a healthy, happy baby until another issue arose.  I was three, and my appendix burst in a very severe way, chance of survival were slim.  The doctors did a surgery, however, and it was successful!!  I am ten-years old and still alive.  Lucky?

No.  God helped me through it, He is the reason I am alive to write this letter.  He saved me  and He will save you too.  When I was baptized, I felt the Holy Spirit touch me, it was so awesome.  I may still have scars, but they are tiny compared to what God can do.  If you ask Jesus into your heart, if you truly accept Him as your Savior, then whenever you walk across a sandy beach, if you look back, there will be two sets of footprints.  When you look back and see only one, God has not deserted you, He has pick you up and carried you.

I pray that you can accept Jesus into your heart and continue or begin your walk with Christ.

Have Faith,

<The Oldest Girl>”

Sweet Jesus.

I did my best,
it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel,
so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth,
I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Nirvana in NYC

In this season of Light and Life, several of the women I most love hurdle relational transitions and fight for their voices.

The backdrop of the Holidays are an especially deep time to reflect on who we are, where we are, and what we believe.

I lift these women up to Love, and honor their choices to rise and sing, Hallelujah!

Nirvana in NYC

I call freedom.
she anoints me,
a baptism of tears.
Day after day,
I see things many people never will.
Behind Merlin’s dragon,
I ponder,
and prowl,
and prance,
and plan,
pushing holes through its curtained wings.
In other places,
I was not there because you wore a blindfold
which deafened the screams of my tangerine tights.
I strain against your shackles like a run away.
The pinch of society’s pursed lips chaffs
my lips as I intone your rules for me:
“Talk like a lady,”
“Cross your legs,”
“Brush your hair,”
“Never order dessert on a first date,”
and “Always wear clean underwear.”
Me, I invent myself,
“Ain’t I a woman too?”
Mama, we don’t wear hats in church no more
or carry your hand-me-down purses.

I collide with impropriety with abandon-
free to choose from the chaos,
strangled by the strands of choice.
I safety pin
Past,
Present,
Future
and feel no sympathy.
I exercise my demons;
Paradise regained.
I weep Niobe tears,
raining my own lake of relief.
I swim there still on hot days lost.
Energy pounds beneath my skin.
Purple lanterns shine through the mist
and lead me through the labyrinth of  my hidden forest.
I open my eyes to see beyond this nostalgic place
a new world of wonder and truth.
I toss my chains of restriction and grief.
I stand certain that life’s path will lead me.
The sun shines bright in all directions,
to guide my way,
for now my eyes can truly see.
The aura of corruption no longer glistens.
I become one of the majority
and begin my travels beyond known security.

Hallelujah!