Notes From the Journey. . .
a ministry of the First Congregational Church of Hudson, Ohio
Notes From the Journey. . .

Countdown-to-the-Countdown

Bah, humbug!  That's what I say to all of those grumblers I hear in the stores and on the radio, on television and in casual conversation saying silly things like "Why is it necessary to decorate for Christmas so EARLY?"  I overhear complainers starting way back around Halloween, continuing through November.  I know you've heard them all, too.  "Thanksgving isn't even here yet.  Must we rush Christmas?"  Or, "It's so commercialized."  They're all around me, these people who don't want the season to start.

I can't wait.  All through October and November, I find myself in a countdown-to-the- countdown.  I adore the fact that there are tiny bits of Christmas just starting to show themselves behind the Halloween aisle in Target.  I think I mentioned in my last blog that I sometimes find myself wandering toward that very space, that tiny Christmas space in the store, when I feel a little. . . um. . .underwhelmed by October.  My spirits are instantly lifted by a light-up penguin or the scent of cinnamon pinecones.

But I do hold back in one area:  no Christmas music allowed until after Thanksgiving, and then ONLY Christmas music in the car until Christmas.  (My kids are thrilled, let me tell you!)  Just today, I heard Barry Manilow singing "Winter Wonderland" and Hall & Oates singing something Christmasey that I can't quite remember but. . . who cares!  It was a mix of 80's and Christmas.  Brilliant.  

Now, my countdown-to-the countdown is almost over, and I can be officially in countdown mode.  On December 1st, I can light our lights.  On December 3rd, our Elf on the Shelf, Chester, is scheduled for his annual arrival, and I'm so excited to see him.  We're not sure why he always shows up on the 3rd, but he does.  The ping-pong table in the basement has been a flurry of wreath-fluffing and bow-making.  It's almost time to deck my halls!  

Advent.  Countdown.  A season of waiting for miracles.  Ten years ago in December,  I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant with Sam.  Walking into church on Christmas Eve, Reverend SueAnn Schmidt stopped me as I was entering church.  She spoke to me of Mary, and how seeing a pregnant woman at Christmas reminded her so vividly of Mary's journey, and what Mary must have gone through physically in her very pregnant state, traveling on the donkey, laboring in a stable.  I think of this every Christmas Eve.  Sam was born ten days later, on January 3.

I often wonder if this waiting that I love, this waiting for the waiting, is tied to my joy of ten years ago.  Each Christmas since has been just as joyful, albeit filled with more energy, and I am definitely more aware of the wonderment of advent, of what is coming.

Mary gave birth to a King.  We wait to celebrate the miracle.  I can't help but see the joy in the ornaments, the gingerbread, the wreaths, the ribbon, the lights and the gifts, even if the wrappings of Christmas arrive earlier each year.  Delight in the magic of the season.   But hold off on the music if you can.  It's totally worth the wait.  

And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.  
 
~Luke 2: 7








Posted by CC-Mom at 11/29/2011 7:43 PM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

Sweet


“Once in a young lifetime one should be allowed to have as much sweetness as one can possibly want and hold. ”
 ― Judith Olney


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         Holding Sweetness



I'm not always the biggest fan of Halloween week.  I love Halloween Day, but the week, or weeks, leading up to Halloween have left me a little worse for the wear.  Bones, skulls, masks, blood, gore- not my thing.  The haunted houses, the creepy hay rides, the spiders dangling from the stores all start to get on my nerves, and I find myself wandering into the much more appealing Christmas aisle, which is just starting to appear in most stores.  My Halloween anxiety is nothing a little gingerbread house can't cure!  

About a day or two before Trick-or-Treat, I'll dress the place up with pumpkins, candy corn and some friendly ghosts.  I even have a few bats flying around my belfry (okay, they're Webkins bats and they're hanging with orange ribbon, but they are a little scary.)  We visit the pumpkin patch and eat butter dripped corn before navigating the corn maze.  I say "we" but I opt out of the corn maze myself.  It scares me.  

Did I say candy corn?  I do buy candy corn.  Because I really love candy corn.

This year, Jonathan, my 17-year old son visited a "haunted prison" attraction.  While nervous at first, and still swearing that he will never again step foot in a haunted house, I think he enjoyed the experience with friends, the few and the brave.  Abby, my 13-year old daughter, was an actress in a local haunted house.  Decked out in a straight jacket and horror make-up, she loved every minute.  

And then there is Sam.  Sam, who until this year, could not walk through the aisle of Target because of "the creepy things that talked."  Sam, who has dressed up as a pirate, a magician, and Superman.   No "Scream" masks, no phantoms, no ninjas.  It's been the saving grace of my Halloween season every year.

This year, Sam said an unexpected thing.

"Mom, I want something scary in the yard."
"Really?"  
"Like a gravestone with an arm sticking out of it."

That didn't sound very Caspar-the-Friendly-Ghost to me, but I promised to see what I could do.  On my next trip to the Halloween aisle, I found two sturdy Styrofoam gravestones.  No arms.  One was adorned with a skull, complete with blinky red eyes, and one was engraved with the words "Out to Lunch."  Winner.

And the costumes?  Jono went to a party with bunny ears.  Abby wore a recycled dance costume (pirate) to Trick-or-Treat with friends.  But Sam?  What was a good cross between not-to-scary and cool?  And then we found it.  The Spider.  To be clear, it's a soft, fluffy spider with cozy arms and a furry head.  Quite possibly the cutest spider I've ever seen, but don't tell Sam.  He's a spider with tombstones in his yard.  It's Halloween.  His bunny brother took him Trick-or-Treating to some cool houses, and he weighed in with 4.5 pounds of sugar-filled-chocolate-wonderful candy.     

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Scary Gravestone, Cuddly Spider

I watched my pirate girl, who was born the day after Halloween 14 years ago, run to greet her friends.  (There will be cake tomorrow after this candy-fest tonight.  And did I mention the candy corn?) I watched a giant bunny take a cuddly spider to a special Trick-or-Treat excursion before going to a party himself.  And I watched the spider check out the scary scene in the front yard before he left.  

Sweet.  All the way around. 
                                                   
                                                                       This won't last.







Posted by CC-Mom at 11/1/2011 10:55 AM | Add Comment

It's like finding a needle. . .

"It's like finding a needle in a haystack."  That's what I keep thinking, ever since this silly little thing happened.  
I was straightening the basement a couple of weeks ago, doing a better job than usual since time allowed and since, for whatever reason, I had extra energy on my hands.  An unexpected pairing, to be sure.   
In the corner of the basement, we have a small version of a basketball Pop-A-Shot that the boys received for Christmas one year.  As I was tossing the three small basketballs back into the Pop-A-Shot, I realized that each ball was low on air.  Really low, like, they weren't even balls anymore.
Since I was in that cleaning/organizing mood, I went in search of the air pump.  First, I scoured the garage, with no luck.  
"Adam," I called, into the general vicinity of the family room, where there was a board game being played, "do you know where the air pump is?  For balls?"
"Maybe in the shed," he said, "in the bucket with the toys."  We had done a big clean-out of the garage, and some items were yet to be put away.  Thinking back, it's kind of funny that Adam didn't ask what I was doing.  I don't usually need an air pump in the evenings.  Not for cooking dinner, for general cleaning, or even for a late night mani/pedi . . . 
I went to the shed, and found lots of balls, Frisbees, swim noodles, and pool toys, and finally, at the bottom of the bucket, the purple plastic air pump.  But it had no needle, and looking around the shed, with its assortment of toys, bikes, mulch and bags of outgrown clothes, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to find a stray needle.  I felt around in the bottom of the bucket to see if it had dropped, and looked around the shed for a while, but finally took the pump and went back to the house.
"Find it?"  Adam looked up from his game with Sam.
"Yep, but no needle."  
"Hmm," he looked thoughtful for a minute.  I was thinking, too.  
"I really thought I had a pack of extra needles," I said.  It was now becoming a bit of a "thing." 
"I wish I knew," he said.
"Maybe in the laundry room," I said, going back to look.  I searched the shelves and the basket of "found things" from the laundry.  Nope.  In the mitten and glove bin?  Nope.
I know!  Kitchen junk drawer!  No luck. 
Basement!  I recalled last fall when I was on a bit of a work-out kick with my big giant aqua ball, I kept the air pump downstairs, so I could keep the ball inflated just the way I liked it.  I remember hiding the pump on the top shelf in the basement storage room, where I would kick the ball (in frustration or when not in use) so I could find it later.  I flipped on the light and began feeling along the tops of the shelf for a stray needle or an old pump.  I found lots and lots of dust, Christmas wrap, and a Barbie, but no needle.  I then did the entire circuit again-  looking in the shed, the garage, the garage shelves, and the basement shelves, before I finally gave up and wrote "needles" on my To-Do list.  And don't kid yourselves —I actually tried to blow the balls up using the pump with NO needle.  It didn't really work very well, and in fact, just resulted in me slamming my wrist against the side of the ping-pong table when the ball rolled out from under the pump that was. . . um . . . pushed against the air hole.   I searched the basement shelves a third time, and called it a day.
Just a very short while later, I was on to other things, needles and basketballs almost forgotten.  I was carrying an empty laundry basket back down to the laundry room, and as I entered the small room, I stopped in the doorway.  There, lying in the middle of the floor, all by itself, was one air-pump needle.  
It's a short little story about three tiny basketballs that needed air, and a found needle that allowed it to happen after all.  The end.  Right?  Right. . .  except, seeing that needle made my heart skip in a weird way.  I had walked through the space at least ten times in the course of the evening, back and forth to the shed, the garage, the basement, and there had been no needle.  I had searched high and low for one tiny item in a haystack-of-a-house to no avail, and yet here, when I was no longer searching, it was right before my very eyes.  
Later, I would wonder if that needle was on the air pump when I picked it up, if it fell off the pump, stuck to my shirt, and fell off into the laundry room.  But I know I picked that pump right out of the bucket with no needle.  I watched it happen.  
I prefer to believe that the needle was given to me.  Since finding my needle, there are words that continue to circle in my head, and though I'm not really sure if I'm hearing them clearly, they're along the lines of:   
Here is your needle.  If you can believe in something small like a needle, imagine what you could really believe if you let yourself.
I think I need to look for something bigger.  Just imagine what I could find. . . 








Posted by CC-Mom at 8/25/2011 3:30 PM | Add Comment

Beachology

Beachology:  (n.) the study of how a group of people packs for the beach, moves towards the beach, and relaxes on the beach.  See also Beachologist, Beachonomics, and Beachism.  

My family has the beach thing down to a science.  A sometimes awkward science, to be sure, but a science nonetheless.  When we are traipsing in our colorful beach parade through the sea oats of the Hilton Head dunes, causing our teenagers to die a thousand deaths, I'm sure, I often wonder, how do those other people do it?  The ones on bikes, or the ones I see with just a towel?  Because getting ready for the beach takes a little bit of planning.  Doesn't it?  

The beach bag is open on the floor, ready to be filled.  Everyone has certain favorite things that go along— a splash ball, a frisbee, baseball mitts and a baseball.  Five towels (wait, make that four, because the fifth one is MINE and that goes in my own beach bag— you can be sure I'm not mixing my stuff in with that mess!)  and, last, but not least, the umbrella corkscrew anchor.  In my bag, I have the aforementioned towel, my book and magazine, Adam's book, phones in baggies for all who bring them, and all sunblock (except the solid face stick one, because that gets melty, so it goes in the cooler.)  

Ah, the cooler.  

"Make your own sandwich and put it in, please."
"Did everyone grab drinks?"
"Who has the sunblock stick?  It was in here."
"Are there enough drinks— yesterday there were not."
"Abby, did you choose your drinks?"
"Yes, I grabbed a water, a tea and a soda."

Did you get that?  3 drinks for one person.  Multiplied by 5.  That's 15 drinks.  Poor Jono — carrying that heavy cooler.   

"You're lucky," I tell him.  "Your load gets lighter on the way home.  The towels just get wet and much heavier."  Weirdly, he's not wearing his lucky face at the moment. 

We hold a sunblock party on the deck before we leave.  No one likes to do their first sunblock application at the beach.  There is a minor hubbub because one sunblock is apparently "cold" and one is "stingy," but in the end, everyone is duly protected from the giant glowing orb.  Phew.

We're heading out the door.  Suits and cover-ups on. . .wait. . .

"Abby," yells Adam, "where is the rest of your swimsuit?!"  
"Funny," answers Abby." 
It's the inaugural year of the bikini.  It's going really well.

Out the door again.  Two beach bags, one cooler, two adults, three kids.  From the small alcove outside the condo door, we grab three chairs, the umbrella, the Bocci set, and the tent.  Sam grabs his beach toys and we start to walk.

"Sam?"  I say, my foot still holding the door open.
"What?"
"A shirt, please."
He runs back in.
"Sam?" I say, as he returns.
"WHAT?"  
"Your shoes, your sunglasses?"  
"Oh."

We finally get Sam dressed, and off we go.  We are more organized than I may be portraying.  Bags over arms, chairs under arms, and Adam in the lead by such a large margin that we can no longer see him by the time the ocean is in view, which, thanks to the lovely proximity of our condo is only a minute or two.  He is a man on a mission looking for a spot on the beach.  

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      Dad is long-gone


"I have the heaviest load," he usually says.  "I'm just going quickly so that I can put it down."  
Jono, carrier of the 15 drinks, might argue.

When we do arrive, we go swiftly into beach action, and it is at this point that I find myself watching those around me.  There are the beach-goers that I mentioned earlier, those on bikes with nothing but a towel and a water bottle, and then there are those far more encumbered than we.  There are giant tents, structured metal canopies and screened gazebos.  To be clear, our tent is no more than a little shade structure.  To be clearer, I'm a little jealous of the big tents.   There are beach camps with full volleyball courts, sand castle factories and lunch tables.  Beachology is a wide study.  It seems to range from Beaching for Dummies to Masters of the Beach.  I'm not sure where we fall in the spectrum, but it's probably somewhere in the middle.  Beach sophomores.

Within a very short time, our small half-tent shade structure goes up, the umbrella is secure, the chairs (one wobbly today) are protected from sun, and the shirts and towels are immediately tossed into the sand.  Sam is playing in the water, Abby is peacefully listening to music in the tent, Jono is tossing a baseball with Adam, and I am reading a book
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                                                                                 Beach Spot

I note to myself that everyone has moved their favorite things right to the beach, which can really only magnify their greatness.  If you love to read, how can it not be better by the ocean?  If you love to toss a baseball, how is it not better with sand under you toes and with girls in swimsuits walking by?  

The chaos of packing, prepping, and sunblocking all melt away like the sand between my toes.  The cooler begins to empty, the towels are damp and sandy, the children are damp and sandy, and as the hours wear on and both the sun and the tide rise higher and higher, the idea of any of this not being worth it , the idea of not doing this all again in 24 hours, becomes increasingly ridiculous.  

I turn page after page in my book, and this year, I decide to try someone else's favorite thing, so I head down to the water and play a few games of Splash ball in the ocean.  I'm not usually a big big ball player, but with the waves breaking around me, the sun at my back, and my favorite people with me, it's hard not to get in the game.  

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                                                             Three of my favorite people

It's been a vacation for walking and talking, resting and relaxing, playing and splashing.  We saw starfish and sand sharks, turtles and fish, sandcastles and sea oats.  By the end of each day, we are suntanned but not burned, tired but not exhausted, sticky and salty, but somehow refreshed.  We will go home five people rejuvenated from simply enjoying God's earth and what it has to offer.   
 Because after all of the packing and unpacking, the towels and the cooler, the beach bags, and chairs, it's not really about what you pack or don't pack, your bikes or your caravan to the beach.  It's not even really about where you go.  It's about who you're with and how you choose to spend your time.  The world is there for the taking.  It's all about how you take it in.


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                                       Just a few of the many things I am grateful for. . . 


   "The earth is the Lord's and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; for he founded it upon the seas and established it upon the waters."

Psalm 24: 1-2









 






Posted by CC-Mom at 8/11/2011 9:18 AM | Add Comment

Summertime, Summertime, Sum-Sum-Summertime!

Let's see. . .we're almost a full month into summer and I haven't heard it yet.  Not once.  Not one child has uttered those three little words. . . "Mom, I'm bored!" 

I hadn't given it much thought until last night, when both of my older children were busy making their own plans for the week, and my youngest was expounding on the movie, "Cars 2," which is #4 on his Summer Fun List of Things to Do.

"Mom," said Sam, "on the next rainy day, we really should go see that movie."  
"We don't have to wait for a rainy day if that's one of the big things on your list," I said.
"Mom," he said, "you wouldn't want to waste one of these beautiful days!"

No, I wouldn't.  And that's when I realized what's been going on.  My children are not wasting their summer days, not the rainy ones or the beautiful ones.  They are the ones directing their own fun, their energy is steering the days, and it's been great.  To be clear, there are moments that I feel like a bit of a hired driver (less now with Jono being an ACTUAL driver- yay!) and moments when I'm even a little freer than I'd like to be on these long summer days.  I miss the days of wading pools and ruffled swimsuits.  Thank goodness Sam still likes sidewalk chalk and EVERYONE loves a squirt gun and water balloons.   Summer evenings hanging out in the yard?  Can't beat that! 

Jono plays baseball most days, and is traveling for tournaments most weekends.  Whenever possible, we go to his games as a family, albeit sometimes with a grumbling 13-year old girl in tow.  We drag a full cooler of drinks and snacks, frisbees, chairs, umbrellas for both sun and rain, sunblock, bug spray, ice, first aid kits, and money for any and all concession treats.  There are blankets, forts, extra mitts, foul balls, and everyone fights for the smallest bit of shade.  Bad umps, good teams, hot dogs, and people watching—all just a bonus as we watch another great baseball game.  Truly, when the day comes that I don't have a son playing summer ball, I don't know what I will do with myself!   [Note to my friends:  please don't allow me to become a crazy old lady stalking baseball fields.]    Summer nights at a baseball field?  Anytime.

Abby and Sam are each in a youth theater production this summer, rehearsing during the days, enjoying the theater life and all it has to offer.  When they're not under the lights, they're hanging out with their friends in the auditorium, working backstage, enjoying what has really turned into their own space.  Abby heads downtown on her breaks with Libby, Emma or any number of the usual suspects.  Sam is making friends and allowing his big sister to teach him the waltz for "Sleeping Beauty."  (That, my friends, can only be a summer miracle.)  Come performance weekend, there are tickets and flowers, grandparents and friends, lights down, curtains up, and we're  there every night, you couldn't keep us away.  Summer weekends at our favorite community theater?  You bet.

We're nearly a month in, or, as I like to say, still almost two whole months of summer to go!  There's still so much fun to be had.  We're going to the Lake to see grandparents, heading south to the beach, and don't forget, we've got to see "Cars 2."  There are more baseball games to play, two opening nights to applaud, plenty of fireflies to catch, popsicles to drip, S'mores to eat, and relaxing days to lounge at the pool.  

It's summer, and no one is bored.  Everyone is doing their own wonderful thing, but we're connecting and enjoying.  At the end of the day, we fall back into place, relaxed from the sun, tired from the day.  Pool bags and bat bags pile up in the laundry room, and there are 10 pair of flip-flops by the door.  Towels, swimsuits, uniforms and scripts litter the house. . .  this is the stuff of summer at my house.  There's usually and Indians' game on in the background (which should surprise no one!) and we catch up with the usual questions.  How was practice?  How was the game? Your rehearsal? Playing outside?  Work?  How was your day?  
Tonight I think I'll ask if anyone wants to run through the sprinkler after dinner.  After all,  we wouldn't want to waste this beautiful night.


 

Posted by CC-Mom at 7/5/2011 5:31 PM | Add Comment

Creature of Habitat



Stop.

Take a breath.

Close your eyes.

May is almost over.


Everyone who knows me is aware that I don’t really. . ahem. . enjoy the month of May.  I complain, I whine, I expound upon the unbelievable amount of activities that are crammed into each day.  I even write poems to express how I feel about this particular month.  I wonder if my particular sign of the Zodiac (cancer) is not meant to align well with Taurus and Gemini. . .  


I’m a creature of habit.  Every year, when May rolls around, I profess to really, really be waiting for June.  Too many concerts, too many programs, too many rehearsals, teas, cookies, games, practices.  And this year, with all of this rain, it’s been so EASY to be mad at May.  


But I have a secret.  I kind of think I love all the stuff.  That’s right.  I’m out of the closet.  (She says in a whisper:  I might love May.)  It’s okay to be overwhelmed by the amount of stuff that goes on, but still love the stuff, right?  Because everyone who knows me is also quite aware that I love a good program, I cry not only at recitals but at rehearsals, and I’m a super-fan of my kids’ sports.  I love concerts, teas, and cookies. This May, I’ve enjoyed choir concerts, talent shows, baseball games, baking, planning, committees, you name it, I’ve enjoyed it.  So am I bashing May?  Or am I bashing the number of hours in a day?  If they could play baseball in February, they would, right?  (Oh wait. . . they do  


Yesterday was my daughter’s dress rehearsal for her eleventh dance recital.  I packed three bags of costumes, tights, shoes, and make-up.  To be clear, she gets most of her things ready, but then I spend some time making it “just right.”  This is all because she says one sentence to me each year.  “I love when you pack my make-up, Mommy.  You get it all right.”  Compliment or con-job?  It doesn’t matter.  I love doing it.   We practiced her hairstyles, double-checked labels and costume order, packed some snacks and prepared to spend quite a few hours together at the auditorium.  I love dress rehearsal day.  It was there, sitting in the auditorium (front row, center, of course) that I realized, “I don’t hate you, May.  In fact, tonight, I think I love you.”



This morning, there was a chipmunk swimming in our hot tub.  We never leave the cover off, but we did, since it’s broken and being replaced, so I’m feeling guilty and sad about this creature, quite out of his normal habitat, panicked and overtired. I rescued him with a dustpan, and he jumped off and into my garden.  I’m hopeful that he wasn’t swimming in the too-hot water for too long.  


I want to take a walk later, but first I will check in the garden in case the chipmunk is there.  Resting or dead, or even if I can’t see him, I just would like a visual “yes or no” to the chipmunk question.  Years ago, there was a chipmunk on our porch, and my son Jono, young at the time, named him “Hotdog.”   Now, every chipmunk my children see in the yard is Hotdog.  They remain convinced, or at least Sam does, that Hotdog returns, year after year.   


My first thought this morning was, “Are you kidding me?  A chipmunk in the hot tub?  Hotdog in the hot tub? This is a May morning at it’s finest!”   Then Sam and I pulled our rescue mission off, and Sam gave me a big, unexpected hug of thanks for saving the chipmunk, and I realized that it’s not about May.  It’s about what I do with May.  I need to stop being a creature of habit, and be a creature enjoying my habitat, rain or shine, busy or idle, at work or at play, saving my sanity or saving Hotdog.   Even (especially?) in May.  


So the errands will wait, the housecleaning will wait (maybe until June.)  I have a walk to take and a chipmunk to check on this beautiful May afternoon.  


Stop.  

Take a breath.

Close your eyes.

May is almost over.

I don’t want you to miss it.



Posted by CC-Mom at 5/25/2011 12:11 PM | Add Comment

He was a very good fish . . .

Diddo 
Sometime in 2006 or 2007- April 24, 2011
He was a very good fish.

My son Sam had a fish.  In a house full of various and assorted allergies, a fish is about all you can have, and he had a good one.  Diddo (pronounced "Ditto" but spelled "Diddo," I checked) had beautiful gold scales and a very large tail.  His bulging eyes weren't that of a regular pet store goldfish.  They were extra large and extra. . . beautiful.

It's a funny thing about fish.  When you first bring one home, you prepare for the worst.  But Diddo was here to stay, and he outgrew tank after tank.  Sam entertained him with different plastic plants, stickers of skateboarders, and different views from the dresser.  

We had our ups and downs, for sure.  Diddo gave us a few scares, especially in the last few months.  He often liked to float to the top of the tank, which is not a good place to find a goldfish, but there he would float, on his side, breathing, floating, breathing, floating.  Causing me, the newly appointed "fish whisperer" to hold midnight vigils by the tank, gently poking, and sometimes petting.  There were several nights at 2:00 am where I would be down in the kitchen with Diddo, cleaning the tank, hoping that a complete tank re-do would revive a wilting fish.  It was worth it in the mornings when I could triumphantly proclaim victory, watching Diddo happily swimming mid-tank, yet again.  All of the Chafe family visited Diddo in Sam's room, fed him, and gave him his crushed green peas when he was floating too much (it's true, and it worked!)  I am quite certain that when I took Sam's laundry into his room, Diddo would swim to the side to say hello.  

Almost always, after a scare, Diddo would earn a new tank, or a plant, or an improved filter.  (Come to think of it, he was probably a very crafty fish, indeed!)  I would bet (or at least hope) that an improved habitat would refresh and invigorate this tiny pet.  Sam would come home from school to find the new tank with blue gravel, the tank with the wavy background, or best yet, the tank with the light.   Sam loved the tank with the light, but when it grew too small for our fish, we had to let the lighted tank go.  Our most recent tank came with a light again— Sam was thrilled!  But it lasted one day and burned out.  And before we could even replace the bulbs, Diddo died.

Diddo died on Easter Sunday.  We found him very peacefully resting on the bottom of his tank, which was a place that Diddo never went, being the fish that liked to float at the top of the water.  Everyone distracted Sam so that I, the fish whisperer one last time, could remove Diddo to a tiny, prepared box (we do not flush fish in this family, not ever) and then take the tank from the room.  I asked Sam if he wanted to leave the tank and get a new fish.

"No. Not yet."

So the tank is gone for now.  Sam wants to bury Diddo outside in a special garden he plants every year under the lampost.  That's perfect, I think.  Diddo will have his light.









Posted by CC-Mom at 4/25/2011 4:09 PM | Add Comment

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall . . .

Who's the fairest of them all?  Not me.  Ick.  Ew.  Yucky.  Nice hair (NOT!)  I hate my outfit.  I'm going back to bed.  

That's how I feel some mornings.  Relate?  Maybe you don't, and I hope not!  That puts you in the category of the really, really lucky!  Oh, those crazy voices I hear when I look in the mirror some days.  But the other night, after a wonderful (yes, I said wonderful) encounter with my bathroom mirror, I started to think that it's not really me after all.  Perhaps it all has to do with the particular mirrors into which I am choosing to gaze.  ("Gaze?"  That's a little too fairy-tale.  "Cast a sidelong glance" may be a little more like it, or even better, "glare.")   I'll tell you what happened in just a second. . . but first, a brief history of mirrors. 

Mirrors were invented in. . . okay, I really don't know. . . but they go back to fairy tale days, and that's a long time ago, (or once upon a time) and they've been torturing girls and women ever since.  

The evil queen in Snow White looked into a nasty mirror that talked back to her.  Unfair, don't you think?  She asked a simple question. . . and got a big slap in the face!  A mirror in a girl's OWN castle should at least tell some little white lies.   "You're the fairest of them all, duh!  The most beautiful.  Your hair looks great today, and your outfit totally rocks.  You've lost weight, you did a super job with the kids this morning, and hey, when did you start looking younger everyday?"  But no, they often criticize, uninvited, and on very specific topics.  Offering unsolicited, harsh opinions from their flat, shiny, glass surface.  How many outfits have I tossed back in the closet because my mirror said one week it was a great pick, but the next, not so much?  How many hairstyles redone, how much time wasted?  

I might glance at a mirror in a friend's home to check my hair, and suddenly, I'm awash with insecurities.  Thanks, mirror.  I wasn't worried about my complexion five minutes ago.  

In a restroom while out to dinner,  I'm washing my hands, checking my lipstick. . .  "Oh?" says that giant, decorated mirror.  "You picked that lipstick?  And where's your concealer?"  And did the restaurant honestly need to install a full length mirror right here?  They're the loudest ones of all.  

A note to mirrors in fitting rooms:  I am not wasting the time or energy writing about you.  Besides, I fear you will use my words against me in the future when I am shopping for jeans or bathing suits.  And tell your friends, the evil fluorescent lights that they don't scare me.  Much.

 But the other night, something amazing happened. . . . my bathroom mirror said something nice.  At the weirdest possible time.  This is when I realized that these voices I've been hearing all these years really ARE the mirrors, and not my own crazy self.   Here's what happened:  I had just returned from Spring Break (literally, off the plane at midnight, and it's now 1:00 AM).  The mirrors had been chatting all week, questioning my outfits, wondering why I hadn't packed better, worked out more, or gotten a haircut.  The rest of my family had fallen asleep.  My suitcase was was open on the floor, the clothes from the airplane were thrown aside.  After a long day of travel, my feet ached, but I had put on cozy socks.   My face was washed clean of make-up, but my cheeks were pink from the sun. My teeth were brushed, my nail polish removed.  My hair was combed, but not "done."  Finally, it was time for bed.  My body felt like one deep sigh.   In a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, alone, quiet, ready to climb into my own bed in this quiet house, my mirror stopped me as I reached for the light switch.

"You look pretty tonight," it said.

What?  

I had to look again.  Because I felt pretty.  Or, rather, I felt comfortable.  In this mirror, in this light, in this space, in this room, in this time.  In my own skin.  The mirror was reflecting me.   I was happy to be home, glad to be clean, grateful for the sleep that was about to come, thankful for the family all around me. . . and there is beauty inherent in these things.  There is beauty in simply being without trying to be anything else.  The mirror was reflecting all of this, too.  

Perhaps we push too hard against the mirrors in our lives, trying to work too hard to create a look here, or an image there.  Maybe we need to listen to what our mirrors are saying.  If you hear voices sometimes, or often (like I do) don't blame yourself.  You're not crazy.  They're not just in your head—those mirrors are reflecting opinions and feedback from a lot of different sources.  Find a mirror that better reflects YOUR beauty, and listen.  Don't be shocked if you are caught at your most vulnerable, your most relaxed, your most peaceful, your most quiet.  Your most you.  I look forward to glancing into a mirror at a party someday (soon, I hope) and seeing that girl again.  Well, maybe not wearing pajamas, but wearing the peace and ease of a girl who is growing everyday into her true reflection.  

As I turned out the light that night, I was stunned to realize that this was, in fact, a new mirror that we had purchased and hung just a week or so before Spring Break.  Mirror, mirror on my wall. . . I think you're a keeper after all.



So God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; 
male and female he created them.
Genesis 1:27


All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small
All things wise and wonderful
The Lord God made them all.
-Cecil Alexander

Posted by CC-Mom at 3/29/2011 11:49 PM | Add Comment

Shower Power

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.  I’m clean again.  I just took my first shower in three— count them— three days.  It might even be three nights and FOUR days, but I’m trying to make it sound better for public consumption.


I’m not sure how it happened, really, how life got the best of me this week.  Or am I?


My husband and I had just returned from a week away, so I was relaxed and rested.  But re-entry comes with a price.  And that price was a sick nine-year old waiting in the wings.


I thought I would look back on my Mexico trip remembering the sun, the ocean, the beautiful restaurants and the wonderful friends.  But for the last few days, I’ve been remembering it more as a week when I could bathe at will.


It wasn’t just that normal “I have a cough” kind of sick.  I knew it from looking at Sam’s flushed face and his droopy little eyes.   He was a third-grader-down.   It was all too reminiscent of the toddler days, being up all night with a sleepless child, spending an hour in a steamy bathroom, checking and rechecking for fever, celebrating any brief time of peaceful sleep. 


During the days, we were counting the hours between medicines, eating crumbling saltines and 7-UP and propping the hot water bottle against his infected ear (an added bonus.) 


At night, I would listen for the first cough, knowing that if I heard one, it would lead to one million.


Last night, there were none.  Amen.  Hallelujah.  I am so grateful for his peaceful chest.


I once texted my dear friend Beth when I had to cancel plans because a child was sick.  I had texted something to the effect of, “Oh, how day can turn.”  Her reply has stayed with me. “And oh, how we are blessed with the flexibility to turn with it!!”  


The things we take for granted.  Sleep, showers, and the blessing that it is to care for a child.  


Dear Lord, I am grateful for a bed to lie in, even for short moments.  For hot water and for healthy children.  For those who are ill, hold them in your healing arms.  For those who need rest and comfort far more than I, may they seek it in you.   For Mexico sunshine, and for rain over Cleveland, and for good friends with wise advice, I am truly thankful.  





Posted by CC-Mom at 3/10/2011 10:59 AM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

It's a Slippery Slope. . .

It was a slippery slope this morning, both literally and figuratively.   That second hill today at Boston Mills Ski Resort, where I found myself, rather unwillingly, skiing.  And the bad attitude that grabbed hold of me this morning which would not let go (or was it I who would not let it go?)  The ski hill was named Buttermilk, and I might have been named "Christy of the Temper Tantrum" which would have been fine if I had been a toddler, but alas, I am 42.  
Allow me to start from the beginning.
These past 12 months have been a time period when I have stepped out of my box.  And, because it bears repeating, I mean this both literally and figuratively.  Figuratively in that I am not actually in a box, and literally, because all of the things I am trying have involved taking steps.  Literal steps over different types of terrain.  I have snowshoed and I have skied, both more than once, both on purpose, both outdoors.  I have hiked trails in the summer, fall and winter and enjoyed it immensely.  I have purchased equipment, borrowed equipment (thank you, Peg!), signed up for lessons, and pushed myself to limits I didn't know existed, and I have done it joyfully and without hesitation.  
Until this morning, but I'll get to that in a minute.  
Over the course of a rather loud and outspoken 42 years, I have established, accidentally on purpose, the reputation of being an indoor girl.  I do silly things like wear tiaras and deem myself a princess, and I claim to not know much about the great outdoors.  I like make-up, shopping and shoes.  But the truth of the matter is this:  I love being outside.  I love the sky, the wind, the water and the snow.  I love the sunset and the sunrise, and I love lakes, ponds, oceans and sand.  I love hot sun and cold air.  I love being in the water and on boats.  I love water skiing.  I love walking, hiking and sitting outside until the sun goes down.  I have tried running, and so far, I don't really love that, but I did enjoy the journey of figuring it out, outside.
Today was my 3rd ski lesson with my friends Lisa and Peg  in a series called "Women's Snow Discovery," and it's been wonderful.  I've surprised even myself with my Peekaboo Street-ish skills and my natural whooshing abilities.  I have fallen twice, both times at the top of the chairlift, and today, it wasn't really even a fall.  It was more of a "I have to sit down right at this particular second as I am exiting the lift because I am obviously so very tired."  But I have not fallen while skiing, even though my father, who knows me as a girl who can fall flat on her face while walking across and empty room with no obstacles, cannot seem to grasp me as a girl who can ski effortlessly down a mountain, ski poles at my sides, blades parallel, wind in face.  Not falling.  Not once.
Okay, perhaps I've painted a more beautiful ski picture of myself than was actually true, and perhaps "mountain" is a bit of a stretch, but it is my blog, so allow me to continue. . . for I haven't told you about the tantrum.  
It started with a text from my friend Cindy, asking what time she should meet us for skiing after the lesson.
Skiing after the lesson?  I had no intention of doing THAT.  I'm taking lessons.  I can get through the 10:00 to 11:30 time period, swhoosh a little, whoosh a little, and then it's onto the lodge for boots off and diet Coke ON.  There will be no skiing.  Not now, maybe not ever.  One thing at a time.
I text back.  "I'm not skiing, I'm lessoning and lunching."  I text this to all involved.  No answer.  I text again.
"Why isn't anyone listening to me???"
I pick up Lisa, load her skis in the car, and pout and sulk all the way to Boston Mills.  My anxiety is buliding.
"I'm not skiing today."
"Of course you're not," she says.
"I'm just taking a lesson.  That's all I can do.  It's all I want to do.  I'm a baby skier.  I'm not kidding."
"Okay, baby."  She is petting me on the arm.  Maybe I am a toddler.
The lesson ensues, and it's a good one.  As we make our way down the hill the last time, I see Peg and Cindy waiting in their skis.  Why do they have skis on for lunch?
Lisa points me toward the chair lift.  "Up we go," she says.
I am angry.  But with two friends behind me on skis, I can't make a graceful exit.  
We ski for an hour.  Peg and Cindy go first each time, and wait at the bottom to clap and cheer, and tell me they can't believe how good I am, but really I think they are mostly just blocking my way to the lodge.  Lisa is behind me on the hill every time.  She is singing Run DMC, Madonna, and all things to make me laugh.  I ride the chairlift at least once with each of them, and it doesn't escape me that they are all giving me good tips, good ideas, and good support.  Support, literally and figuratively, for each of them had an arm on me at least once that day, for a pat, a high five, a fist pump, a hug.  None are patronizing.  All are meaningful.
There came a point in the day when I had to think about why I was cranky, and stop that particular slide down the slippery slope.  I know was scared of falling while exiting the chairlift, but I mastered it, kind of, once with each friend guiding me off the chair and onto the snow.   I know I didn't want to hold back my skiing friends in case I wasn't ready to go forward down that bigger hill.  But friends don't feel held back —friends stay with you where you are.  And I know I didn't want to feel like I was being pushed when I wasn't ready.   But I was more than ready, and I didn't recognize it because it was out of my box.  When I step into a different box, I need to be open to others who know that box better than I do.  Yes, I was more than ready.    
"You're a natural," said Cindy.
I'm a natural?
Cindy is a true athlete.  I'm going to carry her words with me for a long time.   And, truth be told, I kind of knew I would be able to keep my balance on the hill.  With the wind in my face and my friends at my back, how could I fall?

Let the power of the living God work through you and savor those moments when He lets you know you've made a difference! 





Posted by CC-Mom at 1/26/2011 3:29 PM | Add Comment

"Hi Honey, it's Mom . . ."

I received a voicemail message from my mother, after phoning her between services on Sunday to tell her she could view the 10:30 service "live-streamed" to her computer.  Sam's choir was singing, and I knew my parents would love the "Lessons and Carols" service (which they truly did, every bit.)  I was so excited that our services could be shared in this way!  Thankfully, my parents are completely computer savvy— just ask their Facebook and Farmville friends.

Anyway, this message (edited only slightly for length) arrived in my voicemail box at 11:45 Sunday, after church:

 "Hi Honey, it's Mom.  I just wanted you to know that we all went to church with you today.  Your dad and I, your Aunt Cindy and Uncle Eric, your Aunt Nancy and Uncle Mike, and your Aunt Susie and Uncle Herb.  (Note:  Aunt Susie and Uncle Herb are my Jewish aunt and uncle, which somehow moved me even more.)   We loved all of it, and we could see Sam perfectly.   We could see the back of all of you, too.   I'm sure you're not answering because you are at First Cafe having breakfast in Fellowship Hall, and we are going to have our fellowship here, too.  We will be watching next week—I think we've found our new church!  But just one thing—next week, could you turn around and wave?"

 "Lessons and Carols" was a wonderful Sunday — for me and apparently for my entire family in the Greater Cincinnati area.  My parents don't currently have a regular church home, which is contradictory to how I grew up.  And I know that that one thing they truly miss is the music, especially this time of year.  Knowing that this December, they can flip open a screen and join my church family, from the warm comfort of their family room, fills a part of me that I didn't know was empty.  Sam, as Shepherd #1 will be able to project his line during the Christmas Eve Pageant all the way to Southern Ohio.

If you can't make it to the 9:00, the 10:30, or the 11:59, turn on your computer, go to www.hudsonucc.org, and you will be directed to click to watch live worship.   And watch closely— if you see someone sneaking a wave to the camera during the service, that's just me, sending a little love back home.

Posted by CC-Mom at 12/14/2010 5:35 PM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

The Things I Carry

The idea for really taking into serious account "the things I carry" came to me on the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  I was attending a family brunch, and my daughter handed me a somewhat puffy paper towel.  
"Can you put this in your purse?" she asked.
"Sure," I said.  "What is it?"
"My retainer."  (Um, YUCK.)  "I don't want to wear it for the family pictures,"  she explained.   Ah, the family photos before breakfast.
I tucked her lovely packet into a safe side zipper in the interior of my bag and tried to forget.
Suddenly, my son appeared before me.  
"Mom, can you put my socks in your purse?"
(Um, WHAT?)
"Which socks and why?"
"Dad says I have to take off the white socks I wore with my loafers."
"You wore white socks with your loafers?"
"I forgot the right color dress socks."
"Dad is right.  I will meet you by the bathroom."   Two minutes later, I deposited the small bundle of laundry into my, thankfully, large purse.  
Walking back into the dining room, I am greeted by my daughter.
"Can you put these in your purse?"
Are you kidding me?
She held out two hair bands.
I opened up the bag and let her drop them in.  
Last year, I read a book called The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien.  This book was about soldiers fighting in Vietnam and the actual items they carried with them.  A bible.  A photograph.  A backpack.  Of course, it also was about those things that are carried that cannot be seen or touched.  Emotions, fear, pain, guilt, love.

I know that we all carry things seen and unseen, but my purse has been on my mind all weekend.  It is, perhaps, time, to lighten the load.  Shall we take a look?

I am currently carrying the following items, every day, no more and no less:

One large zipper wallet, containing cards, cash, coins, and tiny lucky ladybug
One pink pouch with receipts and holiday coupons, because I'm a girl who loves a deal
Two wet wipes
One check book
Hand lotion
Hair brush
Headphones
Inhaler
Antibacterial gel
Nail file
Motrin
Three pens
Phone
Keys
One flower pin for sudden accessorizing
Two sparkly bobby pins
Two aforementioned hairbands
Face powder
Lipstick
Two lip glosses
One perfume
One lip gloss and perfume combo
Carmex
Altoids
Two migraine relief medicines
One pair of earrings
One aforementioned pair of socks
One beautiful drawing given to me by my niece

There's a theory that if given a smaller plate, one would eat a smaller meal.  I'm thinking that I need a smaller purse.  

Finding a small purse is the fun part, at least for me.  And I'll bet we could all easily empty our bags and briefcases and feel an instant weight lifted.  But I wonder about the other things we carry.  Those emotions, fears, worries, battles and fights that we can't seem to put down. Is it time to give them to God, so that we can feel a TRUE weight taken off our shoulders, allowing us to walk more lightly through this holiday season?  

Consider lightening both loads, and I will, too.  The things we carry don't define us, but they can both describe us and weigh us down.   Maybe it's time to stop digging through so much stuff to find what's really inside.  Maybe it's time to just lighten up.


Posted by CC-Mom at 11/29/2010 9:13 PM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Happy Thanksgiving

    "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. 
    Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing. 
    Know ye that the Lord he is God: it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture. 
    Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name. 
    For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth to all generations."
    ~Psalm 100
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  Know that I count you among my many, many blessings!

Posted by CC-Mom at 11/25/2010 12:53 PM | Add Comment

Outdoor Girl

         I’m feeling the need to check the alignment of the planets, feel my husband’s forehead for a fever, maybe feel mine for a fever, and to look around me to see if I’m in the right house.  Something has been said out loud that can’t possibly be true.  In fact, it is so innately against all other things that have ever been said that I am wondering if I have heard it correctly.   And it’s been said about me.

“Christy, maybe you’re more of an outdoor girl than you think you are.”

WHAT?  These profound and unexpected words from my husband, Adam, after a long chat about spinning classes, yoga lounges, and gym memberships.  We had this conversation on the day when a group of my friends ran a half-marathon - - yay, friends!!  I’m not a runner.  In an archived blog, you will see that I have tried, but at least right now, it’s not my exercise of choice.  

“But you love to hike,” he said.  [Note:  he did not just say “walk,” which I also love, but in the last year, my friends and I and I have been adding some hiking trails into the mix.  I appreciated the distinction.]

“I do,” I said.  “Especially in winter.”  It’s so beautiful, those trails.  The snow on the trees, the ice on the leaves, the blue sky, or even the gray sky.  I can hike and talk to my friend Peg, walk the hills, see the beauty, and suddenly, nearly two hours have passed and we’ve lifted our spirits, raised our heart rates, and cleared our heads.  

“And you signed up for ski lessons.”

This is also true, and although it was an idea brought up by Peg and Lisa, two friends who ski a little more than I do (not hard to do, since I have not skied sine 1994, and even then, it was only twice) I was excited about it.  There was a quick moment where another friend tried to scare me with the idea of puffy, fat pants, but I’m not afraid.   

And there’s the snowshoe proposition.  Peg puts on her showshoes and walks some days when we don’t hike.  I can’t wait to try this.  Flat expanses of snow that we can track up and move across while Lance (Peg’s dog that usually tries to kill me with his twisty leash tricks) runs free through the field.  That sounds awesome.

“So,” continued Adam, “why are you trying to find classes and gyms and schedules?  Why can’t you do what you love?”

Why CAN’T I just do what I love?  As girls/teens/women do we always feel pressured to do do what our friends/peer group/lunch table  is doing?  Do we feel left out of the running group, the yoga class, the gym crowd, even if it isn’t our “thing” to begin with?  

When I was cleaning the basement over the weekend, I found boxes of essays from college classes, old notebooks, and a pile of old journals, at least ten, from as many different time periods of my life.  Each one began on page one with a plan.  Exercise, diet, goals.  Some journals celebrated the smallest achievements.  Some were filled with negative self-talk.  My wish is to throw them all away.  But I probably won’t.  The truth is that I still write down goals for every new plan, each new experience.  I should do more writing (yes, I write that down), eat less, hike more, find a work-out video, ski, snowshoe.  I have binders and spirals and beautiful leather books filled with nothing but failed plans. There are similar notes on my iPhone and beside my bed.  And the only expectations I have ever failed to meet were my own.  

Tucked into these twenty-year-old journals were pictures.  And, oh, when I compare the picture of that lovely girl to those not-so-lovely writings, how I wish I could tell her to stop wasting time.   Twenty years from now, I don’t want to have wasted any more time.

So, back to the unexpected statement.  I’m an outdoor girl?  When Adam first uttered the words, I laughed at him.  I’ve been called many things over the years, but an “outdoor girl” is not one of them.  Not once, not ever.   “You know,” I said, “I need to write more, too.   If I could commit to hiking three times a week and writing at least. . .”

“You’re planning again,” he said.  “Just do.”   Just do.  There are no classes to get to, there are no fees, no big plans, nothing but me, my thoughts, my prayers, my music, God’s big green (or snowy) Earth.   That sounds simply. . . simple.

And what popped into my head next (hello, God?) was this.  “Do what I love, beauty will follow.”  Not physical beauty, but His beauty all around me.  Nature’s beauty.  The beauty of not worrying, not planning.  The beauty of letting some things go, finally.  The beauty of just being who I am.  Maybe. . . an outdoor girl.

 

Posted by CC-Mom at 11/8/2010 9:33 AM | Add Comment

Fairweather Friends

My brother, Rayo, is not a fairweather fan.  No, indeed.  He is die-hard, all the way, no question about it, no gray area, 100%, Reds, Bengals, Xavier, any and all of his sons' teams, don't ask him again, don't look any further than his hat or sweatshirt on gameday, enough said, true blue, pass the Skyline, WHO-DEY!.   HIs loyalty is something to be admired.

I'm kind of a true fan.  I'm an Indians' fan for sure, but growing up, I was a real Reds fan.  After I was married, Adam and I moved to Atlanta, then Toronto and Baltimore, and weirdly enough, we moved to each city at a time when each team made the playoffs at some level.  I began to think I was some sort of lucky charm, and had no problem rooting for the Braves, for the Blue Jays, and for cute Cal Ripkin.  Then I came to Cleveland, and as a Reds fan in my heart, it was a little harder to get past he innate rivalry, but I do like to be a part of the fan base for the city in which I live.  Since I was never going to move again, I put on the Indians hat and the CAVS jersey and began cheering (okay, I never actually wore a jersey, it's just not a good look for me at all.)   I even became a Browns fan.  And to all Cleveland fans out there, I apologize that it appears I am not so much of a lucky charm in the Cleveland football arena.
I do find, though, that when my home team is out of contention,  I can find it in my heart to quietly root for the Reds.  Don't tell my husband or my son.  If my own team can't win, I may as well cheer for the Big Red Machine, right?  

Am I a (gulp) fairweather fan?

My brother, the loyal fan, is also a very loyal friend, which got me to wondering about what kind of friend I am.

I don't want to be a fairweather friend.   

I like to think I can be counted on for a meal in a time of crisis, for a card, a note, a flower, but I don't want to be the friend that appears only on the rainy day, coming to the rescue like a polka-dot umbrella when the skies are raining bad news and help is suddenly needed.  And on those days that a friend has done something AMAZING so that the sun is shining right on her, of course I want to be first in line to sing praises!  (I'd like to think I'm pretty good on those days.)  But I also want to be the friend that shows up on the regular days.  The days that Al Roker might not highlight on the Today Show as weather disasters or, conversely, as the "pick city" of the day.  Do I call my friend on those run-of-the-mill, medium-temperature days to see how she is doing?  Am I a superfan for my friend on those everyday days, cheering her on or lifting her spirits just to say that I think she's great?

I'm picturing these days like cardigan sweater days, you know, normal-throw-on-your-cardigan days.  Which is funny, because everyone who knows me well knows that I have a minor (perhaps serious) cardigan addiction.  Do I treat my friends really, really well on those normal cardigan weather days?  Sweater weather days?  Not just the bad rainy days or the really good sunshiny amazing friend days?  

Probably not.  Or probably not enough, anyway.

I have great friends, and hope to show them the loyalty that my brother shows to his sports teams.  I was lucky enough to grow up with that superfan, so I know that he exhibits this quality in all aspects of his life.  His friends reap the benefits of his superfan cheering.
Go friends!

That's who I want to be.  Wearing my cardigan and cheering on my friends on regular days.  Every day.  Go friends!!

Note:  I treat my cardigans really well.  I hang them on extra-nice hangers.  I am a superfan of my cardigans.  I will treat my friends as well as I treat my cardigans everyday.  Go cardigans!  Go friends!  

Second Note:  It has become apparent that I might be in need of a cardigan intervention.  

Posted by CC-Mom at 10/13/2010 3:50 PM | Add Comment

Intersection of Faith

Two weeks ago, I was asked to speak in church, to present an "Intersection of Faith."  I was happy to speak about where I have seen and felt God's presence these last few months.   Here it is, written.


When I think of an “intersection of faith” I think about a street corner, and what the streets might be named at that corner when God appears, unexpectedly.  This past year, the the streets in my church life might have been named “Music” and “Worship.”  But, truth be told, I was already running away, down a different road.  

I was finished with church music.  I love singing and listening, of course, but after more than 3 years on Music Board, I was ready to try something new. I went to a PINS meeting, window shopping along my journey for a different sort of volunteer opportunity.   


When I was invited to attend a worship meeting, I was wary— I was a visitor, after all, and I thought I should sit quietly for and listen—but that’s really not my style.  Before long, I found myself invested in the discussions about liturgy, planning, timing, and of course, music.  The music questions seemed to be directed at me, and I did my best to field them.  I’m not a choir director or a worship leader.  I actually know quite a lot. . . of nothing.  But I know what I like, and I’m usually willing to say so.


That night, amid dodging questions about hymns, I noticed a palpable spirit among the people there.  The excitement surrounding the creation of the eleven fifty-nine was contagious, though I had to admit that part of me felt like a big phony — was this service even for me?  The other side of me wanted to be a part of the experience.  Either way, I was pulled to the process in a way I have not been pulled before, and I left that first night feeling energized and renewed.  

Shockingly, I found myself on the worship team email list the next day.  I remember thinking,  “It’s fine.  I don’t have to focus on just the music, since I’m done with music, right, God?


Soon after I found myself in Peter’s office, with a question posed to me.  

“Can you give me two out of three?”

Were we gambling in church? Not exactly.  There were some committees on the table, and I needed to choose.  Was I ready to choose nothing at all?  

“Peter, I’m not sure,” I said.  I was trying to quickly, and without panicking, figure out if I could I stay on the worship team and lead a worship music committee while finishing my term on music board.   The search committee for the new director of music ministries was also being formed.  

I had to think fast.  Peter was waiting, and my head was spinning.

“God, I’m not sure what’s going on here, remember?” I thought.  “I thought—no more music.  And now three new music committees?”  I had no idea what to say.

“Yes,” I heard.  “I can do two out of three.”

Was that my voice?
 “Worship and search,” Peter said.  “And music board is almost over for the year.”

So, three out of three, at least for a while.  

“You know I know nothing about music,” I said, in a last ditch effort.    “I love music and I love to sing, but I have no real background.”

“It’s completely okay,” said my minister.  “I didn’t really go past the 7th grade.”


That’s funny, I thought.  He’s a funny guy.  

And I also thought, that’s funny, God.  Why are you leading me further down this road, into the dark alleys of meetings and emails and interviews?  Where are you taking me?  I had no idea.


Within minutes of the first meeting of the search committee, I knew.  The people around me were buzzing with energy, and the work here, and on all three committees began to fill me, not deplete me as I had feared.   I was more involved in church musice than I had ever been, and I was also more excited about meetings than I ever expected.  Who leaves a meeting with goosebumps?  Maybe I do, after God has been so obviously present.  


Over the summer, we hired a new director of music ministries, who arrived just in time to help audition singers for the eleven-fifty nine.  We were looking for a pianist, and had to look no further than Tom.  We were searching for a vocalist, and found two— two who not only auditioned, but who worshiped with us during their auditions.   The abundance was obvious, the timing a blessing.  God had provided more than we had ever prayed for, and we were grateful.  We gave thanks, knowing we had not been alone along this journey.    


I know without question that none of this was serendipity, coincidence or luck.  God’s plan all along was for our church to be blessed with a choice, and for the participants to come together exactly when and exactly how they did.  


Recently, standing in the kitchen at Open M, I was approached by a friend, a woman from church.

“Are you a part of this new service?” she asked me.

“I am,” I said, knowing I had better get this right.  She has a clear and strong voice in our congregation, and I wanted her to have the best information I could provide.    I said a speed-prayer, asking God to grant me clarity as I went on to express my excitement, and my hope that she would come and see what I have seen.   


Because I have seen God over and over again these past few months, standing on my corner of “Music and Worship.”  And even though I proceeded to stumble over every word in that kitchen conversation, I hoped my enthusiasm spoke for itself.


I worship through music, and God guided me back— just down a different path, or three.  And I know now, that whenever I am not sure where the road leads, I can simply show up.  God will lead me where I was meant to go all along.

Posted by CC-Mom at 9/21/2010 12:25 PM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

What I Saw Today

Today, I saw a man worship at his wife’s funeral.

Today, I watched, in awe, as this man was the first to stand, arms high, hands open to the Holy Spirit.  

How does a man stand and worship God when his wife has died?  

Or is the real question: would I be strong enough to stand and worship in my own time of grief?

From my seat in the back, I watched him stand.  Around him, others stood, and then, we were all standing.  Some with hands raised, some with hands in pockets.  The music moving and powerful, the pictures on the screen.  

This was only the beginning of what was to be a powerful celebration, but more than that, what turned out to be a true lesson of what God can do when faith, hope and love abide.  

It was all about the love.

I mean, the faith was obvious.  Though I didn’t know her well, I felt like I knew her today, almost instantly, and even felt disappointment for having missed out on this wonderful human being in my own life.   Our brief meetings at Christmas parties and work functions could not do justice to the woman that she truly was, but the testimony given today certainly did.  She loved God; this true and simple fact was felt from the moment we entered the church.  The minister spoke of her passion for spreading God’s word.   I heard whispers of how she shared her faith with others.  

Hope?  I think it must have been years of hope.  Hope for her recovery, hope for good days, hope for a cure.  Hope that I cannot even begin to imagine, I’m sure.  This family and their extended family and friends had hope beyond hope, and that, too, hung like a beautiful canopy over today’s service.  A message from today was that hope and faith are not wasted when are prayers are not answered the way we wish— other things with grow from the hope and faith that have been put forth so diligently.

And the LOVE.  The minister spoke of  faith, hope and love as “the three mighty men,” and I will now always picture them as such.  Love for family, love for others, love of God, eternal love . . . all kinds of love radiated from this family today.  And if I, a back-of-the-church attendee could feel it, I can’t even imagine what the family was feeling.  Love all over the place, I hope.


The prayers were powerful, the shared stories personal and telling.  My husband would later state that it was the most uplifting service for the saddest occasion.  My husband, bent in prayer next to me, was an unexpectedly moving sight.  I was sitting with the work crowd, two pews of men in sharp suits, and me.  I was aware of his humbled position, certain that he was thinking of his friend's loss, his own life.  He is a man of perspective.  His clasped hands were praying hands. 

The minister articulated asking God to guide those present in intersecting two kinds of prayer:  celebrating the life (she has won her race!  she has gone home!) and healing grieving hearts at the same time.  I have always wondered about how to pray at these difficult moments.  I was grateful for his explanation.   He spoke of some possible physical attributes of Heaven, and as I was wanting more and more of the beautiful descriptions, I thought—how wonderful that the three young children will have these words to hold on to in their moments of doubt.


The music was something I won’t soon forget, and I will never hear the expression “praise music” without thinking of today.  For that’s what it really, truly  was.  And even if it didn’t fall into that exact category, that’s how it felt.   Praise.  Music.  It was music at its best, reaching out to touch and stir the hearts of those present.  Music with meaningful words, offering time for reflection, chosen for a reason.  

The last song was chosen by his wife to be played on this day.   I have been thinking all day that everyone present heard the words that she wanted us to hear, loud and clear.   A song with lyrics about imagining what it would be like to one day see Jesus’ face.  What she could once only imagine — what it would be like to walk by the side of the Lord— now she knows.

And I think that’s how her husband could stand in worship today.  The grief is real and true, but faith, hope and love abide.  And while she walks with the Lord, he stands with three mighty men.


Thank you, God, for allowing me to be present today at this celebration of life.  I was moved by the worship today in unexpected ways, and I am humbled by the strength I have witnessed around me.   As I continue to pray for the family, I ask that you work through me so that I may help others, which was the prayer of the family today.  Amen.

Posted by CC-Mom at 7/29/2010 11:55 PM | Add Comment

The B.O.D.

The B.O.D.
Sounds like a fancy place to live, doesn't it?  As in, "I live in the B.O.D., how about you?"  A place that would have it's own zip code and it's own television show, right?
It's not.
The B.O.D. exists in the everyday vernacular of my friends.  It's often given among our circle, very often received. It's good when you get it, but sometimes, I find it's not so easy for me to give.  Especially to those who really deserve it.
It's The Benefit of the Doubt.
I have one friend who gives it freely.  She's so good at it.  I mean, really, really good.  She sees the best in people before she considers the worst, and when I think about it, she is very well-liked in town.  Gee, I wonder if the two are connected?  
The other day, I was in line at Wal-Mart.  It was an exceptionally short line, which felt like a miracle at the moment.  The gentleman in front of me only had a couple of items.  Even I didn't have a full cart— it was a quick shopping day.  Just a handful of items to get my family through the weekend. Bread, milk, soda, baseballs, Gatorade, chocolate, donuts.  The basic weekend food pyramid.
 I approached the checkout.  Where was the conveyer belt?  Then I saw the sign.  "20 items or less."
"I'm in the wrong line," I said.
"There's no one behind you," said the guy in front of me.
The cashier, an older man, said, "It's okay, you can stay."
"I don't mind moving," I said.  In my head, I was imagining the worst-case-scenario, arriving behind me in line.  A snarky housewife, a family with toddlers trying to move it along, a mean old man who might yell at me. . . 
"Suit yourself," said the cashier.
"What do you have, anyway," said the nice man in front of me, "like, 23 items?"
He was right, so I stayed, having been invited by the cashier.  I quickly began putting items on the check-out stand, when it happened.  Customers behind me.  A dad and two sons, with a squirt-gun each, ready to buy them and go play.
"How many items does she have, DAD?"
"Why is she breaking the rules?"
"Some people just break the rules."
My defenses were up.  I wanted to turn and apologize.  I should have, really.  I was, in all actuality, breaking the rules.  But the chatter behind me continued, and I couldn't muster up the strength to turn around and just tell them. . .what?. . . that I was a nice person who is generally a rule-follower?  That I always let customers with fewer items jump ahead of me in line?  That I return my shopping cart and I never steal grapes?  I wanted to ask them to give me the benefit of the doubt.  I had made an honest mistake and I had worked it out in an honest manner with the cashier.  Their nasty chatter was hurting my feelings.
In the parking lot, they were parked across from me, and I fake-cried when I was putting my cart back.  I know, I know, it seems dramatic, but here was my thought process.  If the dad saw me wipe my eyes and let out a big shuddering sigh, maybe he might think for a minute, "Hey, that woman is having a really rotten day, and I just gave her a really hard time.  I should have been nicer and made my mean little boys stop their rude behavior."  You see, this is the dream world I live in.  
But the truth is, I need to stop and think about this, too.  Because I'm just as guilty as judging too quickly, getting easily angry, assuming the worst of someone's smallest actions.  And sometimes, I might need to stop and remember that I don't really know the whole story of someone's day, week, month, or life.  The benefit of the doubt is a free and easy thing to offer.  And while my tears that day weren't real, someone else's day might truly be horrible, their month might be unbearable, their life might have taken a bad turn.   They don't need me and my silly judgements to make it worse.

Posted by CC-Mom at 6/28/2010 9:53 PM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

Ode to May-- The Annual Posting


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For those of you who are "in the know" . .  this is a just slightly toned-down version of the original poem, which was written during my mid-May breakdown, 2006.  Happy May, everyone!!!



Ode to May 

May is busy, 
May’s a mess,
May is crazy, 
I'm totally stressed. 

Lunches, brunches, 
Mother's Day. 
Choir, 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







Posted by CC-Mom at 5/2/2010 12:44 PM | Add Comment

You Get What You Give

There's a song I love, called "You Get What You Give," by New Radicals.  I heard if first on the soundtrack of a Scooby-Doo movie, but still, when I listen to it on my iPod, it is categorized as "Adult Alternative, which makes me feel very edgy, far from my more traditional, leaning-toward-preppy self.  I like the beat, I like the words, I like the title.

     Yesterday, I took a walk with some women from my church (I almost wrote "girls," I admit, it's how I think of myself and my friends!) Truly, I had to put myself in the mindset to take that walk.  My friend, Cindy, has been asking me to come for weeks.  

"Come to the walk/run club."
"Which do you do?" I ask her.
"I run."
"Then I'm not coming."
"There are walkers, Christy."
"Do they walk/run or just walk?"
"They walk/run."
I said I wouldn't come.

Most of this is my fault.  About a year and a half ago, I started writing about my new plan to be a runner.  I even. . . ran. . . for a while. Now, some friends and family still sometimes think I'm doing this crazy thing.  I'm not.  Even my husband, who ran with me, and let me scream and cry and yell at him the whole time, wonders why I don't understand that running a specific time or distance can be seen as a true accomplishment.  A real goal.  Oh, but I do understand this.  For other people.  I choose, instead,  to walk and plan The Great American Novel.  But you get what you give.  I gave the running thing out into the universe.  I get why people think I might want to run.  

So, on Wednesday, I ran (pardon the pun) into an old friend, Annie.  She was talking about the Thursday walk/run club, and how she would never run again, she just wanted to take a good walk.  My ears perked up.  

"I'll come and walk," I heard myself say.  It was supposed to be a beautiful morning, and I hadn't seen Annie in a long time.  Was she lying to me?  Was she going to take off in a jog?  I couldn't be sure, but I put my trust in her, and on Thursday morning, we all met at the church.

The runners were stretching, the walkers were stretching (a little.)  Then off we went, into the beautiful sunshine, into our beautiful town.  Annie, Jennifer and I started our walk from the church lot — Jennifer was a new friend to me, so it was new conversation on the old, familiar streets that day.  The three of us reflected about family, faith, exercise, baking, iMoms (Shout out to the iMoms!  I hear I'm linked to your Facebook page— be sure to check the blog sometimes!)  About turning 30 (Annie and Jennifer) and turning 40.  (Who?)  At one point, the runners passed by, and we scooched off the path and clapped for them.  At one point, our minister, Peter, drove by and honked.  There was a real feeling of connectedness to the idea of this club.   

And as I turned back into the welcoming church with my friends, I thought, WOW,GOD!  Sometimes I really don't know what I need.  

You get what you give.  These women gave to me a walk, a talk, an unexpected lift, time in the sunshine, memories of what it's like to have toddlers at home, ideas for baking and scrapbooking, a reconnection with an old friend, and a new friend for the journey.  Blessings every step!  I can only hope I gave some of the same.  And I was just going for the exercise. . . .

Posted by CC-Mom at 4/30/2010 8:39 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Who Cares?

   

         In a moment which I am less than proud of, I found myself wondering this weekend, “Do my children even CARE if I show up?  His baseball games, her dance competitions, the Sunday mornings for church choir, the pre-Sadie Hawkins dance photos, the orchestra concerts, the middle school plays, the little league practices? Most times, I feel like I’m the one dragging everyone out of bed, into the car, and to whatever scheduled activity is on the calendar.  Begging them to shower, forcing them to eat, pushing them into coats, hustling them into the car.  I’m usually happy to GO (although somedays I’d rather stay in my sweats and watch Project Runway) but often, they sure don’t seem happy at all.  This confuses me.  I have washed the leotards, stain-treated the baseball jerseys, refrigerated the Gatorade, packed the chairs, packed the snacks, packed the recently-restrung violin, but the people-to-whom-I-am-referring act like I am forcing them to attend their chosen events.  Am I a shortstop?  No, I have good hand-eye coordination, but I don’t have the arm.  Do I take pre-pointe class?  Oh, I assure you, I have not the balance nor the legs.  Am I in the youth church choir?  Well, I sometimes have a fresh-faced look about me, but no.  Can’t pass for 2nd grade.

 

     To be clear, again, I’ve gladly signed up for the mom-job, and when at all possible, I don’t miss a thing.  I cheer, I take photos, I cry in the pew, I apply the sunblock, I purchase the corsage for the dance, I often drive across town five times in a day delivering children and sneaking peeks at whatever they are doing.  Yesterday, I attended a dance competition that pushed me to a new level of “are you kidding me, Moms?”  But I am there, bending my neck to the point of nearly breaking to see my kiddos do their thing.  Uploading photos, downloading video.

     Do my children care?  Do they notice?  

     My parents went to everything my brothers and I ever did.  Every play, every baseball game, every concert.  My mom sold tickets to my high school musicals during my lunch period, and my dad stayed with me through endless community theater rehearsals for weeks of spring evenings during my eighth-grade year.   They were band parents, PTA parents, coaches.  They were backstage, they were chaperones, they were on the sidelines.  And I knew it.  Did I expect it?  Did I take advantage of it?  Or was it just the way my family functioned?   Was it comforting to look up and see the face of my mom or dad in the crowd?  Oh, to be sure.  Did I always acknowledge that with a smile or a grateful phrase?  Oh, I’m sure not.  Quite the opposite, more than likely.

     God, when I feel unappreciated, remind me to think about how some of my best memories are of my parents always being there, programs in hand, camera in bag, probably coming straight from work, from a meeting, or from a long day that I wasn’t even aware of.  But Lord, I’m aware now!  Gently tell me that my husband and I are trying to give support to my children everyday.  Give me strength (the actual physical strength, please) to keep pushing them into the van.  I will keep showing up (even if feeling slightly unwelcome) at Middle School lunch periods, driving hither and dither and then some, and continue cheering like a maniac from the bleachers, because it’s what I learned to do from my parents long ago.  And I’m pretty sure it’s how this family functions.

 Note:  It Takes a Village

     When I remember all of my own rehearsals and plays, concerts and events, I can’t help but remember that it wasn’t just my own parents in those seats.  Aunts and uncles, grandparents and friends, the Vockells.  (I love you, Suzie. )  All supportive adults who loved me, cared for me, nurtured me.  My children are also lucky enough to have many grown-ups who show up.  So a big  “AMEN!” to my village who supports and loves my children from the seats and from the bleachers.  I love you, my village people.  And THAT is how my family functions.

Posted by CC-Mom at 4/11/2010 12:42 PM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

Are You There, God? (It's Me, Christy. . . )

  
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  I talk a lot.  A whole lot.  To my friends, my family, my mom, my kids.  I talk on the phone, I talk on the treadmill, I talk in my sleep.  I talk to  strangers in the grocery store, to the person next to me in any line, and to any cashier, waiter, waitress, delivery person or crossing guard who will talk back.  I  just never know what I might learn.

    I talk to God all the time.  I'd like to think that I'm not talking when I'm only asking for things, but sometimes I fear that's the case, and I'm pretty sure that I'm not alone in this predicament.  But it was after the Ash Wednesday church service, when God talked back to me, that I started talking to God just a little bit more.

    It wasn't a loud, echoing, booming voice that answered me, or some small, faithful whisper that I wasn't sure about.  Nope— I had a fight with God in my head during a church service.  And for perhaps the very first time, I experienced what it was like to engage with God in true conversation, to give actual words to what God might be thinking in response to my side of a conversation.  Was I voicing words for God in my head?  I don't think so. . . it was happening awfully fast, even for me, a quick talker, to come up with two sides of this fight.

    The sermon was asking me to lay down my burdens at Jesus' feet.  To forgive my neighbors.   To repent and turn to God.  Forgive.

    "I can't lay it down, God."
    "You can."
    "I can't."
    "You can."
    "I'm not ready to forgive."
    'You will be."
    Where were these words coming from in my head?  They were popping in faster than I could answer them.  
    "Jesus, I'm not able to . . ."
    "You will be.  I'll help you."

    Then again, today, a conversation with God, on a plane.  I am being lifted into the air, a moment when I always pray, always ask for God to intervene, to carry me safely.  Who doesn't, really?  But today, there are several prayers on my heart, for friends, for family, and before I can get the words out, I am hearing answers ringing in my head, drowning out the sound of the plane's engines.

    "Watch over this flight, God,"
    "I am."
    "And for my. . ."
    "It's all going to be fine."
    "And. . ."
    "I'm carrying this for you."

     Is that a smile in God's voice?

    I couldn't help but think that while I was lifted into the air, I was being spiritually lifted.  Filled.  I had a vision of God's hands cupping that plane, and I know that from now on, when I fly, I will remember that feeling.

    I start to think  if God is ready for conversation, ready to pick a fight with me during church, then what about all the pointless stuff that goes on in my brain?  There might be no room for negative self-talk anymore.  Maybe God won't let me get a word in anymore, anyway.   And wouldn't THAT be great?   A chat with the Lord instead of nonsense?  I'll take it.  

     And then I wondered this:  maybe God has been talking back to me all along, but I haven't been ready to hear.  Have I talked over Him?  Interrupted Him?  Missed His answer in the chaos of the world?  Whatever the reason, I'm ready to listen and learn now.  And I'm certain He has more to say.

Posted by CC-Mom at 3/7/2010 11:37 PM | View Comments (3) | Add Comment

You Are Enough

    Cardioke.  Who knew?  Searching Exercise TV On Demand, I found a work-out that claimed I could "dance, sculpt and sing" my way to personal fitness" for free.  I punched the button and prepared to be disappointed by Billy Blanks, Jr.  But I gave it my all, and suddenly, I was halfway through "Let's Get it Started" by the Black-Eyed Peas, and about to start "Don't You Wish your Girlfriend was Hot Like Me?"  Singing?  Oh, yeah. Singing alone and LOUD in my bedroom.   Dancing?  Well, I'm not a dancer by nature, but I was moving for sure, and cracking myself up which had to be burning more calories than watching my TiVo of "The Biggest Loser."
     When the cool-down arrived (hey?  how did we get to the cool-down?  I want to sing some more!), I was not prepared.  I was NOT prepared to cry  during Cardioke.  There.  It's out there.  I've said it.  Apparently, Billy Blanks Jr. is married to the lovely woman who assists him on stage, Sharon, and she sings the final, moving song.  The lyrics are below.   They're far more powerful when sung, and I can't help but think about what a great message they could send to our youth.  But the words hit home with me.  So here they are for you.  Enjoy.

"You Are Enough"  
by Sharon Catherine Blanks

Start from where you are
Take a deep breath in
Take a brave look in the mirror
At the soul inside your skin
Perfection's overrated
And simply stated

It's gonna be all right

Every flaw is magnified

Underneath your hardened eyes

You pick yourself apart

And cut you down to size

It’s just standard operation

For your self-humiliation

It’s become so much your normal 

That you don’t realize 


You are enough

You are enough

You are exactly where

You need to be

Right now it’s tough

But all that you need

To get through

Is already in you

You are enough


There’s so much pain all around you

From the nerdy plain jane

To the pretty girl, too

You just never know

So you think that you’re alone

That no one can relate to you

And you’re the only one 


It’s gonna be all right


Don’t like your job

Don’t like your life

You’re fighting with your husband

Your fighting with your wife

No one understands you

They’ve never been your age

It’s funny

Each new generation

Has the same old rage


You are enough

You are enough

You are exactly where

You need to be

Right now it’s tough

But all that you need

To get through

Is already in you

You are enough


There’s never been a you before

So how can someone

Tell you how to be?

I wish that I could take away

Your doubt and set you free

Start from where you are

Take it in stride

Call it all good

Call it a win

Reach from inside


You are enough

You are enough

You are exactly where 

You need to be

Right now it’s tough

But all that you need 

To get through

Is already in you


You are enough

You are enough

You are exactly where you need to be

Right now it’s tough

But all that you need 

To get through

Is already in you


I am enough









Posted by CC-Mom at 2/3/2010 2:25 PM | View Comments (6) | Add Comment

Testing the Water

     Have you ever wondered if you missed your true calling?  I hear it all the time about so many people.  "So-and-so missed his true calling—he was meant to be a teacher," or "She's missed her true calling; she should go into politics."      We used to say that our mom was meant to be a doctor, but actually, I think she was meant to be our mom with an exceptional ability to diagnose anything and everything that comes her way.  People know this about her, and they call on her.  She is always right about my kids' symptoms, about telling me not to worry, about telling me when I should go to the doctor.  My mom can tell when I'm about to get a headache.  (Apparently, she can also see the future.)
    I wonder, some days, about my true calling.  When I see people like Susan Boyle on television, at 40-something years old, changing her life, doing what she was meant to do, singing a song called "Who I Was Born to Be," I can't help but wonder.  Am I?  Am I yet?  This is not to say that I'm meant to go on British TV and come in second-place on "Britain's Got Talent." (Because, obviously, I would come in first!)  KIDDING!  This is to say, am I who I am meant to be?  Who God intended me to be?
    There are days when I feel as shallow as a wading pool.  But it is on those days, specifically, that I wonder:  is there a deep end of this pool that I'm neglecting?  A deep, spiritual side that I'm simply afraid to navigate? And if I swim toward that part of myself, what will I find?  And why am I afraid to find out what God might intend for me if I really, really sink into myself?  If I were to investigate this metaphor of the pool and the water a little further, I think it would be the life-saver that's missing.  What is it?  Trust?  Faith? 
     I'm not afraid of water, generally.  Or swimming.  I tend to venture out into the deep end of most pools, and I love floating in the lake at my parents' summer place.  In fact, I have often said that floating in this very water is where I find the most peace of all.  
     Maybe, if I can survive a deep end of a pool, and the deep end of a lake, then I can survive a dip into the deep end of my soul.  I just need to hang onto my faith, hold on tightly to trust, and jump.
    

Posted by CC-Mom at 1/20/2010 3:30 PM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Merry Christmas, Jono

      Merry Christmas, Jono.     You may or may not read this, but this is the first time I could write about last Christmas.  I kept wondering why this year felt so calm, as if I had extra days, extra time, extra blessings.   It's because I do.  . . 

      Last December 23rd, I found myself unexpectedly in the Pediatric ICU, staring out the window at a blinking neon sign.  The sign said, "Parking," and it was blinking green and red, the colors of Christmas.  I remember thinking that I would not ever forget that moment, even if I wanted to forget it forever.   The rain, the darkness, the dim waiting room, the lights of the vending machine, but mostly the blinking sign that I was focused on, praying.  
     We were at Akron Children's for an outpatient surgery for Jono.  It was a simple birthmark removal, scheduled over Christmas break because his leg would be set in a full-length cast for two weeks following the short procedure.  We figured he could rest at home rather than navigate school hallways and snowy weather.   We were to expect one hour, plus or minus the time for anesthesia, recovery, and travel.  I had my laptop and my book.  Adam had his laptop, and we had settled into the waiting room for our brief stay.  Christmas preparations were complete; we would be home in the evening with nothing to do but make Jono comfortable and await Christmas day.
     After an hour, the surgeon came and said the surgery was great; Jono should be awake in about twelve minutes.  I remember thinking that was a funny number.
     We started to gather our things.  A half-hour passed.  Adam and I started to get antsy.  Then another half-hour. Then nurses came to find us, asking us things, telling us things.  I remember standing, and then telling myself to keep my balance.  I remember telling myself to focus and listen.  I remember looking at Adam, thinking, is this happening?  Is this us?  It's Christmas.  The words were swimming together, but I can remember their faces as clear as the day in front of me now.

     He's vomiting excessively.
     Extreme hives.  
     In and out. . .
     Toxicology.
     Cardiology.  His heart. . . 
     In and out. . . 
     He's responding if.  .  . 
     Three breathing treatments.
     Oxygen dropping.  
     In and out. . . 


    And then.  We're doing everything we can.

    Could we see him?  They would come get us, they assured us, as soon as we could.  Wait. . .  he's not awake?  

    And they were gone.

    Another forty-five minutes, until they came back.  This, after we asked everyone we could, everyone who passed by.  By then, we were the only ones in the bright room, decorated for Christmas.  When we were taken down the hall, I knew.  I knew it was still bad.   There were ten doctors and nurses, at least, surrounding a bed at the end of the hallway.  Please, please, please God do not let that be his bed.  But it had to be.  We were the only ones left.    Please, please, please.  Please, please, please.  But as we approached, they parted, and we saw him. 

    If this was better, what must "bad" have been?

    I remember someone nodding in my direction, and a nurse sliding a chair behind me.  Did I look like I was going to pass out?  I remember putting my bags on the seat.

    I remember Adam kneeling by his bed, saying his name, over and over.  I asked question after question.  Questions I don't remember now, but Adam tells me they were important and that he doesn't know how I knew to ask.  I don't either.   I rubbed my son's arm.  I watched the numbers on his monitors.  I listened, but I couldn't understand why he wasn't awake.  What was he reacting to?

     Morphine.
     Anesthesia.
     Epinephrine. Twice.
     Two nausea meds.
     Benadryl.
     Steroids

    Suddenly, they were moving his bed, beginning to roll him away.  

    "There's a bed in the ICU.  We're rolling," someone said.  
    "Can I come?"  I can hear my own voice, panicked.
     A blond nurse, pretty, young, at the head of Jono's bed, told me we could go along for almost the whole way, and then they would have to go down a different hallway.

     I'm still rubbing his arm as we walk.
     Wait. . . . he's not awake?

     We walked with the bed down the hallway as long as we could.  The surgeon, who had been called back to the hospital, was walking with us, said this.
     "You're in a parallel hallway to him right now.  You're here, and he's right over there.  They're going to settle him into a room, and then they will come get you.  They said it would be a few minutes, but it won't.  It will take longer; I just want you to know."  I have never forgotten his hallway comment.  It was what got me down the hallway.

     Once in the waiting room, he settled us in, and started to go to Jono.

     "Wait," I said.  "He's not awake."  I stopped.  Could I ask it?  I took a deep breath.  "Am I supposed to be afraid that he's not going to wake up?"
     The day had taken so many unexpected turns so far.  What would make me think we were immune to the bad ending?  The ending from the TV show, the ending that starts in the waiting room when the nurse says, "We're doing everything we can."

     The doctor looked me square in the face.  
     "He has had anesthesia and Morphine.  Benadryl.  Two rounds of Epi.  Nausea drugs.  He's been struggling to breathe for hours.  He's tired.  He's fourteen.  He can't wake up yet."

     Which brings me to the neon sign, and where I prayed staring at the parking garage across the street from the PICU.  Parking  Parking.  Parking.  Praying.  Praying.  Praying.
     It was another hour before someone came to get us.  It was a long walk down the hall; Adam and I didn't talk.  What we had seen at the end of the first hallway had been so unexpected, so awful.  What awaited us now?

     It was a regular hospital room, spacious though, and dark.    Jono was in bed, not awake.   In the corner, a nurse sat at a small desk with a computer, watching him.  We stood in the doorway.  There was no oxygen mask, I saw.  He was breathing deeply and without any difficulty.

     "You can talk to him," she said, "he's been asking for you."
     "He woke up?" I asked her.   I could feel my heart pounding.  I started to cry.  Adam was at his bedside again, kneeling.
     "You can wake him," she said.  "He's been asking if you're okay."

     This is the moment I try to go back to when I find myself drifting back to that day.  More often than not, I find myself walking down that first hallway, being shocked and stunned by the sight of my son on a stretcher, unable to take in air, unable to wake, covered in hives like I have never seen, not responding, oxygen dropping.   When I remember this at night, I lose that night, even though he is safe and healthy, sleeping down the short hallway from our bedroom.  When I remember in the daytime, my heart races and pounds, even though he is safe and healthy, probably walking down a crowded hallway at the high school.  Adam and I don't talk about the details of that day; there is no need.  We were there.

     That night, after Jono woke and spoke and we cried and watched the CAVS game, Adam and I went to the hospital cafeteria around 11:00 pm for a bite to eat and drink.   I remember staring at the giant gingerbread house in the center of the dining room as we sat, saying nothing.
     "Did you think today. . .ever. . .that . . ?" I said.
     "Yes," he said.

     We all stayed that night in the hospital.  Adam curled on the couch that was far to short for his height, and me in a chair by Jono's bed.  My feet were propped on his bed all night, watching numbers all night, dozing here and there, waking to speak to every nurse or doctor that came in to check on him.  On the 24th, the cardiologist came in and thought he had the wrong room— he had seen Jono the day before and didn't recognize him.  That's how bad it was; rather, how good it was now.

     Jono's scar, about six inches in length, is finally starting to look healed and like it belongs on his leg.  For so long, I could not look at it, red and angry.  The beginning of such a scary day.  I think scars can be beautiful.  I am embracing his, finally.

     It would appear that he reacted violently to the anesthesia, but that he also has a severe allergy to Morphine, of which we were obviously unaware.  We all went home on the afternoon of the 24th, in time to be home and spend a very quiet Christmas Eve with our family.  I cried the entire car ride home from the hospital, simply because Jono was in the backseat.  

     As scary as those hours were, there was an unexpected sanctuary found in a corner of the dark waiting room.  No candles, no sermon, no hymns.  Just me, the glow of a neon sign, and God listening to my prayers.  

    "He's been asking if you're okay," said the nurse.  

     Thank you, God.  Merry Christmas.
 
    

    
     

    

    
        

Posted by CC-Mom at 12/15/2009 3:33 PM | View Comments (5) | Add Comment

A Christmas Carol

   
See full size image
 Oh, I love a Christmas carol.  I count down the days until the Friday after Thanksgiving, the self-imposed start-date for the playing of all Christmas music in my house and my car.  From this day and throughout December, all radios are tuned to the 24-hour Christmas station, and I love every song that plays.  From a symphony orchestra playing classical seasonal music, to 
Boyz 2 Men singing "Silent Night."   From our own church choirs singing "Jesse's Carol" to The Barenaked Ladies Christmas album.  From the Holiday Concert at Severance Hall to the piped-in carols at Giant Eagle, I'm all in.  100%.  Hook, line and sinker.  Or maybe, hook, line and singer?  Because this time of the year, I sing.  I sing in my house, my shower, my head, and in my yard while I am decorating.  I sing in the grocery aisle and I don't stop when someone passes me with their cart.  I sing when I wake my children, I sing while I bake, I sing while I walk.  I turn off the TV when it is usually on, and I turn up the radio volume  and sing.  

    I sing in my heart.  

    If I stop to take notice, there is a Christmas carol running through my head most of the time.  Usually, it is "Joy to the World," but often, it is "Angels We Have Heard on High."  Yesterday, it was Oh, Holy Night.  Did you know that Miley Cyrus has a version of "Oh, Holy Night" on the radio?  Yep, I sang along at full volume with her in my van on the way to Old Navy.  Good for her. . . it was really lovely.  

    My son, Jono, loves "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," specifically the version done by Take 6.  If you've never heard it, check it out.  It's worth it.    

     I have spoken aloud more than once about the closeness to God I have found in singing.  When I am singing, I am praying.  I am worshiping.  I am connecting with the words that are in the music, and feeling the music that is accompanying those beautiful hymns and songs of praise.  So when the list is too long, the day is too short, the children are too busy, the family is scattered, Adam is traveling, and I start to forget why I am in Target, yet again, searching for that one strand of 50 white lights on a green wire, I sometimes stop.  I hear the piped in carol, whatever it is at the moment.  I take a breath.  I HEAR the carol.   

     I hear "JOY TO THE WORLD, THE LORD IS COME."  And sometimes, it makes me cry in Target, (because I'm just a little emotional) but I buy the lights, to decorate my home and light the way.  And I choose the gifts, and I finish my  list, more mindful now that I am doing so to celebrate the birth of Christ.  The Christmas season, at least for me, would not be the same without the carols, without the song that God has placed upon my heart, and reminded me, at so many times, to just sing.


Posted by CC-Mom at 12/9/2009 11:21 AM | Add Comment

The Thanksgiving Blog

A re-post of the essay that started it all. . .    Turkey 

        My husband is allergic to poultry. A unique and difficult, but not unbearable affliction most times of the year, but a tricky one to live with in the month of November. When the topic first comes up in conversation, people are usually very interested. “Chicken?” they ask? “Duck? Goose?” Yes. Chicken, duck and goose, and anything else that flies. “Eggs?” No. Not eggs, but he doesn't like them. If you ask me, this really shouldn’t be an option when your choices are limited to begin with, but all those years ago at the allergist when Adam was six, nobody thought to ask me.

So every year, the week of Thanksgiving arrives, and everyone in my house is getting ready for our annual trek toCincinnati. (Oh, did I say everyone? I meant me. But I digress.) I’m packing three kids for the trip, and I’m gathering the food for our yearly contribution. One giant sack of potatoes, which Adam will mash at my parents’ house on Thursday, ingredients for two chocolate pies which my 13-year old will assemble, and all the components for my husband’s meal. A pork roast, sausage-and cornbread-stuffing (prepared with vegetable broth, of course) and some pork gravy on the side. We are a food-laden van, no turkey in sight, headed down I-71 on the busiest Wednesday evening of the year. The thousands of minivans that we pass have a similarly stuffed appearance. Suitcases, children, sleeping bags and the occasional lot of Christmas presents tossed into the back. I venture a silent guess that no one else has a pork roast traveling on the floor of the passenger seat.

Before I continue with my Thanksgiving story, I need to share with you that many of my mother’s relatives are Jews. I grew up going to Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs, and occasionally attending Hebrew school with my cousin Julie. I remember Julie’s Bat Mitzvah very well because I was 13, too. A 13-year-old not-quite-confirmed, not-yet-baptized girl watching Julie complete this rite of passage. But what I remember most is the pink-and-white reception that followed, spending the night, and watching her open the gifts and the cards and the money and thinking. . . I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to be a Jew. But it was not meant to be, and a few months later I completed my own confirmation, following a quickie baptism that same morning, next to the boy of my dreams. Tom Lucky. I was certain that the fact that Tom Lucky and I were being baptized together on confirmation day meant that we would be together forever. I mean seriously. . .holy water? If that’s not binding, what is? But some dreams are not meant to be, and so I arrive back at my story, present day, where I am driving in my silver Honda Odyssey with the poultry-allergic, most-certain-man-of-my dreams back home to see my grown-up cousin Julie and all of my relatives for Thanksgiving Day.

And I am driving a pork dinner into the midst of my semi-Jewish family. It’s as if I need to have little signs to stick into all of the dishes. Something like, “Warning! Turkey! This could kill Adam!” or, “Pork, the other white meat! Could offend Uncle Herb!” We strategically place the Waldorf salad and my dad’s mashed turnips between the meats so that no one slips up. My Uncle Mike, who’s Catholic, gets to try it all. I haven’t even mentioned the fact that both of my sons are allergic to nuts because my tired mind can’t wrap around one more restriction on this particular day. I just let the children loose and pray for the best. My big family is together on most holidays, but Thanksgiving is the only one that seems to hold these particular culinary dangers. The other ones are only odd, like the fact that we eat bagels and lox on Easter. But hey, if you’re going to mix traditions, food is an easy way to start.

 You may wonder what any of this has to do with why I have chosen The First Congregational Church of Hudson as my church home.  Here is a place where I can be true to my faith background.  Here, I have freedom to respect and honor the faiths of those that I love, all while worshiping in the way that I choose to worship and serving in the way that I choose to serve.  When we were completing our membership class, Adam and I were asked to draw representations of our faith journeys, and to write about our faith backgrounds.  This is mine, in a nutshell. (Not a peanut shell, of course!)  I know that my faith future is here.  This November, and always, I am grateful for and proud of what my church represents and upholds.  Christian or Jew, poultry or pork, I know that anyone I love will be accepted through these doors, and this I count among my many blessings.

My youngest brother was married this summer. She’s a teacher, she’s smart, she’s pretty, and they really, really love each other. And, wouldn't you know it, she’s a good Jewish girl.  I think she'll be right at home.



 

Posted by CC-Mom at 11/24/2009 10:52 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Note to Self

     Reading and writing and .  . . well, they said there would be no math, and so far, there's been no math.  But lately, I've been doing an awful lot of the other stuff!  I've taken on a personal (ridiculous?) challenge.  November is National Novel Writing Month, or as the official website dubs it, NaNoWriMo.  We writers, on the website, are referred to as Wrimos.  Every time I see these abbreviations, I feel a little like Mork from Ork.  "Na-nu, Na-nu," remember?   Anyway, the challenge is 50,000 words by the end of the month.  The month is halfway over, and I'm not quite halfway there, but I think I can catch up.  Although Thanksgiving will present a writing challenge, so I better finish early, which means I'm really quite behind.   And when I try to figure out how many words per day, that brings math right back into the. . . um . . . equation.

     My writing software keeps a constant word count at the bottom of my document.   The other day, I cut a tiny piece out of a yellow Post-It note to cover this changing, distracting number.  It was my hope that when I peeked under the Post-It note that I would have exceeded my word count dreams.  So far, I've been a little disappointed.  I think I need to write a little more and peek a little less.

     I've also been reading, mostly because I occasionally need a break from writing.  My friend Lynn (Ah, Lynn, who has known me the longest of any friend, who knows me for REAL, who knows the dreams that live inside my heart) sent me a book for my birthday.  The Wednesday Sisters, by Meg Waite Clayton.  Stuck to the book was a seemingly innocent orange Post-It. (What's with all the Post-Its?)  It read:  Don't know if you've ever read this, but when I did, all I could think about was you. . .            

     When I called to thank her, she asked if I already owned the book.  I told her I did not, and I was looking forward to reading it.  The next time we spoke, she asked if I had read it yet.  I hadn't.  I promised her it was on my bedside table (true, it was.)  I had a book club book to finish, and who knows what else.  I did pick it up, though, and read the back of the book, and here's what caught my eye.  "Linda admits that she aspires to write a novel herself, and the Wednesday Sisters Writing Society is born. . . they begin to embrace who they are and what they  hope to become, welcoming readers to experience, along with them, the power of dreaming big."  Hm.  It was starting to make sense why she wanted me to read this.  I re-read her Post-It.  I read a few pages.  I moved the book to the top of my pile.

     Two days ago, I picked the book back up, and I haven't put it down, except to work on my 50,000 words.   This weekend, it's been me, the book, and my laptop.  We are a gruesome threesome.  Words, words, and more words.  But here are the words, from my new favorite book, that have stuck with me today, and may not leave me for a long while: 

    "We crowded around her with the music blaring—'believe in the magic that can set you free'— and as the director took that shot of us, we felt magical, and we felt young, with our futures ahead of us.  Yes, we were young then, but we didn't think we were, we hadn't felt we were until that moment.  Hadn't felt we were anything other than ordinary, that we could and would do whatever we decided to do, that if it would turn out in the end that we'd die without ever achieving our dreams, it wouldn't be because we'd been too afraid to try. 

     I'm moving the tiny yellow Post-It piece off of my computer screen.  I will uncover the word count, but I will put Lynn's orange Post-It note in clear view as I write.  Believe in the magic that can set you free.   Words are a powerful thing.  I'm grateful for words today.  Fifty thousand words from my soul, 286 pages in a new favorite book, a message written on a square orange note, words from the heart, words written on the heart.    

Time to go write.  Na-nu, Na-nu.  Wish me luck


Posted by CC-Mom at 11/15/2009 8:35 PM | View Comments (4) | Add Comment

When Failure is an Option

    When Jono was in the 4th grade, his teachers, Ms. Strobelt and Mrs. Lukehart,  said to me, "We need to set him up for failure."  Set him up to fail?  It was hard to hear, but Jono tends to be a perfectionist.  Starting papers over instead of crossing out mistakes.  Ripping projects up instead of erasing a misspelled word.  
    "He needs to know that the Earth will not stop spinning if the paper is smudged.  He can make a mistake."
I assured the teachers that we weren't standing over him at home, pressuring him to be perfect.  They knew.  
    "This is who he is," said Ms. Strobelt, "but we can start to fix it now."
     They stopped allowing him to re-start.  And papers that had a corrected error were still worthy of being displayed on the wall.  Little by little, he saw that he could relax a little, let go a little, and still fully succeed.  It was a lesson he learned from someone other than me, and I learned how wonderful it was that others could teach him so well.  Not only the academics, but such a powerful life lesson.  I have never forgotten, and never will forget, how they helped him turn that difficult corner, a corner that was such a struggle for him.
     Yesterday was Jono's 15-year check-up at the doctor.  As always, Dr. Hornick asked about his asthma, his medicines, his breathing.      
    "Advair?" he asked, looking at Jono.  Jono looked at me.
     "He's supposed to take it twice a day," I said, emphasizing the "supposed."
     "There is nothing worse than getting a teen-aged boy to take medicine," said the doctor.  "You can beg, plead, leave it right on the counter, anything you want.  But they simply will not take it."
     I smiled a wry smile.  It's a battle we fight every day.
     Then Dr. Hornick said this:  "Let him relax a little on the medicine.  Let him manage it.  Let him experiment.   He's smart.  He knows what he needs, and when he needs it.  If his experiment fails, we can manage it."
     This one might be tougher for me.  Allow him to manage his medicines, and possibly fail?  I ask the doctor about the worst case scenario.  Apparently, if he overuses his inhaler here and there, it's okay.  And if it goes in the other direction, we can manage an asthma attack and then add in some preventative medication.
     Okay.  It's a plan.  I can back off.  Yes.  Of course I can.  Can't I?  How many years of school mornings asking if the inhaler is in the pocket/bat bag/backpack?  How many thousands of times have I asked him to take his medicine?  How many games spent wondering if he's breathing okay on the field?  
     Will I find relief in finally giving this up?  What if I fail in the process of letting go?
     Someday, sooner than I like to think about, he will be on his own.  I will not be able to ask everyday.  Maybe I need to participate in this experiment for myself, too.  To see how it goes, how we both manage.
     Later, I realize how many key phrases the doctor used in Jono's presence, for just the right amount of positive reinforcement.  "He's smart, he knows what he needs, he knows when he needs it.  If it fails, we can manage it."  
     Or maybe, those words weren't for Jono after all.
     
    
     
     

Posted by CC-Mom at 10/11/2009 4:17 PM | View Comments (3) | Add Comment

When You Give a Girl a Pancake . . .

Text from Cindy:  I miss you.  Can we have breakfast?

Text from Me:  I miss u too.  I have to do errands and take shower.  What time?

Cindy:  Leaving for Perkins 8:50.  Lisa coming too.

Me:  Skipping everything.  See you there.


It is Friday.  On Wednesday, I walked with Lisa and Peg, and Lisa and I went to Perkins after for breakfast.  On Thursday, Lisa and Peg and I walked again, and all three of us went to Perkins.  Now it's Friday.  Here we go again.


Backstory:  For a couple of years, Cindy and Lisa and I frequented Perkins a lot.  A LOT.  We have a waitress, Kathy, who is more like a friend now, who takes care of us, knows us, and more likely than not, loves us.  And we love her.  This past year, we've been there less, for a variety of reasons, but when we all go together,  it's like nothing has changed.  This summer, Lisa has been fighting cancer, and she has been visiting Perkins with her husband after treatments at the Cleveland Clinic.  Kathy has become yet another member of Lisa's ever-growing support group.  Now we hug her and she is "in the know."  It's good to have a pancake connection "in the know."


When we approached the familiar hostess stand this morning, we asked to be seated in her section, but in the sunshine, please, out in the glassed-in porch area.


"Could you please tell her that the president, vice-president and treasurer of her fan club are here?" said Cindy, to the hostess.


Kathy came, with three diet Cokes.  Often,she just brings a fourth for whomever needs it first.  Sometimes, a pitcher.


She teased Cindy about working too much, we discussed Grey's Anatomy, but not the end because Lisa hasn't seen it yet.  And then down to the serious business of ordering.


Cindy first.

"An egg white omelet, veggie.  But I don't like mushrooms."

"Fruit?"

"Nope."

"Toast or pancakes?" asked Kathy.

"French silk pie."

"Okey-dokey."


Then Lisa.

"Kathy, I really want The Traveller, but you don't have it anymore except on the Over 55 menu.  But my body is kind of working like a 94-year old woman lately."

"It's fine, Toots."

"I want that."

"Sausage or bacon?"

"Bacon."

"Fruit?"

"Nope."


Then me.

"I want what I had yesterday, please.  That wrap, but I can't have ham.  Can you sub veggies, please?"

"Yep."

"Can I have Egg Eeaters?"

"You got it.  Fruit?"

"Not today."


"Isn't anyone having pancakes?" says Cindy.  "Darn it."

"You can all split a side," says Kathy.

"Perfect," we all say.


We always split a side of pancakes anyway, and she knows it.  It's nice, though, that she tries to let us pretend to order our own meal.


She brings Cindy's pie first.  Cindy runs and swims about 100 miles a day, so the pie probably is burned off before it hits her stomach.  Lucky.


Then three plates, one pancake each.  

"I gave you the pancakes free, girls.  Somehow the pie took the place of the. . .oh never mind," says Kathy.  We all applaud the free pancakes.


More diet Cokes.  Breakfasts.  More good discussion among ourselves, and with Kathy, when she has time.


Lisa announces that she has coupons, which is a new addition to our Perkins outing.   One for a free entree, one for a 4.99 premium omelet.


"Yes," says Kathy, "you can use them all.  "I'll ring you up so it works out best."


The bills come with stickers and smileys.  We pay.  I think we leave tips that probably amount to about 80%.


It's good to have one pancake on a plate.  It's good when Kathy knows what you like and why.  It's good when Lisa has an appetite.  It's good to gossip and catch up next to the window in the sunshine.  It's good when the waitress is a friend and she hugs you.  It's good to start a weekend with pie in the morning.        

Posted by CC-Mom at 9/26/2009 8:55 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Women's Health Fair September 26th with Dr. Michael Roizen

First Congregational Church of Hudson Hosts Women's Health Fair September 26 

Hey, all you busy and wonderful women out there!  You take care of your families, you take care of your parents, your spouses, your communities, your pets, and your neighbors.  For one very special day, come join us as we learn about caring for ourselves.  The Women's Health Fair on September 26th runs from 9:00 AM to 3:00 PM, and we are so excited to welcome Dr. Michael Roizen as the featured speaker from 12:45-1:45.  Please come and attend every booth, see every presentation, and try all of the wonderful, healthy, delicious foods.  OR, feel free to come for just part of the day.  Just don't miss this wonderful opportunity  The event is free, but you do need a reservation (information below.)

Here's what Karen Joshi, President of Women's Ministries for the church, said about this very cool event:  

"Because of the tremendous array of booths, speakers and events, we're expecting a large turnout.   It's exciting to be able to provide this opportunity to our community." 


KEYNOTE PRESENTATION:

Dr. Michael Roizen, the Chief Wellness Officer of the Cleveland Clinic, Chairman of the Wellness Institute at the Cleveland Clinic and four time #1 New York Times bestselling author, will be speaking from 12:45 to 1:45 in the sanctuary in a presentation entitled "Your Beautiful Day".  

Dr. Roizen has appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show (18 times), Today (17 times), 20/20 (3 times), CBN (17 times), CNN, CBS Sunday Morning (3 times), and Good Morning America (25 times).   


He is the Chief Wellness Officer of the Cleveland Clinic, Chairman of the Wellness Institute at the Cleveland Clinic and four time #1 New York Times bestselling author.  

His book, YOU: The Owner’s Manual, co-written with Health Corps founder Dr. Mehmet Oz, became a #1 New York Times bestseller selling more than 3.2 million hardcover copies worldwide and was the #2 best selling book published in 2005 – even displacing Harry Potter for 35 days as #1 on Amazon and on the Barnes & Noble website!

Some of the wonderful speakers and events scheduled for programs for the Women's Health Fair are: 

*Suzanne Hughes of Robinson Memorial will present "The Heart of Women's Health" 

*The Alzheimer's Association will offer a one hour program called "Joggin Your Noggin" with tips on what to do today to live a brain healthy lifestyle. 

*Jim Porterfield will discuss the importance of "Strength and Balance" to a woman’s health during two different hands-on workshops. 

*Chris Rigby will offer a "Meditative Yoga" session twice throughout the day. 

*A presentation on "Maintaining Spiritual Health" 

*A sampling of healthy and delicious foods from 9:30 to 1:00

In addition, The Cleveland Clinic booth will offer screenings including blood pressure, blood glucose and cholesterol. Other booths include American Cancer Society, Diabetes Association, and speakers listed above will have displays. 


THIS EVENT IS FREE but you must have a reservation.  THE RESERVATION DEADLINE HAS BEEN EXTENDED.  You may reserve your spot by calling the church at 330-650-4048 or emailing Linda Schaefer at  HYPERLINK "mailto:LSchaefer@hudsonucc.org" LSchaefer@hudsonucc.org. Be sure you receive registration confirmation number, you must have your number for admission to the event.

The First Congregational Church of Hudson is a member of United Church of Christ and is located northeast of the green in Hudson on Aurora Street. For more information about the church and directions, please call the church main office at 330-650-4048.


Posted by CC-Mom at 9/15/2009 8:11 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Dream a Little Dream. . .

     I can hardly sleep for all the dreaming.  In the past few weeks, it's been nightly, many dreams in a night.  If I wake in the morning and fall back asleep, I am guaranteed another dream.  I now have images crowding my head —  a pile of purple toss pillows, a big green cozy armchair, and a purple one, too.  A huge construction project in the backyard—were there tiki torches?  I think so.    A vague tragedy one night; I can't quite remember, and I think that's probably okay.  French doors covered in cardboard and tape.  My mom's friend, Nan, standing in my upstairs hall.   Two end tables, side by side.  A broken cell phone.  
     While I don't really mind the dreams, I find I'm not sleeping well, and I wake not very rested.  I've tried going to bed earlier, and then, the next night, later.  Not eating late at night, not watching TV in the evening, reading, or not reading.  Last night, I was almost grateful to have a headache, because I thought maybe the medicine would allow me a deeper sleep.  Nope, still dreamy.
     In the middle of all of this midnight activity, I decided that maybe I could use the dreams to my benefit.  I've dreamed of my grandparents and others that I miss in the past, and have, in the morning, felt like I've been visited.  So I thought, maybe, I'll dream a little dream of someONE, rather than these random THINGS.  My grandmother. My grandparents.  My Susie.  
     But still, just the crazy unrelated images.
     Last evening, I was typing in my bedroom, sitting in a small armchair that is between the windows, facing the side of my bed.  I've been sitting there a lot, lately.  It's quiet, it's comfortable.  Adam came in after dinner, and stopped in the doorway.  
     "It always shocks me to see you sitting there," he said.  
     I thought about his words for a while.  My grandmother sat in a chair by her bedside for as long as I knew her.  It was pulled a little closer than mine; she would put her slippered feet up on the bed.  I wonder, what has caused me to begin to find peace and quiet in this one chair?  In this one space?
     And as I am typing now, I am remembering that I dreamed about two cozy armchairs.
     This blue chair was given to my by my grandmother for my wedding.
     Perhaps I dreamed of her after all.

Posted by CC-Mom at 9/1/2009 2:23 PM | Add Comment

Free Gift

    Why do people keep talking to me about gifts? "So-and-so has the wonderful gift of prayer,"  Or,  "So-and-so is such a talented musician/writer/cook/nurse/businessman."  Fill in the blank, depends on the conversation.  Even on Facebook, there was a quiz called, "What is God's gift in you?" waiting for me when I flipped open my laptop.  Five small questions; such endless possible answers.

    I actually really love the word "gift" and all that it implies.  

    I loved receiving my birthday gifts this year, and I must say, I am an excellent receiver.  You've all been around a less-than-excellent receiver— no fun.

    Soon I will shop for birthday gifts for my three nephews who all have August birthdays, and I do love to give presents.

     I am certainly anxious to use the "Free Gift!" that came packaged with my new sunblock.

    But when it comes to bigger, less material gifts, I find myself sometimes surprisingly unwilling to invest the time and the energy to think about, unwrap, and use what God has given me.    

    My good friend has this quote in her office: 

    "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say  'I used everything you gave me.'"

    I love the words, and when I looked it up to see who was quoted, I was expecting a president, a poet, a philosopher.  It was said by Erma Bombeck.  Erma Bombeck???   A writer.

    Okay, God.  I hear you.

    So I'm at my computer today.  And feeling a little bit behind schedule.  

    Do  you acknowledge your God-given gift?  I do not, always.  Are you afraid of putting yourself out into the universe?  I am, often.  But I can only assume that God wouldn't have given us gifts to have them sit quietly by.  So sing, dance, write, speak, comfort, heal, serve, pray, lead, organize, care, and cook.    

    Isn't it nice to know that you've been given a gift for no other reason than just because you are YOU?  Happy Existence. . . you've received a gift from God.   





Posted by CC-Mom at 8/11/2009 11:54 AM | View Comments (3) | Add Comment

Driving Miss Lisa

    If my GPS system could talk (well, really talk, other than telling me, "take the next right turn" and "make a U-turn, if possible," she would have had a lot to say to me the other day.
    "Why are you entering that address?" she would have asked.
    "Because, Kitten, it's where we're going today."  
    Kitten is the name of my navigation system, or sometimes my whole van, depending on the situation.  She was named on her inaugural out-of-town journey to Hilton Head Island in October of 2006 with my friends, Cindy and Lisa.  A talking girl mini-van, named after Kit, the car on Knight Rider.
    "I don't want to go there," I suspect Kitten would have told me.
    "You and me both, Kitty."
    I pushed all the buttons to direct us to Euclid and 93rd Street in downtown Cleveland.
    "This is not where you go with Lisa," she must have been thinking.  "You go to Target and to the schools and to Perkins.  Why are you going here?  Don't go here."
    "I know," I told Kitten in my head.  "I know.  But we have to.  Lisa has cancer.  It's my turn to drive her to the clinic for her treatment."
    The thought stopped Kitten from asking anymore questions in my head.
    And we headed north on the highway.
    "Kitten knows where she's going," said Lisa from the passenger seat.  "She's a good van."
    "She is," I said.  Lisa didn't know that Kitten was mad and sad and dragging her wheels.  Kitten will never tell her.
    We arrived at the clinic without much more chat from Kitten.  A turn direction here, a suggestion there.  In the parking garage, Kitten went crazy.  Destination.  Destination!   Destination!!!!
    "I know, Kitten.  We hear you!  We're here."  
     "Thank you, Kitty," said Lisa.  
    Kitty was quiet.  She had brought us safely into the parking garage, and would await further instruction.  

    Sometimes we find ourselves going places we never thought we would go.  Sometimes we need guidance from above, be it a satellite, or something bigger.  Sometimes we talk to inanimate objects to blame our inner voices on something other than complete craziness.  The small journeys we take within this, our biggest journey, can be overwhelming.  And they can be wonderful.   To quote my friend Cindy:  "This is a marathon, and every day is a tiny race." 

     Thank you Kitten, for guiding me and Lisa safely that day.  And thank you, God, for guiding me and Lisa, and all who surround her, safely that day.  And on this, the bigger journey. 
    

Posted by CC-Mom at 7/7/2009 5:23 PM | View Comments (9) | Add Comment

Jesus, Take the Wheel. . . of Cheese

I used to think I wasn't a stress eater.  I would sometimes say this to myself standing in front of the open pantry.
    
(pause writing for stale marshmallow)

    Maybe after an argument with my husband, I would grab a handful of chocolate chips and march around the house, shoving them into my mouth, but it wasn't BECAUSE of the argument.  I would have eaten those anyway.

(quick break for Milk Duds)

    The other day, Adam said, "There's a lot of candy in the house all of a sudden."
"It's been a bad week," I said.
He didn't mention it again.

(hang on. . . I forgot I had half a Toblerone behind the napkins)

    We did kind of talk about it at our son's baseball game over the weekend.
"Do you want to go out to dinner after?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm starving," I answered.
"What did you do for lunch today?" he asked.  Normal conversation.
"I had a Junior Mint," I said.
"A Junior Mint?"
"A BOX of Junior Mints, OKAY?" I said.  "I don't require information about every meal you have.  Geez."
"Um, I wasn't judging your candy meal.  It's just that ONE Junior Mint seemed weird."
Oh.

I thought about what was in the tote next to my folding chair. Raisinets.  

I thought about my breakfast.  Two small York peppermint patties.


Lord, I really need a vegetable and some cheese.  If ever there was a week to discover if I was a stress eater, this would be the week.  But what's with all the candy?  Am I trying to sweeten up a sour week?  Fill  a void with things that even I know won't truly fill me?  I could just as easily stress eat with a Fiber One bar and some carrots.  Milk.  Chicken.  Whole Wheat Bread. 

(You KNOW I'm eating M&M's at just the very idea of stress eating with milk and carrots.  I mean really.)

    I could use a better system than this.  Remind me, God, to turn to you when I am empty.   Fill me instead with hope and strength.  Replace my stress and worry with the knowledge that I can give all of this to you when I can no longer hold it on my own.  And remind me that you will forgive my human weaknesses.   

For I do (two squares Hershey Bar) have many.


Posted by CC-Mom at 6/11/2009 11:23 AM | View Comments (4) | Add Comment

Multitasking. The Whole Truth.

    I was driving home from Target, eating dry Corn Bran directly from the just-purchased box  propped up on the passenger seat.  The sun was shining; so far, it had been a productive day.  I drove through McDonald's for a nice diet Coke to go along with my dry cereal lunch, and because somehow a diet Coke tops off a nice day, well, nicely.   Okay, I got a cheeseburger too, but no fries, so you can all just stop judging me.   Oh, wait. . that's me judging me.   Mouth At Side 

    Anyway, as I was enjoying my driving and lunching, it occurred to me that I am often quite the multitasker—or better put— ingenious user of things and time.   It is probably why I manage to stay so organized and on top of things and why our house is always so tidy.  Especially the basement storage room.   (Just kidding, Adam.)

    I'll bet we all find ways to use things and time wisely.  Don't we?  

    I have cleaned an entire bathroom with a baby wipe and a tissue.  And I don't even have a baby.  I have done this more than once.   FINE.  It's my favorite way to clean a bathroom, especially when my in-laws are on their way over. 
    
    I keep an extra set of all beauty supplies in my car for emergencies.  I'm not speaking of the random lip gloss found rolling on the floor of the back set.   Quite the contrary!  I could take a quick shower and do an up-do if necessary based on the contents of my glove compartment.  It's good to be prepared.  What defines a beauty emergency?  Um. .  . I don't know. . rainstorm?  Running into old high school friends?  I just know that having the tube of concealer in my car has been a real plus, and I actually kissed the tweezers one time.  Plus, that giant can of car-hairspray  has killed more than one bug in the car.  (Note:  I do not care for travel-sized hair spray.  My hair does not change sizes when it travels.  Why is this multitasking? Because I'm getting ready WHILE I'm already going somewhere.   (Not while driving, of course, though I will admit to having been caught totally pulling the "make up face" in my rear-view mirror in many a parking lot.) 

    I prefer to use any and all sprays and aerosols nearby to kill bugs.  I just drown them in root-lifter or Lysol.  I cross my fingers for a sec that the wall paint won't buckle, and figure that if it does, I'll just blame the stupid bug.

    Thanks to modern technology, I can take my walk and answer phone calls at the same time.  When I get home,  I open my laptop,  check my lists, answer emails, cross those emails right of the list, plan a meal, add the ingredients to the list, write a little something, pay some bills, play some Scrabble, and then close the computer having accomplished so many different things.  Multitasking at it's finest, and really, as most genuinely defined as it's going to get in my world.

      Sometimes it happens by accident.  I run into someone at the store and get to say, "Hey, I was meaning to call you to ask about the school picnic. . ."  Check.  Done.  Shopping and picnic meeting.  I LOVE IT WHEN THIS HAPPENS.

    Yesterday morning, I ran out to dig through the trash can before the garbage truck arrived (don't ask) and since I was already outside in my nightgown, robe, and slippers, I re-bagged the unruly garbage, grabbed the paper, re-staked a plant, gathered seven baseballs and a basketball from the yard, retrieved Abby's flip-flops from the garden, and coiled up the hose.   All this,  and I wasn't even trying.  Or dressed.

    I think if you asked any given woman how she multitasks in any given day, the answers would be very different.  Some answers might involve "files and texts and presentations" and some might revolve around "engagements and parties and invitations."  Many of my friends' lists would include a lot of tasks similar to my own:  careful cleaning, serious pest control, morning yard work.  I would not be surprised if any and all women somehow incorporate using a baby wipe in their daily work. . . once you get hooked, it's hard to let go.  

    Today I noticed that a toilet in my home had been, shall we say, "abused and overused?"  I sprayed that sucker in Bath-and-Body Works Moonlight Path and let it soak while I vacuumed (okay, okay, I picked up the big crumbs with my fingers) the upstairs hall.     Ingenious use of things and time?   Maybe, maybe not!    But a semi-clean bathroom  and a neater hall that carries me in a timely fashion to greater challenges than these?  You betcha, any day.

   



    

     
    

Posted by CC-Mom at 5/19/2009 3:29 PM | Add Comment

"Ode to May" -- The Annual Posting

 Insane For those of you who are "in the know" . .  this is a just slightly toned-down version of the original poem, which was written during my mid-May breakdown, 2006.  Happy May, everyone!!!

Ode to May

May is busy,
May’s a mess,
May is crazy,
I'm totally stressed.

Lunches, brunches,
Mother's Day.
Choir, 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






Posted by CC-Mom at 5/14/2009 10:03 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Peace-of-Mind while Falling Apart :)

       I thought maybe the cashier would question my purchase:  four full-sized bottles of Purell, three travel-sized Purell bottles, two giant cans of Lysol, one huge bag of Hall's cough drops, and a Three Musketeer's Bar (non-medicinal, just comforting.)  The news of the spreading flu virus was everywhere on the news, and I was at the store, buying sanitizer in bulk.  I was coughing into my elbow approximately every 17 seconds, a coughing fit that would last far too long, and bring on gasps, wheezes, and tears.  But no. . . my purchases were paid for, placed into the bag, and I was sent on my way, hacking loudly.  No one said a word.  I don't think anyone really wanted to know what was going on with the crazy coughing Lysol lady.

    I never, for one moment, actually thought i had the swine flu, the H1N1 virus, the pig flu, or anything more sever than a really bad cough.  But I was bound and determined to disinfect my house so that my family would not pick up this bug or spread any others through the home.  And all over the news I'm hearing, WASH YOUR HANDS A LOT.

    I put a bottle of hand sanitizer in each bathroom, one in the kitchen, and lined up the three little bottles to put in backpacks the next morning.  Armed with a can of Lysol, I began walking through the house.  The sanitation process started normally enough.  Sinks, faucets, bathrooms.  Good.  Those are very germ-y places.  Doorknobs. . . I heard once that doorknobs were a huge way to pass germs.  I duly sprayed every doorknob in the house, including outside, inside, closet, basement, and every cabinet knob and drawer pull.  I paused to think.  Phones.  Remotes.  Game controllers.  Computer mouse!  My house was beginning to take on a the look of a dewy morning, and smell like a hospital, but I didn't care.  Light switches!   I worried for about a tenth of a second if Lysol could hurt the paint or surfaces I was spraying around. . . and decided to continue.  Keyboards, lamp switches, and a very light spray over all pillows and mattresses.  At one point, I found myself just spraying and walking, spraying and walking.

    And this didn't happen just one day.  It happened a few times.  

    Six days later, I am still coughing, even worse, and heading to the doctor this afternoon.  I'm probably allergic to disinfectant.

    My husband has a head cold and my son is coughing.  I think maybe they were sick before I began my giant sanitizing plan, but I can't be sure.  And I think maybe, just maybe, the Lysol and Purell were just attempts to acquire peace-of-mind and cleaner hands. . . neither of which are bad, but were perhaps I went a little overboard.

    Overboard?  Me?

    So today, at 2:45, I will trust the doctor to tell me what is wrong, and to fix me.  (Please, please, please fix me!)  And I will probably apply Purell to all exposed areas of myself after leaving the office, all part of my continued belief in the healing power of peace-of-mind.






Posted by CC-Mom at 5/4/2009 12:42 PM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Tom Sawyer

 Paint And Brush    Jonathan is going to be painting a fence.  Helping to rebuild it, maybe, and then painting it, someday later this spring or early this summer.  It's a white, picket fence that lines the path to our front door.  The pickets were originally built by my husband, and it's due for some repair.  A job that will just about work off in labor the garage window that Jono broke with a baseball and the cell phone that was crushed when it fell out of Jono's shorts.
    "I'm having a nightmare day," he said, when he called me from the neighborhood yard, where he was playing in a giant game of Capture the Flag.  "My phone fell out of my pocket.  The screen is shattered."   His voice was shaky.
    We had swept up the glass in the garage just that morning after a rogue baseball had crashed through.
    "Nightmare for sure," I agreed.  I had answered his call in my car.  I was just about to take a walk in the park.  I put my head back on the headrest and felt the sun shining on my face.  It was a gorgeous day.  Why all the broken glass???
    I could hear that he was trying to control his emotions.  The phone had been a big gift., and Jono is a responsible kid.  He doesn't typically break things, or even lose or misplace things.  Two giant mistakes in one day?  I think we were both treading lightly.  
    "What do we do?" he said.
    "I'm not sure," I answered honestly.  "Put your phone away, and we'll talk about it when you get home."
    I knew this wasn't the answer he wanted.  He wanted resolution, now, so that he could put his mind at ease.  But I had absolutely nothing to tell him. 
    "Am I in trouble?"
    "Did you do it on purpose?" I asked him
    "No.  It fell out of my pocket when I was running."
    "Then you aren't in trouble.  But we might have to figure this one out together."
    I thought about it while I walked around the lake.  The phone should have been in its case.  Better, the phone should have been tucked in his sweatshirt and nowhere near the running boys (and girls.)  And as far as the broken window?  Both Adam and I had come quickly to the conclusion that for as many years as Jono has played baseball, it's a wonder that this hadn't happened sooner.  Not that we were happy about it, but accidents happen.  I knew my conscience-heavy son was, at this very moment,  crazy with worry about our reactions and his responsibilities, and that was okay.  I think it's okay to bear some worry and some weight.  
    I returned from my walk, and Adam and Jono returned, all news of broken cell phones had been. . . well. . . broken.  
    "This is the worst day of my life," said our son.
    "Oh, I hope so," I said. 
    "Me too," said Adam.
    "WHAT???"   Jono could not understand our reaction.  
    "It's not a death, Jono," said Adam.  "It's not a tragedy or an illness or even a terrible accident.  It's a cell phone.  And a window.  Things.  We're not happy that it happened, but it's fixable.  We'll figure it out, and you'll be responsible for big piece of this, but your mom and I are not going to try to take every cent you have.  Relax.  It's okay."  
    Then followed a couple of days of teenage angst, waiting for the cell phone appointment (made painstakingly by the teenager himself) to find out the cost of repair or replacing the phone.  (Cost:  less than anticipated, more than was currently in his wallet )  We are currently awaiting a visit from the Glass Doctor ("Call the Glass Doctor, we'll fix your panes. . . ") to give us an estimate on "fixing the odd shaped window in the garage."  By tonight, we'll have a handle on the total damages, but between you and me, it's not  looking too bad.  Jono shelled out the cold, hard cash for a new, durable case for the replacement phone (repair was not an option.)   We'll decide on a fair amount of money he can contribute toward the total now,  and leave him a small, eighth-grade cash-cushion.
    And that's where the fence comes in.  A couple of days building and painting the fence in our front yard—I'm not sure if he knows about it yet, our modern day Tom Sawyer.  Adam will tell him what he will earn for the job, and that's how Jono can pay what he owes.  And in the end, there will be a pretty, white fence standing in the place where he worked in the sunshine with his dad.  Jono can mend a broken fence, pay a debt for some broken glass, and someday he will see that broken things don't compare with broken hearts.   Purple Heart   But please, God, let that day be far, far away.
    
    
    





Posted by CC-Mom at 4/14/2009 11:45 AM | View Comments (3) | Add Comment

Re-entry

 Catching Rays   Coming back from vacation is difficult.  Following Spring Break, my friend sent me a text upon her return that read, "Re-entry hard; be prepared."  I've now been home for less than 24 hours, and since I've broken through the Vacation/Real Life barrier, here is what I've noticed:

1.  Vacation laundry is bad for a number of reasons.   First, there is a lot of it.  Second, every pair of shorts and every bathing suit is a mean and hateful reminder of the place we just left—a warmer, sandier place.  Speaking of that:  third, there is unexpected sand.  Fourth, I am out of Tide, which is no one's fault but my own.

2.  Grocery shopping, which I normally don't mind, is crazy-weird after vacation.  Why am I suddenly out of not only the normal perishables, but also Saran Wrap, paper towels, plastic bags of every size, Dixie cups, toothpaste, computer paper, the aforementioned Tide, and every single condiment?  What in the heck did we do right before Spring Break?  Eat all the mustard and print lots of documents?

3.  The Spring Break Detox plan has begun, and I am not happy.  Transitioning from seafood by the beach to Slimfast and green tea is not a good addition to the re-entry plan.  And my tummy hurts.

4.  Unpacking.  Bleah.

5.  My van, after the 12-hour road trip, is in tip-top shape, clean and fresh, not a crumb in sight.  Hahahahahahahahahahaha!

6.  I have no idea which suitcase contains my hair dryer, and I can't find Sam's new crocodile T-shirt that he wants to wear to school tomorrow.

7.  Hey!   Great news. .  . I just found the t-shirt, but it's dirty.  Which means I have to wash it.  Which means I have to unpack all of those crazy grocery bags from the back of my shiny clean van.   To find the Tide.  And continue washing the vacation laundry.  Which will bring back memories. Of a warmer sandier place. . . 

But on the very, very, bright side, tonight when I am tired from the re-entry, I will sleep in my own bed, rested from the vacation, grateful to have had the days with my family.    I will wake to a partially stocked kitchen, and just enough clean laundry folded and ready to go, crocodile shirt included.   Re-entry is really not that much different from a normal day; it just has a handful of well-traveled sand thrown in for good measure





Posted by CC-Mom at 3/31/2009 4:05 PM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

Lockstep With My Life

    I just thought it was the coolest phrase. . . "lockstep with my life."  I heard Whoopi Goldberg say it on "The View."  I had turned in, undoubtedly, to hear the opening "hot topics" while I was folding my laundry and the discussion had turned to Paul McCartney, a guest on the show that day.  Whoopi made the comment that McCartney's songs had always been "lockstep with her life."  

    Lockstep.  What does this mean to you?  What people, songs, books or movies or are lockstep with your life?  Who knows you well enough to fall into step right beside you, walk with you, never missing a beat?  What song can play the soundtrack of your life right now?  When you were growing up?  When you were newly married?  What movie can you identify with?  What book can you turn to again and again because you read it at a time in your life when you needed the words to help you grow?

    I picture myself doing the "wizard skip" (you know, the Yellow Brick Road skip)  down a high school hallway with my best friend Lynn.  A true definition of "lockstep," physically representing the closeness that we had.  Now, our friendship is defined by phone calls and emails that are dotted with other touch points, other memories and phrases that remind us how easily we can fall back into that place of intimacy.  She is lockstep with my life, the big picture.  She knows the whole story.  

    Now, there are others, who know the daily moments, who don't call before 8:12 A.M. because they know I am still outside waiting for Sam's bus, and who know that on Wednesday mornings I have choir rehearsals.  Lisa knows to order me a diet Coke AND a water (no lemon) at lunch, and Cindy knows that the first Friday of the month I have writer's group.  When Beth texts me at just the right moment with just the right words (usually right before I was going to call her) that's lockstep with my life.  

       James Taylor songs ("Only One,") Billy Joel tunes ("Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,") and nearly every 80's song defined me at one point or another (but mostly "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard.)   There are books that I truly love (The Time Traveler's Wife, Jane Eyre, The Many Lives and Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.) and movies that capture me with a single scene, again and again ("Love, Actually" and "Notting Hill.")   (Oh, and "Top Gun" and "Sleepless in Seattle" and "When Harry Met Sally," of course.)  

    My husband, my children, my parents, my brothers. . . all lockstep with my life for sure.  That's a given.  Some came earlier, some came later.  But whatever the time frame, they have been right there with me on this journey, knowing me and loving me along the way.  And each of THEM came complete with songs, and books and movies (think Green Eggs and Ham, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, "Viva La Vida," "Centerfold," "You Light up my Life," and "Suddenly I See," and the truly unforgettable eighties hit, "Waiting for a Star to Fall," by Boy Meets Girl.)  

    What is lockstep to your life?  And who? And why?   Take a step back, and look at the steps that you're making, and at the things and people that make this journey so uniquely yours.    You may find it easier to take your next step when you remember that there are people locked-in right beside you, enjoying your journey,  even singing along to the soundtrack that you have chosen.

Posted by CC-Mom at 3/11/2009 9:49 AM | Add Comment

The Sanity Prayer

The Sanity Prayer
God grant me the sanity
to answer one more question today;
courage to change the water in the fishbowl;
and wisdom to know when to lock the door of the bathroom and call it a day.

—Taken respectfully from "The Serenity Prayer by Reinhold Niebuhr

Dear Lord,

Please guide me as I make my way through the rest of this evening.  The dinner is half-finished on the stove, and "Jon and Kate + Eight" is blaring in the background (but when isn't it, really?) and I know that I should be thinking, "If Kate can do it with EIGHT children, well, then my day should be CAKE!"  But honestly?  That show bugs me.  Just the show, Lord.  I'm sure the people are lovely.

Lord, lighten my hands as I reach for one more pair of dirty socks (I know I just put these in the drawer yesterday) and toss them into the hamper that I SWORE I would not carry to the laundry room now that there are four other people in this house capable of carrying their own hampers downstairs.  But Lord, let me try to carry their loads with love.  I do love them, Lord, but I can't find it in my heart today to love the dirty jeans.

Open my heart to the possibility that not everyone in my home likes onions, and maybe it's my fault that I sautéed them with the meat for the enchiladas this evening.  Forgive me for playing hide-and-seek with this tiny, white vegetable, God.  It was really just for flavoring.  I seek your presence at the table as we eat; open THEIR hearts and mouths to the idea of trying something NEW.  Now there's an idea . . . sorry for that sarcasm, Lord.  But you do know me, inside and out.

Sam is asking me a lot of questions tonight, Lord.  Please, please, please grant me patience.  I want to stop everything and have every answer, but I just don't have it in me.  Sometimes I do.  Most times I do.  Tonight I don't.  Later we will read a book and relax . . . Lord, just let me get there.

Remind me, Lord, in the moments when I find myself locked in the upstairs hall bathroom because there is nowhere else in this whole house to just find FIVE SOLID MINUTES OF PRIVACY, that I have created this tiny little haven for my children.  When I was "relaxing" on the rug in front of the toilet, I studied the "map of the world" shower curtain, and suddenly realized how Sam knew that Paraguay was near Chile.  Or, rather, how either of those two countries even existed in his crazy little mind.  It was here, too, that I did consider having a shot of NyQuil for dinner.  Thank you, Lord, for guiding me away from that decision.  NyQuil is good for the sick.  Not just for the overtired and cranky.    And, after five minutes of "peace," the voices of the children began calling.  "Mom?  Where's Mom?  Has anyone seen Mom?"  I brushed the rug fibers off of my yoga pants and came out of hiding.  Those voices do have power, for sure.

However, Kate's voice from the TV is really starting to rub me wrong.  Doesn't she ever find herself on the bathroom floor?  Probably not.

I pray for motivation.  Can we just get this out there (as I cook enchiladas?)  I am weary, Lord, of the focus and attention paid to weight loss and outer beauty.  Do I want it?  Oh, yeah.  You betcha.  But can I make it the central part of my life?  Never.  I pray for my daughter who already sees herself through the eyes of others. . . who may already view herself in the wrong light.  Let me be a good example of health and beauty to her, Lord.  Let me be strong enough for us both against the comparisons of others.  For one day, let me not stress about every single bite I eat. 

Lord, as my husband travels home from a one-day trip in Arkansas, bless the pilot and all those he travels with.  I'm sure it was a busy day.  I hope he likes onions in his enchiladas.

Thank you, Lord, for helping me to find the words this past week as we struggled through some difficult conversations with our children.

Help me to draw a deep breath at some point today.  One child home sick, another with doctor's appointment,  one with an evening baseball clinic, a basement storeroom to clean, a novel to write. . . 

I hope you have nothing else to do tonight, Lord, because that's a long list.  I hope you find it helpful that it's in writing.

And with that, I shall take a deep breath, a breath I already feel coming easier.  Dinner is nearly finished now, and Sam is playing quietly.  The TV is off.    Lord, thank you for listening; obviously, you were.    Love,  Christy





Posted by CC-Mom at 2/23/2009 5:50 PM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

Swingers

   Tee Off 4    The boys in my house swing things.  Real things, like golf clubs and baseball bats.  If there are no clubs or bats around, they swing whatever is available.  A broom, a yardstick, a fork, maybe a paint roller extension handle.  Whatever.   Today, I found Jono practicing his swing with a pair of scissors in his hand.  "Don't swing with scissors," I cried, and then I stopped myself.  A mother can only scream so many stupid clichés.  Jono told me that he had been working on his swing earlier, with the plunger, up in my bathroom, which explains why I had found the plunger rolled halfway across the bathroom floor.  It had been masquerading as a bat, and been thrown down in the "dugout."  

    There is a dent in the ceiling of my bedroom, courtesy of some club, iron, or wood.  I really have no idea.  I just know that when I found it, there was a look of complete sheepishness on Adam's face, with no other explanation than the club dangling in his hand.   There have been holes in the basement wall that NO ONE will claim, but I'm not completely ruling out my husband, who is the biggest swinger of them all.  He's trying to blame our 7-year old.  That's low.

    When we arrive home from anywhere, neither my husband or my son comes inside.  They remain outside, rain, sleet or snow, swinging things.  Sometimes, they swing nothing, and just stand on the driveway in perpetual swinging motion, invisible club or bat in hand.

    This shouldn't annoy me, and often it doesn't.  Sometimes it does.  

    "Where is your dad?"  I will say?  If he is nowhere to be found, he is on the driveway, swinging a club, real or virtual.

    In my family room, against the back wall, there are always putters.  Under the chair in the corner, there are always balls.  Every single morning of my life, I put them in the garage, and every single evening, they are back, sometimes complete with head covers.  Adam has been away for five days, so I've been five days putter-free.  It's been like a Christmas miracle.

    Until the swinging plunger, of course.

    Adam will return home tonight, from a swinging. . . I mean, golf. . . trip.  You can bet your life on the following fact:   he will arrive home, happy and relaxed, thrilled to see us, having had a wonderful time, grateful for my support.  I will be in the family room, and he will put down his suitcase, and stand before me, swinging nothing, as he tells me all about it.

    It will be nice to have him home.

Posted by CC-Mom at 2/18/2009 4:21 PM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

A Matter of Faith

    I received a gift recently, a book from a friend.  Inscribed on the front cover were the words, "To my best friend Christy who brought me to faith."  Uh-oh.    Okay, "uh-oh" was my second thought.  First, I was completely moved and grateful and glad.  But next, I was struck by a wave of doubt.   Not because her journey was taking a step in the direction of faith, but because mine seemed to have taken a small step back.
    I took a few minutes to think about why I was struggling with my faith.  What was I needing, missing, wanting?  For one, there are some women and fellowship that I truly miss.  Our children have grown, our circles have changed, our lives are different.   Two,  I am not as involved at church as I have been in past years.  Well, I certainly brought that one on myself, now, didn't I?  Saying "no, thank you" to several committees,  so as to not repeat a year of complete volunteer craziness.  But now I find myself in the building much less.  Hmm.   I really like that building.   Three, I'm not as faithful with Sunday attendance.  There are plenty of Sundays that I sing in the choir, or one of my children sings, but still. . . there are Sundays that come and go and we don't get to church.  Four, support.  I miss the support I once had by being a part of a circle, a prayer chain.   When I needed support recently, I didn't know where to turn, so I turned inward.    People are not mind-readers, though I kind of hoped they were.
    I reflected on my list.  And I wondered—am I really struggling with my faith, or is my faith struggling with me?   Or is it "faith" at all?  My relationship with God is pretty good.  I pray, I believe, I love.  So maybe it's not faith that's at the heart of this; maybe I'm just missing the things that can support my faith, things that can support ME in my faith.
    I will be attending a women's mission project soon, and I have reached out to some old friends in the hopes of reconnecting.   A journey can be long, and sometimes there are detours.  In the meantime, let me know if you have any ideas for a day trip. . .

Posted by CC-Mom at 1/29/2009 7:58 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Snow Day?

 Snow Flake    This is one of those days that I am SURE I am superb at my job. Why?  Because I managed to send three children to school, warm and fed (dressed for a trip to the Arctic Circle) prepared to be educated and enriched.   I am also completely sure that every mom and teacher in my town is rock star.  There were 237 school closings in Northeastern Ohio today.  We were open.    And you know what?  That's okay, because if the cold weather and snow continue, school will likely be closed soon enough.
  
    So for all of us who woke this morning and watched the closings roll across the TV, who listened to the children whine and beg, who made hot chocolate for breakfast and begged our 8th-grade sons to wear scarves, BRAVO!  For those of us who pulled hats and boots over our pajamas and drove to the bus stop, who dug through the piles  to find matching mittens, who made thermos lunches and promised to go to Target and buy sleds, YAY FOR YOU!  

    For those of us who took phone calls from husbands in Phoenix, where it is 60 degrees, for anyone whose car slid all over the icy road, for parents who helped find violins, snacks, homework, snow pants, projects, show-and-tell, glue sticks and gym clothes and THEN stuffed it all into a backpack and somehow managed to slide it over the shoulders of a super-stuffed winter parka. . .GREAT JOB!

    For the snow plow guys who cleared my driveway at 3:00 AM while I was sleeping in  my warm bed. . . thank you, thank you, thank you!  Because of you, I could leave my house this morning.  (But why would I?  It's so cold my thermometer is registering "—" degrees.)

    For the teachers, who did not get a snow day either, thank you!  You will be putting up with snow pants, giant coats, boots, slick hallways, and cranky children who were up late, banking on a day off.   I appreciate you!

    And for all of the children who participated in the rituals last night.  Try, try, again!  Flush the ice cubes, flush the ice cream!  Wear your jammies inside out, and text snowflakes to your friends.  It's supposed to be REALLY cold tomorrow.  I hear it could be a snow day. . .  Snow 

Posted by CC-Mom at 1/15/2009 9:23 AM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

Around the Table

    I don't often have the chance to serve dinner to my parents.  Or my brothers, or their children.  Living out of town, we are the ones who travel home for holidays, we meet on vacations, we spend summer days at Indian Lake.   Since we gave up a traditional kitchen table (replaced by an island and a comfy armchair) my own family uses the dining room on a fairly regular basis.  But you know those movies where generations of families are eating and laughing every Sunday around someone's big table?  That doesn't typically happen here.
    This year, around my own table, we had six friends for dinner one night.  On Christmas Day, we had seven.   For New Year's dinner, we were expecting my parents, and then I received a text from my youngest brother:
    "Can you fit 3 more around your table?"
    Can I fit three more?
    I answered his text with 10 smileys and 17 exclamation points.  
    This was an irregular holiday.  We were unable to travel, but I quickly found that if I served it, they would come.
    Our friends were here for an informal Christmas dinner before the holidays.  We ate, we drank wine, we laughed and talked and my husband toasted our guests, saying there was no where else he would rather be.  It's good to have those kinds of nights to start the season, I think.  My table seats eight people comfortably, and the room was warm and accommodating.  I like the color, there are things in the room that make me happy, not the least of which were the people.
    When we first moved into the house in 1996, we had the table, which has been passed down to me from my parents, but we had no chairs.  The table lived in the dining room for three years, next to the china cabinet, which was the first piece of furniture that Adam and I had ever purchased together (I still adore the cabinet's unique drawers and narrow shelves.)  The room was undecorated.  Then we found (ahem. . . could afford) chairs.  We chose a deep green paint called Leap Frog, a striped rug, a big clock, black wood letters that spell, "ENJOY."
    On Christmas Day, Adam's parents arrived in the afternoon bearing gifts and pots and baskets.  The table was set for seven, but six of us were eating.  Roasted pork, but turkey, too, for those of us not allergic!  My in-laws brought the entire meal, prepared, and served it at our table.  My son was just home from the hospital, so he slept on the couch while we ate.  My husband and I were tired.  We were so grateful for this meal, for this day, for the chance to sit and eat with family, in our home, on Christmas.  Sam said grace.  It was a good meal around that table, that day.
    I asked Adam recently if we should refinish the table.  
    "It's looking a little worn," I said.   It never looked that way in my parents' house.  It wasn't their main table, but even though it is ours, I try to be careful
    His reaction to my family heirloom surprised me.
    "Don't touch the table.  It's beautiful.  You would hate to change the color or the finish.  There is nothing wrong with a little imperfection."
    When I clean it, I oil it lightly, and the imperfections glisten.  (Note to self:  let your imperfections shine.)
    A few days after Christmas, we met my middle brother, my sister-in-law, and my nieces and nephews at a nearby Bob Evans off of 1-71.  They were traveling south to Cincinnati, and since we couldn't make the whole trip, we decided to meet for a brunch and Christmas gift exchange on the road.  We took up no less than 5 booths, including coats, gifts, booster seats, kids, and adults.  We were happy to see each other, but sad when we had to say our good-byes in the parking lot. (And again, I thank them for somehow stuffing my box of gifts into their Trailblazer to deliver on my behalf!)  Was it the perfect Christmas gathering?  Maybe not.  But for an hour, we were gathered around a few tables in the restaurant.  There was joyous gift giving and receiving.  We shared pancakes and eggs, coffee and diet Coke.  It was a memory made, that's for sure.
        On New Year's Day, my parents arrived, overflowing with bright Christmas bags and boxes .  There were piles of Christmas cookies made by my aunt, gifts from family, and my mom's homemade fudge.  Soon after, I heard the jingle of the sleigh bells that hang on the door and my brother and sister-in-law had arrived with my new nephew, just 3 weeks old.  To meet and hold my newest nephew, when I thought I would have to wait a few more weeks, was such a blessing on this crazy holiday.  The table was set for nine.   My husband at one end, my dad at the other.  My children, my mom, my brother, his beautiful wife.  I was so grateful that they had come to us, so happy to have them around our table.  When the baby cried, I held him through the meal , so all ten of us were at the table.  I offered the toast that evening.  To new babies, to my healthy oldest baby, to family, to the new year, and to having everyone I loved around a table this season.

Posted by CC-Mom at 1/8/2009 11:17 AM | View Comments (2) | Add Comment

Facebook over 40

    Facebook.  I first joined Facebook about 6 months ago to see if my son's friends were "on" and if they were "networking" with each other.  I wanted to be the mom who knew the scoop, who understood the online scene.  I created a very bland profile, which basically meant I signed up with my name and my email.  There was no photo of me, no additional contact information, no personal data.  I just wanted to see if this was the new hot spot for the eighth grade set.  I wanted to know what the cool kids were doing, what was "in" and what was "out."  So once I was officially logged in, I hit the "search" button  and typed in my son's name.  Nothing.  I typed in some of his friend's names.  Nothing.  I tried a few days later.  Nothing.   Eventually, I forgot about it completely.
    Until Thanksgiving, when a friend of mine asked if I had a Facebook account.
    "I think I might," I said, "but I don't use it.  I opened it to see if Jono's friends were using Facebook."
    "Jono's friends aren't using it," she said, "but all of our friends are.  Go on tonight and see."
    "Huh," I said, noncommittally.  I remained uninterested.  I had been bored with the concept when I had first perused the website.  I might take a look, I thought.  I might not.
    That night, I was up late.  I pulled out my laptop and searched "Facebook."  I logged in, guessing at my password.  I was right.  There I was.  .  . A blue portrait head representing me on my profile.  Christy Chafe.  Nothing special about her.  But. .  . what was this?
    "You have nine friend requests."
    Now, that's kind of fun. . .  I clicked on the requests. . .  Diana from Book Club, Anna-Liisa, who had mentioned Facebook just this afternoon, a couple of my brother's friends, some high school friends.  I clicked to accept the requests.  Confirm, confirm, confirm, confirm.   Suddenly,  I could access my new (old!) friends' profile pages on Facebook, and I was stunned at what I found.  There were photos and conversations and quizzes and lists of favorite things.  Hey. . . I have favorite things, too.  I started to panic.  My profile was so blank, and it had been for six months.  And these friend requests had been ignored, just sitting there, ignored.  Quickly, I downloaded a picture to replace the blue Facebook head on my page.  I updated my interests, my education background, my favorite quotes, books, movies, music, and activities.  I breathed a giant social-networking-sigh of relief.  I was not a blank profile.  I was a Facebook Someone.    I searched friends and invited them to be my Facebook Friends.  I took some Facebook quizzes.  I emailed people and added "Music I Like" to my profile.  What if someone searched my page and wanted to know my favorite song?  I certainly didn't want to disappoint them.  By 3:00 A.M. I was Facebook Fluent, and I had an up-and-running profile.  I was as addicted as I could possibly be.  
    There are those that are less than enamored.   Those that would consider Facebook a time-waster.  I'm sure, to some degree, that this could be true.  However, after my major overdose on that first night, I now enjoy checking my profile in the late evenings.  I am still completely amazed when someone from grade school or high school finds me and we re-connect.  I get a kick when I read that "Rayo is a fan of Skyline Chili, " or "Jimmy and his baby are watching the Bengals and both are crying."  On Facebook, it is totally fine for you to join a fan club of a food, a movie, a person, a cartoon, a piece of furniture, a cloud formation, or a bad smell.  Where else can you send virtual gifts, virtual snowballs, virtual elves, gnomes, buttons, bumper stickers, fish, plants, hugs, kisses or drinks to your friends?  Some of these virtual operations exist to save the planet, fund a charity, raise awareness, or just promote feel-goodness, and truly, I think it all works.  I love opening my account and seeing my "notifications" blinking:  two friend requests, one snowball request, two Christmas gifts.  That doesn't happen in real life.  And it might not happen on Facebook in the junior high set.  It happens on Facebook over 40.  
    "Who do you talk to on Facebook," asked my son.  
    "Mrs. Edwards," I said.
    "You talk to her everyday anyway."
    True enough.
    During the election, Facebook offered political outlets.  I could decorate my profile with "yard signs" for my choice of candidates.  Facebook members could join groups in support  of (or against) candidates and issues.  I could attend "Facebook Election Day" and if I wanted to announce for whom I had voted, and when I had voted, I could.  Election day was tracked on Facebook all day. 
    My parents are now on Facebook.  (As my brother questioned, "Is that even allowed?!)  Lisa is Facebook friends with my parents.  My brothers are both friends with Lisa.  Lisa, Cindy, and I are all friends.  We are all also friends with Dee and Eve.  Cindy just "friended" my parents.  Lynn, my best friend from second grade just joined Facebook and all of our high school friends are on and chatting again, together.  Madeira High School, Class of 1986—fan of Friendly's Restaurant?  I think so.
   Is Facebook a bit of an escape?  Yes.  But also, I believe it is a real vehicle for reconnecting with my past.  Friends are providing me with memories and stories and laughs that bring me moments of great joy, that remind me of bits of myself that I might of forgotten, or bits of themselves that I once really enjoyed and am so glad to remember.  I have found (or been found by) theater friends, college friends, old neighbors.  One of the most lovely connections have been some family members that live so far away that I used to only see them every few years.  Now we chat every few days.
    On Facebook, my favorite feature is the "update your status."  It might say, "Christy is writing a blog," or "Lisa is contemplating going to the gym."  It gives me a little snippet into the lives of my friends and family.  I have heard of people who update far too often. . . like, "So-and-so is wondering how that lady got her parking space," and then, "So-and-so is not really happy with her parking space."  I don't think status updates are meant to be updated every 6 seconds, but on Facebook, to each her own.
   If I had to create a status update right now, it would read like this:  "Christy really enjoys Facebook.   If Jono and his friends are on Facebook she would never know.  She is too busy playing with her friends."
    

Posted by CC-Mom at 1/3/2009 1:24 PM | Add Comment

Trick-or-Treat?

   My son's new ring tone delivers a tune familiar to my eighties-loving ears:   "It's tricky to rock a rhyme, to rock a rhyme that's right on time, it's tricky.  It's tricky, tricky, tricky, tricky. . ."  I believe Reverend Run (of the notable eighties rap band, Run DMC) was correct.  It is tricky to rock that rhyme!  In fact, in 1985, I was tricked into going to a Run DMC/Beastie Boys concert.  I can't remember what my friends told me we were going to be doing that evening, but I can assure you, a rap concert was not in my plans, and yet, there I was, rocking a rhyme with Run DMC.  I'm sure it was a tricky prospect to get me a ticket, get me downtown, and in the end, I enjoyed it.   
    Thanks to the ring tone, I have tricky on the brain.  Things that are tricky. . .  
    It's tricky for me to avoid Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving, which is just a personal goal.  On that Friday, I start listening to carols non-stop in my car.  No more news, no more eighties' tunes, just carols of all kinds, all the time.  When I wrap presents, carols.  When I bake, carols.  But I don't care for hearing Christmas music before Thanksgiving.  Certainly not in October.
    Cornflake wreath cookies are tricky.  Marshmallows, green food coloring, butter, and red hots (which I can never find) are sticky and messy, and at any other time of year would probably not go together very well.  But it's a favorite cookie at my house, so I lay out the wax paper and make them.  Sometimes I give up on the wreath shapes all together and make blobs which I call "holly," because honestly, it's just too hard.  Tricky.  Or rather, sticky.
    I would guess that it could be tricky to have a live Nativity scene on the town square.  Not just to find the willing participants and the agreeable animals on a day that was dipping below 20 degrees, but there's that question people could ask. . .  a Nativity scene on public property?  I didn't participate in the scene, but even getting my family dressed warmly enough to get in the car for a drive-by nativity viewing took some doing.  Mittens, hats, hot drinks, coats, scarves and boots.  Can we see the donkey from the car?  Is Bella an angel at 4:00?  What do people think of the Nativity scene by the clock tower?  It could all be a little tricky.
    There are gift exchanges when I might have overspent, under spent, thought too much, or didn't think enough.  There is a running list on my counter that is completed every day.  Until it isn't.  Not to mention that life goes on while Christmas happens.  Yesterday, scribbled on top of my master Christmas Gift-And-To-Do List were the following items:   leotard, fishnet tights, Sharpie markers, call orthodontist, carrots, pay bills.  [Note:  the leotard and fishnet tights are for my daughter's tap class, lest you get any ideas about my Christmas Eve church attire.]
    When shopping with my husband over the weekend, he nearly rained on my very festive Christmas parade with some tricky/icky/sticky questions.  "Why is there is so much spending for just one moment?"    We questioned our list for a little while before continuing.  And then he asked me this:  "Are there any gifts that you have received that you look back on and really remember?"  We talked about certain gifts given, special gifts received, and why they were meaningful.   It was a conversation that tricked us both; it went in a really good direction after nearly going poorly.  We ended up picking some really special gifts that day—I love it when we trick ourselves.
    I think there are just moments, you know?  Moments of "oh no it's December 10 and I haven't baked anything and I need to wrap and I still have some gifts to buy and what should I buy for Adam's assistant and I totally forgot about the sprinkles and how much do I tip my hair stylist at Christmas and why won't that one tree outside JUST STAY LIT?????"   Moments like this can trip this girl up, send her over the Christmas edge.  So now I will pause and take a moment to break it all down.  There are plenty of days left to bake, and the closer it gets to Christmas, the fresher it will all be.  I can Google the "appropriate" tip amount for a stylist, and if it's not a comfortable amount, I will do what I normally do and add a plate of cookies that I just baked.  I can pick up some sprinkles at Drug Mart, or not.  It's really okay either way.   (It's not okay; I'll be going to Drug Mart.)   I can organize all of my wrapping supplies and wrap gifts on my free afternoons.  I actually have many.  I also have an 11-year old daughter who loves to wrap and bake.   [Note to self:   when things are tricky, do not overlook the elves who live in your own house.]  I can shop for Adam's assistant online and have the gift sent to his office, or turn this item over to him if I am stumped.  
     See?  That wasn't so difficult.   And the rewards that come from the  Christmas preparation are sweet.  Avoiding the carols in October and most of November makes  "Joy to the World" seem all the more majestic when it plays at full volume in December.  The cornflake wreaths are delicious and chewy.  Shopping is always fun and frantic and crazy-nuts, but I love it, and giving the gifts is just what I have always been taught:  better than receiving.  And believe it or not. . . even after those very tricky moments of panic, those un-lit lights and unanswered questions and un-found sprinkles, Christmas still manages to arrive and always would have, without anyone else's list, or anyone else's plan.   And that. . . is the real treat.


    
    
 
    
    
   

Posted by CC-Mom at 12/10/2008 7:41 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Thanksgiving. . .Second Helping

A re-post of the essay that started it all. . .    Turkey 

        My husband is allergic to poultry. A unique and difficult, but not unbearable affliction most times of the year, but a tricky one to live with in the month of November. When the topic first comes up in conversation, people are usually very interested. “Chicken?” they ask? “Duck? Goose?” Yes. Chicken, duck and goose, and anything else that flies. “Eggs?” No. Not eggs, but he doesn't like them. If you ask me, this really shouldn’t be an option when your choices are limited to begin with, but all those years ago at the allergist when Adam was six, nobody thought to ask me.

So every year, the week of Thanksgiving arrives, and everyone in my house is getting ready for our annual trek to Cincinnati. (Oh, did I say everyone? I meant me. But I digress.) I’m packing three kids for the trip, and I’m gathering the food for our yearly contribution. One giant sack of potatoes, which Adam will mash at my parents’ house on Thursday, ingredients for two chocolate pies which my 13-year old will assemble, and all the components for my husband’s meal. A pork roast, sausage-and cornbread-stuffing (prepared with vegetable broth, of course) and some pork gravy on the side. We are a food-laden van, no turkey in sight, headed down I-71 on the busiest Wednesday evening of the year. The thousands of minivans that we pass have a similarly stuffed appearance. Suitcases, children, sleeping bags and the occasional lot of Christmas presents tossed into the back. I venture a silent guess that no one else has a pork roast traveling on the floor of the passenger seat.

Before I continue with my Thanksgiving story, I need to share with you that many of my mother’s relatives are Jews. I grew up going to Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs, and occasionally attending Hebrew school with my cousin Julie. I remember Julie’s Bat Mitzvah very well because I was 13, too. A 13-year-old not-quite-confirmed, not-yet-baptized girl watching Julie complete this rite of passage. But what I remember most is the pink-and-white reception that followed, spending the night, and watching her open the gifts and the cards and the money and thinking. . . I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to be a Jew. But it was not meant to be, and a few months later I completed my own confirmation, following a quickie baptism that same morning, next to the boy of my dreams. Tom Lucky. I was certain that the fact that Tom Lucky and I were being baptized together on confirmation day meant that we would be together forever. I mean seriously. . .holy water? If that’s not binding, what is? But some dreams are not meant to be, and so I arrive back at my story, present day, where I am driving in my silver Honda Odyssey with the poultry-allergic, most-certain-man-of-my dreams back home to see my grown-up cousin Julie and all of my relatives for Thanksgiving Day.

And I am driving a pork dinner into the midst of my semi-Jewish family. It’s as if I need to have little signs to stick into all of the dishes. Something like, “Warning! Turkey! This could kill Adam!” or, “Pork, the other white meat! Could offend Uncle Herb!” We strategically place the Waldorf salad and my dad’s mashed turnips between the meats so that no one slips up. My Uncle Mike, who’s Catholic, gets to try it all. I haven’t even mentioned the fact that my son, Jonathan, is allergic to peanuts because my tired mind can’t wrap around one more restriction on this particular day. I just let the child loose and pray for the best. My big family is together on most holidays, but Thanksgiving is the only one that seems to hold these particular culinary dangers. The other ones are only odd, like the fact that we eat bagels and lox on Easter. But hey, if you’re going to mix traditions, food is an easy way to start.

 You may wonder what any of this has to do with why I have chosen The First Congregational Church of Hudson as my church home.  Here is a place where I can be true to my faith background.  Here, I have freedom to respect and honor the faiths of those that I love, all while worshiping in the way that I choose to worship and serving in the way that I choose to serve.  When we were completing our membership class, Adam and I were asked to draw representations of our faith journeys, and to write about our faith backgrounds.  This is mine, in a nutshell. (Not a peanut shell, of course!)  I know that my faith future is here.  This November, and always, I am grateful for and proud of what my church represents and upholds.  Christian or Jew, poultry or pork, I know that anyone I love will be accepted through these doors, and this I count among my many blessings.

My youngest brother was married this summer. She’s a teacher, she’s smart, she’s pretty, and they really, really love each other. And, wouldn't you know it, she’s a good Jewish girl.  I think she'll be right at home.

 Epilogue:   I'm happy to report that my sister-in-law, Adi, and my brother, Jimmy, are expecting their first baby at any moment.   I would love to write my "new baby" blog over this Thanksgiving break—please hurry, baby!   (I know, Jimmy, I know. . . I'll try to stop pressuring the unborn baby!)    We have also recently discovered that our youngest son, Sam, is allergic to cashews, peanuts, and all tree-nuts.   I'll be serving air and water for Christmas dinner.

Posted by CC-Mom at 11/29/2008 1:26 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment

Why Do First Graders Ask Such Good Questions?

    "Do you believe that anything is possible?" called Sam, from the family room.

    I was unloading the dishwasher and simultaneously cutting  big marshmallows into small marshmallows with wet scissors for Sam's hot chocolate.  His wet , snowy clothes were already spinning in the dryer, and dinner was nearly finished.  Did I believe anything was possible?  You betcha.

    "Sure, Sam," I called back.
    "Is it true?" 
    "Is what true?"
    "That anything is possible?"

    Honestly, where's an easy question when you need one?  Is it TRUE???  I had no answer.  I was so happy with the way the evening was going that I certainly wasn't going to stomp on his very fair question with a factual response, like, "No Sam, it's not true.  It's not possible for you to grow wings and fly.  A blue horse will never fall out of the sky."   Not to mention the fact that we all know that if I did say these things, Sam most certainly would sprout wings, and a blue horse would drop directly from Heaven, just to prove me wrong.  It's just the way it works.  

    Is it true?

    We say it all the time.  A quick, "Anything's possible!" tossed into a conversation about the world, about our family, about our faith, about our friends, our sports teams, our own goals, our own dreams.  It's one of those phrases that we hear so many times that we don't even really think about what the words mean.  

    "Hey, Christy, are you going to run today?"
    "Anything's possible!"  (sarcastic)

    Can we find a path to peace in the world?
    Anything's possible. . .  (hopeful)

    "I wonder if this was the answer to that prayer I've been praying?"
    "[With God]  anything's possible. . . "  (faithful)

    I wish I had thought to ask Sam where he heard the expression.  What was he hoping for the possibility OF?  It will all make for good breakfast conversation tomorrow. 

    Any.  Thing.  Is.  Possible.  What a hopeful string of words!  So I finally told Sam, yes.  It's true.  Anything is possible.  

    And if a blue horse falls from the sky anytime soon, don't say you haven't been warned.

    "With God all things are possible."
    Matthew 19:26

*This verse is also the state motto of Ohio.  I can't wait to tell Sam in the morning!
    

    
    
    

Posted by CC-Mom at 11/21/2008 12:16 AM | View Comments (1) | Add Comment
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