Notes From the Journey. . .

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

2010-03-08T03:37:00Z

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.

You Are Enough

2010-02-03T18:25:00Z

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 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 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 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 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

Testing the Water

2010-01-20T19:30:00Z

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.

Merry Christmas, Jono

2009-12-15T19:33:00Z

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.

A Christmas Carol

2009-12-09T15:21:00Z

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.

The Thanksgiving Blog

2009-11-24T14:52:00Z

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

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.

Note to Self

2009-11-16T00:35:00Z

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

When Failure is an Option

2009-10-11T20:17:00Z

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.

When You Give a Girl a Pancake . . .

2009-09-26T12:55:00Z

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.

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

2009-09-15T12:11:00Z

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.

Dream a Little Dream. . .

2009-09-01T18:23:00Z

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.

Free Gift

2009-08-11T15:54:00Z

    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.

Driving Miss Lisa

2009-07-07T21:23:00Z

    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.

Jesus, Take the Wheel. . . of Cheese

2009-06-11T15:23:00Z

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.