Tag Archives: ramdom thoughts

Special Needs

Special needs? Yes, I had some this week. This was one of the most challenging weeks I’ve had both personally and professionally in a long time. I’d lost a dear friend just the week before to asthma and pneumonia, big changes were threatening the stability of my school; those changes happened so swiftly we hadn’t had time to prepare for them, and one of my student’s emotional stability was crumbling before my eyes in raging melt-downs earlier that day, so much so that I feared he might end up with a diagnosis of emotionally disturbed. I was trying to have faith, trying to think positive, trying to let logic win over emotion, faith and doubt collided the moment I sat down to read a story to my first graders.

After much roller-coaster riding, my emotions were winning and as I read the story, my voice began to crack.  I couldn’t squelch the tears that threatened to leak out, so I held the book in front of me and pointed to the illustrations and attempted to sound more animated. I could sense the kids wondering about the slight crack in my voice. They sat quietly, more quietly than normal; not one six-year-old giggle, not one six-year-old shout-out, nothing.

Nothing, until I felt a small gentle hand on my leg. My most needy student, one with a diagnosis of autism in the severe range, reached up and put his hand on top of my knee. I swallowed hard. It’s not unusual for the student to give hugs to anyone and everyone. He loves everybody and is much loved by all the children and staff.

I kept reading, pointing, and kept back the tears. The little boy got up, stood next to me and wrapped his arms around me, then rested his head gently on my shoulder. I reached up and patted his smooth black hair as the kids cooed in unison….”Awwwww….he’s so cute.”

I’ll admit, one small tear fell, but only one, and I told the kids the truth; it was because the little boy was so sweet.

I had at least ten more hugs that day, more than normal and gentler than the little boy’s usual enthusiastic bear hug.

I knew he had seen the emotional melt-down of the student earlier that day, had seen the student restrained and removed from class. It was this Special Needs student that stood up in the midst of the raging tantrum of  another boy, a boy with no diagnosis,  and forcefully told the rest of the class not to laugh at the child as the undiagnosed student kicked and screamed. It was this  Special Needs child who couldn’t put into words what he was feeling, but somehow sensed the way I was feeling and did something about it.

I gave him two things out of the classroom treasure box that day. When a student asked him why he got TWO things, he simply responded, “Because I coot (cute).”

Thank God for children who see life from a different perspective. I know why people say Special Needs children are a gift; it’s because they are!

Beware of Frozen Cokes and Angry Birds

After watching a news clip on the addicting game, Angry Birds, it left me pondering my own encounters with the feathery little beasts. I’m sure many of my experiences are quite ordinary; a bird flying into an overly clean window scaring me half to death with it’s loud thud as it crashes full speed into the pane or the many instances where birds have mistaken my grill for a nest and my hood for a restroom.

These mundane experiences do not bother me in the least. It’s when they mistake my
fingers for, well a place to relieve themselves that it becomes problematic.

Before I became a bit wiser, I often paid no attention to the location of pigeons, or any other sort of feathered being above my head. I just went about my business without a thought as to the need for cover or safe-haven from their antics. On this particular
day, I was lulled into the false sense of security as I basked in the warming sun after a particularly wet winter. It was the beginning of spring, and I was determined to enjoy it fully by being out in nature and soaking up the sun.

On the way to our intended destination, my children requested frozen coke, one of the little perks of warmer weather. As I made my way out of the store, arms loaded with three overflowing slurpees, I paid no attention whatsoever to the giant overhangs above my head, after all AM/PM’s and many other gas stations often have these overhangs to protect gas pumps from the sun. I heard the fluttering above my
head, but walked unimpeded by the ominous warning as I began to thirst for the sweet icy drink now dripping from the cups. The cherry looked especially inviting as it drizzled over the lip of the cup sending tiny droplets of red cool
sweetness onto the concrete below.

I felt a large drop fall on my hand, then another. Certain that the frozen treat was everywhere, I licked the wet place on my thumb hoping nobody was looking at the unmannerly way I just lapped up what I was sure was a savory treat without even looking up.

I was shocked and horrified as the pungent flavor that suddenly hit my tongue, only to travel immediately to the back of my sinuses. The revolting familiar flavor instantly reminded me  of the vaguely familiar odor one might experience in a dirty public restroom. The kind of acidic odor that is nearly tasted but one that is never wanted-only I did taste it. It was unmistakable. This had been no slurpee taking rest on my fingers; the sudden recognition that this most bitter, vinegary, and urine-like taste must have been a direct shot from one of the many pigeons overhead sent me running for the car. Why had I not realized the substance on my hand had not been cold?

I’m certain I drew attention to myself as I went from a casual stroll to a full-blown sprint attempting to balance three overflowing drinks while spitting and sputtering every bit of liquid from my mouth. I slammed the drinks on the roof of my small car, opened
the lid of one of the drinks, and began swishing it inside my mouth to erase the bitter bathroom taste. I watched the horrified faces of my children who’s wide-eyed stoic faces began to turn up in a smile watching their mother feverishly rubbing her tongue with the palms of her hands while simultaneously jumping up and down. My husband waited for no one in laughing. He assessed the
situation rather quickly as the mocking menaces fluttered violently overhead as if laughing too.

I’ve had very few frozen Cokes since that day and always under the secure cover of the roof of a car!

Trust: a Fragile Force

It’s never more heartbreaking than to see an old and dear friend, a friend who had once a pivotal part of your life, one who meant as much to you as any family member could have, and feel the distance-of-heart which has become even greater than that of a stranger.

The purposeful cloaking of the authentic-self takes place and distance grows. Authenticity is lost.

“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too. Take care.”

Obviously these well-wishes are not all bad. In fact, I rather enjoy the banter with co-workers and friends. However, one nagging thought keeps haunting. When did that surface talk become the most and best communication among friends? How is it that those walls go up?

I can recall a time in life, a much earlier time, when this was a topic opener and what followed was conversation that revolved around the truth of a circumstance, a hope for the future, and a shared concern among friends.

I’m certain this is why I enjoy teenagers so much. They have it all; meaningless chatter but an authenticity that allows you to see beyond the veil.

“Who am I? I am exactly this!” says the teenage soul. It is the cry of generations of kids and the longing wish of their parents.

It isn’t the chatter itself that is to blame for the cold distance. It is the unsaid sentiments that lead to the cloaking of true identity. It is the lack of trust, confidence, and faith in another person. Sadly, this can happen even when unprovoked. Trust is a fragile force.

As recent news has surfaced about senators recovering from gunshot wounds and how this senator’s eyes opened in a hospital room filled with friends and a spouse perched at her bedside, I’ve wondered, along with many others, the role family and friends play in our own lives. This is in no way meant to discount the total and absolute miracle this is, but God did place people in our lives for a reason didn’t he?

Relationships with true friends, imperfect but authentic friends, are worth cultivating.

I was reminded of this as I visited the home of a woman in her sixties, diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. Her days had been numbered by doctors, her physical body suffering the effects of cancer and its treatment. Yet, this frail and barely 100 pound woman, dressed in bright colors and sporting a baseball cap to cover a balding head caused by multiple hours of chemotherapy, lurched from her seated position to welcome each visitor as her life-long friends arrived one by one.

I marveled at the truth in their glances.

Their conversations were much like the surface chatter you might hear in any workplace or grocery store, with one exception, the warmth in their voices and exchange in glances told me everything I needed to know about them. They were friends that appreciated every moment together.

Sure, there were some unsaid sentiments like…

“I love you. What will I do without you when you leave this world? Please spend just a few more hours with me because you and I have been the witnesses of each others lives. Who will I talk with when you go? Don’t leave me, my wonderful friend. You make me smile.”

Anyone in the room would have understood.

Tired only a few moments earlier, this woman was out walking up and down the rows of condos where they lived and making dinner plans with great enthusiasm. You would have never imagined the seriousness of her diagnosis or her frail state in those moments.

Today, I’m taking a second look at my friendships, the friends who have been witness to my life, and the friends who will continue to speak truth into my life and allow me to speak truth into theirs. I am so grateful for the meaningful and authentic friendships that have helped to shape who I am.

Thank you, friends.

Mentored Into Manhood

What do I know of manhood mentoring? I am an outsider in the world of men and watched mentoring from afar. I’ve watched as my father slammed wrenches on the hood of his Volkswagen Beetle when it wouldn’t comply with his attempts to fix it. I’ve watched as my brothers loaded up their trucks with fishing poles, rifles, and their own sons to engage in a day of activities typically thought to have masculinity written all over it. I have watched as other men talk about their sons accomplishments. Being female precludes my participation in many of these things. Perhaps I should say too, I would much rather be having lunch with the girls than getting my hands all slimy from fish guts anyhow.

I’ve often wondered in the mysterious world of men, how it is that a man feels qualified for manhood. Is it that he can fix nearly anything with a hammer? Is it that he can drive any machine over its intended maximum speed? Is it that he reaches a certain age and society calls him an adult? Just what makes a man qualified to be a man? Growing up, I may have told you the previous was a good estimation of manhood. Being male and participating in anything that involves speed, dirt, or nature means you are a man, or so I once thought. Perhaps this was because, apart from my mother, I grew up in a house full of men that believed wholeheartedly in the ideology that a woman did woman things and a man did man things. Then I would have said, men are rugged souls that do not share feelings. In other words, being tough and not running to your mother for understanding makes you a man. I’ve since refined my definition.

I think true manhood lies in wisdom; wisdom to know that true manhood can be defined as the ability to love and be loved completely. That true manhood will allow you to peel away the layers that keep you from sharing your authentic self with others. True manhood allows for differences; not all men will look, sound, or act the same. This makes them no less manly. True manhood allows for others to be true to themselves and nurtures those around him.

I’ve seen true to life examples of manhood in rather unexpected places. I’ve known a man, a teacher, for many years. I met him when he was in his forties. He taught high school Spanish. He and my husband often embark on home-improvement projects together and during many of those projects, I’ve watched as he quietly and patiently mentored young men around him. Now knowing this man, you wouldn’t realize he has every right to be full of himself. He has accomplished more in his life than most. He has the qualifications and the obvious ability to be a professor, but he consciously choose high school for the kids. He has every right to be content in that contribution, instead he has always held a second position as a missionary to orphanages. I only wish I was as financially savvy as this man who has taken his income and doubled it to more than enough to share with many over the years and yet the man is so unassuming. He walks onto the worksite in his jeans and plaid shirt. He seems more like a teenager than a full-grown man with his tall lanky build and carefree manner. It’s only the slight tremmor of aging hands that give away he is not. He jokes and teases like all the other boys, but then, like the sudden pounding of a hammer, he drops a nugget of wisdom that pierces the heart of the younger men working alongside him.

 I know this, because one of those young men was my own son. He explained that people with low self-esteem don’t often accomplish the great things they are capable of. Now I’ve said this many ways and at least a hundred times, but somehow as the two stood with shovels in their hands, covered in dirt and sweat, it just resonated with my son. My son finally understood that he is capable of greatness and I am convinced that he could have only believed this coming from a man he respects and trusts.

I’ve seen men who have not arrived in their journey to manhood. One of those men was my own father. He was broken as a child and remained in his brokenness throughout his life. He parented out of this brokenness and the flawed ideology that men were only men if they were harsh, refused to show emotion, and were of a certain age. I watched his philosophy and his mindset break what could have been great men, into cowering boys desperately in need of the gentle love and nurturing that can only come from a father. It took me many years to understand that my dad was never mentored into manhood, but that it was thrust upon him as a broken boy. His intent was not to break others, but break them he did.

            It has been wondrous to be an outsider watching from the shoreline as the men in my life navigate the waves of maturity. Somehow I can’t help but think Shrek is blessed with an incredible revelation. After all, wasn’t it Shrek who realized and told donkey that he was like an onion? I’m not saying women don’t have layers, we too are complex creatures. I’m just saying, the men in my life seem to take longer to peel back the layers. I know there are at least a few women reading this and nodding their heads right now.

Keep It To Yourself!

It’s not that I have anything against portability or flexibility, but when it comes to teeth I just think the less I know the better. Recently, I decided to make my way to our local urgent care center instead of wait for my regular physician. I’ve been guilty of this many times as I really avoid the doctor all together. After this visit, I may swear off the urgent care as well.

Of course, no one ever really knows where to sit in those places. I surveyed each row of cold black plastic chairs. None of the rows were empty as I had hoped. I would be forced to sit nearly right next to another person waiting for care. So, I chose a seat closest to the door near a seemingly quiet man in his fifties. He looked harmless enough. Certainly it was better than sitting near the woman who had perched what was presumably a vomit bucket directly on the seat next to her. I thought about the splash that might occur should she loose her lunch, the poor lady. It seemed like that row was seriously off limits. I also decided that sitting next to the trio of young men wearing sagging pants, dark glasses, red headbands, spider web tattoos all the way up their arms, and a snarl on each of their faces was out. Yes, sitting next to the quiet stranger by the door was perhaps the best choice.

As I sat awaiting my call to the triage nurse, I listened to the familiar sounds of the room. A cranky old fellow in a wheel chair lodged loud complaints about the doctors and the government as his son tried to calm him. His criticism was interrupted every so often by his wheezy cough. The phone rang intermittently and secretaries would remark, “Can you hold, please?” I wondered if they ever got back to the callers in all of their business. I turned to see the spider web trio crossing their arms as they looked angrily about them. I wondered what brought them to urgent care and why they continued to look about them as they did.

Nonetheless, my little corner of the facility was quiet. It didn’t seem as if the man I’d perched next to made a sound; no coughing, no sneezing, and thankfully no complaining. Since I was sitting directly next to him, I made it a point to avoid looking in his direction. After all neither of us were probably feeling well. That’s the whole point of urgent care. I didn’t want to talk, but the man was so silent amongst all the noise I was curious to get a better look at him.

I fixed my gaze in both horror and fascination as the man slid his false teeth out of the upper quadrant of his mouth. The slimy string of saliva that trailed as he tugged on the pink gum line of his top set of teeth didn’t seem to move the man in the least. I’m certain I should have averted my eyes, but I was filled with disgusted wonder as he spit into the trash can nearby, then slid his upper set back to thier original position. I moved my body slightly further away wishing for another chair, as the man repeated the process of extracting the slime-filled falsies. The man seemed to find an unsettling rhythm; teeth out, teeth in, spit, teeth out, teeth in, and spit again.

Suddenly, it occurred to me; “I’m just not that sick”.  I got up and left and headed straight for the couch at home safely away from gangsters, vomit, and most of all removable teeth!

Life and Letters

 Writing has become an unexpected and important part of my life. Certainly, it’s no secret that writing is one of those rarely perfect forms of communication in which each word can be carefully selected to reflect the color of emotions, respond eloquently and passionately to a hurt, and to examine thought processes that run like the ticker tape in Time Square only hidden within the recesses of the mind, but I never really expected the written word to contain the embrace of a father I hadn’t really known.

          I can count the number of times my father has embraced me physically on one hand. He was not an affectionate man. He was a hard-edged Georgia boy who never really escaped the hurts of his own past. It wasn’t until he moved to a small fishing town after his retirement that his true happy-go-lucky personality began to emerge beneath the brazen surface of a cynical soul.

          For most of my life, I believed my father didn’t really respect my choices in life, didn’t really care to be around me, and didn’t even like me much. How wrong I was. Although we disagreed on many things; politics, religion, respectful conduct, the obligation of family, I began to find common ground in forgiveness. Long ago, I made a decision to forgive him for intended and unintended hurts. The hate I harbored in my youth wore away more of who I wanted to be than any hurt ever could. I began to loose myself in it. The decision was instant. Sitting in my car one day, I realized though a not-so-subtle nudge, that I was destroying my life. I thought my father was the victimizer, but in reality I was keeping my own self a prisoner of disappointment in a man I called father. After all, he was just a man, not a super-hero, not a perfect soul, not even a man that planned out his life and expected me to be; just a man, a lost soul, a broken soul, struggling against his own sea of grief and disappointment which he too refused to release.

          When my father began to show the effects of chemotherapy after an aggressive cancer attacked his otherwise healthy body, I began to see the hard shell he wore surrender to the fear of succumbing to the illness. The treatments ravished his body and my dad went from a healthy 165 pounds to an emaciated 110 pounds. Visiting him in the hospital was difficult. I had to read the chart attached to his bed as he slept to make sure it was him that lay there, cheeks and eyes sunken in with a body so small, I imagined I could scoop him up out of the bed and take him out of the hospital.

          For the first time in a long time, I began to reflect on who my dad had been before the illness. Tough comes to mind. Rigid is not far behind. Then I remembered seeing a movie with Clint Eastwood, “Grand Torino”, in which an old man about my father’s age, a bit racist and filled with his own stubborn ideology begins to soften as his neighbors chipped away at his tough exterior. He reminded me so much of my dad and I began to realize his toughness was a front. He was from a generation in which men were never permitted to show weakness or admit fear. Instead, fear and weakness were replaced with distance. This distance would help blur the emotions that were not to be. After all, men were John Wayne, and Dirty Harry then. To be human and frail was for cowards.

          I remember thinking how wrong I’d gotten my dad. I never knew how wrong until I walked through his tiny mobile home after his death. I had not known him to be sentimental and was surprised to see his wood stove topped with flowery cards from the many well-wishers congratulating him on the doctor’s report that showed he was cancer free. My brother remarked how proud he was of all of them. Just one week after the doctor’s report, my father had a massive heart-attack all alone in that little place. Accustomed to pain and toughness he waited a bit too long to call for help.

          We encountered many little trinkets that day that revealed his true sentimental nature; pictures of family long gone, saved school projects from my brothers, and letters to and from past close friends. Just as I had begun to wonder where I was in that little place, my sister-in-law opened the box next to my father’s Air force discharge papers. In that small metal box lay his last and best embrace. The letter read, “I love you…I’m proud of you….I’m sorry” among many other beautiful and wonderful things. It was obvious he had planned to send it. I knew this because he had two hand-written copies in his familiar script. One had phrases crossed out and edited for spelling. As I sat at the edge of his bed, holding the letters in my hand a crushing realization washed over me; we were the same. You see, I had a letter for my dad too. I had been editing for just the right words and phrases. My dad never saw that letter that read, “I love you…I’m proud of you…I’m sorry”.

          Let me only say this to all the daughters and sons out there. Dads are not superhero’s. They are men. Some are broken and carry their brokenness into their fatherhood. For this there is regret. However, should you let unforgiveness become a thief, it will gladly rob you of seeing your father in his true and authentic form. Be careful as you might swear you are nothing like him and find out you are more like him than you ever knew.

“I’m Really a Man” she said.


Stepping into the cool night air during a lazy summer evening should not be so confusing. My family and I often go out on the patio to take in the sweetly scented breeze during this season. We enjoy watching the little black and white kittens bounce around the lawn as they discover the boundaries of their newly formed pouncing instinct. The tiny fur balls bounce and roll on the lawn, pawing at each other and bouncing all over. Now when I say bouncing, you perhaps need to picture Tigger from Whinnie the Pooh. These kittens look as if they are on springed boots for the height they get bouncing from a complete stand still.

Normally this activity provides lots of laughs and passes the time better than television or cleaning to be sure. On this evening however, I got a bit of a shock.

As I went to retrieve my little entertainment filled fur balls from their room just adjacent to the back patio, I heard a female voice shouting. “I have something to tell you!” The voice came from the direction of our neighbor’s yard.  I know it was wrong, but the voice was so loud and insistent, I abandoned my quest and listened up. It sounded as if the woman was standing just on the other side of the fence only three feet away from me. I’ll admit, I dislike the nosiness of neighbors as much as anyone and I felt like a heal as I stood their with bated breathe waiting for the announcement that was not intended for my ears.

“I’m really a man” She said. I stood silent for a moment. The neighbor’s house was silent too. No one spoke for at least thirty seconds. Then, a sudden screeching of tires caught my attention. Screeching of tires? We both have dirt driveways. The instant realization that I had been eavesdropping on a television program filled my brain. I remembered suddenly that my neighbor is nearly deaf and often reads lips.

All I can say is his surround sound certainly is captivating!

I Met My Sister in a Letter

December 8th, 1993 is the day I met my sister in a letter.

“Dear Liza”, it read. I just love that. Somehow, I could hear her rich English accent through each letter with a particular emphasis on that “z”. Of course, no one else on this earth has ever called me Liza. I loved that. I can remember gingerly handing the letter as if it would crumble to pieces in my hands should I breathe too hard on it.

“This is my sister. My sister that I never even knew existed until a few weeks ago” I chanted in a whisper. It was almost a dream.

“In my wildest dreams, I never imagined you writing to me…” She said back to me in the letter.

I know why she never imagined it. She never imagined it, because neither of us knew about the other. My sister is my father’s daughter. She was adopted by an English couple and her adoption records sealed off from our dad. She was raised in England and I was raised in America.

I’ll never forget our first phone call. I nearly held my breath as she, through her soft spoken accent, began to tell me about her life, her children, and her desire to meet all of us.

We met shortly after the first letter and phone correspondence. We picked her up at LAX and brought her home. The poor thing was so ill from the flight she had to be rushed to the hospital. No complaints though. That, I’ve learned, is the trademark of my sister. She never complains. As we talked over those two weeks, I was amazed to discover that empty piece I’d always felt existed somewhere within was filled. It was almost a physical sense.

I thought about how as a child I’d often wondered if I were adopted. I’d always felt a little odd and out of place. I’d even experimented with different last names as soon as I was old enough to dislike the one I had.

Our next meeting, again in my little hometown, she brought her three beautiful children. Her children and mine would look at us from time to time in wonder as we would say the exact same phrase at the exact same time. It was odd…even to us.

Then, we just began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. It seemed every phone conversation that followed was filled with belly laughter so deep that we might need to prepare the next time with sit-ups before we spoke. Everything seemed funny and right.

It has been an amazing experience to have this sister who has so greatly enriched my life. I love her not just because she is my sister and nearly my twin in so many ways, but because she is a beautiful caring person.

If you have a sister and can reach her-hug her. I wish mine were close enough to do this today. The ocean seems too big today.