The 60 mile walk is quickly approaching & I'm pretty nervous that I haven't been training enough. Because of that I have come up with a few quick backup plans to make a fast escape.
What do you think?
The Runaways (heehee)
(This really isn't an escape plan as much as it is a plan for each night that I actually make it through the 20 miles of the day!)
Pairs well with: "Trouble Me" by 10,000 Maniacs and "Everybody Hurts" by R.E.M.
By the time everyone walked out of the house at 7:30 am this morning each of the 3 boys had already cried. Kelly's tears came because he wanted to wear his soccer ball underwear, but because he wore them just yesterday he was forced to pick another pair out of the underwear bin (which holds approx. 117 pairs of little boy drawers - so don't feel sorry for him). Becker was snotting on himself because I, the meanest mom in all the world, wouldn't let him eat a bowl full of Oreo's and drink a Sprite for breakfast. And, then there was Nolan, my teenager trapped in a 4 year old's body, who was crying simply because it was time to get up. Most weekday mornings are complete chaos here. For goodness sake, we have 3 boys at 3 different schools. There have been quite a few mornings since the school year started when I've looked at Sarah and said, "I, too, am crying. Just on the inside."
When days begin like this I often hop in my car, sweaty & already exhausted with travel coffee mug in hand, feeling like shit. I hate thinking about any of the dudes beginning his day feeling sad or mad or disappointed. This morning found me there. In my reflection of the previous hour's events, I realized that on the mornings when it's typical chaos - minus the crying - I don't feel nearly as terrible as I do on the mornings when there are tears. Why? What power do these tiny droplets of saline hold? And when is it that we lose permission to cry everyday? And when is it that crying turns in to a sign of weakness and not just simply a means to express frustration, sadness, exhaustion, pain or loneliness? I know more than one person who's proclaimed to me, "I am not a crier!" or "You'll never see me crying in public." Am I supposed to be impressed? Does that make them stronger than me?
I had to actually think for a few minutes trying to recall the last time I cried. Then I remembered. It was on Wednesday morning. Nolan walked up to Adia, a little girl with Down syndrome who's in his class at USM's Children's Center, and told her "Good Morning, Adia. You look beautiful!" (she - wearing a hot pink long skirt, white blouse & donning a yellow flower in her hair - absolutely WAS beautiful). I barely made it to my car before I, too, was snotting and crying like a baby. My precious boy, my boy of few words, had spoken volumes in those couple of sentences. Before that was Sunday evening when I was telling Sarah a story my mom had just shared with me over the weekend. Mom & her siblings, my 4 crazy aunts & uncle, are all getting together at the beginning of October to celebrate my grandparent's birthdays. Both of my grandparents are deceased, which is why I found this plan so sweet. Their 5 kids alone (no grandkids or great grandkids are invited, damnit!) are gathering for a weekend at their camp in Kentwood, LA, to fish (one thing that Maw Maw & Paw Paw both loved to do), tell stories and cook all of Maw Maw & Paw Paw's favorite foods (crispy fried catfish, fried chicken, potato salad & homemade ice cream). When it comes to these two individuals (my Maw Maw especially) I'm extra-sensitive and cry very easily. The whole idea of this get-together and all the thought that had already gone in to it was what got to me, though. They, the 6 grown kids, still miss their mom & dad so much that solace will be found just by dedicating time to honor & remember them and comfort will be felt in enjoying some of their favorite things. <insert my tears here>
The first time I ever went to therapy I was in my mid-twenties. I was carrying around the biggest secret and felt like I had the weight of the world on my back. I knew what the truth was, but had never found the courage to even say the words aloud. Because I felt like I was ready to explode, I made an appointment to see a therapist. Maybe being forced to talk would make me feel better. Maybe talking about my secret would help me make better sense of it & figure out what to do with that knowledge. I left work on the day of my first appointment & told everyone I was just going to lunch. I had strategically scheduled my appointment during the lunch hour so I could sneak away and no one would be the wiser when I returned. I walked in to the therapist's office, was handed a clipboard with new patient paperwork and quickly got stuck on the section: "Tell Me Why You're Here." The only answer I could muster up was "Because I'm sad" and I turned the clipboard back in to the receptionist. The next thing I remember was being called back to a room with a couch, desk, nice big window with a view of the interstate, and a giant over-sized chair positioned directly across from the couch. A thin, grey-haired woman with eyes that glimmered with gentleness immediately shook my hand and introduced herself as Sally. She directed me to the couch, sat down in the comfy chair and simply asked, "Why are you sad?" I opened my mouth but nothing - not a sound - came out. I looked at my new "friend" Sally, who was staring at me & waiting for an answer, and started crying. The tears fell slowly at first. I was embarrassed. "This is awkward and uncomfortable," I kept saying to myself. I kept thinking that I need to stop and answer her question. But I couldn't. And I didn't. For the entire hour. I never spoke a word. And Sally just let me cry. At the end of the hour a small timer went off, Sally stood up & said so kindly and sympathetically, "Let's go ahead and schedule your next appointment for the same time next week."
Every afternoon at 3:00 pm I listen to the show "Tell Me More" on NPR (this is possible because I'm in & out of my car all day, every day). During this hour-long talk show, a handful of current, relevant topics are discussed by a few "experts" who are solicited to speak on the issues. A few weeks ago I was late tuning in, so I missed the intro to the first story being discussed. All I could gather upon listening for a few seconds was that the topic was how much farming in the U.S. has changed and how outside issues, in this case a severe drought in parts of the country, were having such adverse effects on the farming industry. I didn't know who all the experts were that had been asked to speak on the topic, but the one & only that I remember was an actual farmer (everyone else was a professional consultant or some kind of paid "thinker") who called in to the show to speak. Farming was all the man knew because it was all he had ever done. He was raised on the land he now farmed. That was how he attempted to make his living. He had a family to raise & and a future to think about. His voice was deep and he spoke with a bit of an country twang. When he started describing what a typical day was like in his line of work all I could envision was a big, tall man with huge calloused hands. His skin was probably wrinkled and leathery from the sun. I didn't picture a little man. In my mind, he was big & strong & rough and hard. So, he explained his "job" and then stopped talking when he was finished with his description. It was so abrupt & unforeseen that Michelle Martin, the host, asked if he was still on the line. "Have we lost you? Did we get disconnected?" she asked. And, then he spoke again. But this time his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. This time he was crying. Through the phone lines and then through the radio waves I could clearly hear the sadness and desperation and frustration in his voice. He was absolutely pitiful. He wasn't complaining or blaming anyone. He wasn't bashing our President or asking for handouts. He was just overcome with emotion. When he was finished and off the line, Michelle Martin said, "I wonder if that's the first time anyone's ever asked him how he feels?"
You may be wondering what in the world any of these stories has in common. The answer is: nothing, really. Other than the fact that there were tears shed. But they stood out to me as excellent examples of the power of crying. In no way was crying a sign of weakness whatsoever. I can't speak for the farmer, but for me those tears, specifically my 60 minute cry, were very therapeutic (no pun intended since I was in therapy). I had been strong for so long that it was almost like the pressure from that facade blew a valve and the tears came erupting from my deepest, darkest place. They were healing tears.
I would bet that the farmer's tears were not a sign of weakness, but rather of exhaustion & disappointment.
My tears on Wednesday after Nolan complimented his classmate were joyful, grateful tears.
My tears on Sunday talking about my grandparents were tears of loneliness. Just talking about Maw Maw's favorite foods brought me back to her house as a child, making homemade ice cream by her side, and I missed her. There's definitely a void in my life since she's been gone, but it's breathtaking when I stop and allow specific memories to come flowing in my mind.
As emotionally exhausting as a good cry is, it also feels really good, too. And for every fond memory that I recall that involves laughter & smiles, there's another that includes tears and Kleenex. And I am thankful for each & every one of them.
It's going to take a little work, but the next time a dirty pair of underwear sends my kid to Cry Fest 2013 I'm going to try to let it not bother me. Because a missing pair of favorite underwear is right on up there with things like Beaches (the movie), Folger's (coffee) commercials, and those TV shows about military men & women surprising their families when they return home early. There are just some things that absolutely require tears & I have to remind myself: that's OK.
What makes you cry? Are there things that guarantee a good cry for you? Would you say that once you allow yourself to have that good cry you feel better?
Pairs well with: "Conquer Me" by Blues Traveler and "Come As You Are" by Nirvana
So, I work out at the Payne Center. For anyone unfamiliar with Hattiesburg (specifically USM) this is the workout facility on the campus of Southern Miss. It's really quite spectacular! There's an indoor pool (that I never use), indoor courts for volleyball, raquetball & handball (that I never use), 5 or 6 indoor basketball courts (that I never use), a handful of classrooms for group exercise (that I never use), an indoor track (that I rarely use), a couple of locker rooms located on each level with showers, lockers, towels, etc. (that I never use) and the cardio/weight wing (which is the only place you'll find me, if you're ever looking). In case you were wondering, I work out here now because I live so close to campus and the alumni fees are super cheap even if you don't use half of the amenities.
Just as much as I did when I was a student at USM, I love this time of year. There's hope & anticipation & excitement for the coming year. The football team is about to take the field for their first game (God help us), sorority & fraternity rush is going on, roommates are meeting for the first time, fall is in the air... and it's the beginning of a brand new school year, so the gym is - of course - packed with the coeds. In past years I would typically be overcome with nostalgia and grin at the young girls wearing their Tri-Delta party shirts or giggle at the meat heads sporting their PIKE tank tops as they wandered leisurely through the P.C. more interested in seeing who's there than actually breaking a sweat.
This year, however, I'm feeling a little different. Maybe it's because just this last month when I went to renew my membership & pay my dues, the young student worker immediately asked if my membership was "Staff/Faculty"? What?! I can't even pass for possibly being a graduate student anymore? When I snapped right back at her young, skinny, wrinkle-free ass with a reply of, "No. Alumni." she immediately apologized with a "Sorry Ma'am."
I picked my lip up out of the dirt and walked slowly upstairs, got on an elliptical machine facing the 12 big flat-screen TV's (which, of course, weren't there when I was in school because flat screens didn't even exist. We were still drawing pictures on the walls of our cave as we hid from the dinosaurs) and suddenly saw a gym full of children in a very different light. That, of course, got me to thinking about how I acted & behaved back when I was one of these "children" at USM.
First of all, I proudly sported my Delta Delta Delta sorority letters across my chest on my shirt/sweatshirt. The young vixens of 2013 advertise them on their butts. On mini shorts. Thank goodness that wasn't the craze when I was here. My fascination with the Moonlight Breakfast line (on Mondays) and Mexican line (on Wednesdays) at the Commons cafeteria would have made it quite difficult for me to look cute with 3 giant, stretchy triangles stretched across my booty.
Secondly, I wasn't ever checking my email (especially on a cell phone) as I ran on the treadmill or marched upright on a stairmaster. That's because when I moved into USM as an innocent, naive 17 year old I received an SS BOX at the Hub student union -- not an email address, which is what every student receives today. I still remember mine. Southern Station Box 7776. I vividly remember walking, every day, in to the Hub to see if I had any mail waiting for me. My sweet Maw Maw used to write me a letter about once a month & always stuck a $10 bill in there for me to go get myself a hamburger (I never had the guts to tell her I always used it for Milwaukee's Best Light instead). Do these kids even get real, snail mail anymore? Do they still receive an SS Box? Why do I feel an odd connection to the kid opening up SS Box 7776 this semester?
Don't even get me started talking about the difference in what's playing on the stereo that's blaring throughout the P.C. Let me let you decide.... MY day: Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews Band, Widespread Panic, Nirvana, The Cranberries, Blues Traveler, The Cure, Jane's Addiction, Phish, 10,000 Maniacs, Smashing Pumpkins, REM, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Radiohead, Foo Fighters, Metallica. And the list could go on & on. TODAY: Justin Beiber. 'Nuff said, right?
I recognize that I'm being pretty hard on these kids. I was, by no means, perfect when I was here, either. As a matter of fact, there are quite a few things that I would go back and change in a heartbeat.
First, I'd go to a few more of my Accounting 101 classes. It sucked when I took it my junior year because it was at the dreaded Tuesday/Thursday 8 - 9:15 am time slot. That should be against the rules. But it's not and because I only attended Day 1, got the syllabus, and then only showed up for test days for the remainder of the semester, I ended up with a D. Please note it is the one & only D I received in my 4.5 years at USM, and I really do still have nightmares about it. My nightmares increased in frequency & severity a few years ago after I attended a Hattiesburg friend's wedding. That's because of who sat directly in front of me during the ceremony - my Accounting 101 professor, Patty Polk! I almost had a stroke right then & there. I thought, for sure, I was on Candid Camera. I did not know beforehand that Patty's daughter is also a good friend of the bride (my friend) and all these gals grew up together, thick as thieves, here in Hattiesburg --- with my Sarah. WHAT?! After a few free drinks at the reception, my sweet, darling Sarah thought it would be so fun to introduce Patty & me. She made it clear to Patty that I knew her, but she did not, in any way, know me nor should she recognize me. I believe it was then that I had another mild stroke. I still see Patty at social functions here in town & she's always so gracious & friendly. And I revert back to the embarrassed, loser D student. My mom was less than impressed with my explanation of the absences along with my final grade.
Another thing I'd change, or maybe just not do, would be: breaking into the football stadium one Saturday night after a big home victory. To do what? I don't know. But I did it, along with a couple of friends. And it was fun and rebellious and exciting until I decided that the best way out of the stadium was by climbing on top of a Coke truck and jumping over the fence. The next day, at Urgent Care, as I was getting an X-Ray on my twisted ankle I realized that maybe I should have just exited the way I went in...through an open gate. My mom wasn't too thrilled to receive that phone call from me, either.
Then, there was the time that Aimee, Alice, Jennifer & I drove to Colorado for Spring Break. We had a great place to stay (somebody's uncle's condo in Crested Butte, CO) but no leftover money for anything else. Or so we thought. After driving through 7 states to get to our final destination, we arrived in the gorgeous snow-covered mountains of Colorado and immediately decided that, if necessary, we'd sell a kidney or donate some plasma in order to get the money to go skiing. We found a great deal on ski rentals & set out in our blue jeans and mediocre coats for a day on the slopes. I was the only one in the group who had never been skiing, but according to Aimee since I was "athletic" I didn't need to worry with ski school. I was to just follow their lead and I'd be fine & would catch on quickly. I should have known that when I knocked a grown man on top of me just trying to get on the ski lift that I was in trouble. The next thing I remember is being skiied down the mountain in some kind "sled-thing" by a mountain EMT. He told me to lay down, cross my arms over my chest, close my eyes and hold on. Holy shiznit. I had injured my ACL about 45 seconds in to our first run down the mountain and this scary ride was the only thing that could have taken my mind off the pain in my knee. I ended up in a full leg brace & on crutches for 3 months. That was a fun ride home, let me tell you. My mom was annoyed & irritated to receive that phone call from me, too.
One night I'd like to not only change, but maybe forget altogether, would be the night I chipped my front tooth. In half. On my best friend Lauren's car windshield. Klassy Kim. We were going to JD's bar, so while getting ready I had enjoyed a few Milwaukee's Best Lights in my dorm room (I was still living on the Tri-Delta floor in Panhellenic, the sorority dorm). After dressing in my baggy jeans, flannel shirt & hiking boots I went downstairs to wait for Lauren & Becky to come pick me up. As soon as I saw Lauren's Audi pull up to the dorm I jumped up out of my seat on the bench in front of the building & kinda did a wave-jump-dance. I, obviously, had so much beer in me...I mean, so much enthusiasm for the fun evening ahead that my momentum carried me in to the windshield of the moving vehicle. It hurt real bad. But I shook it off, hopped in the backseat & immediately wondered what was making my chewing gum so crunchy?! If you're ever looking for a new, interesting conversation starter when you're going out -- let me tell you a chipped tooth is it!! My mom was irate to receive that phone call from me. I remember holding the phone away from my ear & still being able to hear her - loud & clear - yell about money spent & braces & foolishness. I think she quit answering my phone calls after that.
For every one of these events that I would go back & change, there are a hundred more that I wouldn't touch. I had a wonderful run at USM and have no shortage of fond memories of my time there. My waistline, pocketbook & even sometimes my grades reflected my preference for a party instead of class. My contacts list on both my cell phone & my email address book is filled with names, addresses & phone numbers of dear friends I made there and still keep in touch with today. It's hard to believe it's already been 20+ years since I was there as a student. And, even though I'm turning 40 this year, living here in Hattiesburg - this adorable little college town - really helps to keep me young. At heart. Even if my daily workout breaks my heart.
Regardless of where you went to school or how long ago it was that you attended class, is there anything that you know, without a doubt, you'd change? What would you do differently? Please share. And help me feel better about my fake front tooth.
Pairs well with: "Below My Feet" by Mumford & Sons and "Like a Prayer" by Tori Amos
What does God look like?
A. A man
B. The chickenman
C. A marathon runner
D. A church
E. My kids
F. Thanksgiving
G. Walkers
H. All of the Above
A few months ago I found myself sitting on a bar stool at Molly's on the Market in the French Quarter with an old friend & former college roommate. We had celebrated another close college friend's 40th birthday earlier in the night and somehow, someway managed to keep ourselves out - and awake - until 4 am. As you can imagine, the conversation was quite riveting. A typical conversation between "Bonnie" (name has been changed to protect the innocent) and me would likely involve a debate over the very best episodes of Seinfeld or Designing Women (two tv shows we both used to love to watch together) or, maybe, whose underwear choice was better: her thong or my boy shorts? On this particular night, however, our conversation went another direction entirely. Maybe it was the 46 vodka tonics (between us) or maybe it was the fact that we had just sung happy birthday to a friend turning 40...who knows?! Regardless of the reason, that night (or should I say early morning) we started talking about God. Heavy stuff, huh? I spent the entire evening explaining what faith means to me and how/why I believe what I believe. That conversation with "Bonnie" has led me here.
Over a Stella draft, what I tried explaining to "Bonnie" is this: what I believe is that God isn't one thing. God isn't a man, I now know that. And, I don't think that God is the same for me as God is for you. God is hope. God is laughter. God is a promise. God is goodness. God can change every single day. And, in my opinion, that's the most magnificent, beautiful aspect of God.
Let me elaborate a little further. And, I hope this makes sense to you more than it did to "Bonnie" at 4:26 am. I haven't had any vodka (yet), so hopefully my explanation has a bit more clarity. I know it'll be just as passionate (even without the vodka).
A. A man
To begin, I must start at the beginning. My beginning. I was born & raised in south Louisiana. As did most everyone down in these parts, I grew up Catholic and went to Catholic school. I wore the uniform, memorized ALL the prayers, walked stoically through the Stations of the Cross, obediently went to confession and feared the nuns.
When I think back to that part of my life, my childhood, God - to me - was an actual figure, a man. He was someone whom I would meet when I died. So, He equaled death. And if I truly wanted to meet Him I was going to have to work real hard in this life to earn that honor. And earning that honor meant saying "I'm sorry" a lot. (Let me tell you, it was hard work being Catholic. I still fight the Catholic guilt syndrome that has plagued me my entire life.)
The greatest part of my spiritual evolution has been the shift from thinking of God as a man/figure to where I am today.
B. The Chickenman
"I was on the road to Austin
Met a man on the highway
He sold me junk and conversation
He was wise and dirty from the weather
I said "Darkness into darkness
All the carnage of my journeys
Makes it harder to be living"
He said, "It's a long road to be forgiven."
---- "Chickenman" by The Indigo Girls
When I was in college my friend Allison and I decided to take a road trip to Texas one weekend. She wanted to go to College Station and I was headed to Austin. The problem we immediately ran in to was: neither of us had a car. Hmmmmm. How does one take a road trip without a vehicle? Well, one launches in to "Operation Bribe Your Roommate (Who Has A Car)."
My roommate, Aimee, did indeed have a car that we lovingly deemed "Bertha." She was a maroon Oldsmobile with matching maroon velour bench seats, no A/C or heat and no radio. But, as long as there was gas in the tank ol' Bertha ran -- and that's all that Allison & I cared about. We headed out on a Friday afternoon with our packed bags, a couple of blankets and a boom box with a lot of mix tapes & extra batteries.
We drove well in to the night. I don't remember if we had a map. Surely we did, though, since the term cell phone with GPS was definitely not in our vernacular. Some time after midnight we pulled up to a small gas station on a dark highway in nowhere, Texas. We needed gas (and snacks, I'm sure). What we did not need was the smoke that came bellowing out from beneath Bertha's hood.
And then he appeared. A skinny, dirty dark-skinned man who seemed to emerge out of the darkness. I'm sure I'm exaggerating a bit, but I was so panicked at this point that I don't remember many of the details about his arrival. That's because he was a strange man who appeared out of nowhere, but was, surprisingly, not looking to kill us but, rather, help us with our car troubles. Without ever speaking a word.
He grunted and pointed at an empty water jug (gallon), which we quickly filled with water from an outside faucet. He then, poured it somewhere in Bertha's innards and the smoke stopped pouring out from the engine. He touched and rattled and shook a few other knobs or switches (or whatever the hell else is under the hood of an old Oldsmobile) and then simply shut the hood and walked away. He never gave advice. He never told us what he did. He never asked for money or food or beer or even thanks. He just walked away. And, we drove away and safely made it to College Station, TX, later that night. And then home to Hattiesburg on Sunday. Without any other issues with Bertha.
That skinny, dirty dark-skinned man didn't have to do what he did. But he did.
That's what God looks like
C. A Marathon Runner
I was at mile 17 of the San Diego "Rock-n-Roll" Marathon, making record time (for me), when my right knee locked up and decided it didn't want to bend anymore. Even slow, amateur runners like me (who look more like they're walking/falling/collapsing than actually running) need their knees to work to be able to check "Run A Marathon" off their bucket list.
I was crying. Of course I was. It didn't seem likely that I'd beat the time that I had set as my goal. And I had just been smoked by a man running the blasted race BACKWARDS. Yes, you read that correctly -- he ran the entire 26.2 miles backwards. With nothing but a small mirror (it looked like a dentist's mirror to me) pinned to his sweat band on his head so he could see who he was passing. As he ran backwards.
And then he appeared. A fit, not-at-all-exhausted, cheerful runner who seemed to emerge from the crowd. He jogged up to me and asked if I was having trouble. DUH. Don't you see me limping & crying like a big baby? I was so mad and sad and disappointed that I didn't realize I really was in need of a little company and some cheering up. I guess misery really does love company, huh?
Anyway, he asked if I would mind if he stopped and walked with me a while. That "while" turned in to 2 miles. I don't remember what all we discussed, but I know we talked non-stop. I know he made me forget about crying. And, I'm pretty sure somewhere in those 2 miles he was able to make me laugh again, too.
After 2 miles of walking I finally felt brave (or numb) enough to try running again. And, remarkably, after just that.much.time of taking a break I felt so much better and the knee worked again. Hallelujah! Once I got in to stride and was feeling like I was back to a good, comfortable pace I turned my head to see where he was - and he wasn't! He was gone. Just like that. I searched the crowd in front & in back of me and never could locate him. I walked around at the finish line looking for him and never found him. We never exchanged names (which didn't register with me until afterwards when I told this story to my friends who also ran the marathon) so I couldn't even just wander aimlessly yelling his name hoping he'd hear me and come running again. I never got to tell him thanks. He helped me check off a giant achievement on my life's bucket list.
That fit, not-at-all-exhausted, cheerful marathon runner didn't have to do what he did. But he did.
That's what God looks like
D. A Church
Around the time that I came out I stopped going to (the Catholic) church. I knew the Catholics wouldn't have me (unconditionally) and, quite frankly, I didn't really want them anymore either. And any other denomination was so foreign and scary to me that I didn't have the guts or wherewithal to even go exploring. So I kept my religion to myself. And my relationship with my God remained as it had most of my life - between me and God in the quiet minutes & hours of my days.
When Sarah & I decided that we wanted to have children one of the topics I added to our "Things to Talk About Before They're Here" list was church. I knew that I wanted to bring our children up within a church home. Even though the Catholics guilted me in to a lot of stuff, at least I always knew that there was something bigger & better that I was honoring. Some good, loving force (if you will) leading me down the right moral path. I knew I wanted my kids to know God.
Before I knew it, we had 3 boys. And we were moving back home to Hattiesburg. As soon as we unpacked our bags here & began asking friends about their church recommendation, the resounding reply was that we absolutely HAD to go to Trinity Episcopal Church on Broadway Dr. in downtown Hattiesburg. "Oh, really?" was my response to every single person who made the suggestion. Trinity just happens to be THE exact place that Sarah & I met for the very first time. Ever. The first time my eyes ever met hers were in the aisle of Trinity (as we rehearsed Katie & Charlie's nuptials). So, of course, we went.
The first few times I attended church at Trinity, I cried. Silently & to myself, of course, but I cried nonetheless. It was a combination of things that moved me to tears. First, it is the people of Trinity. Gathering beforehand & sticking around afterwards is the highlight of my Sunday. They welcome you (and really, anyone who stops in) so warmly & genuinely. I hate to use such a simple description, but honestly it's like a family. Second, there's Marian. She's the priest. And, she's one cool chick. I can't be in her presence without giving her a hug. She epitomizes peace and calm and zen (everything that I am not) and makes me want to listen to a sermon. And learn from it. And grow from it. And be a better person because of it.
A church can easily just be a building with four walls, some stained glass windows and statues. Trinity is much, much more than that. I feel so blessed to be a part of its family.
So, back to me crying the first few times I attended. When you want so desperately to have a spiritual connection and a place where it's quiet and serene - a place to go when you need to just be - when you find it and it feels so right, it's very powerful. Couple that with a feeling of overwhelming gratitude for the gifts in your life and, finally, having a place to go say THANK YOU - you can't help but cry. Or at least I couldn't.
That's what God looks like
E. My kids
Seriously, my 3 perfect boys are not only one more example (to me) of what God looks like, but they are also proof that God has a sense of humor. It's no secret that Sarah & I are women who love women. Yet we live in a home where the penises outnumber the vaginas. God is cracking up laughing right this minute.
That's what God looks like
F. Thanksgiving
While we were living in Atlanta, Sarah & I spent most of our Thanksgiving holidays with a close-knit group of friends. The traditional dinner was held at one couple's home every year and the only "rule" was to bring a dish. We were allowed to invite anyone additional that we'd like to have join us and every year the group grew. We were all (mostly) transplants to the Atlanta area, so we deemed each other the family we chose and, oh my, what a blessing they were.
I remember the very first year we attended the legendary Thanksgiving Dinner. As the time to start fixing plates approached, I remember being told to grab a drink and come to the front yard. I could have never guessed - or prepared myself - for what was about to happen. Everyone gathered out front (and by everyone, I mean 60 - 70 people, at least) and stood together in a circle. Our hostesses began thanking everyone for coming & immediately explained (for the newcomers) that the reason we were in a circle was because it was tradition, before eating, to take time and give thanks. For close to an hour, we went around that circle and everyone got a chance to say out loud what they were thankful for that year. You cannot imagine the magnitude of that much gratitude. Folks cried and laughed and hugged and even the shyest of the group spoke up. We heard about health scares, family stress, breakups, commitments, births, deaths. It's unbelievably fulfilling & healing to be able to say that kind of stuff out loud and even more powerful & moving to be a part of it. I had chill bumps covering my whole body throughout the entire hour of our gratitude circle. It immediately became my favorite part of our Thanksgiving tradition.
That's what God looks like.
G. Walkers
Bald women/Women in wigs/Women wearing hats/Crying women/Women laughing/Women hugging/Women holding hands/Women in wheelchairs/Women limping/Weak women/Strong women/Young women/Old women/Women smiling/Women clapping/Women singing/Women dancing/Women praying/Mothers/Grandmothers/Sisters/Daughters/Friends/Wives/Partners/Survivors/Patients/Hope/Faith/Love
Women Walking
60 miles in 3 Days
Because Everyone Deserves a Lifetime
That, my friends, is what God looks like.
So, what I've attempted to accomplish here (and have probably failed miserably) is to explain that, at this point in my life, my faith - my steadfast knowledge that there is indeed a God - comes from the recognition of the many gifts I have been given in this life. They've presented themselves as helpful hands, grateful friends, precious children and a worthy cause. There are SO many things, every single day, in this life to stop and appreciate. When you do, you will see what God looks like. I promise.
P.S. I have discovered yet one more brother from another mother. He has a great blog that I follow & this particular post spoke to me as I was writing mine about the Big Man Upstairs. Check out this guy and tell me if you don't agree that even the Bible says that God looks like many different things....
Pairs well with: "Drift Away" by Dobie Gray and "Reminiscing" by Little River Band
Do you remember where you were when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded?
How about when you heard that Princess Diana had been in a car accident? And when it was later announced that she had died?
How about that horrific morning of September 11, 2001? You probably remember exactly where you were when you heard about the twin towers being struck, don't you?
It is with the same clarity that most folks have for remembering these noteworthy events in history that I remember the very first time I heard certain, impressive songs. I barely remember what I wore to work yesterday or the name of the assistant teacher who greets my son & me every morning when we walk in to school; however, I can remember minute details about these experiences:
I was in the 8th grade at Our Lady of the Lake school, sitting in Mrs. Delouise's science class (it was a portable classroom since our main school building was under construction at the time) at the back table (the same one I was sitting at when I dissected my first - and only - frog), when Benny Dominach handed me his cassette-playing Walkman and told me to listen to "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin. "The flute is going to change your life," he said. I remember putting those headphones on, anxious to hear this life-changing tune, and concentrating so hard to hear the flute. To this day, every time I hear "...there's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold..." I think of that exact moment in time. Thank you, Benny! (BTW, these days you can usually catch the musician, Benny Dominach, performing live on Frenchmen St. in NOLA)
It was just the year before when I was in the 7th grade at OLL that I almost heard "Darling Nikki" by Prince for the first time. Purple Rain had recently been released at the theater, but since it was rated R the closest my friends & I could get to that.much.coolness was to buy the soundtrack (and come to think of it, I wasn't cool at all since I didn't buy it. My friend Ashley Adams did & she thought up this magnificent fool-proof plan). "When Doves Cry" & "Purple Rain" made it on to the mainstream airwaves, but the little ditty about a girl named Nikki that Prince met in a hotel lobby had NOT, so Ashley brought her bright red cassette player (loaded up with new size D batteries) to school one day. Our plan was to meet on the school yard at recess and we'd all listen - for the first time - together! I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was supposed to be listening to or why it was so scandalous, but who was I to buck the crowd? Peer pressure? Yes, please! When the recess bell rang I rang as fast as my short little legs & penny loafers would take me to the back of the playground. We girls gathered in a circle, Ashley popped in the cassette tape and was just about to press the play button when Mrs. Martin, our math teacher, showed up out of nowhere. She immediately started yelling something about "...trashy....sneaky....filthy....demerits....sin (hey, it was a Catholic school so it was a requirement for them to yell that at us when we got in to trouble). Can you believe that? A stinking math teacher botched our fool-proof plan. All the hype & build-up and I left school that day still not knowing what the hell the big deal was about "Darling Nikki."
I was in high school (I think it was 11th grade) when my friends Darnell, Chris, Tom, John & I took a weekend road trip to Houston, TX, to go to AstroWorld. I know Tom's mom went with us, too, but I only remember the 5 of us crammed in to Tom's little red Civic. Did we make his mom drive herself? Huh. Anyway, it was on I-12, heading west towards Texas, when I first heard "Feel Like Making Love" by Bad Company. Darnell instantly liked the song as much as I did, so we made a mad dash to the music store when we stopped at the next mall we passed on the highway. We couldn't wait to buy the cassette. We didn't know who the artist(s) was and we weren't sure of the exact name of the song, but we tried describing it to the sales associate anyway. He, unbeknownst to us, was a real joker. He acted like he had no idea what song we were describing, so he brought us to the front of the store (where more customers & other sales associates were) and asked us to sing a few lines of the song for him. Now, ladies & gentlemen, I am a damn good singer - in the shower. I'm even pretty good - by myself in my car. But out loud, for all the world to hear? That's a negative, ghost rider. And the laughter and hysteria that erupted in that mall music store reinforced that belief. Luckily, though, when the laughter subsided our comedian sales associate handed over a copy of Bad Company's Straight Shooter and we were on our way...still singing out loud..."Baby, when I think about you...I think about love..."
I was sipping a 32 oz Diet Coke fountain drink while sitting in my black Chevy Impala in the parking lot of a Quick Trip convenience store in Riverdale, GA, when I heard "Where I Stood" by Missy Higgins for the first time. I had 92.9 Dave FM on the radio, as I always did during my lunch hour when I worked in Atlanta, and was listening to my favorite DJ, Mara Davis, when the 26 year old Australian angel started singing to me through my car stereo. I couldn't move. Her voice was pure and tender and by the end of the song I was screaming at Mara to TELL ME WHO THIS IS! It shouldn't surprise you to know that I went home that evening and bought every album she had for sale on iTunes and started perusing her website for concert dates. Fast forward about 6 months and you'll find me on the 2nd row of her show at the Variety Playhouse in Atlanta, where she was performing along with Brett Dennen and Mason Jennings. I nearly swooned when she started in on "Warm Whispers" (but that could have been because I was 3 months pregnant at the time). The one additional tidbit about that near-perfect evening is: I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Emily Saliers, my favorite Indigo Girl, during Missy's entire set. Double swoon.
As much as I enjoy recalling all of these musical "first times" the honest truth is that they all pale in comparison to the first time I heard this astonishing song. It was early one morning this summer as I was enjoying my cup of coffee while I drove south on Hwy 49 from Hattiesburg to Gulfport (for those of you unfamiliar it's a highway to hell where the speed limit is 65 mph & the police are brutal). You swerve one inch too far to the left or right and your car's a tree ornament. You've got to pay attention - to your speed & the road. And, on this monumental morning, I wasnot and could not when this song came on the radio. It stopped me dead in my tracks. I literally had to pull over at a turnaround so I could focus & concentrate on this little treasure coming across the radio waves. Never before had I heard the absolute truth and perfection come through in one simple song. A quintessential song about life in these here parts when somebody goes and breaks your heart....yeehaw!!!
"Redneck Crazy"
Gonna drive like hell through your neighborhood Park this Silverado on your front lawn Crank up a little Hank, sit on the hood and drink I'm about to get my pissed off on I'm gonna aim my headlights into your bedroom windows Throw empty beer cans at both of your shadows I didn't come here to start a fight, but I'm up for anything tonight You know you broke the wrong heart baby, and drove me redneck crazy Wish I knew how long it's been going on How long you've been getting some on the side Nah, he can't amount to much by the look of that little truck Well he wont be getting any sleep tonight I'm gonna aim my headlights into your bedroom windows Throw empty beer cans at both of your shadows I didn't come here to start a fight, but I'm up for anything tonight You know you broke the wrong heart baby, and drove me redneck crazy Redneck crazy Did you think I'd wish you both the best, endless love and happiness You know that's just not the kind of man I am I'm the kind that shows up at your house at 3am I'm gonna aim my headlights into your bedroom windows Throw empty beer cans at both of your shadows I didn't come here to start a fight, but I'm up for anything tonight You gone and broke the wrong heart baby, and drove me redneck crazy You drove me redneck crazy
So, class, your assignment this week: what song "first times" do you recall? Was it a childhood experience? The slow-skate song from the skating rink (can you say Journey's "Open Arms"?) A favorite make-out song from high school? Fill me in. Come on...give me the goods!
Also, redneck crazy is definitely the title of another blog post. I need your input of the craziest things you've done (or "somebody you know" has done) because of a breakup. Did you crank up a little Hank and sit on your hood and drink? (names will be changed in my blog post to protect the innocent, I promise!)
“If you are a dreamer,come in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer. If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire, for we have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!”
Pairs well with: "Welcome to My Life" by Melissa Ferrick & "Southern Girl" by Amos Lee
(Like a good sommelier knows how to pair food with the perfect wine, I am attempting to pair each blog entry with the perfect tune(s). Don't be fooled, though. For this, too, requires copious amounts of wine consumption. If you don't know the artist or haven't heard the song, I highly recommend checking it out on iTunes. You can thank me later!)
Greetings, dear readers! It's been a while, hasn't it? For those of you reading for the very first time -- welcome! And, thanks for stopping by. For those of you who read in the past -- thanks for returning. And for those of you who have, accidentally, stumbled upon this blog -- here's a little Cliff's Notes version behind its existence: girl agrees to walk 60 miles in 3 days with friend battling breast cancer; girl also agrees to raise money for breast cancer research; girl decides to start blog to include (& keep) generous sponsors involved in the life-changing event; this is that blog. I (girl) hope you stick around!
I started this blog in 2011 just a few short months before I walked in my very first Komen 3 Day. I came up with the idea when I was brainstorming of ways to say thanks to the many generous friends & family who donated money to help me reach my fundraising goal. I was stunned when I saw just how many people were willing to put pen to paper and write check after check to help me hit - and surpass - my $2300 goal! The generosity was both humbling & inspiring. I wanted to do something, too, and not just walk the 60 miles and write a thank you note afterwards. I wanted to make sure every donor knew exactly what this event was about and what my experience was like during those 3 days.
Last year, in 2012, I decided to skip the blog in order to focus all of my time & energy on planning a fundraising party, Cocktails for a Cause. Most of Team Diamond Stone came in town for the event & it was a huge success! We raised almost $4000 in one night & got to celebrate with old friends & college buddies (Cati & Alice hadn't been back to Hattiesburg since they graduated). It was well worth the effort and I felt that the in-person toasting & talking included our sponsors more than my blog would anyway.
Here we are, year #3, and I'm back. And this year it's all about ME! I decided to start writing the blog again for a few different reasons, but the main one is because of the significance of this year - specifically the day (Oct 18) that the Atlanta Komen 3 Day event begins: My 40th Birthday! Ouch (and that's not just what I anticipate saying over my blistered feet after the first 20 miles on that monumental day)!
When I began thinking of topics to write about, I figured a good place to start would be to just update everyone on what's going on in my world. I'm still a drug rep in my day job. And, yes, I'm still a back-scratcher, toy-train-track-builder, juice-pourer, pancake-maker at my night & weekend gig. I've, also, added superhero-soccer-player (we like to play in our costumes here), blanket-fort-engineer & hikes-through-the-neighborhood-guide. whew. I didn't realize just how good I am at multi-tasking!
To give a better, clearer picture (no pun intended) I decided to start carrying my camera with me during the day. Most of these shots were taken during my workday while I was in the field. My territory is all of south Mississippi. Basically, I travel from the Louisiana state line to the Alabama state line and hit all the towns in-between.
This was such a fun "exercise" for me. I knew there were some amusing things that I see & drive past every day, but until I started looking - specifically - for photo ops I didn't quite appreciate all the beauty & humor & amusement there is all around me every single day.
Brotherly love (they are all sound asleep)
A Southern Summertime Staple = Snoball
(and for the record my favorite flavor is 1/2 grape & 1/2 cherry)
Another Southern Summertime Staple = Beach Time with the Family!
Sweet Summertime
The out-of-towners need reminding!
The 12 year old boy in me made me stop to shoot this pic! heehee
This sign is located at Ocean Marine - a boat sales lot!
What else do I need?!
Please check out the spelling correction
I pulled up right beside this old fella. His window was rolled down, his truck was running and he was SOUND asleep! Thankfully it was in a parking lot and NOT on a highway!
Highway to the Danger Zone (and, yes, I did help this little guy to the side of the road)
Lucedale, MS
Things that make you go hmmm....
Do you sense a theme here?!
Just in case you missed the memo
Gulfport, MS
Because nothing says "Come on in! Relax & Enjoy yourself!" like a man-eater and its razor teeth
Salvation & salavation
Artsy Fartsy
Artsy Fartsy Part Deaux
Huh. I wonder what the OLD ones looked like...
My Baby Einstein
Here's Nolan relaxing on a friend's couch DURING a swim/bday party. We missed him for a moment & soon found him inside, chilling on their couch, watching videos on my phone. Talk about making himself at home, huh?!
The Alma Mater
So there you have it. A day in the life.
What I want you to do now is start snapping shots of life in your world.
Drive slower, take a walk, read the signs, smile & say cheese! (And, if you would...share them with me!)
