She couldn't have been more than nine. Just a little slip of a thing with chocolate braids and scuffed knees. We cannot know for sure if she was sweet but her pictures show her smilingly cute. It is probably safe to assume a certain measure of sugar as all the little bees came buzzing....
Her family loved to camp. Yosemite was the place to be in 1940. Bring the family to the wilds of nature. Lots of families joined in. Campfires and hiking and fishing and swimming. And pony rides. If you had the money. She didn't. Her daddy was a preacher and with the title came nothing. No big salary. If you were a traveling preacher you got your dinner provided after meeting. Maybe a bag of apples to take home. Always there was enough food but not much else.
Poor for the Lord. Nothing extra. Certainly not pony rides.
She never even asked. It was enough for her to watch the ponies. She would lean on the fence and smile and wave as each pony clopped by her. She didn't wave to the riders. Not because she was jealous. No, the riders didn't even matter. All she could see were the ponies. She waved to them and smiled friendship smiles into their beautiful faces. Every so often a pony would toss his head and she felt honored by his acknowledgement of her. His soft eyes would reflect her admiration. Her heart would swell again with every pass. They shared that bond that little girls and ponies share. They understood each other. Friendship and devotion. And that was enough.
Sometimes she would see an empty saddle and there is where she would dream. She'd sigh as she watched that pony trot all the way around the circle. This was her ride. Her time to believe all the little girl longings for freedom. She could imagine the wind in her hair as she floated through the air on her noble steed. She knew without a doubt that life was best when lived atop a pony. She would watch and hardly dare to blink. And she would smile and sigh again.
If given the chance, she would stand this way for hours. Her friends always knew where to find her. They looked for her there when their camp chores were done and it was time to play. They liked playing with her. She was quick to smile and always ready for a laugh. Not too prissy. One of the boys except for the braids. She could climb trees quicker than a squirrel. Probably because she was so little. She could skip rocks and catch bugs. And she could belch. Oh, she was fun.
The boys would gather round her as she stood beside the pony pen. She would grin at them as they ran up with their dust cloud billowing around them. She enjoyed their rowdy camaraderie. A few more minutes, boys. Just a few more minutes. They knew that they could tease her away but they didn't usually have the heart. If they waited just a bit the ride would shut down to give the ponies a rest and then she would wholeheartedly join their camp games. So they did wait. All arms and legs threaded through the bars of the fence. Shoelaces dangling while feet swung back and forth and back and forth. One would inevitably sit on top of the fence and would inevitably, but of course accidentally, get pushed off. They would tussle and they would wait for her. She was worth it.
She had come to expect these gatherings. Wherever she was, she was not alone for long. That pleased her. She liked sharing her happiness with her friends. She knew they liked the ponies. Clapping and whistling, the boys would take turns
standing beside her to point out their favorite pony or to giggle at
some rider. A pleasant daily routine.
It took her by surprise the day that no one came to join her beside her ponies. She wondered where they had gotten to. Oh well. She missed them but was quite content to stay right here.
They weren't far away. Those boys. The thing she didn't know was that they were all gathered without her. Clustered back amongst the trees just out of sight, they whispered as they offered up their grubby paws and clinked their coins together in one happy little pile. They had been planning this all morning long. Nobody knowing or caring who first had thought the thought. They put together what each one had to please their friend. Ten cents. All counted up. Just the right amount for one pony ride. Exactly enough to bring a smile.
It must have been funny to see them trudging up behind her. Not one boisterous group but a bashful line of fellows not quite sure what to do with their grins. A tap on her shoulder startles her. She didn't even know they were there. She turns around a little puzzled but soon enough she sees why they are acting all so strange. They give their gift without a word and silently stand guard as she smiles and steps through the gate.
She remembered that gift for the rest of her life. Each time told reliving the thoughtfulness of her sweet companions. They waved to her from the fence. And hollered. And clapped. Her sweetness rubbing off on them. Their sweetness impacting her, forever.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
6.02.2013
4.02.2013
keep your eye on the ball
Day two of the drawing challenge.
My favorite sport.
I am just going to assume that reading does not count in the category.
I chose to draw my "favorite" sport from my childhood perspective.
Encouraged to keep my eye on the ball, I concentrated on that sphere to the exclusion of all else.
I became one...with the ball.
I still suspect that stupid little cowhide was out to get me.
I once wrote a story describing my beautiful memories on the ball field.
click the link and rekindle all your nerd-loving tendencies.
http://free2b2much.blogspot.com/2011/06/lazy-in-eyewith-diamonds.html
...read the story to know why I title this piece...
Keep your eye on the ball
Perspective is a powerful thing.
Join all my drawing comrades...for the next exciting episode of....
Our other participants: click their names to see their work
Niki Nowell
My favorite sport.
I am just going to assume that reading does not count in the category.
I chose to draw my "favorite" sport from my childhood perspective.
Encouraged to keep my eye on the ball, I concentrated on that sphere to the exclusion of all else.
I became one...with the ball.
I still suspect that stupid little cowhide was out to get me.
I once wrote a story describing my beautiful memories on the ball field.
click the link and rekindle all your nerd-loving tendencies.
http://free2b2much.blogspot.com/2011/06/lazy-in-eyewith-diamonds.html
...read the story to know why I title this piece...
Keep your eye on the ball
Perspective is a powerful thing.
Join all my drawing comrades...for the next exciting episode of....
Our other participants: click their names to see their work
Don Hillson
Niki Nowell
Bill Davis
GirlyGeeky
Free2B2Much
Notes From The Backseat
Marilyn Quinsaat [posting on Facebook]
Kimmy Haines [posting on Facebook]
Karen Haines (no url provided; will update)
See you tomorrow!!
8.15.2012
here's the story
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2.14.2012
passing
I want to tell you something supernatural. Something beyond the realm of everyday. At least in the way that we "normally" see the everyday. This story is full of things you may or may not believe. It isn't a ghost story but it is about spirits. It is a story about seeing, and walking, and running, and living, and dying. It is the story of a passage to the place beyond what we know and understand. It is my mama's story. And mine.
My mama is a great lady. A lady that has taught me about love by living it around me and through me and on me. She loved on me.
She loved on everyone. It was her gift.
She wasn't perfect. No one is. But that is not the point. I just want you to know that she was real. Is real.
I have trouble with the was and is when talking about mama. She still is. In every way except in the way that I can hug her. She is here. I can feel her.
I can talk to her. She even talks back in the way that happens when you know someone so well that you know what they are gonna say before they open their mouth. I hear her all the time. She still exists. More today than ever before. She is real and alive and so happy that I am sure she daily bursts with gladness. That makes me smile.
And cry.
I remember the day she left my presence. The day I couldn't touch her anymore.
That was a happy day.
You will just have to believe me when I say there is nothing offensive about that statement.
I rejoiced the day she left. I felt happy and light. Indecently happy for all I knew about right and proper. I knew where she had gone. I had walked the road right up to the gate with her and kissed her as she passed through. It was the sweetest and the hardest thing I had ever done.
Sweet is not always pleasant. Hard is not always bad.
Mama had been in pain for more than 10 years. I had watched her go up and down as she lost her strength. Her body was wracked with pain. In the last month or so of her time here she was in and out of the hospital repeatedly. She checked in for the final time because she was to undergo some exploratory tests to see what was causing this round of pain.
I knew that the test was going to bring the end. Just a feeling. I was assured that it was all simple and no big deal. I tried to shake the feeling but it stayed. And it didn't frighten me. I just knew.
I took a couple of the kids in to see her that day. We waited in her room for awhile and were eventually told that she was taken to ICU recovery after her test. That was all they said. Standard procedure.
The children stood outside with Papa/Grandpa while I went in to see her and talk to the doctor.
She had had a bad reaction to the anesthesia and vomited and aspirated. Now she couldn't seem to wake up. She needed help to breathe because of the junk she had breathed in.
I held her hand and loved on her. I felt very calm. And I knew it would not be very long.
I was wrong about the last part. Long is a relative term. This time, long was weeks.
Mama developed pneumonia. People prayed. Papa refused to leave the hospital.
I felt a gnawing in my spirit. Anxiousness. Not because she was dying. Just because I felt very unsure as to what I was supposed to do about it. Papa would not breathe anything but hope for her recovery. I never suggested anything different to him. I just watched. They would not let him stay in the ICU but he would not leave her so we fed him and brought him clean things to wear. when they made him leave her room he made a nest in the ICU waiting room.Each day his "camp" would be a little larger. Each day there would be another waiting family calling him by name. He soon knew everyone there and would add to our prayer lists the family members of his new community as they waited with him in this seeming purgatory.
People visited. People agonized. People hoped for the best.
I waited.
I had already called the family. That was an agonizing day.
They were spread all over the country. Keeping them informed was hard enough. Telling them that it was time for them to gather took more strength than I believed was possible.
What if I was wrong? Well, they would have to decide that for themselves. The best I could do was give my opinion.
Even now it feels wrong to remember how much I hoped I was right.
I had some hard talks in those weeks. Friends and family praying hard for her deliverance. I smile when I think about that. They wanted her restored here with us. All I could feel was a fantastic opportunity for her freedom. The thought of her never being sick or in pain again was so delicious that I almost hoarded it. On the outside it may have looked like I was lost in some pragmatic realism. Practical as opposed to idealistic. Realist or even atheist as opposed to believing in the power of the God who raised people from the dead.
I could not seem to share the hope I had in a way that made any sense. It just looked like I was passively letting the enemy win.
Why wasn't I fighting for her?
Why wasn't I believing for the best?
Where was my faith?
Again I smile.
I believed fully in the power of God to fully restore her. I believed He was going to do just that. I just no longer believed that it was going to be within my eyesight. And my heart felt strong enough to deal with that. I do not know why.
The thing that tore my heart. The thing that really tested my faith. The place where I really had to put full trust in my Father God to do right by me was in believing that He would absolutely do His best in His perfect timing for her...no matter how many were praying otherwise.
Did you catch that?
There were so many precious souls praying for her to stay that I began to fear that they would actually delay her release.
Release was what it had come down to by that point. She was barely conscious. Different members of the family would go in to sit with her to give papa some time to rest or walk around. I knew that when he was gone she called for him. We did not tell him that then. He never would have left. We would soothe her and assure her that he would soon return. She knew we told the truth.
One afternoon I sat beside her bed and held her hand. My sister was murmuring something at her other side. I felt a sigh and the heat of tears behind my face. I was familiar with the feeling as it had become my comfort. Crying was easier than feeling the knot in my throat. No sobbing. Just a river.
I lifted my head and closed my eyes for a moment and became aware of something beyond. That sounds funny to me now. It wasn't beyond anything. It was a real thing there in the room. But it was also just a vapor. Kinda like when you see something out of the corner of your eye but when you turn to actually look, it is not there. Well, it was a little bit like that. Except I could see it and not see it at the same time. It "looked" like the curtain that surrounded the bed but it wasn't white. It was greenish-blue. And it looked like a skirt or something. Like I could see a foot maybe. I could stare right at it and it didn't go away or change. It was just there and not there. As if a giant skirted figure had stepped up and was standing beside the bed. I could not see above the knees. It was just enormous.
I had never heard of verdigris angels. But who knows?
I wept myself into another sleep that night as I talked to Papa God about His stupid timing. I wanted to trust more. He knows that about me.
I asked Him if He would help me see this in my dreams. Sometimes dreams bring great clarity to reality.
As I slept I dreamed of a red carpet being rolled out. Flashbulbs snapped as the crowds waited for a celebrity appearance. I knew that the carpet was for mama. That made me feel so proud. I sighed at that. It felt so good to see the situation as He saw it. Preparations were being made for her arrival. It was almost time.
But the dream did not end there. I continued to look and then on the red carpet I saw snapshots. Like the photographers were taking instant photos and throwing them on the carpet and they were developing before my eyes. I watched them grow their colors and saw them turn into bright vacation postcards. Each image showed another view of the Statue of Liberty. I saw her crown, her book, her torch, her feet at the edge of her gown.
Her feet at the edge of her gown. Her greenish-blue gown.
Liberty.
I had seen Liberty step into my mother's room.
The next day my sister and I found ourselves again beside her bed. She was awake and peaceful. For reasons known only to God the two of us began to sing to her. Actually it isn't surprising that Mary would sing. She does so beautifully. I, on the other hand...I really don't sing much out loud for serious.I certainly don't make it a point to toke a songbook and suggest we all gather round. Still, there we were. Singing. I probably did it because I knew it would bless her. There was probably a hymnal beside her bed because papa would have been singing to her night and day. It is just odd now that I would be singing. It wasn't odd then. We sang to her. Song after song. Sometimes we messed up. Sometimes she chuckled. Sometimes we sniffed really loud and blinked back tears like I am doing now. Mostly we harmonized as we softly loved on our mama in the language she loved. Oh! how she loved to sing. At this point her singing was all in her hands as she tapped her fingers on the blankets and wiggled her feet in time. She sang her part beautifully.
I see that moment as a sweet sweet gift from Papa God. A moment of life. For all of us.
We had some time to sit together and talk about what was happening, Mama and Mary and I.
I shared with her my dreams and told her what I thought they meant. She could barely speak. It took a lot of effort to move air through her lungs. I told her that I thought that she was being offered liberty. She nodded her head. I asked her if she were ready to go home. She nodded again. Then she spoke.
"Beckie, do you mean heaven?" her voice a rasp but so sweet then as it was the first time I had heard her speak my name in weeks. That same voice is so sweet on my memory now because it was the last time I heard it out loud.
"yes, mama. Heaven. Are you ready to go home to heaven?" my voice raspy with the emotion behind that question.
"oh! YES!" she said. And she squeezed my hand so hard it hurt my heart.
Mary and I wept with her then and let her know that she was free to choose her time. We talked of taking care of papa and prayed with her and for her to let her heart be at rest.
I do not know of a greater gift than knowing that she was ready, willing, and able to make that journey.
I thought, at that point, that we were right at the doorway to heaven. Again, I was wrong. Long held each day hostage. Not long seemed an unreachable goal. Now I know it was just a week or two or so. Then, it was so long. So so long.
She was moved to a hospital ward that I do not understand. Maybe it was a sort of isolation. I do not know for sure. In there she decided to not continue with her dialysis. Without those treatments she would not continue to live. She was able to make that choice for herself. My sister offered it to her. They were so painful at that point. Still, it was mama who chose. That was a gift.
If there were to be no treatments then the only thing left to do was make her as comfortable as possible. The doctors told us that even with a full recovery from the numerous infections she would never even regain to the status of where she had been a few weeks ago and that was constant pain. She had chosen to have no heroic life saving measures. It was time to say goodbye.
I walked outside to find a place to laugh hysterically. I was standing in a collision of joy and sorrow. It was as if someone had said to me...
"the bad news is, your house is burning and you will lose everything. the good news is...you get an all expense paid trip to Disneyland!"
You just can't put sane boundaries on grief. I was wrecked. Completely and deliriously and joyfully wrecked.
My mama was about to be free. I was so happy for her. My sadness had existed for so long that I did not even recognize it any more. It was just a part of me. To be relieved of witnessing her agony was worth not being able to be with her for now.
The hospital made a place for the family to gather with her for her last hours.
I laugh grimly at how little the medical community knows about life and death. She was not ready. The medicines seemed to take her pain but she was not ready to give up her journey on this earth. Not yet.
Hours turned to days. We sat with papa as he sat with her. We talked to her about life and love. We talked to each other about memories and dreams for the future. We waited on Jesus together. She slept mostly and mildly responded. I did not hear her speak again.
One evening as we gathered I began to write. Just a poem. A thought. A continuation of my sister's prayer.
Her prayer had become our mantra for mama. "Let the dying end and the living begin."
We repeated it often.
It reappeared that night in my poem.
April 6, 2009 I wrote...
putting on robes of brightest white
dancing freely before the Father of Lights
a mist
like the breath of dew on sweet pink petals
surrounds her
sparkling with fresh life
LIFE!
so sweet
so welcome
such relief
each breath taken
a deeper realization of transformation
gentle kisses of goodby and hello
mix together in precious bliss
I can see her running
running
running
joyful on the path of life
full of wonder
delights too beautiful for words
she breathes it in
the sweet fragrance
of life.
joy-filled remembrances
outside of time
become anticipations
we remember still
as she waits in joy
for us to catch up
as she goes running
see the beauty
feel the beauty
embrace the beauty
LIFE!
white robes caressing
enveloping
flowing
as she makes entrance
entrance
into life.
I wrote as Mary played on her guitar. Soon enough she began to sing. The words she sang familiar. I looked again at what I had just wrote...and saw her words. As I would write from across the room she would sing.
Our hearts sharing the same song. Not word for word but thought for thought. Supernaturally. A gift.
My heart breaks again when I remember that long dark time. Even tho I speak of happiness the sadness must be understood. The sweet gifts that came were wrapped tightly in grief. Recognizable at the time but almost too precious to fully unwrap. Just held, and understood. Enough I think. For in those moments we had much to hold. He knew that. He knew we would need the gifts later.
The days continued to come and go. Family that thought the trip could not be made were able to come together. She waited for them. All her children were able to kiss her one last time. I believe with all my heart that she knew each one would need that. I cannot know if she held on long enough for each to make their peace. That is not my story. Not mine to know. I only know that as she passed I held her and I let her go on living...just not in the way I had always known her.
I feel her closeness. Probably because in eternity we are already together.
After my friend Ricki died she appeared in my dreams. I heard a knock at the door and saw her standing on the other side of the screen door.
"Ricki! Are you real?!" I asked.
"I am realer than you are." she said
"we get the day to see and understand. sometimes we see past the temporal. and that's not ours to judge."
I think now that life is closest to us at the moment of death.
My mama is a great lady. A lady that has taught me about love by living it around me and through me and on me. She loved on me.
She loved on everyone. It was her gift.
She wasn't perfect. No one is. But that is not the point. I just want you to know that she was real. Is real.
I have trouble with the was and is when talking about mama. She still is. In every way except in the way that I can hug her. She is here. I can feel her.
I can talk to her. She even talks back in the way that happens when you know someone so well that you know what they are gonna say before they open their mouth. I hear her all the time. She still exists. More today than ever before. She is real and alive and so happy that I am sure she daily bursts with gladness. That makes me smile.
And cry.
I remember the day she left my presence. The day I couldn't touch her anymore.
That was a happy day.
You will just have to believe me when I say there is nothing offensive about that statement.
I rejoiced the day she left. I felt happy and light. Indecently happy for all I knew about right and proper. I knew where she had gone. I had walked the road right up to the gate with her and kissed her as she passed through. It was the sweetest and the hardest thing I had ever done.
Sweet is not always pleasant. Hard is not always bad.
Mama had been in pain for more than 10 years. I had watched her go up and down as she lost her strength. Her body was wracked with pain. In the last month or so of her time here she was in and out of the hospital repeatedly. She checked in for the final time because she was to undergo some exploratory tests to see what was causing this round of pain.
I knew that the test was going to bring the end. Just a feeling. I was assured that it was all simple and no big deal. I tried to shake the feeling but it stayed. And it didn't frighten me. I just knew.
I took a couple of the kids in to see her that day. We waited in her room for awhile and were eventually told that she was taken to ICU recovery after her test. That was all they said. Standard procedure.
The children stood outside with Papa/Grandpa while I went in to see her and talk to the doctor.
She had had a bad reaction to the anesthesia and vomited and aspirated. Now she couldn't seem to wake up. She needed help to breathe because of the junk she had breathed in.
I held her hand and loved on her. I felt very calm. And I knew it would not be very long.
I was wrong about the last part. Long is a relative term. This time, long was weeks.
Mama developed pneumonia. People prayed. Papa refused to leave the hospital.
I felt a gnawing in my spirit. Anxiousness. Not because she was dying. Just because I felt very unsure as to what I was supposed to do about it. Papa would not breathe anything but hope for her recovery. I never suggested anything different to him. I just watched. They would not let him stay in the ICU but he would not leave her so we fed him and brought him clean things to wear. when they made him leave her room he made a nest in the ICU waiting room.Each day his "camp" would be a little larger. Each day there would be another waiting family calling him by name. He soon knew everyone there and would add to our prayer lists the family members of his new community as they waited with him in this seeming purgatory.
People visited. People agonized. People hoped for the best.
I waited.
I had already called the family. That was an agonizing day.
They were spread all over the country. Keeping them informed was hard enough. Telling them that it was time for them to gather took more strength than I believed was possible.
What if I was wrong? Well, they would have to decide that for themselves. The best I could do was give my opinion.
Even now it feels wrong to remember how much I hoped I was right.
I had some hard talks in those weeks. Friends and family praying hard for her deliverance. I smile when I think about that. They wanted her restored here with us. All I could feel was a fantastic opportunity for her freedom. The thought of her never being sick or in pain again was so delicious that I almost hoarded it. On the outside it may have looked like I was lost in some pragmatic realism. Practical as opposed to idealistic. Realist or even atheist as opposed to believing in the power of the God who raised people from the dead.
I could not seem to share the hope I had in a way that made any sense. It just looked like I was passively letting the enemy win.
Why wasn't I fighting for her?
Why wasn't I believing for the best?
Where was my faith?
Again I smile.
I believed fully in the power of God to fully restore her. I believed He was going to do just that. I just no longer believed that it was going to be within my eyesight. And my heart felt strong enough to deal with that. I do not know why.
The thing that tore my heart. The thing that really tested my faith. The place where I really had to put full trust in my Father God to do right by me was in believing that He would absolutely do His best in His perfect timing for her...no matter how many were praying otherwise.
Did you catch that?
There were so many precious souls praying for her to stay that I began to fear that they would actually delay her release.
Release was what it had come down to by that point. She was barely conscious. Different members of the family would go in to sit with her to give papa some time to rest or walk around. I knew that when he was gone she called for him. We did not tell him that then. He never would have left. We would soothe her and assure her that he would soon return. She knew we told the truth.
One afternoon I sat beside her bed and held her hand. My sister was murmuring something at her other side. I felt a sigh and the heat of tears behind my face. I was familiar with the feeling as it had become my comfort. Crying was easier than feeling the knot in my throat. No sobbing. Just a river.
I lifted my head and closed my eyes for a moment and became aware of something beyond. That sounds funny to me now. It wasn't beyond anything. It was a real thing there in the room. But it was also just a vapor. Kinda like when you see something out of the corner of your eye but when you turn to actually look, it is not there. Well, it was a little bit like that. Except I could see it and not see it at the same time. It "looked" like the curtain that surrounded the bed but it wasn't white. It was greenish-blue. And it looked like a skirt or something. Like I could see a foot maybe. I could stare right at it and it didn't go away or change. It was just there and not there. As if a giant skirted figure had stepped up and was standing beside the bed. I could not see above the knees. It was just enormous.
I had never heard of verdigris angels. But who knows?
I wept myself into another sleep that night as I talked to Papa God about His stupid timing. I wanted to trust more. He knows that about me.
I asked Him if He would help me see this in my dreams. Sometimes dreams bring great clarity to reality.
As I slept I dreamed of a red carpet being rolled out. Flashbulbs snapped as the crowds waited for a celebrity appearance. I knew that the carpet was for mama. That made me feel so proud. I sighed at that. It felt so good to see the situation as He saw it. Preparations were being made for her arrival. It was almost time.
But the dream did not end there. I continued to look and then on the red carpet I saw snapshots. Like the photographers were taking instant photos and throwing them on the carpet and they were developing before my eyes. I watched them grow their colors and saw them turn into bright vacation postcards. Each image showed another view of the Statue of Liberty. I saw her crown, her book, her torch, her feet at the edge of her gown.
Her feet at the edge of her gown. Her greenish-blue gown.
Liberty.
I had seen Liberty step into my mother's room.
The next day my sister and I found ourselves again beside her bed. She was awake and peaceful. For reasons known only to God the two of us began to sing to her. Actually it isn't surprising that Mary would sing. She does so beautifully. I, on the other hand...I really don't sing much out loud for serious.I certainly don't make it a point to toke a songbook and suggest we all gather round. Still, there we were. Singing. I probably did it because I knew it would bless her. There was probably a hymnal beside her bed because papa would have been singing to her night and day. It is just odd now that I would be singing. It wasn't odd then. We sang to her. Song after song. Sometimes we messed up. Sometimes she chuckled. Sometimes we sniffed really loud and blinked back tears like I am doing now. Mostly we harmonized as we softly loved on our mama in the language she loved. Oh! how she loved to sing. At this point her singing was all in her hands as she tapped her fingers on the blankets and wiggled her feet in time. She sang her part beautifully.
I see that moment as a sweet sweet gift from Papa God. A moment of life. For all of us.
We had some time to sit together and talk about what was happening, Mama and Mary and I.
I shared with her my dreams and told her what I thought they meant. She could barely speak. It took a lot of effort to move air through her lungs. I told her that I thought that she was being offered liberty. She nodded her head. I asked her if she were ready to go home. She nodded again. Then she spoke.
"Beckie, do you mean heaven?" her voice a rasp but so sweet then as it was the first time I had heard her speak my name in weeks. That same voice is so sweet on my memory now because it was the last time I heard it out loud.
"yes, mama. Heaven. Are you ready to go home to heaven?" my voice raspy with the emotion behind that question.
"oh! YES!" she said. And she squeezed my hand so hard it hurt my heart.
Mary and I wept with her then and let her know that she was free to choose her time. We talked of taking care of papa and prayed with her and for her to let her heart be at rest.
I do not know of a greater gift than knowing that she was ready, willing, and able to make that journey.
I thought, at that point, that we were right at the doorway to heaven. Again, I was wrong. Long held each day hostage. Not long seemed an unreachable goal. Now I know it was just a week or two or so. Then, it was so long. So so long.
She was moved to a hospital ward that I do not understand. Maybe it was a sort of isolation. I do not know for sure. In there she decided to not continue with her dialysis. Without those treatments she would not continue to live. She was able to make that choice for herself. My sister offered it to her. They were so painful at that point. Still, it was mama who chose. That was a gift.
If there were to be no treatments then the only thing left to do was make her as comfortable as possible. The doctors told us that even with a full recovery from the numerous infections she would never even regain to the status of where she had been a few weeks ago and that was constant pain. She had chosen to have no heroic life saving measures. It was time to say goodbye.
I walked outside to find a place to laugh hysterically. I was standing in a collision of joy and sorrow. It was as if someone had said to me...
"the bad news is, your house is burning and you will lose everything. the good news is...you get an all expense paid trip to Disneyland!"
You just can't put sane boundaries on grief. I was wrecked. Completely and deliriously and joyfully wrecked.
My mama was about to be free. I was so happy for her. My sadness had existed for so long that I did not even recognize it any more. It was just a part of me. To be relieved of witnessing her agony was worth not being able to be with her for now.
The hospital made a place for the family to gather with her for her last hours.
I laugh grimly at how little the medical community knows about life and death. She was not ready. The medicines seemed to take her pain but she was not ready to give up her journey on this earth. Not yet.
Hours turned to days. We sat with papa as he sat with her. We talked to her about life and love. We talked to each other about memories and dreams for the future. We waited on Jesus together. She slept mostly and mildly responded. I did not hear her speak again.
One evening as we gathered I began to write. Just a poem. A thought. A continuation of my sister's prayer.
Her prayer had become our mantra for mama. "Let the dying end and the living begin."
We repeated it often.
It reappeared that night in my poem.
April 6, 2009 I wrote...
putting on robes of brightest white
dancing freely before the Father of Lights
a mist
like the breath of dew on sweet pink petals
surrounds her
sparkling with fresh life
LIFE!
so sweet
so welcome
such relief
each breath taken
a deeper realization of transformation
gentle kisses of goodby and hello
mix together in precious bliss
I can see her running
running
running
joyful on the path of life
full of wonder
delights too beautiful for words
she breathes it in
the sweet fragrance
of life.
joy-filled remembrances
outside of time
become anticipations
we remember still
as she waits in joy
for us to catch up
as she goes running
see the beauty
feel the beauty
embrace the beauty
LIFE!
white robes caressing
enveloping
flowing
as she makes entrance
entrance
into life.
I wrote as Mary played on her guitar. Soon enough she began to sing. The words she sang familiar. I looked again at what I had just wrote...and saw her words. As I would write from across the room she would sing.
Our hearts sharing the same song. Not word for word but thought for thought. Supernaturally. A gift.
My heart breaks again when I remember that long dark time. Even tho I speak of happiness the sadness must be understood. The sweet gifts that came were wrapped tightly in grief. Recognizable at the time but almost too precious to fully unwrap. Just held, and understood. Enough I think. For in those moments we had much to hold. He knew that. He knew we would need the gifts later.
The days continued to come and go. Family that thought the trip could not be made were able to come together. She waited for them. All her children were able to kiss her one last time. I believe with all my heart that she knew each one would need that. I cannot know if she held on long enough for each to make their peace. That is not my story. Not mine to know. I only know that as she passed I held her and I let her go on living...just not in the way I had always known her.
I feel her closeness. Probably because in eternity we are already together.
After my friend Ricki died she appeared in my dreams. I heard a knock at the door and saw her standing on the other side of the screen door.
"Ricki! Are you real?!" I asked.
"I am realer than you are." she said
"we get the day to see and understand. sometimes we see past the temporal. and that's not ours to judge."
I think now that life is closest to us at the moment of death.
9.02.2011
I love my job.
I remember a time in my life when I was crying daily because I was not dedicated enough in my Christian walk. I cried tears of self-loathing and guilt and shame over my obvious lack of desire to "go into all the world". I was having a regularly hard time keeping up with my little chicks at home and would repeatedly turn down offers to let me teach Sunday school, plan a senior party, or even sign up for dedicated hours of prayer.
I was just a big loser.
One day, I was particularly distraught about how I was unwilling to be like Heidi Baker.
She is this awesome missionary that loves on kids and does fabulous things abroad in dangerous countries and she seems to be really happy and fulfilled.
I moaned to God about how I was just a big wienie and how could He possibly love me when I couldn't even pretend to answer His call like Heidi Baker and go "seek and save".
Well, in the midst of my tears my Papa God whispered something to me. I am sure He had to repeat Himself because I was quite in a dither and not listening very well. When He finally got my attention I was shocked by what He said.
"I never asked you to be like Heidi Baker."
Well, that stopped me in my tear-stained tracks. I got really quiet and began to listen.
God began to lay out this picture for me about how He had called Heidi and how she was able to serve Him in joy because she was following Him. He talked about the trouble that starts when we get sucked into looking at other people's missions and taking them on as our own.
That'll suck the life right outta ya.
Then, He started pointing me back to my life. I started seeing my little family and how we go about our days loving Jesus and learning to be in relationship with Him. I smile when I think about this because raising my children is honestly the love of my life. I am good at it.
I am full of joy in it.
To use the words of Eric Liddell: I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.
I could feel the pleasure of Papa on me. Really feel it.
I listened for a while, and then I started getting all verklempt again about how I wasn't doing enough.
(I am a stubborn one. )
To which He kindly told me to just knock it off.
Once again He said something to me that changed my life.
"When you get really tired and feel like you need to do more just think about this...you are discipling 5 people 24/7. This is what I have asked you to do. For now, I think that this is enough to keep you busy."
He is really smart like that.
My job...my mission, should I choose to accept it, is to introduce my family to the Lord God of the Universe. I have a limited time. I will not do it perfectly. But if I am able to show them what relationship means I am hoping that they will leave me well equipped to do whatever it is that the Lord would have them do. All while really enjoying His company in the journey.
I believe that all other missions are peripheral.
Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your mind and all your soul and all your strength.
There might be a reason He listed this first.
I love my job.
I was just a big loser.
One day, I was particularly distraught about how I was unwilling to be like Heidi Baker.
She is this awesome missionary that loves on kids and does fabulous things abroad in dangerous countries and she seems to be really happy and fulfilled.
I moaned to God about how I was just a big wienie and how could He possibly love me when I couldn't even pretend to answer His call like Heidi Baker and go "seek and save".
Well, in the midst of my tears my Papa God whispered something to me. I am sure He had to repeat Himself because I was quite in a dither and not listening very well. When He finally got my attention I was shocked by what He said.
"I never asked you to be like Heidi Baker."
Well, that stopped me in my tear-stained tracks. I got really quiet and began to listen.
God began to lay out this picture for me about how He had called Heidi and how she was able to serve Him in joy because she was following Him. He talked about the trouble that starts when we get sucked into looking at other people's missions and taking them on as our own.
That'll suck the life right outta ya.
Then, He started pointing me back to my life. I started seeing my little family and how we go about our days loving Jesus and learning to be in relationship with Him. I smile when I think about this because raising my children is honestly the love of my life. I am good at it.
I am full of joy in it.
To use the words of Eric Liddell: I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.
I could feel the pleasure of Papa on me. Really feel it.
I listened for a while, and then I started getting all verklempt again about how I wasn't doing enough.
(I am a stubborn one. )
To which He kindly told me to just knock it off.
Once again He said something to me that changed my life.
"When you get really tired and feel like you need to do more just think about this...you are discipling 5 people 24/7. This is what I have asked you to do. For now, I think that this is enough to keep you busy."
He is really smart like that.
My job...my mission, should I choose to accept it, is to introduce my family to the Lord God of the Universe. I have a limited time. I will not do it perfectly. But if I am able to show them what relationship means I am hoping that they will leave me well equipped to do whatever it is that the Lord would have them do. All while really enjoying His company in the journey.
I believe that all other missions are peripheral.
Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your mind and all your soul and all your strength.
There might be a reason He listed this first.
I love my job.
7.07.2011
a picture's worth a thousand words
“Ya wanna take a little ride in my doat tart?” he said.
Her curls bobbed up and down as she climbed aboard his goat drawn cart. She didn’t mind his lisp. She was just so pleased to get to ride in that cart.
A flick of the reins and a gentle, “Dit up doat” put the little wheels in motion.
They rode together in silence for a while before the young lad whispered to his companion,“can I have a little kiss?”
“Oh no!” she wailed, her curls bouncing once again. She had answered quickly, maybe too quickly, for she found the cart drawing to a halt.
“Whoa doat!” commanded the boy.
“Det out den” he said to her as she unhappily climbed out of his goat cart.
“Dit up doat,” his final words floated to her on the breeze.
It wasn’t long until he spied another pretty young lady walking along the lane.
Again he asks the question, “Ya wanna take a little ride in my doat tart?”
Again an eager lass climbs aboard.
It isn’t long before the young boy whispers his next question.
“Can I have a little kiss?” he blushes.
She blushes, also embarrassed, but maybe a little flattered . Still, what is a proper young lady of five supposed to do? She lowers her eyes and shakes her head.
“Whoa doat!” Another heart gets broken as the boy stops the cart.
“Det out den” his heart is heavy this time as he says the words.
“Det up doat”, the words send the little goat steadily onward.
He is about to turn around for home when he sees a pale blue dress at the top of the hill.
“Det up doat”, he clucks and urges the cart faster.
“Whoa doat”, he says and hurries through his next question.
She is climbing aboard before he can get the words “doat tart” out of his mouth.
A quick smile greets him as she settles herself into the cart.
This time the cart doesn’t stop.
His request for a kiss is met with a perky peck on the cheek that almost makes him drop the reins. A broad smile warms his face as he tightens his grip and sits a little straighter in the seat.
“I wish my brother was here” he sighs, and dreamily guides his little goat cart down the hill.
(I never could quite figure out why he wanted his brother to be there…)
This was the first of many stories Papa told me when I was a little girl. His stories always seemed so long ago and far away.
“Could he really remember that far back?” I thought. The 1930’s did seem like a hundred years before my time.
I guess it takes getting older to make one appreciate how close childhood really is.
It must be just yesterday that someone asked me for a little kiss in the cloakroom of my Kindergarten classroom. Almost 40 years ago. A lifetime of lifetimes to my children. My stories seem to fascinate my kids as my Papa’s stories fascinated me. It didn’t really matter when they happened. The important thing to me was that they had happened to my dad.
Somehow, ageless, stories live on. Time may fuzz the details a bit but that doesn’t really matter. It is the thought, the memory, the telling that is important.
The stories are important because they are alive. They live in the teller. The spoken word brings life to events. Firsthand knowledge passed from teller to listener. These are not merely chronological events. Not data to be stored and retrieved for information sake alone. These are happenings. Life changing, mind altering happenings. We hear and we learn. We see through the eyes of the one who’s gone before. We get to sample a piece of life not actually lived by us, yet amazingly and intricately a part of us.
Around a campfire or tucked into bed, on the boring stretch of highway or around the dinner table we tell what we know to each other. We teach one another about family and humanity, successes and mistakes, laughing and loving and living. We open up the stories of ourselves to find that we are wrapped up in the stories of others. Our common ground is found in our uniqueness. No one has our story, but everyone can tell a tale based on the one we just told. We were created decidedly different but absolutely dependent on one another. The stories we tell become our link to one another. A knowing as we are known.
An open invitation into the secret places of the heart. In open hearts we find a place of true community, pictures painted by the words of testimony. We come together to share ourselves with one another.
We learn about each other and that seems to draw us closer. Even the stories that are sad, or unlovely in some way seem to draw us in. We accept the vulnerability of the teller. We get a glimpse of who they were at that time. We also begin to recognize the similarities and differences between the teller then and now. We actually get a picture of their lives.
As we listen to the story we find that the voice imparts a color to the tale. Body language brings a depth to the story that cannot be given to a written page. Excitement or hesitation paints hills and valleys as memories draw details for the listeners to see. The true beauty of the tale emerges through the telling. We find that this picture can never be reproduced in exactly the same way. This is a precious gift. It cannot be taken back. Once spoken it is a timeless, priceless, endless treasure.
We have shared a part of one another and we find that these pictures truly are worth a thousand words.
7.05.2011
lazy in the eye...with diamonds
I have a lazy eye.
I got it as a small child when I had a high fever. Most people don't notice it. It is such a part of me that I forget about it sometimes.
There are people in my house that take it upon themselves to remind me.
My children think it is funny to talk about my lazy eye. They ask me to show it to them. They bring it up in conversation.They refer to it at the dinner table.
My response?
I laugh.
Sometimes I laugh because what they say is really funny. They get to me that way.
Sometimes I laugh because I am completely astounded at their sheer audacity.
What am I supposed to do?
Have I taught them nothing about manners and respect? Do I call further attention to my eye by yelling at them to stop?
Should I beat them?
Mostly I say "hey! that is not cool. We do not go around calling attention to others by pointing out the ways that they are different or odd."
They mumble something about being sorry. And I truly think they are. I try to keep it low key because it doesn't really bother me and I feel like making an issue of it will only compound the problem. We address it repeatedly...because it comes up repeatedly. Eventually it will sink in.
For now, lets face it, lazy eyes are just funny.
See, I can poke fun at this because it doesn't bother me. I don't remember being mocked because of my eye.
I was mocked because of my buck teeth. Then I got braces so that really isn't an issue anymore either.
(I did make my first child a bit neurotic because I would pray to God and command her teeth to line up in the name of Jesus...until, at the age of four, she asked me to please stop praying for her mouth...sigh)
So the Bucky Becky thing isn't really an issue.
Not. at. all.
Well ok, maybe a little bit.
Wanna know my real childhood issue?
Are you ready?
Baseball.
You heard me. Baseball.
I come from a ball family. Dad was a great catcher. Big brothers were constantly on the field, baseball, football, soccer. Big sister was a mean basketball player back in the day. Little sister could smoke em in Softball.
Me, notsomuch.
You might be wondering why I would even step onto a ball field. Well, when you come from a sports family you just do these things. There really is no thought about other options. If you say "I'd rather not play" you will be looked at like Grandma saying "these cinnamon rolls probably aren't worth eating"...nonsense. Of course you want to play.
C'mon Beck! Let's get on out there and hit some balls!!
I remember standing with a bat in hand at Pile-High Stadium (we played in a cow field).
Everyone was so encouraging to me.
"Come on Beck...you can do it. Keep your eye on the ball!"
Now you might just be thinking...which eye?
Think it all you want but don't ask it out loud. Even tho it doesn't bother me I might get irritated.
Don't get me wrong, I would laugh.
And then I'd punch you a little harder than necessary in the arm with one hand as I slapped my knee with the other.
But seriously, which eye? I have this little depth perception problem. I have a really hard time tracking a flying object that is hurtling towards my person at 50 something miles per hour.
Anyone with an ounce of athletic ability will say that such a thing is easily overcome. I beg to differ.
Well, I guess I can't really argue. It is that pesky "ounce of ability" that ruins my position on this matter.
See, I have not one ounce of said ability.
Nor do I want any.
Even tho, as a child I wanted more than breath itself to be able to knock that ball into next week.
But I just couldn't do it.
Honestly, I really should get points for chutzpah. (hoot-spa)
I would stand at the plate every Sunday afternoon and and beg for God to "please for everything that is good and right, please please please let me at least make contact with the ball".
I don't think He ever said yes.
I think I would remember.
I do remember feeling the humiliation of having the other team motion all the outfielders inside the baseline.
Yeah...that'll stoke your confidence.
The pitcher would walk forward to about midway between the mound and the plate and lob a gentle one right at my bat. I believe a toddler could have hit that ball.
A toddler with two good eyes that is.
I am ok with the fact that you are snickering.
I was mature enough to know when to swing the bat. I was just not capable of swinging it a straight line which is what was required to actually hit the ball.
I would swing mightily. And the ball would laugh as it hit the catchers glove. Nobody else laughed. They were busy yelling "good try Beck! Watch the ball, Beck! You can do it Beck!"
"Keep your eye on the ball Beck! " they would chorus and I would watch...as the ball danced its way past my bat two more times.
I knew how to watch the stupid ball ok? I just didn't know how to hit it with the stupid bat.
The very best thing about baseball was each time my at-bat was over. My torture had ended.
I did not step away from the plate in humiliation hanging on me. I stepped away in relief. I was done.
Praise God! (even tho He didn't say yes to my plea.)
I would return to the sidelines and read my book while my teammates took their turns at ball smacking.
I was free...until the next part.
Actually, the other part of baseball was not nearly so bad. In fact you might say that it was kind of payback for the batting humiliation. This part was called "in the field".
Now, when I say in the field, I mean in the field. That whole depth perception thing...yeah...I was no better at catching balls than I was at hitting balls. In fact, if you can believe this, I was even worse at it. At least I had an inner desire to hit the ball with the little stick.
In the field I had no desire, not one, in any part of my body, nope, no desire to catch that ball.
This is why they put me in the field.
Because they knew.
They knew from experience that should the ball come towards me I would duck. Or move out of the way. Maybe,on a good...really good...day I might stick my glove out but you can bet yer bottom dollar I would be praying hard for that ball to land anywhere else.
Picture me, wayyyy out in the field in my polyester shorts and buck teeth squeezing my eyes closed while holding a glove bigger than my head out in front of me and chanting "pleasegodpleasegodpleasegod-not-in-the-glove".
He always answered that prayer with a yes.
Then the ball would bounce and roll on past and I would open my eyes to see the rest of my team windmilling the air and shouting "GET THE BALL BECKY!" and I would turn and chase the bouncing ball and pick it up and throw it towards the infield and it would fly.
About three feet.
So I would (sort of) run up to it and pick it up again and it would go another three feet. And I might do this one more time before some big boy would lumber out and pick the ball and launch it all the way to home plate. Which was a good thing because that was where the runner was heading by now.
I think they should have been smarter about putting me wayyyy out in the field.
There is always gonna be a ringer on the other team that can knock it right through the hole and every man on that team knows just where the hole is...look for Becky...
I think the decision to put me out in the field was a calculated risk. I might miss every ball that flew at me but at least if I was out there...nobody would trip over me.
Thank goodness for small favors.
I mean that so seriously.
In the outfield is peace. No sweaty bodies barreling toward that tiny tiny white island that you defend. No hard flying objects launching toward your head every few minutes. Nobody breezing by you as you try and locate the ball visually while it jolts and bounces from glove to glove to glove.
Every glove except yours, that is.
Peace.
Like Ferdinand in his field of flowers I could reflect on life and witness from afar the ludicrous antics of the sportsmen infield. My sanity assured me no contusions, concussions, dislocations, or even rash. What's a little verbal harassment between friends (or siblings)? I could face it all if it meant that the ball, and my body, would not, under any conceivable circumstances, ever, make contact.
Ever.
And in my peaceful reflection I could laugh. These people would get so stressed out about that little ball.
What is up with that anyway??
Veins would bulge. Sweat would drip. Knees would bloody. Life and limb would be continually sacrificed to the baseball "gods"...all in the name of either stopping that ball, or launching that ball.
Silliness I tell ya.
I chose to rise above. To exist on a higher plane.
Maybe my utter failure at hitting the ball allowed me a certain superiority in my self preservating aloofness.
Nobody expected me to shine in the field. I was free from all preconceived notions about ability or might.
I could write my own ticket. And I did...
I chose to be cool. Too cool to care. Let the commoners do the dirty work. I had flowers to smell.
Baseball nirvana?? (Nirvana- in the state of being free from suffering)
Maybe.
But it would have been sweeter with one good hit.
I got it as a small child when I had a high fever. Most people don't notice it. It is such a part of me that I forget about it sometimes.
There are people in my house that take it upon themselves to remind me.
My children think it is funny to talk about my lazy eye. They ask me to show it to them. They bring it up in conversation.They refer to it at the dinner table.
My response?
I laugh.
Sometimes I laugh because what they say is really funny. They get to me that way.
Sometimes I laugh because I am completely astounded at their sheer audacity.
What am I supposed to do?
Have I taught them nothing about manners and respect? Do I call further attention to my eye by yelling at them to stop?
Should I beat them?
Mostly I say "hey! that is not cool. We do not go around calling attention to others by pointing out the ways that they are different or odd."
They mumble something about being sorry. And I truly think they are. I try to keep it low key because it doesn't really bother me and I feel like making an issue of it will only compound the problem. We address it repeatedly...because it comes up repeatedly. Eventually it will sink in.
For now, lets face it, lazy eyes are just funny.
See, I can poke fun at this because it doesn't bother me. I don't remember being mocked because of my eye.
I was mocked because of my buck teeth. Then I got braces so that really isn't an issue anymore either.
(I did make my first child a bit neurotic because I would pray to God and command her teeth to line up in the name of Jesus...until, at the age of four, she asked me to please stop praying for her mouth...sigh)
So the Bucky Becky thing isn't really an issue.
Not. at. all.
Well ok, maybe a little bit.
Wanna know my real childhood issue?
Are you ready?
Baseball.
You heard me. Baseball.
I come from a ball family. Dad was a great catcher. Big brothers were constantly on the field, baseball, football, soccer. Big sister was a mean basketball player back in the day. Little sister could smoke em in Softball.
Me, notsomuch.
You might be wondering why I would even step onto a ball field. Well, when you come from a sports family you just do these things. There really is no thought about other options. If you say "I'd rather not play" you will be looked at like Grandma saying "these cinnamon rolls probably aren't worth eating"...nonsense. Of course you want to play.
C'mon Beck! Let's get on out there and hit some balls!!
I remember standing with a bat in hand at Pile-High Stadium (we played in a cow field).
Everyone was so encouraging to me.
"Come on Beck...you can do it. Keep your eye on the ball!"
Now you might just be thinking...which eye?
Think it all you want but don't ask it out loud. Even tho it doesn't bother me I might get irritated.
Don't get me wrong, I would laugh.
And then I'd punch you a little harder than necessary in the arm with one hand as I slapped my knee with the other.
But seriously, which eye? I have this little depth perception problem. I have a really hard time tracking a flying object that is hurtling towards my person at 50 something miles per hour.
Anyone with an ounce of athletic ability will say that such a thing is easily overcome. I beg to differ.
Well, I guess I can't really argue. It is that pesky "ounce of ability" that ruins my position on this matter.
See, I have not one ounce of said ability.
Nor do I want any.
Even tho, as a child I wanted more than breath itself to be able to knock that ball into next week.
But I just couldn't do it.
Honestly, I really should get points for chutzpah. (hoot-spa)
I would stand at the plate every Sunday afternoon and and beg for God to "please for everything that is good and right, please please please let me at least make contact with the ball".
I don't think He ever said yes.
I think I would remember.
I do remember feeling the humiliation of having the other team motion all the outfielders inside the baseline.
Yeah...that'll stoke your confidence.
The pitcher would walk forward to about midway between the mound and the plate and lob a gentle one right at my bat. I believe a toddler could have hit that ball.
A toddler with two good eyes that is.
I am ok with the fact that you are snickering.
I was mature enough to know when to swing the bat. I was just not capable of swinging it a straight line which is what was required to actually hit the ball.
I would swing mightily. And the ball would laugh as it hit the catchers glove. Nobody else laughed. They were busy yelling "good try Beck! Watch the ball, Beck! You can do it Beck!"
"Keep your eye on the ball Beck! " they would chorus and I would watch...as the ball danced its way past my bat two more times.
I knew how to watch the stupid ball ok? I just didn't know how to hit it with the stupid bat.
The very best thing about baseball was each time my at-bat was over. My torture had ended.
I did not step away from the plate in humiliation hanging on me. I stepped away in relief. I was done.
Praise God! (even tho He didn't say yes to my plea.)
I would return to the sidelines and read my book while my teammates took their turns at ball smacking.
I was free...until the next part.
Actually, the other part of baseball was not nearly so bad. In fact you might say that it was kind of payback for the batting humiliation. This part was called "in the field".
Now, when I say in the field, I mean in the field. That whole depth perception thing...yeah...I was no better at catching balls than I was at hitting balls. In fact, if you can believe this, I was even worse at it. At least I had an inner desire to hit the ball with the little stick.
In the field I had no desire, not one, in any part of my body, nope, no desire to catch that ball.
This is why they put me in the field.
Because they knew.
They knew from experience that should the ball come towards me I would duck. Or move out of the way. Maybe,on a good...really good...day I might stick my glove out but you can bet yer bottom dollar I would be praying hard for that ball to land anywhere else.
Picture me, wayyyy out in the field in my polyester shorts and buck teeth squeezing my eyes closed while holding a glove bigger than my head out in front of me and chanting "pleasegodpleasegodpleasegod-not-in-the-glove".
He always answered that prayer with a yes.
Then the ball would bounce and roll on past and I would open my eyes to see the rest of my team windmilling the air and shouting "GET THE BALL BECKY!" and I would turn and chase the bouncing ball and pick it up and throw it towards the infield and it would fly.
About three feet.
So I would (sort of) run up to it and pick it up again and it would go another three feet. And I might do this one more time before some big boy would lumber out and pick the ball and launch it all the way to home plate. Which was a good thing because that was where the runner was heading by now.
I think they should have been smarter about putting me wayyyy out in the field.
There is always gonna be a ringer on the other team that can knock it right through the hole and every man on that team knows just where the hole is...look for Becky...
I think the decision to put me out in the field was a calculated risk. I might miss every ball that flew at me but at least if I was out there...nobody would trip over me.
Thank goodness for small favors.
I mean that so seriously.
In the outfield is peace. No sweaty bodies barreling toward that tiny tiny white island that you defend. No hard flying objects launching toward your head every few minutes. Nobody breezing by you as you try and locate the ball visually while it jolts and bounces from glove to glove to glove.
Every glove except yours, that is.
Peace.
Like Ferdinand in his field of flowers I could reflect on life and witness from afar the ludicrous antics of the sportsmen infield. My sanity assured me no contusions, concussions, dislocations, or even rash. What's a little verbal harassment between friends (or siblings)? I could face it all if it meant that the ball, and my body, would not, under any conceivable circumstances, ever, make contact.
Ever.
And in my peaceful reflection I could laugh. These people would get so stressed out about that little ball.
What is up with that anyway??
Veins would bulge. Sweat would drip. Knees would bloody. Life and limb would be continually sacrificed to the baseball "gods"...all in the name of either stopping that ball, or launching that ball.
Silliness I tell ya.
I chose to rise above. To exist on a higher plane.
Maybe my utter failure at hitting the ball allowed me a certain superiority in my self preservating aloofness.
Nobody expected me to shine in the field. I was free from all preconceived notions about ability or might.
I could write my own ticket. And I did...
I chose to be cool. Too cool to care. Let the commoners do the dirty work. I had flowers to smell.
Baseball nirvana?? (Nirvana- in the state of being free from suffering)
Maybe.
But it would have been sweeter with one good hit.
6.25.2011
confessions of a vocabulary snob...
Today I would like to invite you into my world. Not my outside world, my brain world. My inside world where I form thoughts that may or may not make sense. It is a scary place.
The following is a record of a faux paux. My faux paux. Not my finest hour.
Read it all in one breath (or out loud) as if I were telling it to you face to face. It might actually make sense that way...
--------------------------------------
why did I say it?
you feel like it is a safe place...you want to contribute to the
conversation...hey, you want people to think you actually know something.
You bypass the fact that you are sitting in a room with a teacher, a
lawyer, and an engineer...
you do get credit for first saying "forgive my ignorance" but after
that you just blurt out what you discover later could be the stupidest
thing ever said.
at least it wasn't world politics or anything like that...then again
maybe world politics would have been a better venue because you could
have taken refuge in the dream that maybe YOU are the ever-elusive
undiscovered political genius of the current age...ahh, that would
have been nice...to leave them guessing...wondering at your wit.
Now you know that they are wondering all right...wondering at how you
go about your day with only half of one. (wit that is...)
Again I will state that it wasn't or at least shouldn't have been a big
deal. But it is...a big deal...
because I am kicking myself...because I am sitting here...in a soon to
be puddle of tears...agonizing..."why oh why God? why did it have to
happen?"
me...revealed....unveiled....uncut...LIVE and in full view...
maybe I thought it was a word from the Lord.
maybe it was...and he is giggling now...like when your kid says
HEY LOOK AT THAT BIG F*** when you have been trying and trying to
teach him to say Big Truck but he just cant seem to say that TR sound.
and you giggle...because he is young and precious and cute...and you
are horrified that he will say it really really loud in public.
Or you giggle secretly when your same precious offspring says....and
this time IN PUBLIC...
"hey mommy look at the kids with the chocolate heads" (meaning of
course the African-American people just down the isle from you in Target)
you want to die...but you giggle inside because again...he is so young
and cute and innocent.
So I am going to claim that for myself...last night I was fully
operating as my young, cute, innocent self when we were talking about
glass blowing and I said...
"pardon my ignorance (which I really didn't mean exactly but was trying
to cover my behind JUST IN CASE but I was thinking I really did have a
word from the Lord or better yet my own personal genius...yes I admit
it, I thought I had pulled it out of oblivion, or out of the vast
resources of my fertile intellect)
I said..."I think the word for that is fromage. "
yes folks...you so highly esteemed to be learned and intelligent...
fromage. go look it up if you must but I think that EVERYONE here
knows that fromage means
CHEESE!
cheese! good grief!!!! not a fancy french word for shoe, or donkey, or
wallpaper....CHEESE!
and a common word to boot.
AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I feel so pitiful, so low, so humiliated.
I just needed to share with you all... to find comfort and solace in
your love and understanding. To be here with you where I can count on
you to help me find the pieces of my shattered bleeding heart.
Help me....
I am confessing my arrogance...and revealing the pale white underbelly
of my pride...it will lead to my downfall...
can you restore me...
is there any hope?
I love you all...
B
In case none of that made sense here is the short of it...
I was sitting in a room with some very intelligent (as in book learned) people. We were talking (these highly intelligent people and I) about glass blowing, specifically when they make these little glass animals. And the word fromage came to my head...so I said it.
The following is a record of a faux paux. My faux paux. Not my finest hour.
Read it all in one breath (or out loud) as if I were telling it to you face to face. It might actually make sense that way...
--------------------------------------
why did I say it?
you feel like it is a safe place...you want to contribute to the
conversation...hey, you want people to think you actually know something.
You bypass the fact that you are sitting in a room with a teacher, a
lawyer, and an engineer...
you do get credit for first saying "forgive my ignorance" but after
that you just blurt out what you discover later could be the stupidest
thing ever said.
at least it wasn't world politics or anything like that...then again
maybe world politics would have been a better venue because you could
have taken refuge in the dream that maybe YOU are the ever-elusive
undiscovered political genius of the current age...ahh, that would
have been nice...to leave them guessing...wondering at your wit.
Now you know that they are wondering all right...wondering at how you
go about your day with only half of one. (wit that is...)
Again I will state that it wasn't or at least shouldn't have been a big
deal. But it is...a big deal...
because I am kicking myself...because I am sitting here...in a soon to
be puddle of tears...agonizing..."why oh why God? why did it have to
happen?"
me...revealed....unveiled....uncut...LIVE and in full view...
maybe I thought it was a word from the Lord.
maybe it was...and he is giggling now...like when your kid says
HEY LOOK AT THAT BIG F*** when you have been trying and trying to
teach him to say Big Truck but he just cant seem to say that TR sound.
and you giggle...because he is young and precious and cute...and you
are horrified that he will say it really really loud in public.
Or you giggle secretly when your same precious offspring says....and
this time IN PUBLIC...
"hey mommy look at the kids with the chocolate heads" (meaning of
course the African-American people just down the isle from you in Target)
you want to die...but you giggle inside because again...he is so young
and cute and innocent.
So I am going to claim that for myself...last night I was fully
operating as my young, cute, innocent self when we were talking about
glass blowing and I said...
"pardon my ignorance (which I really didn't mean exactly but was trying
to cover my behind JUST IN CASE but I was thinking I really did have a
word from the Lord or better yet my own personal genius...yes I admit
it, I thought I had pulled it out of oblivion, or out of the vast
resources of my fertile intellect)
I said..."I think the word for that is fromage. "
yes folks...you so highly esteemed to be learned and intelligent...
fromage. go look it up if you must but I think that EVERYONE here
knows that fromage means
CHEESE!
cheese! good grief!!!! not a fancy french word for shoe, or donkey, or
wallpaper....CHEESE!
and a common word to boot.
AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I feel so pitiful, so low, so humiliated.
I just needed to share with you all... to find comfort and solace in
your love and understanding. To be here with you where I can count on
you to help me find the pieces of my shattered bleeding heart.
Help me....
I am confessing my arrogance...and revealing the pale white underbelly
of my pride...it will lead to my downfall...
can you restore me...
is there any hope?
I love you all...
B
In case none of that made sense here is the short of it...
I was sitting in a room with some very intelligent (as in book learned) people. We were talking (these highly intelligent people and I) about glass blowing, specifically when they make these little glass animals. And the word fromage came to my head...so I said it.
Why it came to my head is a complete mystery to me. It just popped in. I said I wasn't sure about it....
one almost unrecoverable tragical thing about this whole thing...
the smarty smart lawyer man to whom the fromogenous comment was directed tried to save me. He looked me smack in the eye and said "well, if it doesn't mean that (glass-blowing) it could mean cheese." and I nodded me head and said "sure, ok"...and I didn't pick up on it. Not for a second. But the word just bounced around my head...fromage...fromage....fromage....until finally hours later it exploded into a drippy splat of fromogarious goo as my brain woke up from soundest sleep and uttered "CHEESE". Oh sweet potato soup...what had I DONE?????!!!!!
one almost unrecoverable tragical thing about this whole thing...
the smarty smart lawyer man to whom the fromogenous comment was directed tried to save me. He looked me smack in the eye and said "well, if it doesn't mean that (glass-blowing) it could mean cheese." and I nodded me head and said "sure, ok"...and I didn't pick up on it. Not for a second. But the word just bounced around my head...fromage...fromage....fromage....until finally hours later it exploded into a drippy splat of fromogarious goo as my brain woke up from soundest sleep and uttered "CHEESE". Oh sweet potato soup...what had I DONE?????!!!!!
the next day I searched and searched on the internet...trying in vain to cover my large and unfortunately exposed behind...no luck. Google could not come up with one single way that fromage could mean glass.... it means cheese...ever. single. time. ugh...
I have yet to recover.
I have yet to recover.
And that, is my sad sad story.
6.19.2011
it is good to be content
Today I am content.
I can't say that every day. Some days pile up so discontentedly that it feels smothering. Other days feel whiny and at odds in a "I am so bored" kind of way. Still other days feel like they might want to be contented but are hesitant to own it.
Today, I am content. And I just want to say it out loud.
You know...it is good to share contentment. In these days of wanting to be real we can almost be afraid to admit (even to ourselves) the times where the mundane is truly satisfying.
I think those sighs of peaceful nothingness and everythingness are truly gifts from God.
When our eyes are open to the fact that it doesn't really take a fantasmic day of uber fun to make a heart feel glad....we can find that regular is nice. And it is so much easier to get to.
So what is contentment?
Contentment is looking at your situation and deciding? declaring? realizing? recognizing...that's it...recognizing that it is ok.
Your situation is ok.
Satisfying even.
I am gonna say that contentment comes easier when the situation is easy.
( I am a genius. You have been suspecting this haven't you?)
But what about when things are hard?
It is nice and easy to feel content when the bills are paid and the kids are healthy and dinner is on the stove.
But what about feeling content when you don't know where the paycheck is coming from? What about when your husband has a debilitating illness? How about when everyone is whining and you haven't a clue about what to fix for supper or even if you have food to fix it with?
Yeah. That stinks.
I do not know how to be content in those situations.
I think that only Jesus has an answer for that. I have seen some pretty contented people with some dire circumstances looming over them. Doesn't make sense at all. Yet it is there.
How is that?
How can some types of people find satisfaction and contentment in things that other people would find torturous at best?
I want to tell you a little bit about my mom and what she taught me about living content.
My mama was one of those types that could be content even if she was to find herself without her dentures in a gum chewin contest.
She spent the last 10 yrs of her sweet life here on earth completely consumed with contentment. And this in the face of literally bone crushing illness.
Now, I am not saying that she didn't ever complain. She did. But not much. She would let you know she was hurting. Times were when she couldn't help but holler. But she never had a "woe is me" mentality.
And if you asked her, she would lead you to believe that her life was good.
Ok. not to be cruel but you need to know some of what she faced in order to make that last sentence fully carry the sarcastic weight with which it was intended.
(she said it seriously...I wrote it sarcastically)
She was diabetic, and that progressed to bone degeneration in both feet, gangrene, firey nerve pains in her feet and legs, kidney failure leading to dialysis, congestive heart failure, blindness, random hallucinations, frequent blood sugar flatlines...on and on and on.
It wasn't good. It was anything but good.
But all she would admit to was that God continued to provide everything she needed.
Gosh that is irritating. I mean inspiring.
(I would say that right to her if she were here. And she would smile. Except I wouldn't say gosh. Cuz that would be cussing.)
Ok now I am all misty.
I think...that part of her contentment came from her ability to find the happiness inside of her situation. So many times I want to look beyond my situation to a better situation which leads to an insipid longing for something that is beyond my grasp. I don't think she did that.
She faced much hardship in her life and she didn't let it crush her. She didn't let it mould her in a way that openly displayed her diploma from the school of hard knocks. She took her hardships and learned how to find life among the knocks. Good life even.
I think that she really believed it when she said that complaining didn't help anything. (I heard her say that...believe me.)
I know...that she found her center in my daddy's love. He is a lover. He loves her every day of her life here and beyond. She knew that. Maybe it is more accurate to say that she found her place in the center of his love. Either way...she was blessed.
I know...that her children loving Jesus brought her a contentment that all the pain on earth could not take down. We are gonna all be together again soon. That kept her very content.
I know...that she really and truly trusted God with her happiness. She believed with everything in her that He had her best interest at the core of His heart and she could live on that knowledge and understanding. She understood things I did not get at all.
So knowing what I know I go back to what I think. My mom found contentment IN her circumstance. Where have I heard that before?
She didn't look beyond or through her life here to glimpse something waiting for her in Heaven.
She absolutely trained herself to be content with what had been given her here. She had learned to base her contentment on the reality of the unchangeable things like love and life. Real life. Her present circumstances did not affect her contentment because she knew that those circumstances would soon change.
And you know what is really sweet about her contentment?
It wasn't dependent on her living here, or her dying here. She was happy with the prospect of either one. Where have I heard that before?
I know this...
At the end of her stay here I was given the blessing of asking her if she was ready to go home.
My sister and I had talked to her about our love and about taking care of our daddy. She couldn't really talk but she was listening and I got to ask her...
"mom, are you ready to go? Are you ready to go home?"
Her last words to me ...
"Beckie, do you mean Heaven?"
"Yes, mama, are you ready to go home to Heaven?"
"Oh YES!" she said.
and I know she found contentment in those words too.
So today I am content. I say I learned it from my mama yet I hesitate to belittle her accomplishment with my puny life of ease and finding satisfaction in my bliss. I hope that I can honor her by remembering her lessons when my own tough times come along.( I ain't foolin myself into thinking I am exempt. )
Right now all I can claim is that I whine much too much. I get afraid to admit my contentment like it will jinx me for something worse. I also get lazy and malcontent enough to dismiss my ease as complacency and forget to be thankful for the everyday. Neither or these attitudes are glorious.
I want to remember her and be happy where I am. Content.
She taught me that it is possible to live and love through anything. She taught me that circumstances do not have to define your happiness and that satisfaction can be found even in moments of turmoil. She taught me that your regular life whatever that looks like is worthy of thanks. She taught way more than I actually learned.
Just let me leave this as a testament to her wisdom. If I get really quiet I can hear her say the words.
Be content in your circumstances...whatever they may be.
It is good to be content.
I can't say that every day. Some days pile up so discontentedly that it feels smothering. Other days feel whiny and at odds in a "I am so bored" kind of way. Still other days feel like they might want to be contented but are hesitant to own it.
Today, I am content. And I just want to say it out loud.
You know...it is good to share contentment. In these days of wanting to be real we can almost be afraid to admit (even to ourselves) the times where the mundane is truly satisfying.
I think those sighs of peaceful nothingness and everythingness are truly gifts from God.
When our eyes are open to the fact that it doesn't really take a fantasmic day of uber fun to make a heart feel glad....we can find that regular is nice. And it is so much easier to get to.
So what is contentment?
Contentment is looking at your situation and deciding? declaring? realizing? recognizing...that's it...recognizing that it is ok.
Your situation is ok.
Satisfying even.
I am gonna say that contentment comes easier when the situation is easy.
( I am a genius. You have been suspecting this haven't you?)
But what about when things are hard?
It is nice and easy to feel content when the bills are paid and the kids are healthy and dinner is on the stove.
But what about feeling content when you don't know where the paycheck is coming from? What about when your husband has a debilitating illness? How about when everyone is whining and you haven't a clue about what to fix for supper or even if you have food to fix it with?
Yeah. That stinks.
I do not know how to be content in those situations.
I think that only Jesus has an answer for that. I have seen some pretty contented people with some dire circumstances looming over them. Doesn't make sense at all. Yet it is there.
How is that?
How can some types of people find satisfaction and contentment in things that other people would find torturous at best?
I want to tell you a little bit about my mom and what she taught me about living content.
My mama was one of those types that could be content even if she was to find herself without her dentures in a gum chewin contest.
She spent the last 10 yrs of her sweet life here on earth completely consumed with contentment. And this in the face of literally bone crushing illness.
Now, I am not saying that she didn't ever complain. She did. But not much. She would let you know she was hurting. Times were when she couldn't help but holler. But she never had a "woe is me" mentality.
And if you asked her, she would lead you to believe that her life was good.
Ok. not to be cruel but you need to know some of what she faced in order to make that last sentence fully carry the sarcastic weight with which it was intended.
(she said it seriously...I wrote it sarcastically)
She was diabetic, and that progressed to bone degeneration in both feet, gangrene, firey nerve pains in her feet and legs, kidney failure leading to dialysis, congestive heart failure, blindness, random hallucinations, frequent blood sugar flatlines...on and on and on.
It wasn't good. It was anything but good.
But all she would admit to was that God continued to provide everything she needed.
Gosh that is irritating. I mean inspiring.
(I would say that right to her if she were here. And she would smile. Except I wouldn't say gosh. Cuz that would be cussing.)
Ok now I am all misty.
I think...that part of her contentment came from her ability to find the happiness inside of her situation. So many times I want to look beyond my situation to a better situation which leads to an insipid longing for something that is beyond my grasp. I don't think she did that.
She faced much hardship in her life and she didn't let it crush her. She didn't let it mould her in a way that openly displayed her diploma from the school of hard knocks. She took her hardships and learned how to find life among the knocks. Good life even.
I think that she really believed it when she said that complaining didn't help anything. (I heard her say that...believe me.)
I know...that she found her center in my daddy's love. He is a lover. He loves her every day of her life here and beyond. She knew that. Maybe it is more accurate to say that she found her place in the center of his love. Either way...she was blessed.
I know...that her children loving Jesus brought her a contentment that all the pain on earth could not take down. We are gonna all be together again soon. That kept her very content.
I know...that she really and truly trusted God with her happiness. She believed with everything in her that He had her best interest at the core of His heart and she could live on that knowledge and understanding. She understood things I did not get at all.
So knowing what I know I go back to what I think. My mom found contentment IN her circumstance. Where have I heard that before?
She didn't look beyond or through her life here to glimpse something waiting for her in Heaven.
She absolutely trained herself to be content with what had been given her here. She had learned to base her contentment on the reality of the unchangeable things like love and life. Real life. Her present circumstances did not affect her contentment because she knew that those circumstances would soon change.
And you know what is really sweet about her contentment?
It wasn't dependent on her living here, or her dying here. She was happy with the prospect of either one. Where have I heard that before?
I know this...
At the end of her stay here I was given the blessing of asking her if she was ready to go home.
My sister and I had talked to her about our love and about taking care of our daddy. She couldn't really talk but she was listening and I got to ask her...
"mom, are you ready to go? Are you ready to go home?"
Her last words to me ...
"Beckie, do you mean Heaven?"
"Yes, mama, are you ready to go home to Heaven?"
"Oh YES!" she said.
and I know she found contentment in those words too.
So today I am content. I say I learned it from my mama yet I hesitate to belittle her accomplishment with my puny life of ease and finding satisfaction in my bliss. I hope that I can honor her by remembering her lessons when my own tough times come along.( I ain't foolin myself into thinking I am exempt. )
Right now all I can claim is that I whine much too much. I get afraid to admit my contentment like it will jinx me for something worse. I also get lazy and malcontent enough to dismiss my ease as complacency and forget to be thankful for the everyday. Neither or these attitudes are glorious.
I want to remember her and be happy where I am. Content.
She taught me that it is possible to live and love through anything. She taught me that circumstances do not have to define your happiness and that satisfaction can be found even in moments of turmoil. She taught me that your regular life whatever that looks like is worthy of thanks. She taught way more than I actually learned.
Just let me leave this as a testament to her wisdom. If I get really quiet I can hear her say the words.
Be content in your circumstances...whatever they may be.
It is good to be content.
11.12.2010
Sometimes I repeat myself...and often I'm redundent....
Have you ever thought a thought and thought...
"wow! this is a really good thought."
only to find out that it is such a good thought that you have thought it more than once before?
Like sometimes I am a genius and I remember that we need bbq sauce. So I buy some. Then the next time I go to the store I pass the bbq sauce isle. And I think...wow, I think we need some bbq sauce...so I buy some.
(once I got 4 bottles stashed away before the family started mocking me)
When my grandmother died I remember the family laughing and shaking their heads in disbelief over the fact that grandma had like34 packages of tp stored away in various closets around her house. They said it was probably a result of her going through the depression and living without. I'm not buying it.
She just forgot. Knew that she needed tp and kept sticking it away. Oblivious.
Sometimes we repeat ourselves.
Once I found a box with some old journals in it. I found this scrap piece of paper where I had jotted down an idea for some great journal entry...a new thought...a lightbulb moment....then deeper into the journals...like years earlier....I found an almost identical entry. A little note scribbled on the side of a margin.
Sometimes I repeat myself.
Have you ever said something to someone and they have to tell you that you told them the same thing yesterday? And the day before?
I hate it when that happens.
How is the best way to handle such situations?
If you are the "repeat offender"...what do you do?
Mostly, you just go "oh" and feel stupid and awkward. Right?
Is there a time that you can think of where you felt good about hearing...
"yeah you told me that already".?
Makes you feel dumb, huh?
Ok you don't have to admit it if you don't want to.
It makes me feel dumb.
If you know me you know that I hate to feel dumb.
Ignorant...fine. I can say idk. No problem.
But if I feel stupid...wellll...I tend to close up like a tickled clam.
This is what happens when I hear someone say the dreaded words,
"you already told me that."
They actually don't even have to say the words. I can see it in their eyes. They look down and away. Maybe for only a second but I know. I see.
"have I told you this before?"
I dread the answer.
Now I am going to tell you something really opinionated. (you are shocked, I know)
In my opinion, it takes a really strong and loving person...a true friend...a pal...to look you in the eyes and lie to you.
"what? No! go ahead."
This is what I am looking for.
I need friends that will let me ramble on.
If I get to the end of the story and I sense that maybe this was a replay I might say that I am sorry if I have repeated myself.
If you lie to me and pretend that this is the first time you have heard this story about my child, or my great (ancient) sports play, or my daily personal brilliance...
I will love you.
Truly.
You will go up a notch in my list of wonderful people.
I will get all warm and fuzzy. I might even tear up a little bit.
It will make me feel good.
I think that it is respectful and good and right.
I will do the same for you.
Unless.
What happens if it is not a good story?
What if it is a dreadfully boring story?
What if it is gossip? Or heresy? Or worst of all...a story from the local news. ACK!
Sorry, I can't take it.
I have been known to stop you in your tracks. Well, maybe not you...but those like you.
You know who you are.
I used to have to do this with my mother. I love my mother.
I lied to her many many many o' time as she repeated stories to me.
Good stories...easy.
Long stories? Boring stories? Yep...lied through those too.
I could look her straight in the face and absolutely convince her that I had never heard that story before.
(well, ok, she couldn't see very well)
But I really could, and did, encourage her to go on with the stories.
Unless it was a story about how people wait in grocery store bathrooms to kidnap teenagers and drag them to Disneyland to be slave labor costumed characters. She heard it on the news. She wanted me to be informed.
There is a reason I don't watch the news!
Lalalalala...I don't want to hear about it.
So I might gently say..."oh right, I remember you telling me this story."
Or, if feeling cranky, I might say..."yeah mom, you told me that yesterday."
Or if that didn't work...and the kidnapping descriptions are getting particularly grim...I might even have to say..."mom. seriously. you told me this already and it creeps me out...can we change the subject?"
She's mom.She took it like a trooper. Sometimes she would wait an entire day before she tried to tell me the same story again.
Oh well.
I believe, to the very bottom of my heart, that listening to one another is one of our most valuable friendship tools.
Our stories are important to us. They are us. When we are talking to one another we use our words to give, or at least reveal, pieces of our heart.
It is never fun to be shut down when opening up a piece of your heart.
When it happens to me it makes me feel...more than dumb...it makes me feel... rejected.
Yes. Rejected.
Strong word ain't it?
Maybe I am oversensitive...scratch that...I know I am oversensitive.
But I do not think I am alone in this.
When you say "yes, you already told me that" you are essentially saying "I don't want to hear you. You are bothering me."
Think about it.
It is not very respectful.
If you are a kid and you say something like that to your parents you had better duck.
If you are a working person and you say that to your boss you might want to think about googling the location of the nearest unemployment office.
Why do we get to say it to our loved ones?
Can I clarify here...I am not talking about someone nagging you and you drawing some boundaries.
I am talking about stories. Events. life.
I hope you know what I mean.
Respect.
Respect my stories as a deeper part of me. I have shared with you. Then I have loved you enough to want to share that part of me again. Feel honored.
If, in the interest of honesty, you feel that you absolutely must tell me that I am repeating myself....I mean like I am in the middle of the story and all laughing or crying or whatever and I stop and say..."oh dear, have I told you this before?"
You, in all honestly, wisdom, grace, and mercy are allowed (with the utmost of respect and maybe a light touch on my hand) to look me in the eyes and say....
"well, yes. You have told me this before. But I would love to hear it again."
Then smile.
Then do it again tomorrow.
"wow! this is a really good thought."
only to find out that it is such a good thought that you have thought it more than once before?
Like sometimes I am a genius and I remember that we need bbq sauce. So I buy some. Then the next time I go to the store I pass the bbq sauce isle. And I think...wow, I think we need some bbq sauce...so I buy some.
(once I got 4 bottles stashed away before the family started mocking me)
When my grandmother died I remember the family laughing and shaking their heads in disbelief over the fact that grandma had like34 packages of tp stored away in various closets around her house. They said it was probably a result of her going through the depression and living without. I'm not buying it.
She just forgot. Knew that she needed tp and kept sticking it away. Oblivious.
Sometimes we repeat ourselves.
Once I found a box with some old journals in it. I found this scrap piece of paper where I had jotted down an idea for some great journal entry...a new thought...a lightbulb moment....then deeper into the journals...like years earlier....I found an almost identical entry. A little note scribbled on the side of a margin.
Sometimes I repeat myself.
Have you ever said something to someone and they have to tell you that you told them the same thing yesterday? And the day before?
I hate it when that happens.
How is the best way to handle such situations?
If you are the "repeat offender"...what do you do?
Mostly, you just go "oh" and feel stupid and awkward. Right?
Is there a time that you can think of where you felt good about hearing...
"yeah you told me that already".?
Makes you feel dumb, huh?
Ok you don't have to admit it if you don't want to.
It makes me feel dumb.
If you know me you know that I hate to feel dumb.
Ignorant...fine. I can say idk. No problem.
But if I feel stupid...wellll...I tend to close up like a tickled clam.
This is what happens when I hear someone say the dreaded words,
"you already told me that."
They actually don't even have to say the words. I can see it in their eyes. They look down and away. Maybe for only a second but I know. I see.
"have I told you this before?"
I dread the answer.
Now I am going to tell you something really opinionated. (you are shocked, I know)
In my opinion, it takes a really strong and loving person...a true friend...a pal...to look you in the eyes and lie to you.
"what? No! go ahead."
This is what I am looking for.
I need friends that will let me ramble on.
If I get to the end of the story and I sense that maybe this was a replay I might say that I am sorry if I have repeated myself.
If you lie to me and pretend that this is the first time you have heard this story about my child, or my great (ancient) sports play, or my daily personal brilliance...
I will love you.
Truly.
You will go up a notch in my list of wonderful people.
I will get all warm and fuzzy. I might even tear up a little bit.
It will make me feel good.
I think that it is respectful and good and right.
I will do the same for you.
Unless.
What happens if it is not a good story?
What if it is a dreadfully boring story?
What if it is gossip? Or heresy? Or worst of all...a story from the local news. ACK!
Sorry, I can't take it.
I have been known to stop you in your tracks. Well, maybe not you...but those like you.
You know who you are.
I used to have to do this with my mother. I love my mother.
I lied to her many many many o' time as she repeated stories to me.
Good stories...easy.
Long stories? Boring stories? Yep...lied through those too.
I could look her straight in the face and absolutely convince her that I had never heard that story before.
(well, ok, she couldn't see very well)
But I really could, and did, encourage her to go on with the stories.
Unless it was a story about how people wait in grocery store bathrooms to kidnap teenagers and drag them to Disneyland to be slave labor costumed characters. She heard it on the news. She wanted me to be informed.
There is a reason I don't watch the news!
Lalalalala...I don't want to hear about it.
So I might gently say..."oh right, I remember you telling me this story."
Or, if feeling cranky, I might say..."yeah mom, you told me that yesterday."
Or if that didn't work...and the kidnapping descriptions are getting particularly grim...I might even have to say..."mom. seriously. you told me this already and it creeps me out...can we change the subject?"
She's mom.She took it like a trooper. Sometimes she would wait an entire day before she tried to tell me the same story again.
Oh well.
I believe, to the very bottom of my heart, that listening to one another is one of our most valuable friendship tools.
Our stories are important to us. They are us. When we are talking to one another we use our words to give, or at least reveal, pieces of our heart.
It is never fun to be shut down when opening up a piece of your heart.
When it happens to me it makes me feel...more than dumb...it makes me feel... rejected.
Yes. Rejected.
Strong word ain't it?
Maybe I am oversensitive...scratch that...I know I am oversensitive.
But I do not think I am alone in this.
When you say "yes, you already told me that" you are essentially saying "I don't want to hear you. You are bothering me."
Think about it.
It is not very respectful.
If you are a kid and you say something like that to your parents you had better duck.
If you are a working person and you say that to your boss you might want to think about googling the location of the nearest unemployment office.
Why do we get to say it to our loved ones?
Can I clarify here...I am not talking about someone nagging you and you drawing some boundaries.
I am talking about stories. Events. life.
I hope you know what I mean.
Respect.
Respect my stories as a deeper part of me. I have shared with you. Then I have loved you enough to want to share that part of me again. Feel honored.
If, in the interest of honesty, you feel that you absolutely must tell me that I am repeating myself....I mean like I am in the middle of the story and all laughing or crying or whatever and I stop and say..."oh dear, have I told you this before?"
You, in all honestly, wisdom, grace, and mercy are allowed (with the utmost of respect and maybe a light touch on my hand) to look me in the eyes and say....
"well, yes. You have told me this before. But I would love to hear it again."
Then smile.
Then do it again tomorrow.
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