You Can Count on Me

I started counting recently. Sometimes counting. Sometimes timing. Just keeping track of the time. For instance, six seconds seems like much longer when you’re rushing out the door. Really? Only six seconds to put your shoes on. When I count, I don’t scream at Lily to HURRY UP. What is six seconds in the grand scheme of this journey?

Now, I haven’t always been a counter. In fact the concept of counting to ten before verbally decapitating someone has always been foreign to me. I scream, feel immediate guilt, apologize and then carry the shame around for…well, I’m working on it.

Anyway, I started counting at the elementary school. At morning drop-off, people zip in and out of that parking lot as if they are rushing a hemorrhaging gunshot victim to the ER. If someone stops, holding up traffic to let the buses exit, said person gets unfriendly hand gestures. People. Lose. Their. Minds: throwing their hands in the air, flipping you off, pounding their steering wheels, etc. Now, I remember what it was like to have to rush to a job, so, one morning, I took out my phone and timed the buses leaving. It took 35 seconds.

Perhaps if you do have a gunshot victim in your backseat, that 35 seconds would be the difference between life and death. If not…1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10…calm down.

I counted to 10 so I didn’t say calm the f#$k down. This counting business WORKS. Let’s take it on the road!

Today, I took my mom grocery shopping. She has been home now for a few weeks and doing much better. Still, I don’t want to just set her loose on the road after our recent scares. She is still moving pretty slowly. Lots of people move slowly at Walmart and not always because they’re 83 and recovering from a hospital stay. Sometimes they are inconsiderate and rude and don’t even realize that they’re standing in the middle of the aisle blocking everyone’s progress while they decide which cereal to buy. 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8. Not so bad.

In the past, I scooted my mom through the store, apologizing repeatedly to everyone whose hurried progress we impeded. Today, I helped her navigate through uncrowded aisles and gently pulled her cart out of the middle of the aisle.

We made it through without incident.

I guided her to a non-crowded checkout line with a cashier I know–because I’m at Wal-Mart all. the. time–is very sweet and patient. My mom always writes a check, and it takes longer than it takes to swipe a card. Normally, I rush her through this process, “Mom, you can just give your check to the cashier; you don’t have to fill it out.” But today I realized that at 83 having lost her husband of more than 50 years, two sons, most of her hearing, many friends, a lot of her independence, and nearly her life a month ago, she could write a check if she wanted.

Then I counted. 1.2.3.4.5…the woman behind us rolled her eyes. 6.7.8.9.10…she sighed loudly and looked at the person behind her for commiseration. I stared at her and felt my blood pressure rising and angry words catching in my throat. 11.12.13.14.15. the guy in the next line lobbied for my agreement on something, “Isn’t that right, Blondie?” Shut. The. F#$k. Up. Start again: 1.2.3. Oh she’s done.

It took her 18 seconds to write a check. I apologize to the woman behind us in line if she was 18 seconds late for her next important appointment, or if the gunshot victim in her car died during those 18 seconds or the subsequent 6 it took my mom to produce her id. I met her glare with a smile.

I can’t tell you how many times I’m surprised that what seems to be taking so long is often just a few seconds. It’s often something Lily or my mom is doing. I’m trying really hard not to rush them anymore. I feel like I’ve been hurrying Lily since she was born–even before she was born–and the other day I watched her swinging effortlessly across the monkey bars. She no longer needed me to walk beside her or catch her when she jumped down or just “be there.” A big old lump rose up in my throat as I thought…Oh no…I rushed it all away.

So, I’m counting instead rushing today. Because sometimes those seconds seem so long, until you’re on the other side looking back and wishing you had just a few more.

21 Days: Day 18

ohmygoshyouguysitisalmostover!!!! I’m pretty excited for day 21 even though today has been filled to the brim with sweet moments. I don’t really plan to change much once it’s over.

1. I got up at 4 a.m. because my baby guest was coming at 5:30 so I wanted to be fully awake and functional. I’m a little rusty with babies but found that it comes back quickly, especially when they are at the super cute cuddling and cooing phase. They don’t require much beyond a bottle, clean diaper and snuggles. But I had plenty of time to count blessings, let the dog in and out 75 times, and get my mind right before she got here.

2. In the area of friends, I have been richly blessed. We have a wonderful circle of peeps, some of our kids’ friends’ parents have become great friends, but one of my greatest treasures is the amazing women in my life. Women who inspire, encourage, teach, love, cry with, fight for and accept me. I watch Super Soul Sunday every week, but I am very fortunate to have my own team of super stars.

I talk a lot about my BFF, which I have been advised is petty and immature. I think criticizing other people is also petty and immature. She is everything you could ask for in a friend, and I would lay down my life for her. The only problem is that she lives about 1100 miles away. The good thing is she lives in a perfect vacation spot so we get to visit her at least once a year. Still … that place is 1100 miles away.

We work it out though. We text constantly. She boycotts Facebook; I don’t blame her … the cons outweigh the pros sometimes on that front. We visit at least once a year and sometimes more. Our hearts are always connected even though we rarely talk on the phone because we both dislike talking on the phone, which brings me–finally, I know, right?–to today. My phone rang and it was my girl. Crazy, wonderful, unexpected surprise chats–or any kind of chats, really, with my forever friend are super soul nourishing.

3. These thank you’s are having some really profound effects in my life. I wasn’t prepared for the emotional roller coaster I was boarding.

I’m really grateful for the encouragement during this endeavor. Your comments, texts, likes and so forth mean so very much to me. It makes my heart happy when out of the blue someone shares that they identify with something I wrote. That’s really why I write. It’s therapeutic, and like my hero Anne Lamott advises, I write what I want to read. When I’m dealing with a trial, my first reaction is to read everything that is written about it. I love to read how other people’s deal with the situations I face. And I relate with people who are honest, flawed and real.
 

You know, people are gonna talk; like RuPaul said, “What other people say about me behind my back is none of my business.” (I had no idea who said that–thanks, Google. I was hoping it would be Eleanor Roosevelt. Whatever; it’s good advice.) Regardless of whether or not people choose to be my friend or read my blog or like me, it’s okay; I’m okay. I’m just meandering along my own path with some crazy amazing sidekicks. Writing helps me work through my stuff. And when you spend the first 20 years of your life smiling and pretending everything is awesome, when NEWSFLASH!!! It’s not, there’s a lot to work through. I never try to hurt anyone with my words. That’s not to say that sometimes the truth doesn’t hurt. As Brene Brown says, “Shame derives its power from being unspeakable.” When you tell your stories, you take that power back.

I have made wonderful friends, had great experiences and many moments of grace and healing because I dared to be vulnerable. I’ve shared my heart, my flaws, my experiences–good and bad–and people have bravely reached back. The power of camaraderie. The blessed words, “Me too.” That’s what this is all about. I’m not an attention whore. I’m not self-righteous. I’m certainly not mean and the opposite of miserable. I’m a flawed girl loved by a perfect God trying to make my tiny place in the world a little kinder.

xoxo

21 Days: Day 3

Today started out wonderfully. Last night, we prayed that school would be canceled today, and lo and behold at 5:45 a.m. it was. We (or I) were super excited for a day of doing nothing but watching movies and snuggling. That is a pipe dream because my little dynamo girl wants an itinerary and a social director, not her actual mom who prefers to sit curled up in a chair trying to cajole her into watching a movie or reading or just snuggling. Anyway, this morning my own mom quickly snapped me out of that daydream by sending me on a drug store errand. I won’t go into detail about said errand, but suffice it to say: It was unsavory. The kind of purchase that might send someone to Walgreens incognito. Fortunately, in my advancing age, I’ve reached a level of self-awareness that no longer lets my self-image get wrapped up in cashiers’ opinions of me and my purchases. Still. The only snuggling was with the cat.

1. I woke up easily because I was anticipating that I’d be able to go back to bed as soon as the superintendent called. So, I drank my hot water with lemon and ginger, counted lots of blessings and was supremely grateful to crawl back into bed at 6:15 a.m. and count a few more.

2. My goal is always to be real and genuine and truthful, so describing today’s meaningful experience also involves divulging that I was nasty today. I was short-tempered with my mom, impatient with Lily, irritated with the geriatric dog and just an all-around bitch. P was wise enough to stay in his room so he didn’t face my wrath. Then, this afternoon, I spent a blissful hour and a half talking to one of my dearest friends on the phone. We laughed until my sides ached and then talked about some serious stuff too. It was like a therapy session and coffee date combined. She is also my best coffee friend. When we worked together, we hit every Starbucks in northeast Ohio and western PA. Although we live states apart now, we still manage to have coffee dates a couple times a year, even if they are only on the phone. So, while I was talking to her, I had a cup of coffee. Yes, I cheated on the fast. I put cream in it too. I’m not feeling horrible about it though as my little perfectionist self would have in the past because you know what? I have been a lot nicer since then. I’m not sure if it was the delicious caffeinated delight or just laughing and chatting with a dear friend, but my soul got some much-needed nourishing.

3. I did better today with my Thank You note. It’s the coffee. I am admittedly smarter when I drink coffee.

Last year, “cheating” on the fast would have filled me with guilt and shame. This year, I realize: There’s no shame in knowing and admitting that I chose to drink a cup of coffee. I didn’t smoke a cigarette or use any illegal drugs. It’s coffee. And God still loves me. And it was soooooo good. I’m not sure if I’ll drink it tomorrow or not. School’s already been cancelled so I might. I’ll be a way better social director if I do; That. Is. For. Sure.

Oh, I forgot to mention: I gained 2.5 pounds. Isn’t that awesome? Not even sure how that happens? I stayed away from nuts today. Stupid. Freaking. Scale.

Despite some shortcomings, it was a pretty good day. I made spaghetti squash with peanut sauce that was absolutely phenomenal–I don’t know how I could be gaining weight :). How are you guys doing? I have talked to several friends who are doing way better than I am. Good for you, you bunch of overachieving show-offs 😉 I still love you. And thankfully, I’ve also heard from some people who, like me, are struggling. I’m praying for you, my sisters. And by the way, I’m super grateful for all of you who are with me on this fast, cheering from the sidelines, and even those of you who are reading this simply to fuel your loathing. Keep on keeping on, my lovelies!

xoxo

It’s like this and like that and like this and uh*

I recently read Crash the Chatterbox, by Steven Furtick**, about quieting inside (and outside) voices so that you can hear God’s voice. It was a great book and helped me to isolate and silence some pretty destructive voices. And through engaging with my inner voices, I learned another powerful lesson: Whatever purpose we are here to fulfill? We already have everything we need. 

For instance, God gave me an English teacher mother, above average spelling and grammar acumen, a pretty sordid childhood, and a voice with which people can identify because He intended for me to share my story. 

BUT, you knew there was gonna be a but, didn’t you? In the process of sharing my story, here is some chatter I have heard in my head and from well-intentioned friends:

You’re writing a book?

There’s nothing really special about your story.

You’re not that good of a writer.

Who would want to read your story?
Only famous people write memoirs.

What’s it gonna be about?

Who’s gonna buy it?

Your daughter is a better writer. Maybe you should have her write your story. (She IS a way better writer, but she has her own story to tell.)

You’re not good enough. You’re not interesting enough. You’re not smart enough. You’re not important enough. You’re not special enough. You’re not skinny enough. You’re not blonde enough. You’ve never been enough and you never will be enough. Those voices are so mean; good grief!

Except a funny thing happened in the midst of that though. The aforementioned book landed in my lap and told me: 

• You are doing better than you think you are. 
• You matter more than you think you do. 
• It’s less about you than you think it is.  
• God says you are enough. 
• God said He gave you everything you need. 
• God says you can.

It told me that the voices in my head were just that: Voices. I could tell to shut the @#$% up. If someone tells my kids they can’t do something, I say, “That’s their opinion, and their opinion doesn’t matter. God made you, and God says you can.” So what if the people who should have encouraged  or complimented me or believed in me didn’t. God gave me everything I need to do what He intended me to do.

Who cares if other people don’t believe my story is important? I think everyone’s story is important. We can all positively impact someone by sharing our experiences and our heart; isn’t that why we are here? To love God and to love people?

If I share my story, and one person walks away feeling less shame about her own childhood, deciding to make lemonade out of the lemons life handed her, realizing that she already possesses everything she needs to fulfill her highest purpose, then it was worth everything to reach that one person. It was worth every embarrassing story. It was worth every agonizing question I’ve ever asked and will ever answer. It was worth losing every person who will no longer make eye contact with me because they never really saw me anyway.

My sweet friends, what voices do you need to quiet today in order to hear a still small voice that speaks only love?

*Nuthin’ But a G Thang (What up, Dre)

** I think Steven Furtick is an extremely gifted pastor, speaker, writer and teacher and couldn’t care less about the size of his house or how many people got baptized at Elevation on any given Sunday.