Please...do disturb.

I heard this prayer today, and was more than touched. I was, well, disturbed. Which is kind of the point, I think:

Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too well pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we have dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when
With the abundance of things we possess
We have lost our thirst
For the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life,
We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
We have allowed our vision
Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wider seas
Where storms will show your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.

We ask You to push back
The horizons of our hopes;
And to push into the future
In strength, courage, hope, and love.

Sir Francis Drake
1577

Wordless Wednesday: Nan wins the green thumb war.

How it all begins.

My earliest get-together memories on my daddy's side of the family involve a great group of cousins -- most a little older than me, all way cooler than I could ever aspire to be -- who gave just the right amount of attention to this annoying younger cousin, and without fail, made us all laugh non-stop.

Around the time I was just "getting" jokes (or maybe stopping my bad habit of making up really terrible ones in lieu of using actual humor), I vividly recall my cousin Penny's vivacious presence and command of a room when telling her breaking-news-style funny story of the moment.

To channel Sophia from "The Golden Girls," picture this:

The setting was my Grandma Johnson's house -- a serene environment on a regular day, but bustling with literally hundreds of her descendants and their signature potluck dishes on get-together day.

The year was sometime in early to mid-80s, so the hair was big, shoulder pads were in, and eye shadow and lipstick colors were far from timid.

Enter Penny, who fit the fashion bill perfectly. Always dressed in the latest and full of personality, this particular day in my memory, her jokes all seemed to begin with, "See, there was this guy..."

As an elementary school kid, I may not have even fully understood the jokes and their punch lines, but I did comprehend a few things: Penny was full of life, she wore cool clothes, she and my other very hip cousins didn't ignore me, and most importantly to me at that moment, she was great for a laugh.

Through several decades, quite a few wardrobe changes, a variety of hairspray and product adjustments, a widening of lipstick color ranges, and life choices that for Penny has added a precious husband and two beautiful children, one thing remains: when Penny is in the room, she is the life of the party, and whether or not you're related to the Johnsons, you're guaranteed to laugh at her jokes and creatively expressed stories. They may not all start with "There was this guy" now, but they're always worth a listen.

Within the last few years, Penny and her family have dealt with the ugliness of cancer -- something no one should have to experience. The family's faith has remained solid and admirable, and even during hospital visits, Penny has managed to share her trademark hilariousness in the style that only she can.

With exposure to the medical field and a hospital steeped in a century of faith, I heard recently about a clergyman sharing with a friend that sometimes God's spirit of healing doesn't always come in the form of a medical miracle with the earthly, seemingly win-win results we'd like to see. Sometimes that healing is delivered gently and graciously by a Father who created this world to be perfect, but watching us mar it with sin and subsequently, pain, He proceeds to heal His children by alleviating their hurt and bringing them home into an ultimate situation of comfort.

That morsel of wisdom, though beautiful, is never easy for this incredibly human, frail mind to swallow.

My selfish soul, who has only experienced earth, wants Patrick and Penny's love story to live on right here in the South, where I feel they both belong. In their human bodies. I want them to celebrate anniversaries until they're old and gray. I want their children to always be able to call their mom on the phone and hear her stories, or her admonishments, or her encouragement, or how to cook their favorite meals.

But, as we can all celebrate, I'm not God.

He has bigger plans for this beautiful family that will undoubtedly spread their incredible story of faith and childlike love for His will farther and wider, and I'm entirely too feeble-minded as a mere human to know what those plans are.

Even with that knowledge, am I happy about their situtation? No way.

Do I understand it? Of course not.

Would I change it in a heartbeat given the power? Absolutely.

But it's not my option, and that is truly good. My truth to accept is that my cousin was brought into our lives not merely by family dynamics, but by God's willing hand.

There are probably greater reasons Penny came into the Johnson clan, but I like to think our Heavenly Father knew I enjoyed a good laugh, even at an early age. I like to think He knew my sister was fascinated with shoes and that we enjoyed Penny and Sherry's fashion shows (which may or may not have also been known to the rest of the world, including Penny and Sherry, as dinner at Grandma Johnson's house). I like to think that God used a hilarious, savvy, fashionable businesswoman to show me that girls do and can just wanna have fun, and that He used that same hilarious, savvy, fashionable wife and mom to show me that wives and moms also do and can just wanna have fun. I know God used that hilarious, savvy, fashionable believer to reiterate to me that Christians do and can just wanna have fun.

And I know without doubt that no matter how long His spirit of healing lasts in its earthly form for any of us, our Father who art in Heaven will continue to use Penny's story to show the value of strong faith and trust, the beauty of a bright smile and deep laugh in spite of circumstances, and the unmatchable fire of pure love for family.

So, all this leads me to think it's high time to change the beginning of Penny's story.

I mean, I'm the first to admit that "See, there was this guy" did have its day, but maybe it's time to switch it up a bit.

Because now, when I talk about Penny, I hear myself beginning her vivacious story with, "See, there's this really hilarious girl."

No matter what escapade we're telling of Penny's, we'll never forget the punch line. And we know that as always will be her trademark, we'll have a great laugh while sharing these precious, unforgettable memories.

Penny, thank you, thank you, thank you for these sweet memories of laughter, love, time spent with and dedication invested into this family. Thank you for creating the family Facebook group so we could all keep up, share photos and reconnect online. Thank you for writing the beautiful intro to that group about the Circle of Eleven. It touched many of us in a lot of ways.

Hugest for "my memory box," as my nephew has taken to saying, thank you for never neglecting to make me feel special, no matter how young or irrelevant or dorky I was. (And yes, this applies to last year's family reunion, too.)

It's an honor to be your cousin.


“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”  ― Maya Angelou

Nervous as a cat.

Some things make me nervous as a cat. One of them is controversy.

Please don't ask me why. I'm not saying I'm proud of it.

But the graphic sure is funny, isn't it? :-)

:: sigh ::

High Five.

Five things I'm thankful for today are:

1. My job. Not only do I realize how fortunate I am to even have a job in this economy, I'm also aware that enjoying that job puts me in a unique and beautiful category. I prayed for this for so long, and now I am here. Blessed am I.
2. My foot. My stupid, sore, ugly-shoe-clad, plantar fasciitis-ridden foot. Were it not for this foot, I wouldn't appreciate the 8,456,293 neglected pairs of shoes in my closet that I WILL wear one day when this foot finally heals. I also wouldn't look forward to things like running, walking distances, adding variety to my exercise routine, or doing anything that puts weight on my foot. So, you know, good reminder. Every dang day. 
3. Upcoming getaways. Switzerland, you ask? The West Coast, perhaps? Maybe a little jaunt to the Pacific Northwest? Not quite. But from my anticipation of a road trip that'll include visits with friends and family, you'd think I'd won an Oprah dream vacation. It's really nice to have things to look forward to.
4. Stress. Yeah, I know. This one's a little Pollyanna-ish, even for me. But still. Feeling stress reminds me that I don't always feel that way, and that there is a difference between good stress and bad stress. (Maybe I'll blog more on this later. It's a topic that interests me.) So I am grateful to recognize the difference between the two, to realize this isn't my norm anymore, and to find ways to relieve it!
5. LOL. A teacher I had in high school was great about laughing at her own mistakes. I saw this at the time, and thought I caught on, but I think I'm aware that with each new mistake -- minor or major -- that I maybe don't have that down quite so much. So God bless Mrs. Farris for sharing her stories and demonstrating the value of laughing out loud as often as possible. Since she was attacked by cancer a few years back and I didn't get to say these specific words to her, I really hope she knows just how valuable those lessons were to me. (Also, the typing skills are coming in handy, too.) Knowing Mrs. Farris, I have no doubt she's still cracking herself and everyone around her up, even in Heaven. I'm striving daily to ace that test myself. 

What Not To Say.

Do you laughingly tell people you "have no filter" when you speak? Better yet, is one of your points of pride how thoughtfully you dole out each.and.every.word before opening your carefully groomed mouth?

If your eyes lit up while excitedly nodding at either of these questions, you're cordially invited to read my rant -- ahem, blog post -- on a few things I recommend never saying. 

Please note that I don't make these suggestions* because they're rude or even because they're just plain silly. No, no. There is much more calculated method behind this madness -- I promise.

I offer these sentences as items to never, ever, ever speak because 

a) they either apply to absolutely everyone, or 

b) they apply to absolutely no one. 

Hence, better left unsaid.

1. I'm not good with confrontation.* - Who is? Unless we're terrorists, attorneys (no offense, attorneys), or collection agents by choice, can any of us say we've perfected the art of confrontation, and get jazzed up about it any at given time? Not I, said the redhead. Which is why there's an asterisk by this one. Well played, RJ.
2. It's just that I hate being sick. - Really? In that case, I can see why you took the time to point this out, since it certainly makes you incredibly unique. Most people I know (including me, who's not feeling well right now, which is why you're explaining your distance from my germ even though you're dating me) rather enjoy not being 100%. Huh. Now that you've cleared that up, I get it now, and can appreciate your uniqueness even more. Sweet! 
3. My life is just PERFECT! - This is one of my biggest pet peeves. While I, too, have been so full of contentment that it would take an atomic bomb to ruin my joy, no one can really say their life is perfect. Plus, when people do say that, it almost sounds like they're trying too hard. You know? Why not, "I'm so thankful things are going well" or "I really couldn't ask for more right now"? Why the word "perfect"? Ugh. (At this point, I always feel like I have to give some disclaimer that I'm not bitter about life, but I'm not even going to try that. I mean, I'm not. If you believe me, great. If not, this blog is voluntary for you to read, not required. Right? Wow. That was freeing!)
4. Literally.* - If you don't know the meaning of this word, do not use it. If you know the meaning and cannot literally apply it in the sentence you're using, don't include it in your sentence. Period.

* Items marked with asterisks are things I sadly know for a fact that I've actually said out loud. Hopefully only once, though. Then I caught myself and mentally tarred and feathered the little rebekah inside my head. May you do the same if in a similar situation. I mean that in the nicest way possible. Obvs.

Do you have suggestions to add to this list? If so, feel free to "throw me something, mister," and leave your feedback on this blog post. I'm always open to new pet peeves. It's probably a big part of what makes my life so literally perfect! 

Gratitude.

Funny how quickly I rush to the computer when I need release for worries, but how delayed my post is to shout from the (blogosphere) rooftops the sincere gratitude I feel the minute that same concern is relieved.

Don't get me wrong. I felt like I could run a marathon when I heard a good report on a loved one's health. But isn't it easier, all the way around, to log complaints than it is to give praise? I find that's true at the grocery store with customer service, too. Kind of sad that it applies to my Giver of Life.

At any rate, the relief I did and do feel at this very positively answered prayer is best summed up in a decade-old song by Nichole Nordeman, aptly titled, well, "Gratitude."

Watch the YouTube video:



The lyrics are here:

Send some rain, would You send some rain?
'Cause the earth is dry and needs to drink again
And the sun is high and we are sinking in the shade
Would You send a cloud, thunder long and loud?
Let the sky grow black and send some mercy down
Surely You can see that we are thirsty and afraid
But maybe not, not today
Maybe You'll provide in other ways
And if that's the case . . .

We'll give thanks to You

With gratitude
For lessons learned in how to thirst for You
How to bless the very sun that warms our face
If You never send us rain

Daily bread, give us daily bread
Bless our bodies, keep our children fed
Fill our cups, then fill them up again tonight
Wrap us up and warm us through
Tucked away beneath our sturdy roofs
Let us slumber safe from danger's view this time
Or maybe not, not today
Maybe You'll provide in other ways
And if that's the case . . .

We'll give thanks to You

With gratitude
A lesson learned to hunger after You
That a starry sky offers a better view if no roof is overhead 

And if we never taste that bread

Oh, the differences that often are between
What we want and what we really need

So grant us peace, Jesus, grant us peace
Move our hearts to hear a single beat
Between alibis and enemies tonight
Or maybe not, not today
Peace might be another world away
And if that's the case . . .

We'll give thanks to You

With gratitude
For lessons learned in how to trust in You
That we are blessed beyond what we could ever dream
In abundance or in need
And if You never grant us peace

But Jesus, would You, please...

A Great Concern.

My Grandma Johnson was a very strong woman in every sense of the word.

Deeply rooted in her faith, sturdy in physique, able to mentally, physically, emotionally, or spiritually take on just about anything that came her way, and not one to succumb to even the slightest cold.

(Seriously. I'm not sure if it was the Vicks salve she used each night before bed or the hymns she lifted up to Heaven with her sweet alto voice every day, but the woman never went to the hospital until the month before she died -- including through the healthy births of eleven children. You read correctly. Eleven.)

Part of that strength I remember so vividly was Grandma's stubbornness. Whether pursing her lips about the "healthier" 2% milk she did.not.order on her grocery list or turning off the TV when "filth came on" by yanking the plug from the wall, Grandma Johnson knew her mind, and was not shy about sharing her determinations.

[In case you're wondering, yes, I am her biological grandchild. Shocking, I know! :-) ]

One of the most precious memories I have of Grandma is her quick reassurance to anyone telling her not to worry about something, "I am not worried. The Bible says not to worry. I just have great concerns."

Ranking right up there with the "You are my sunshine" tune, regular sleepovers next door, picking blueberries in the summer, watching her beautiful hands make those delicious chicken and dumplings with eight decades of love, and her favorite saying of "God has an all-seeing eye and an all-hearing ear," I think I heard the "great concern" statement so often that even at a very young age, I was hiding grins at the idea of Grandma Johnson not worrying about this or that.

Grandma's point, of course, was that she didn't want to disobey God or His Word -- a compulsion so sincere and pure that just thinking about it makes me teary eyed as I type. But admitting she did still have the feeling behind worry was so sweet, and equally earnest.

When things bother me -- usually those pesky ones I can't do anything about, naturally -- I quickly realize why God instructed us in His Word not to worry.

I mean, yes, it's easy to do. Hard not to do, actually.

But man, it can eat away at you, can't it?

I guess everyone probably processes differently, but some days, when something big worries me, I get jittery, or start clenching my teeth, or can't keep my hands or mind busy enough. On really good days, I do all of those things.

Then on other days, I'm good for absolutely nothing, but in the opposite way. I could sleep all day -- all day! Grandma would have had a FIT! -- with no productivity, all over something I have absolutely no say-so in.

So even if most people process their troubles better than my extremes, how are any of us really of much use to anyone, especially God, if we do spend our time worrying? It's kind of hard for me to focus on something I need to do accurately, like fold clothes, if I am bothered that much. To take on tasks for others...well, that's nearly impossible.

So, I get where Grandma was going with her "great concerns." And some days, I'm right there with her. I definitely can't just let troubles drop off my radar and pretend they don't exist. But I can remember that I'm not the Pilot, but I am here for a reason, and if it's to be the best passenger I can be, then I certainly can't do that by obsessing about things I can't control.

Also, I can remind myself to breathe. Come to think of it, maybe that little secret was behind Grandma Johnson's ongoing relationship with her Vicks salve. :-)

So Special.

A high school commencement address is sweeping the nation these days.

Ok, if not the nation, at least the news stations, and if not every news station, then most definitely the PR circuit.

Apparently an English teacher in Boston – no, it’s NOT a coincidence that several of my favorite things are involved here – gave a graduation speech that is ruffling some feathers.

Why, you ask? Did English teacher David McCullough tout controversial issues? Go against all his school's mission statement stands for? Proclaim the Jerry Sanduskys of the world innocent?

Well, not exactly.

David McCullough told this graduating class that they were not special.

This might be a problem were that ALL he told them, but of course, his speech wasn’t just one sentence. (You’ve been to a graduation, right? You know this.)

So there were other words in the speech, among them being:

“Climb the mountain so that you can see the world, not so the world can see you."

"Go to Paris to BE in Paris, not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly.”

"Exercise free will and creative, independent thought not for the satisfactions they will bring you, but for the good they will do others, the rest of the 6.8 billion–and those who will follow them."

Etc.

There are other high points, too -- many of them wickedly humorous -- but please, watch for yourself.

This link should take you to YouTube, where you can watch: http://youtu.be/_lfxYhtf8o4

I’m also pasting text below.

I hope you get from this less than 15-minute address a bit of what I did, which is basically a nicely packaged synopsis of "Dead Poets Society," 2012-style.

Kudos, teach.



Transcript courtesy of thewellesleyreport.com:

Dr. Wong, Dr. Keough, Mrs. Novogroski, Ms. Curran, members of the board of education, family and friends of the graduates, ladies and gentlemen of the Wellesley High School class of 2012, for the privilege of speaking to you this afternoon, I am honored and grateful. Thank you.

So here we are… commencement… life’s great forward-looking ceremony.

(And don’t say, “What about weddings?” Weddings are one-sided and insufficiently effective. Weddings are bride-centric pageantry. Other than conceding to a list of unreasonable demands, the groom just stands there. No stately, hey-everybody-look-at-me procession. No being given away. No identity-changing pronouncement. And can you imagine a television show dedicated to watching guys try on tuxedos? Their fathers sitting there misty-eyed with joy and disbelief, their brothers lurking in the corner muttering with envy. Left to men, weddings would be, after limits-testing procrastination, spontaneous, almost inadvertent… during halftime… on the way to the refrigerator. And then there’s the frequency of failure: statistics tell us half of you will get divorced. A winning percentage like that’ll get you last place in the American League East. The Baltimore Orioles do better than weddings.)

But this ceremony… commencement… a commencement works every time. From this day forward… truly… in sickness and in health, through financial fiascos, through midlife crises and passably attractive sales reps at trade shows in Cincinnati, through diminishing tolerance for annoyingness, through every difference, irreconcilable and otherwise, you will stay forever graduated from high school, you and your diploma as one, ‘til death do you part.

No, commencement is life’s great ceremonial beginning, with its own attendant and highly appropriate symbolism. Fitting, for example, for this auspicious rite of passage, is where we find ourselves this afternoon, the venue. Normally, I avoid clichés like the plague, wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole, but here we are on a literal level playing field. That matters. That says something. And your ceremonial costume… shapeless, uniform, one-size-fits-all. Whether male or female, tall or short, scholar or slacker, spray-tanned prom queen or intergalactic X-Box assassin, each of you is dressed, you’ll notice, exactly the same. And your diploma… but for your name, exactly the same.

All of this is as it should be, because none of you is special.

You are not special. You are not exceptional.

Contrary to what your u9 soccer trophy suggests, your glowing seventh grade report card, despite every assurance of a certain corpulent purple dinosaur, that nice Mister Rogers and your batty Aunt Sylvia, no matter how often your maternal caped crusader has swooped in to save you… you’re nothing special.

Yes, you’ve been pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, bubble-wrapped. Yes, capable adults with other things to do have held you, kissed you, fed you, wiped your mouth, wiped your bottom, trained you, taught you, tutored you, coached you, listened to you, counseled you, encouraged you, consoled you and encouraged you again. You’ve been nudged, cajoled, wheedled and implored. You’ve been feted and fawned over and called sweetie pie. Yes, you have. And, certainly, we’ve been to your games, your plays, your recitals, your science fairs. Absolutely, smiles ignite when you walk into a room, and hundreds gasp with delight at your every tweet. Why, maybe you’ve even had your picture in the Townsman. And now you’ve conquered high school… and, indisputably, here we all have gathered for you, the pride and joy of this fine community, the first to emerge from that magnificent new building…

But do not get the idea you’re anything special. Because you’re not.

The empirical evidence is everywhere, numbers even an English teacher can’t ignore. Newton, Natick, Nee… I am allowed to say Needham, yes? …that has to be two thousand high school graduates right there, give or take, and that’s just the neighborhood Ns. Across the country no fewer than 3.2 million seniors are graduating about now from more than 37,000 high schools. That’s 37,000 valedictorians… 37,000 class presidents… 92,000 harmonizing altos… 340,000 swaggering jocks… 2,185,967 pairs of Uggs. But why limit ourselves to high school? After all, you’re leaving it. So think about this: even if you’re one in a million, on a planet of 6.8 billion that means there are nearly 7,000 people just like you. Imagine standing somewhere over there on Washington Street on Marathon Monday and watching sixty-eight hundred yous go running by. And consider for a moment the bigger picture: your planet, I’ll remind you, is not the center of its solar system, your solar system is not the center of its galaxy, your galaxy is not the center of the universe. In fact, astrophysicists assure us the universe has no center; therefore, you cannot be it. Neither can Donald Trump… which someone should tell him… although that hair is quite a phenomenon.

“But, Dave,” you cry, “Walt Whitman tells me I’m my own version of perfection! Epictetus tells me I have the spark of Zeus!” And I don’t disagree. So that makes 6.8 billion examples of perfection, 6.8 billion sparks of Zeus. You see, if everyone is special, then no one is. If everyone gets a trophy, trophies become meaningless. In our unspoken but not so subtle Darwinian competition with one another–which springs, I think, from our fear of our own insignificance, a subset of our dread of mortality — we have of late, we Americans, to our detriment, come to love accolades more than genuine achievement. We have come to see them as the point — and we’re happy to compromise standards, or ignore reality, if we suspect that’s the quickest way, or only way, to have something to put on the mantelpiece, something to pose with, crow about, something with which to leverage ourselves into a better spot on the social totem pole. No longer is it how you play the game, no longer is it even whether you win or lose, or learn or grow, or enjoy yourself doing it… Now it’s “So what does this get me?” As a consequence, we cheapen worthy endeavors, and building a Guatemalan medical clinic becomes more about the application to Bowdoin than the well-being of Guatemalans. It’s an epidemic — and in its way, not even dear old Wellesley High is immune… one of the best of the 37,000 nationwide, Wellesley High School… where good is no longer good enough, where a B is the new C, and the midlevel curriculum is called Advanced College Placement. And I hope you caught me when I said “one of the best.” I said “one of the best” so we can feel better about ourselves, so we can bask in a little easy distinction, however vague and unverifiable, and count ourselves among the elite, whoever they might be, and enjoy a perceived leg up on the perceived competition. But the phrase defies logic. By definition there can be only one best. You’re it or you’re not.

If you’ve learned anything in your years here I hope it’s that education should be for, rather than material advantage, the exhilaration of learning. You’ve learned, too, I hope, as Sophocles assured us, that wisdom is the chief element of happiness. (Second is ice cream… just an fyi) I also hope you’ve learned enough to recognize how little you know… how little you know now… at the moment… for today is just the beginning. It’s where you go from here that matters.

As you commence, then, and before you scatter to the winds, I urge you to do whatever you do for no reason other than you love it and believe in its importance. Don’t bother with work you don’t believe in any more than you would a spouse you’re not crazy about, lest you too find yourself on the wrong side of a Baltimore Orioles comparison. Resist the easy comforts of complacency, the specious glitter of materialism, the narcotic paralysis of self-satisfaction. Be worthy of your advantages. And read… read all the time… read as a matter of principle, as a matter of self-respect. Read as a nourishing staple of life. Develop and protect a moral sensibility and demonstrate the character to apply it. Dream big. Work hard. Think for yourself. Love everything you love, everyone you love, with all your might. And do so, please, with a sense of urgency, for every tick of the clock subtracts from fewer and fewer; and as surely as there are commencements there are cessations, and you’ll be in no condition to enjoy the ceremony attendant to that eventuality no matter how delightful the afternoon.

The fulfilling life, the distinctive life, the relevant life, is an achievement, not something that will fall into your lap because you’re a nice person or mommy ordered it from the caterer. You’ll note the founding fathers took pains to secure your inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness–quite an active verb, “pursuit”–which leaves, I should think, little time for lying around watching parrots rollerskate on Youtube. The first President Roosevelt, the old rough rider, advocated the strenuous life. Mr. Thoreau wanted to drive life into a corner, to live deep and suck out all the marrow. The poet Mary Oliver tells us to row, row into the swirl and roil. Locally, someone… I forget who… from time to time encourages young scholars to carpe the heck out of the diem. The point is the same: get busy, have at it. Don’t wait for inspiration or passion to find you. Get up, get out, explore, find it yourself, and grab hold with both hands. (Now, before you dash off and get your YOLO tattoo, let me point out the illogic of that trendy little expression–because you can and should live not merely once, but every day of your life. Rather than You Only Live Once, it should be You Live Only Once… but because YLOO doesn’t have the same ring, we shrug and decide it doesn’t matter.)

None of this day-seizing, though, this YLOOing, should be interpreted as license for self-indulgence. Like accolades ought to be, the fulfilled life is a consequence, a gratifying byproduct. It’s what happens when you’re thinking about more important things. Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you. Go to Paris to be in Paris, not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly. Exercise free will and creative, independent thought not for the satisfactions they will bring you, but for the good they will do others, the rest of the 6.8 billion–and those who will follow them. And then you too will discover the great and curious truth of the human experience is that selflessness is the best thing you can do for yourself. The sweetest joys of life, then, come only with the recognition that you’re not special.

Because everyone is.

Congratulations. Good luck. Make for yourselves, please, for your sake and for ours, extraordinary lives.
David McCullough

Wordless Wednesday.

Wordless Wednesday.

Thankful Tuesday.

Five things I'm thankful for today are:

1. My health! I'm grateful to have been spared from major illnesses, but also to have had pesky minor ones pinpointed, diagnosed and treated. I am feeling like a new person and could not be happier for modern medicine!

2. My past. God truly blessed my "broken road," from the wise to the less than brilliant decisions I've made, He's and led me to greener, stiller pastures, where His peaceful waters flow. I know the present wouldn't be possible, or as appreciated, without the past. Duly noted. Credit given.

3. My peeps. I have this ridiculously supportive and comprehensive cadre of friends and family whom I can rely on when I need them, but who are also there when I'm having a random thought, feel the urge to share a joke, or absolutely must consort with on the latest happenings. I love this. And them.

4. My work. I get paid to do what I love. With people who encourage me in every way. I'm challenged, and it's right. That is all.

5. Love, sweet love. From friends welcoming babies into their families to ones receiving new spouses, love, sweet love is in the air. It's fun to see new beginnings and to be reminded of that excitement and freshness. And I get to watch these chapters unfold!

Johnson Five.

The top five things I plan to do once my foot heals and stops acting so, well, lame are:

1. Dance. Like nobody's watching, even if they are.

2. Run, Forest, run!

3. Kickbox. 5:30. Mondays. Spectrum on Perkins.

4. WEAR THE ADORABLE, ALL-GIRL, NO-NONSENSE-NECESSARY, NEGLECTED SHOES IN MY CLOSET.

5. Take a lot of walks. Just because I can.

Wordless Wednesday. (iCheated.)

On the Bookshelf: The Last King of Scotland

I just closed the cover on Giles Foden's "The Last King of Scotland." Even though I had a remarkable trip to that country last year, I never would've picked up this read about a physician in Uganda had a friend not handed it to me.

Now that I have picked it up and finished it, I'm reminded again of the value in exploring genres that are not second nature to me.

There are a few gory scenes, but if you're interested in a book that makes you appreciate democracy, this is a good one.

Abused Puppy Syndrome.

Ever had a friend or relative whom you look up to, but who seems to result in physical pain from giving you the time of day?

Typically, when that happens to me, it's a pretty easy decision to limit my time, emotions, and connections with the person. Yet somehow, some way, some people manage to creep in and slip through that tolerance filter. That phenomena never fails to leaving me shaking my head over what appears to be sincere rudeness. But after some sadness, a rant or two, and a little time, I eagerly think that person -- who's clearly proven themselves to be ridiculously uncaring -- will be different the next time we communicate.

My brilliant cousin and I have come up with what we think is a sadly appropriate name for this disorder: Abused Puppy Syndrome.

In my opinion, if you think that term's too harsh, you've never been treated badly by someone you continue to eagerly and innocently go back to for more. Be thankful for that!

In my experience, Abused Puppy Syndrome probably could happen to anyone, but most often strikes optimists. We bound into a situation expecting the best, eagerly perform our best tricks, whimper away after getting negative reinforcement, lick our wounds for a bit, then get starry eyed again when we see the giver of negative come back. Surely she wants to play with me! It wasn't THAT bad last time! Wait till she sees THAT NEW trick. She'll never frown at us again!

So. This probably sounds like a literal abusive relationship. As in, someone I've dated. To clarify, not the case. (Praise God above.) My experiences with this have providentially been very few, and have always involved those people we love but don't always like: family.

So what's the solution? Become hardened and jaded? Snarl at the "abuser" and refuse to bound through the yard when he drives up? Stop learning fun new tricks?

Well. Yes. That's one approach. However, that approach happens to leave me empty and sad.

So, instead, I keep doing what I do, and reaching out (but just every so often, not every day). I'm not saying this is The Answer to this situation, but since cutting off family isn't an option I can live with, it's the route I take.

Is it fun? Not always. All better? Not yet. But can I sleep at night? Yep.

And for me, that's worth a lot more than the approval of even people I share DNA with.

If you have an abused puppy syndrome story, would you mind sharing your solution? Since family is forever, and since I'm not anticipating major personality changes in myself or anyone else anytime soon, I'd genuinely like to hear it.

Giving up.

Since my first Mardi Gras as a Louisiana resident, I've been practicing the discipline of the Lenten season.

Stopping eating bread. Starting daily devotionals. Making more of an effort in various areas. Etc.

What I grew up considering a Catholic-only tradition has taught me as an adult the value and pain of sacrifice, as well as the purpose of this season: the reminder of the ultimate gift Jesus gave us when He willingly offered His earthly body to be brutally murdered on an unhygienic cross for no reason except to absolve slackers like me.

Because of that reminder, Lent will probably always be a part of this Protestant's life, whether or not it's part of the church I attend. (For the record, the practice IS encouraged at First Presbyterian of Baton Rouge, which I wholly appreciate.)

In the past -- and possibly for most of my life -- I've been an over-committer. I've said "yes" too much, spread myself too thinly, gotten burned out, and developed stress from volunteer projects. Stress from volunteer projects. (Can that be right? One wouldn't think so... But yes. I have managed this.)

Don't worry, though, because apparently my new move resolution in '07-'08 was to NOT over-commit, and boy, have I ever stuck to that. In fact, I've stuck to it so well that I've become, as my Nan would say, "plum lazy" in certain areas of my life. Saying no has gotten entirely too easy for me -- so much so that I pretty much let myself to do that as often as I want.

So this year to mark the Lenten season, I've decided to give up, well, giving up. No more slacking after I've committed. No talking myself out of something that's on the calendar. No excuses.

Will I be jumping into the junior league of BR in the next couple of months? Well, no. (Um, baby steps!) But I WILL hold myself accountable in two major areas of my soul and body: church and the gym.

So, goodbye, giving up. I'm afraid I'm giving you up.

See you around Easter!

Or will I....? :-)

Valet Grocery.

Once upon a time, there was a redhead who really didn't mind grocery shopping. While Wal-Mart was never her favorite place for its own special reasons, grocery shopping itself was never a dread.

Then, the redhead hurt a toe and developed plantar fasciitis. The podiatrist said to stop all activity to help the foot heal. Inactivity didn't help the foot, but the redhead did discover Valet Grocery.

At first the idea seemed crazy -- paying someone to buy groceries? Who is that lazy? But, after months of severe pain from minimal walking, and after subsisting on fast food and convenience store items every few weeks, the redhead needed groceries. Without the foot pain that would surely come from hobbling down a grocery store aisle, if limping around the office was excruciating.

So, Valet Grocery it was. And what a surprise: the delivery fee was only $5. The grocery prices were reasonable. The driver who made the delivery wasn't creepy. The order was accurate. The deliver was made on time, every time. And the foot didn't have to hurt any more from the purchase.

The redhead recommends Valet Grocery. It works it. And is worth every penny of the $5 delivery fee. Plus gratuity.

Beautiful.

You should give it a shot. www.valetgrocery.com

#SilentWriters

Conveniently, now that it's Wednesday, I'm committing to join the #SilentWriters movement comprised of prose bearers everywhere who dedicate 60 minutes each Tuesday night to writing in silence.

My writing may not always turn up here, but at least some of it should.

There. I said I'd do it, and I will. Let's see what comes of this newfangled #silentwriting. :-)

Whew.

I know I have at least one faithful reader who will ask why I didn't post much lately next time we talk, so I'd like to clarify that I'm not in a slump or funk or hitting a speed bump. I'm just getting back into (good) routines and am busy!

But the blogs, they are a-formin' in my head, so watch this space.

And thank you for caring. :-)