Old friends. There is just something about an old friend who knows you well, who knows the truth of you, the heart of you, the youth of you, the start of you. The very idea of you. I find that as I get older, I start to categorize my friends in my head: high school friends, college friends, friends from town, friends from church, friends from different cities in which I have lived. There are friends who don't fit into any groups— my best friend from the time I can remember, Lynn, has a category all her own. There is a Bowhead category (another blog, another time!) There is a Lisa-and-Cindy category. There is a Beth/Toby/Cindy/John group. How lucky am I?
We celebrated my husband's 40th birthday recently, and some of his categories came together, and as I watched, I was moved by the old friends who haven't wavered in their relationships with my husband. They remain silly. They remain the people in the photographs that adorned the collages that evening. Those boys in the pictures, in the gym shorts and tube socks, the glasses and the braces, are now grown men in golf shirts, with children, who helped me move heavy things, but remain 7th-grade boys in their souls. The college friends are now married and busy but remain the same people that we hung out with in the dorms, that we met Uptown for dinner.
I watched the old friends meet the new friends, and I realized why we have been drawn to our newer friends. They are just like the old ones. Loyal. Honest. True. Silly. Dependable. They mixed well. They seemed to like each other, and I loved seeing them all in one place. The friendships that my husband has maintained had a palpable feel that evening. Like one big heartbeat on our deck.
As Adam worked the crowd, one of my good friends (from the Lisa-and-Cindy category) said to me,
"I like meeting Adam's old friends. They're so loyal."
"Like you," I said. "You know that's what he always says about you."
She had no idea. But I did.
I love to reflect on the idea that people come into our lives for a reason. At just the right moment, a person might enter your life and change you in big ways or small ones, and you may not realize it is happening until you look back and say, "Oh! That makes sense! YOU were there to help me through that situation with grace." Or, "YOU gave me strength when I had none." It is my greatest hope that in this reflection, I become more open to what purpose God has for me as I build relationships with old friends and meet new ones. Old friends, new friends, red friends, blue friends—each a blessing, each a gift.
It has to be said: I’m a technology geek. When something new comes into our home that has wires or plugs or USB cords, I’m the girl to call. IPod? Computer? Digital camera? I’ve got you covered. TiVo? Yep. TiVo with a DVD player? No problem. For those of you who know me, I know you’re laughing, because you don’t believe me. I don’t think I come across as Radio-Shacky. More as Desperate-Housewifey, but it’s the truth. I researched and purchased our last computer, brought it home, set it up, installed everything, and cringe every time someone clicks fifty times on an icon or yells, “Mom, it’s not working!” Because I know for a fact that it is working. It’s usually user-error. But there is a downside to my mad skills.
“MOOOOOOOOOM! Can you help me print something?”
“Can I download a song from iTunes?”
“Where is the ClipArt?”
“Why won’t the internet work?”
“MOOOOOOOOM? Can I play Spongebob on your laptop?”
A downside, to be sure.
Technology has become a part of our lives. Instant messages, text messages, cell phones, printed documents at the touch of a button, e-mail, faxes, live TV paused for our own convenience. This morning, I paused The View so I could dry my hair, and then I came back to hear the rest of what Supernanny Jo Frost had to say about childhood sleeping patterns. All of my children have been sleeping through the night for years. So why did I pause the show? Because I could.
The other day, I found myself at my computer, answering emails about one thing or another, then flipping to a document that I needed to polish, then checking my phone for a message. My kids were at school. It was a beautiful day. I clicked back to my inbox. Three more messages. One that would require some phone calls to follow-up. One that made me really, really sad. One that kind of bugged me. My lovely computer. How did you turn on me so quickly?
I grabbed my iPod. (Could I use technology for good and not evil?) I tossed off my flip-flops and stepped into some gym shoes, and headed for the park. Now, as much as I AM a technology girl, I am NOT much of a nature girl, but I have never been called to JUST GET OUTSIDE as much as I was in that minute. I found my playlist marked “inspiration” and started to walk. I found myself engaged in instant prayer, before I even knew I was praying. And then suddenly, I was crying. What sent me over the edge? The emails? The phone messages? The beauty of the day? The music?
This has happened to me before, and almost always when I am outside. Instantly overwhelmed, I will catch myself by surprise when I connect with God usually at a moment when I didn't even know I was seeking His guidance. Once on a bike ride on a mountain (now THAT is a good story. . .I don’t even like bikes) and often by the water. And today, just the pull of the sun, and the trees, on this path, by this lake, I was led out of my own world and into God’s world where I could just BE. And I was thinking of so many things that I needed to lift up, and so many things that I had to be grateful for, so I walked, and I listened, I cried a little, and I prayed. Maybe I am a nature girl after all. . .
I like that path. There are no screens or beeps or buzzes there, and even though I normally enjoy the modern conveniences, wired or wireless, I loved being where I couldn’t receive any messages—except the ones that really mattered.
Inspiration Playlist
Here Comes The Sun—The Beatles
Beautiful One—By the Tree
Imagine—David Archuleta
I Say a Little Prayer—Diana King
100 Years—Five For Fighting
With My Own Two Hands—Jack Johnson
Let It Be Me—Jackson Browne
Shed a Little Light—James Taylor
Hallelujah—Jeff Buckley
Suddenly I See—KT Tunstall
Somewhere Over the Rainbow—Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
Anyway—Martina McBride
She’s a Butterfly—Martina McBride
Unwritten—Natasha Bedingfield
Beautiful Day—U2
God Only Knows—The Beach Boys
Ode to May
May is busy,
May’s a mess,
May is crazy,
I'm totally stressed.
Lunches, brunches,
Mother's Day.
Softball, baseball,
Teas, ballet.
Gifts and groceries
Checks to write. . .
Washing those uniforms
Late every night.
Signing this form and
Sending in that. . .
Five dozen cookies,
In two minutes flat.
Picnics and parties,
I love them, I do.
But May is a nightmare,
(Between me and you.)
Concerts and programs,
Recitals and shows,
Why all in May?
Are April and February such horrible bad terrible months to plan anything in in this town?
I digress, and I'm sorry,
I won't miss a thing.
I love every second
Of this jam-packed school spring!
But I'm counting the days,
Until next month arrives.
Saying, "Happy June 1!"
Once again, I’ve survived!
C.C., mid-May breakdown, 2006
The other day, I ran into my minister in the grocery store. We stood and discussed the virtues of the fantastic salads available at our "gourmet" salad bar. "You’re preaching to the choir," I said, meaning, of course, that he didn’t have to convince me, as I bought my salad for dinner.
It was only later that night that I realized that I, a member of the church choir, had spoken that line to my minister. Who, of course, preaches. To me. In the choir. Regularly. It made me giggle to myself. It was such an unintentional but perfect little gem of a moment.
Have you ever heard the expression, "It’s like the blind leading the blind?" Well, my grandmother often told the story of how she used those very words when speaking once to an acquaintance. Who was blind.
Is this gene hereditary, or does this happen to everyone? Are the characteristics and personalities of those around us so heightened that we leap to the nearest cliché without even thinking?
Those who know me will attest to the fact that I suffer from a severe case of foot-in-mouth disease, even on my best day. So much so, in fact, that I have learned to simply say, "I’m sorry. Allow me to remove my foot from my mouth and start over!" Or, "I tend to live most of my life with one foot on the ground and the other in my mouth, so I hope you’ll forgive me."
What’s the expression . . . the one about a glass house? Oh yeah. . . if we live in one, we shouldn’t throw stones. That’s why we forgive each other these moments of imperfection, like my grandmother and the blind man. I’m sure she handled herself with grace and beauty, and I’m sure she was forgiven. And as far as preaching to the choir . . . well, I can only hope for more moments of perfect irony in a grocery store, ones that I couldn’t write any better.
It would be a great accomplishment for me to exist for a decent stretch of time without a questionable comment to look back on, without words that I regret immediately, without apologies needing to be given for things that I have said. But what is the greater sacrifice? To stop this crazy mouth and to begin censoring a little, or just to keep on living out loud, mistakes and all, and ask for forgiveness if required?
Maybe it’s six-of-one, half-a-dozen of the other. . .
“What should we do with your body?” asked my husband recently. “You know, when you die.” It’s not the first time he’s asked. His wish, for his post-mortem self, is to be cremated and for me and the children to drive his ashes to Hilton Head Island and scatter them ceremoniously into the ocean. I have told him that I am not looking forward to that 12-hour drive for many reasons, not the least of which is that I will be doing all the driving. All of this is assuming that he goes first. But assuming that he does not, what is to be done with me?
“No autopsy,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Would there normally be?” he asked.
“Well, with murder or suspicious circumstances, I suppose.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
I’m serious about my request, though. On any given day, should someone take a look inside this aging beauty queen (another story for another time), who knows what tale could unfold in the small town news? Among the findings inside this temple would surely be at least two different migraine meds, not to mention the daily Ibuprofen topper. Oatmeal for breakfast, the doctors would note, and nod approvingly, and then in dismay, find the York Peppermint Patty chaser, the diet Coke, the Happy Meal leftovers, the Lean Cuisine, and the half-cupcake eaten after the gym. Dependent on the day, there might be a couple of Midol, some caffeine mints, and a sugar-free Red Bull (honestly, what's the point?) tossed back on the way to church choir. And really, who among us has not had cookies for dinner and Lucky Charms for dessert? It would all be laid out on the table, so to speak, and I would become the Anna Nicole of my village. I can picture the scrolling words under Larry King on CNN: "Cause of Death: Possible Interaction Between Crystal Light and Dark Chocolate.
So there will be no autopsy. The killer goes free.
“I know,” I say, “I will leap desperately into the ocean after your ashes, consumed by heartbreak.”
“That will be super for the kids,” Adam counters, “plus, you’ve never been much of a leaper.”
I didn't really see the need for the insult, seeing as I was consumed by heartbreak and all, but I tried to be agreeable.
“Same as you, then, I guess. Same thing, same place, same kids.”
“Are you sure? You don't sound sure.”
“I want to be near you.”
“Well, unless we die together one of us will be long swept away.”
“Symbolically near you,” I grit my teeth. “You know, for the kids.”
“Okay. Good.” He goes back to his book.
Okay. Good. And it was decided? That simply cannot be the decision. He is obviously not remembering a conversation we had about this when we were first married (yes, we've been talking about this for 16 years.) He told me that he while he himself hoped for cremation, he pictured me buried under a shady tree, where he could lie down, peacefully, and talk to me. How do I let that go?
I know that we are not our bodies, that they are just on loan to us while we roam this Earth. But still, I wonder about those we leave behind and what they might need. I think I will be just fine remembering Adam at the ocean. Where will he need to remember me? It's a decision that will require looking deep into honest needs and true beliefs, and then having the courage to look ahead with faith.
And speaking of our bodies, I intend to pray tonight for motivation and self-direction, so that I can treat mine a little more like a temple. I think this body deserves at least that much.