…and this is why I keep going!
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Never Stop!
One of my favorite pastors, Lance Walnau, posted this on Facebook with this caption. “Transition is like crossing the street. Never stop and sit down in the intersection! You can’t steal second base with one foot on first.” Like new beginnings, transition requires us to let go of the old and embrace the new. Cheers, to letting go of the past and embracing tomorrow!
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!
Carnations!
It was a simple college assignment; observe a live performance of a full symphony. How easy is that? I’d never seen a live symphony; I’d barely been to the movie theater before college.
I booked it; two tickets, one for myself and one for the person I wanted to share it with, my mother. She had struggled so hard and for so long raising four children on a shoestring budget, I thought it was a nice change of pace. My mother, the ultimate church pianist, loved music, and taking her to a full orchestra seemed like a great thank you.
When we arrived in the theater, I knew instantly we were out-of-place. Don’t get me wrong, we looked great in our new spring attire. Fortunately we had dressed for the occasion despite never having been there before, but everyone else was in black. My brightly colored dress and mom’s cheerful pink silk blouse stood out like a couple of mules in a horse corral.
Nonetheless, we made our way through the crowd that looked more like mourners than music aficionados. We took our seats in the large auditorium, delighted by the sound of the stringed section warming up. A very large man squeezed next to me and I tried to make myself smaller to accommodate his …well, his girth. My mom looked at me and I could see that twinkle in her eyes as her face reddened from holding in the laughter as the portly man cleared his throat over and over.
Oh God, I’m in for it, I thought.
Still very young, and barely striking out on my own, I still had the awkwardness adolescence that caused me to turn inward rather than just surrender to the moment. So I tried to get smaller in my space, clenching my program in my white knuckled fists praying my mom wouldn’t burst into the full-blown belly laughter she’s known for.
After endless minutes squeezing myself into the tiny allotted space with the big man’s arm sloppily hanging over my side of the armrest into my space, the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play.
Finally, I would get to take mental notes on my favorite instrument, the Timpani, and listen as the full string section performed. It was like nothing I’ve heard before as the sounds completely enveloped my senses. I relaxed against my seat, thankful my mother was as captivated as I was.
I was pleasantly surprised by the enormous choir that began to belt out powerfully in unison with the musicians. I glanced down at my program and read, Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
I looked up and wondered about the people standing on stage. One woman in particular got my attention. She was standing with the tightest bustier I’d ever seen. I thought she would choke as her bosom perched high atop her chest. Even stranger was how the cleavage highlighted the velvet-black choker necklace with the black carnation, nearly as big as a large hand, against her throat.
My eyes fixed on the giant flower and it began to move! The flower jutted up and down in quick sharp movements as the woman began to belt out the loudest opera song I’d ever heard. I tore my gaze away in shock to my mother only to be greeted with an equally shocked and red-faced grin.
Suddenly, the hundreds of operatic battles mom and I had in our tiny apartment-sized kitchen came to mind. We’d dueled a time after time in our fake opera voices, belting out in silly songs trying to out-duel the other. The first to laugh was always the looser. I felt like that now as the theater became silent except for the solo opera singer’s deep, ear-splitting vibrato.
I looked away quickly and stared at the flower moving furiously as the slow methodical melody came bursting forth. It sounded like a funeral dirge, not the happy or passionate opera of Pretty Woman the ten times I’d seen it.
I bit my lower lip hard and tried to keep the corners of my mouth from turning upward. I read the cover of my crinkled program, Verdi’s Requiem . I had no idea what that meant. Darn Italian.
I shouldn’t have. I wish I hadn’t. I looked over at my mother. Her almost white-blond hair bounced up and down in unison with her shoulders and her face was red as she began snickering, wheezing, and attempting desperately to keep in the sounds of her awkward laughter.
Again we exchanged a glance and it came flooding out…hisses, snorts, shoulder’s shaking, all in a futile attempt to contain the laughter now leaking out. The big man’s arm disappeared and I suddenly had more space now.
As the slow dirge continued, the loud opera singer’s over-sized Carnation moved slower and slower with each note and her cleavage heaved up and down repeatedly with each greedy breath. It was clear now why everyone had been dressed in black; this was a funeral dirge. Verdi’s Requiem the famous Opera that is set at a Roman Catholic funeral mass.
Needless to say, we took our brightly colored clothing and offensive laughter outside to the car at the first intermission laughing inconsolably all the way there.
I haven’t been to an Opera or bought Carnations since!
At Least I Wasn’t Yawning!
I made it a point to arrive early to work today even though I hadn’t had nearly enough coffee. When I arrived at my classroom door, I sleepily examined the colorful Tulip poster I’d placed there several months earlier. I’m not sure why, but I lingered there with my key in the door, perhaps delaying the inevitable necessity of actually walking through the threshold when it happened.
As I began slowly swinging the door open, key still in the lock, I caught a glimpse of a small…well... small something, falling from above my head with a small thud near my shoulder, then finally a quiet splash onto the concrete. That’s when my racing pulse kicked in. I didn’t have to even look, I knew it was the ultimate nemesis of women everywhere….Yes, the juicy, black roach lay writhing, body curling upward as its seemingly hundreds of skinny legs flailed wildly in the air.
I avoided screaming-barely- but couldn’t manage avoiding jumping up and down, checking my hair feverishly, and swiping at my shoulders to be sure the critter didn’t have any friends.
You could say my day started out with an unexpected event for sure, but I prefer to look on the bright side-at least I wasn’t yawning!
Really? What Are You, Blind? Get Out!
Did you ever wonder why people stay in abusive relationships? Did you ever wonder how they could have been so blind in the first place as to get into one? For someone with perspective on the outside of the destruction, it’s easy to want to scream at the victim, Really? What are you-blind? Get out! Yet abuse victims often fail to recognize they are entrenched in a caustic cycle until they are either ready to see it, or until the abuse is so blatant that they can no longer ignore it.
Think it only happens to welfare recipients or impoverished families? As a survivor of domestic violence, one who spent the better part of her childhood praying my mother wouldn’t be murdered by my father, I can tell you the violence crosses many boundaries: including economic lines. I know first-hand, the most dangerous time for a spouse being victimized is during the breakup. Kim Conover, a forty three year old mother of four, including two 21-month-old twins, worked as an elementary school teacher and was murdered by her husband outside the divorce attorney’s office. Susan Cox was likely a victim of her husband’s selfish abuse and twisted mind. You might recognize the name, Josh Powell, the young father who is believed to have killed his young wife and then, in a planned murder-suicide, killed his two young sons. These families were as middle-class as it gets.
If you were to have passed either of these young, wholesome-looking families as they posed for smiling pictures for Facebook or stood by them in the grocery store, would you have never imagined the horrific futures they would have faced. I can imagine that my path may have crossed victim’s unknowingly; perhaps I talked to them as they masked the pain of their daily life with polite banter.
I’m certain that the the once smiling brides and grooms, in love and having children together, could have never imagined such a fate as a violent death or the harsh reality of the struggle for power that comes with abusive relationships. Those looking from the outside may ask,Didn’t you see it in them? The truth is, some people are good at masking certain behaviors and some people are not good at recognizing dangerous behaviors until those behaviors become impossible to ignore. Society puts a lot of pressure on the victim to see the truth and do something about it. In truth, they should but why does it take a murder to realize just how dangerous the situation was? What if these victims had support before tragedy? What if they’d had good advice and real help getting out safely?
Yes, it’s easy to blame. Keep this in mind when your tempted to do so. Kim Conover was denied a restraining order just before her murder and Susan Cox had a prophetic notion outlined in a note, later found in a safety deposit box, accusing her husband of her murder should it ever happen.
Since most abuse is about control, leaving is the most dangerous time for an abused partner.
Get this straight, I would NEVER say don’t leave to a victim-never! Leaving is dangerous, but so is living with an abuser. However, I would never give foolish, vengeful advice to someone who is afraid for their life like, just get up the guts and tell him where to stick it. Take everything and get the hell out.In domestic abuse cases, this can be deadly council
I heard an emergency room doctor once say, “When people come in and say they don’t want to die, it’s because they are dying.” Abuse victims feel fear, because they have reason to be afraid.
In education, I see this time and time again; fearful spouses and kids. I remember feeling fear as a child myself; however after many years healing and taking charge of my own life, I began to build up a hard shell. I’ve felt the frustration of looking into a woman’s tear-filled eyes as she described her impossible plight and thinking…Get smart; get out! How easy it is to forget that people may need much help to do that.
For my mother and I, our escape came in the form of several women trained in domestic violence counseling. They risked their own safety to meet us close to our home. We walked, suitcases in hand, to meet them and drive away to freedom. Without those women, we may have not made it. While it took much longer for mindsets to change, we were physically safe at a location that housed us, clothed us, and fed us in secret-away from the danger. Because of those women, my mother was able to keep leaving a secret, gather a small stash of money, and even take a few sentimental items; though not much else. Had those people not intervened, it may have turned out as many new headlines do. This is the memory I hold on to when the hard shell threatens to make me forget how volatile these households often are.
If you know someone who is fearful of a partner or suspect abuse, reserve the judgement, the dangerous advice, and the temptation to quit on them. Instead, give them a phone number; it could save their life.
National Domestic Violence Hotline
1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
Sources:
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.
“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!
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