It's a Good-Hard

It's a season unlike any other for me. In various ways, many of my birdies are leaving the nest. Times, they are a changin' (cue melodramatic music). This is my season of birthing-new-life-and-dying-death.

With my youngest three going to "real school" this fall, 13+ years of homeschooling have come to a close.

My first-born son graduated from college, got engaged and is about to embark on the mission field with his amazing fiancé to the "hardest darkest" places.

Last week, my one and only daughter left for France to live her life-long dream of living in Europe. Thank God for Skype.

My 18 year-old recently graduated from high school, and this fall will jet off to Tennessee to begin his college career.

My 15 year-old just left for an eight weeks long internship on a farm in Vermont.

Oh, and our family cat of 14 years died. 

All of these things are good things (except for the cat part). But that doesn't make them easy. They're still hard. But they are good-hards. 

Having had more bad-hards than I care to recount, I'll take good-hards any day of the week, including Sundays, over bad-hards. Still, my heart aches. I miss my babies.

I remind myself that this birthing-new-life-and-dying-death season is good. It's not the dying-death-only season. No, that valley I've visited (and by "visited" I mean I was dragged through it, kicking and screaming bloody murder). No, this season... This is a good one. This season gives life. But, dang, it still hurts.

My season of good-hards is here. And being all too aware of the excruciating pain and damage bad-hard seasons bring, I welcome my good-hard season with joy and a little trepidation. 

In a world full of far too many of those yucky bad-hards, I want to embrace and welcome my season of good-hards. 

So, here I go, "Season of good-hards, welcome. Let's eat chocolate, and do this."

A homeschool mom goes back to school

My first day of school went well. Since this is my first time back in a class room in over 25 years, there are many new things. 

The last time I was in a classroom there were no cell phones, no laptops, no internet. Back in my day, if a student propped their Converse-clad tootsies on the table-top, the teacher would have promptly walked over and pushed them off. Nowadays, not only is it okay for the student to do so, the teacher leads the charge.

Another thing about going back to school after 25 years is this whole internet driven world. Back in my day only rich kids had home computers and there was no such thing as internet. Shoot, phones were still attached to cords & walls. Now here we are in the 21st century and the class syllabus, schedule and other class-related information is apparently available on the internet before the first warm-bodies-sitting-in-the-classroom day. For me this meant that there was an assignment due that first day. Ha! Who knew? Obviously, not I. 

Thankfully, our instructor gave grace and allowed us to turn the assignment in during the next class. He did seem pretty pleased with himself as he smugly announced the assignment, though, which rubbed me a little, being as how he's all of 13. He said something like, "I know none of you checked this, so I'm ready to receive complaints, but there was an assignment due today." The one comfort I took in my ignorance of such a new-fangled approach was that, apparently all these internet savvy, young whippersnappers were as surprised as I was by this already-due assignment. Ha! 

In case you're wondering what course I'm taking, it's a public speaking class. And yes, only one class. I figure one class is pretty ambitious seein' as how I homeschool three of my little birdies, seven of our eight are still in the nest and I'd like to get a passing grade. 

Upon hearing that I'm taking a public speaking class, those who know me will probably be all like, "WHY in the world are you taking a public speaking class?" Explaining that dynamic gets a little complicated and weird because, while I totally get why they'd ask that: I'm a decent communicator, straight shooter and generally speak my mind. The thing is, that's not always-in-all-situations the case. Without going into the dirty-laundry portion of my life, I'll simply say I'm on a journey to find my voice again. And there is a part of me that sees this class as a baby step in that direction. Even still, it's so much more than that for me. 

And the whole process is thrilling and terrifying all at the same time. I'm doing my homework and (barely) remembering to go to class (hey, it's been over 25 years), and thoroughly enjoying my new venture. I'm thinking and wondering weeks in advance, what will I give my first speech on? I'm exhilarated, excited and generally thrilled with a side of terrified. 

Then I attend last Thursday's class, a teaching on visual aids, and learn we will be graded on our appropriate usage of visual aids in every speech we give. >Gasp!< 

Hey, I can talk, I can give a speech, I'm even a fairly decent actor. Plus, I'm not generally given to stage fright. But use visual aids? Is he high? Do I look like I can walk and chew gum at the same time? 

I'm immediately sobered from my I'm-a-butterfly-about-to-emerge-from-her-cocoon-and-flyyyyy!!! stupor and thrust into maybe-I'm-just-gonna-be-a-plain-old-moth zone. 

Visual aids. Who's stupid idea were those any way? Pppffftttt! 

My one saving grace may be the fact that my professor says not all speeches call for visual aids, which is why he said we'd be graded on our, "appropriate use of visual aids." Cool! Great! Sign me up for whatever topic does NOT need visual aids. Either that, or maybe I could do a speech on the proper care and use of crayons, markers and poster board.

Carpe Dieming

Today's my 45th birthday. I feel like I should have some profound wisdom to impart to mark the occasion. Alas, I do not, unless you count how grateful I am for spell-check because without it, I would always spell "occasion" wrong.

Forty-five feels like most other days. It only starts to get a little weird when I realize that my daughter turns 19 today, and tomorrow my first-born turns 22. Yeah, the fact that I have kids that old is weird to me. However, the fact that I'm ridiculously proud of both of them definitely helps with the mish-mash happening in my brain as it struggles to reconcile the fact that I'm old enough to have kids that old. And (since you asked) here are a few more reflections as I cross over this mid-life threshold:

At 45, I'm

• six years away from being an empty-nester. That idea was nothing but completely appealing when my kids were barely out of diapers and naps. Now that they're all so self-sufficient (and tall), I'm beginning to feel the pangs of impending emptiness. 
• three years older than Ray ever was. Since he was seven years older than I, that's extremely weird. As the years continue, I suspect that will just keep getting weirder.
• going back to school. Yes, at "mid-life" I'm experiencing a new beginning and that's very exciting (okay, and a little bit terrifying).
• mom to a 22 year-old college senior.
• more appreciative of the truth of the saying, "the older I get the better I was," mostly as it relates to physical perkiness. (Just keepin' it real, folks.)
• more secure and comfortable in my own skin than I've ever been (yes, even in spite of the above mentioned fact).

One one hand, forty-five years seem impossible for this girl who can so easily touch her high school days, her newly married days, her new mommy days. On the other hand, this same girl is acutely aware of the few years that ruthlessly stole more than their year's share.

I like to think 45 years of life have given me balance and perspective and appreciation. Oh, I'm still a very black & white personality, but I am more comfortable with that fact now; much less inclined to cower to disapproval. I like to think I've gained a better perspective of grace in the hard, a better balance of justice & mercy.

Each of my (eh'em, very few) wrinkles says something about who I am, where I've been. Even the battle scars remind me of strength I didn't know (or want to know) I had. And I'm eternally thankful to the ones who have fought by my side during the battles. 

So yeah, 45 and life is too good to pass up. I'm carpe diem'ing the you-know-what out of all 365 of 45.

My daughter and birthday twin, Alexa & me in Tahoe, 2012

Life Actually

I really want to be doing this bloggin' once or twice a week. So far I'm stinkin' that up. It's the holidays, people. And for us that also means five birthdays, our first-born, college senior coming home with his amazing girlfriend-whom-we-adore & little bro in tow, me baking and cooking like a freak, decorating (and UNdecorating, bleck!), movie-watching, game-playing, stray-sock pick-upping. 

And now that the holidays are almost over (three birthdays in two days left -- this Thursday & Friday will finish them up), that dirty word SCHOOL has started back up. Ugh! Plus, hubby is away with our most recent 13 year old on a manhood weekend. Since his birthday is in winter, they're doing something none of our other boys (who have summer bdays) will have done when they did their big-13-manhood-away-with-Dad-weekend... dog sledding. Yep. Dog sledding. How cool is that?! (It's all a big secret, so I'm not s'posed to tell... so shhhhhh!) 

Add to that my only daughter is jetting off to Europe in a mere five months to fulfill her life-long dream of living there, so we're ticket-buying and visa-getting, and I'm all, "Tito, get me a tissue." More on that another day. Right now, I'm in denial, so we'll just be done talking about it.

So hubby's gone & I'm holding down the fort, doing what I do and not blogging. Another reason for that is that I edit things TO DEATH, so I need a mountain of time to write and eventually post a blog entry. I'm working on this (in fact this is my first shot at "letting go" of a post), but for now, it's a problem.

While I'm wishing-I-was-blogging-but-still-not, I've learned of some friends who are facing some really heart-wrenching realities with their first-born. Actually, they've been walking this road with their little guy for 13 years, but over the last six or so weeks, things have shifted significantly. So significantly that life as they and their other three children know it has screeched to a halt. So significantly that they are having to think about things no parent should ever have to think about. And I am undone. I think... Lord, are you kidding me? And yet, this mom, this woman who has already faced and overcome so, so much, she's blogging and she's blogging well. 

I've been her fan for a long time. Let me tell you, this woman can write! If you haven't yet read her blog, do yourself a favor and check it out. Most of her entries are hilariously spot-on in the department of real life. She captures it all with striking accuracy, but along the way she also tells her story. She tells of extremely high-risk pregnancies, of losing her precious twins, of her incredible premies, of adoption, of life as the wife of a rock-n-roll husband, of love. 

If you've checked in here lately and have wondered where my next blog entry is, just know, I'm still feeling this whole blog thing out, trying to get a rhythm and not be so anal about the editing process. In the meantime, and even after I get a decent rhythm, go check out my friend's blog http://radiantjess.blogspot.com/. Look around a bit and make yourself at home. You will cry tears of joy and sadness. I guarantee you, you will laugh your head off. And please, when you read her latest blogs on her little guy, Richie II (R2), pray. Pray. Pray for his healing. Pray for Mommy and Daddy and his siblings, Toby, Brynn and Tristan. Pray for peace and comfort in the unknowing and the waiting. Pray for R2.

Of Bed-making and Legacy-leaving

I’m in California visiting my mom. She’s 82 years old and has lived in a convalescent home since 2005. It’s difficult to articulate the dynamics that have existed between us ever since I can remember, so I won’t try. I will say that, for us, it's always been hard.

Long ago, Mom began figuratively making the bed she now literally lies in. (An aside for the grammar nazis: proper usage of lay/lie has always eluded me. My English-professor father has tried and tried. Since I'm using the word(s) and their various (confusing) forms a lot in this entry, I even tried googling it which only added to my confusion. So, if I'm wrong and you know the difference, work with me and fagetaboutit. If you don’t, then at least you know you’re not alone.)

August 2011, when Mom was still
relatively interactive and coherent.

During my mom’s 70something years of contributing to society, she, like the rest of us, made choices; many of them. Growing up, I watched mostly dumbfounded as she lay wreckage to relationships, sabotaging herself and others with her choices.

The irony is that, all the while she was on a quest, desperately seeking love and acceptance. She had kids for just this reason. Four of us. And while I have no doubt my mom loved us dearly, she just didn’t have it in her to be the mom she desired to be, the mom we needed her to be. She was too empty inside. From the time she was a baby, she has justifiably felt unloved, unaccepted, unwanted. And there’s where the runaway train which has created the wreckage of her life began.

Now, Mom in a brief moment of
wakefulness, sipping coffee with pictures
and notes her grandkids made for her
 on the wall in the background.

So now, I sit next to her, as she lies in her bed. I pray, “Lord minister to her. Lord, don’t let her suffer any more. Please, take her home.” Yet, I don’t even know if she knows her Maker. As she teeters between this world and the next, the thought that she might not, is terrifying.

I stroke her hair and hold her hand as she stares blankly, drifting in and out of sleep.

Does she even know I’m here?

She wakes long enough to look at me, smile and say, "You have such a pretty smile.” My heart tucks away the treasure as she dozes off again.

Except for me, on the few times a year I can make it to California, my mom is utterly alone. No one visits her. Not one person. Ever. No one. It breaks my heart. The knowledge that she is reaping what she's sown, is no consolation. In her old age, her “golden” years, this is what it’s come to for her. 

Metaphorically, a part of me lies in her bed with her. How can it not? She’s my mom. The pain of her decisions have become a legacy of impossible-to-carry baggage for me, her youngest daughter. Just as the choices of my mom's parents' affected her, her choices have affected her children. In the same way, our choices will affect our kids, (now cue the "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific" commercials) and so on, and so on, and so on. 

Why? Because we don't live alone on an island. Our choices affect others and we can't be playing the game of life like they don't. 

As each new day chips away at my mom's dignity, as she lay there all alone, make no mistake, she is paying dearly for this bed she made. She lies there in its relentless grip day after day after interminable day, with no reprieve. No matter her choices, she is a human being and human beings were made for love of which she has precious little.

The tragedy of my mom's life has been a sobering teacher for me. Watching her life-choices play out over the years, I am tangibly struck with the reality that our choices matter. While ultimately they affect the choice-maker most directly, our choices also affect our loved ones. Deeply. There's no way around that. I want to use the gift of free-will wisely, with the Holy Spirit's guidance. It is far too powerful a gift to rely solely on myself to make right decisions for I know the flaws of my flesh far too well. I want to give my children a legacy and heritage that gives their hearts wings to fly, not burden them with impossible-to-carry baggage. 

The power to choose is ours. The legacy we leave is up to us. 

Lord, help me choose well. Let me live a life full of love 1 Corinthians 13 style. Let me leave an honorable legacy that gives my children wings to fly.

25 Things About Me

For those of you who don't know me, here's a little insider info. For those of you who do, there will be a quiz. Preferably while eating Leatherby's Raspberry Royales together (notice, I did not say sharing). :-)

1. I saw Steve Martin's The Jerk when I was a little kid. Ever since then, when someone starts to tell their life story, I silently add, "I was born a poor black child."
2. I'm a blue-eyed red-head. Hated the red hair as a kid. I quickly came to appreciate it as an adult. Plus, a perk I've discovered with age is that red hair hides grays really well. 
3. Earth, Wind & Fire, Heatwave, The Sugar Hill Gang, Switch, Cameo, Grandmaster Flash, Stacy Lattisaw & Parliament kept company with Genesis, Billy Joel, Kansas, Heart, Journey, Van Halen, General Public & the Police on my record shelf.
4. I like Tommy Jordan and agree with his decision to shoot his daughter's computer to teach her a lesson. I also think he writes well.
5. As a kid, I made it my mission to learn to smack my gum. I thought it was sooo cool. I still smack it and I still think it's cool.
6. Pretention wears me out fast.
7. I'm a Ginger girl not a Mary Ann girl. Ginger had big dreams and class (yes, I said class). I thought Mary Ann was just plain and boring.
8. I love music of all kinds and I love to dance.
9. I've loved deeply and lost. More over, I'd do it all over again, even if I'd known in advance how it would turn out. The joy of that love was worth every single second of the pain of losing it.
10. I'm passionate about justice, especially when it comes to my family.
11. When I became a Christian, I thought all Christians were stellar people. Since then, I've learned Christians sin just as much as non-Christians and the only difference is Jesus.
12. I love coffee with lots of heavy cream, no sugar.
13. My whole life, my relationship with my mom has been less than ideal (big understatement). However, God has restored that ten-fold with the blessings of three of the most amazing mothers-in-law ever. Ray's mom (God rest her soul), Dean's mom and Amy's mom (Amy is Dean's late wife) have been/are three of my closest friends. 
14. If it weren't for Beckie Shafer teaching me how to cook when I was a young wife, my family would have starved.
15. In high school, Gina McCulley taught me a beauty secret that I still use all these years later:  when applying mascara, an open safety pin is a very effective way to separate sticky eyelashes.
16. Best gift I could ever receive is a handwritten note.
17. This one I say often, but only because it is one of the truest truths in my life. By far, I have the best friends ever. They know the best & worst of me. They call me higher, belly laugh with me, sob buckets with me, walk through the hardest of the hard with me. They love me for me. 
18. Black and green are my favorite colors.
19. Spent my summers at the beach and never once got a tan (see #2).
20. I have a memory like Jumbo the elephant which is great for the good times, not so much for the tough spots in my life that I'd rather forget.
21. I used to think chiropractors were quacks, but since my life was literally changed by a chiropractor two years ago, I'm a sold-out believer.
22. I see the world in black & white: Right is right. Wrong is wrong. While this may mean I have clarity that gray-area folks might not have, I still struggle just as much with actually doing the right thing. (Rom 7:15)
23. The majority of my most embarrassing moments involve tripping.
24. I believe in second chances and  love at first sight. 
25. Someday I want to own a 1965 Mustang.

Decking the Halls... or Not

Christmastime... Family, friends, food, music, lights, decorations, nativity scenes, Christmasy, wintery scents -- I love Christmas. I love everything about the Christmas season (well, everything except the commercialization). 

As a child, there was little to no tradition in my home (though, I s'pose having no tradition could, in a sense, be considered its own sort of tradition). As a result, establishing our own family traditions with my husband and children has been important to me. 

We have a dozen or so family Christmas traditions. One of these is decorating our home for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving. For the last three years, my first-born, Branden, has been away at college, so we've decked the halls without his effervescent personality bouncing around the house (and missed it greatly). This year, he was home for Thanksgiving and able to join in on the fun, which made me a very happy mama. It also made this mama acutely aware that all my kids being home for decorating will become rarer and rarer as my kids continue spreading their wings and leaving the nest. In fact, in all likelihood, next year my second-born (and only daughter) will be living her life-long dream of residing across the pond. And so, as each one of my kids fly away, the cherishedness of these traditions, as well as daily life in general with them, becomes even more cherished.

An ornament a year for each one of my kids
adorns our tree. When they move out and
have their own families, they'll have their
childhood ornaments to hang on their trees.

So, with the added joy of #1's presence, we began decorating for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving. We got as far as the tree, which is pretty far. A few days later, I hung the stockings (hey, it's harder than it sounds). Then I started thinkin', as much as I love the rest of the Christmas decorations that normally adorn our home, I may just be done with this whole decking-the-halls process for 2012.  

I assure you, I wasn't Scroogin'. I just wasn't sure I wanted to dedicate an entire day plus to the decorating process. (Not to mention its inevitable, not even remotely fun companion: entire day plus of UNdecorating.) I'd much rather spend that time playing games with my kids, reading Christmas-type books to them, watching Christmas-type movies with them and baking Christmas-type goodies with them. I thought.

It's not like I was thinking it has to be one or the other: enjoying time with your family OR decorating. I wasn't. It's just that, in that moment, somehow this year didn't feel like a both year to me. 

As I shared my all-but-made-decision to not decorate the house more with one of my sons, Chandler, he said in his tender, sweet voice, "Mom, it doesn't feel like Christmas until our house is decorated. It's so cozy when it's all Christmasy." And that was it. That was all it took. Hearing my son say tradition was important melted me, and I instantly became a decorating machine. Day plus, schmay plus. Bring it!

Now before you get all, "Lady, Christmas is far more than a decorated home. It's about JESUS!" on me. I know that and this post is not even remotely meant to minimize the main and plain of that fact. And yet, our family traditions have given our kids something that is also dear to their hearts: fond memories to carry with them as they grow; a sense of belonging and family identity; a sense of simple times in a sometimes hard, cold, complicated world; a sense of cozy, warm-by-the-fire togetherness and love. There's something to be said for cherished family traditions our kids can pass on to their kids as part of their legacies. 

So, it's ended up being a both year after all. We're all decorated, and now as I sit to play games, read stories, watch movies and bake with my family, I do it in our warmer, cozier, more Christmasy home. Gotta tip my hat, or in my case, flip my hair, to our Chan-man for speaking up and saving me from my sometimes overly-practical self. Way to go, Chandler!