SIT WHERE I CAN SEE YOU...

I was a cheerleader way back in the olden days when being a cheerleader meant you shook your paper pom poms more than any other body part. I wasn't particularly qualified for the job, except for my superior vocal chords (which saved the Borger Independent School system a significant amount of money on megaphones). I had absolutely no gymnastic skills beyond landing a cartwheel. I tried. Truth is, I was born with a design flaw that prohibits me from ever being - how you say it - aerodynamically gifted. I mean, really... have you seen my butt? I jump like a ten-month old toddler. My total ground clearance is maybe three inches, max.

But then... along came the mini-trampoline. Just one bounce on that sucker and I was flying through the air like a Bulldog Ninja! Practically overnight I became a spread eagle-ing / toe-touching / pike and herkie jumping fool of a rah-rah.

Shortly after I achieved airborne mastery, my Aunt Betty Bob came from Odessa to watch me cheer. “Be sure to sit where I can see you!” I asked her, excitedly.

Unfortunately, my Aunt got to the game too late to get a front row seat in the bleachers. She ended up behind a bunch of tall, adolescent basketball players with pimples on their necks and was only able to catch intermittent glimpses of me and my red and white saddle oxfords.

Until...

We dragged out the Magic Mini-Tramp.

Suddenly my Aunt Betty Bob was was ooooohing and ahhhhhhing in utter amazement at my flying gymnastic abilities.

From her obstructed vantage point, she couldn't see the trampoline. All she saw was me flying through the air like a freaking Wallenda.

Man, was she impressed! So much so that I never felt the need to tell her the truth about my amazing power of bounce.

His senior year of high school, my boyfriend Dickie was concerned about a buddy of his who would not be able to graduate with his class unless he passed a major exam. When test day came, Dickie asked his friend, Joe, to sit close to the classroom door. “Sit where I can see you.” were his instructions. All throughout the two hour test, Dickie would periodically walk by Joe's classroom and stand in the hall just long enough for Joe to notice. Whenever Joe looked up, Dickie would give him a big ol' smile and an encouraging fist pump.

Joe passed his test and proudly took his place with the Class of '74.

Last week, we got a call from Dickie's cousin, LaDonna, telling us that her Mom had been put on a ventilator for a few days to give her lungs a rest from the acute trauma of pneumonia. We hurried over to the hospital to sit with Aunt Mattie until LaDonna and her husband could make the five hour drive to Borger.

As we sat by her bed, matching our breathing to the ventilator and praying healing prayers with each breath, Dickie got a call from one of his close friends whose Dad had just died in Hospice care. He needed Dickie to be with him at that first onslaught of grief. And he wanted Dickie to handle the funeral.

“What do I do?” Dickie asked. “I need to be two places at once!”

“You go to the one who needs you most. Go be with your friend. I will stay with Aunt Mattie. I'll sit right here where she can see me, just in case she opens her eyes.

A few days later I was rolling the lint roller over my handsome Dick in his pretty black suit. (I am an extremely thorough lint roller. Just ask him.)

“I'm gonna have to leave the funeral a bit early, so I'll find a seat in the back.” I told him as I rolled all traces of lint away.

Okay. But... please make sure you sit where I can see you. Seeing your face always helps me get through it.”

And I did. I sat in the back of the chapel and never broke eye contact with my Dickman. Anytime he looked my way, I made sure to smile or nod. I willed him strength and asked God to give him all the words he needed to comfort a grieving son.

We hoped and prayed that Aunt Mattie would recover, that her fragile, broken heart would find a supernatural strength and survive the downward physical spiral. But it was not to be.

LaDonna called her family to the hospital, knowing it was time to relieve sweet Mattie from all the tubes and lines and needles that had been running in and out of her for a week. Her battered little body had grown tired of fighting.

We gathered together in the small hospital room and circled around the bed of that pocket-sized warrior of a woman. Listening to the mechanical sounds and beeping alarms, I felt she surely must already be on her way to that Better Place.

We held hands and we prayed and told stories and sang and cried as Aunt Mattie breathed her final earthly breaths. And when it was done, there was a collective spirit of peace, knowing she was in the arms of a beautiful, blond shining angel of a granddaughter who had been waiting to greet her.

(Undoubtedly, Uncle Harold was pulling in a big 'ol catfish and would catch up with her soon.)

These are hard days for my generation. Slowly but surely... and oh so sadly, we are losing that precious layer of loved ones who stood in the gap between us and heaven. I'd like to think they will always be around, guiding us, praying over us, wondering why we aren't wearing a coat when it's so cold outside.

I know for sure I will see all those beloved faces again, someday.

Until then... I'm going to do the best I can to live my life as heroically and fearlessly as did our parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles who have gone before us.

Most of all, I'm just gonna sit down here... sit where they can see me, and try to do them proud as they sit on the front row of those shiny golden bleachers, encouraging me with fist pumps and smiles from heaven.

Bite Me, 2013. Thank You, 2014.

2013. It came in like a wrecking ball, y'all.

 

Most years I stay up until midnight to welcome in the New Year with a wet kiss from the Dickman. Last night?  I stayed up 'til midnight just to celebrate the death of the Old Year.

My “word” for 2013 was PEACE. And I must say --- amid all the chaos of broken bones and detached retinas and lacerations and surgeries and dementia and emotional shrapnel --- Jesus gave me peace.  Well, at least those times I listened to Him, he did.

The problem is, even though I'm getting much better at listening for that quiet, still voice... there are far too many times that I choose to hear the noisy gongs and clanging cymbals. So much so that it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for you to perhaps, catch me driving down Coulter whilst screaming my head off and flipping the bird at fellow motorists.  (If that ever happens, please don't blame Baby Jesus.  Those are the moments that I obviously forgot to let Him take the wheeeeee-eel.)

Clearly, Jesus and I have some more work to do on that peace thing.  But I'm moving on, looking forward to a new dawn, a new day with a buttload of hope for 2014. Just the number fills me with hope.  I like even numbers, particularly the number four.  I was born on the 24^th day of the 4^th month. I have four fingers on each hand. (I also have opposable thumbs, but they don't count because I can't text with them.)  I am fond of my fingers. 

 

In honor of 2014, I have chosen the perfect word: GRATITUDE.

 

And why the heck not?  

 

I am the result of generations of love. I am the daughter of a King.  I am blessed beyond anything I ever imagined or deserved and I should absolutely refuse for my life  to be encumbered in any way by a lack of gratitude on my part.

Because whatever it is, good or bad... His plans for me exceed it all.

 

My worst days?  God's got a better plan. 

My very best stupendously outstanding days?  His plans exceed it all.

 

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Please don't get the idea that I've not been a practicing appreciator, truly I have.   But lately I have been trying to take it to a whole 'nuther level.  I am amazed at the new perspective I've gained... stunned to find such power in gratitude.  It glorifies Him while it humbles me.  And I don't mind admitting folks,  I could use a little humbling.  

 

Living my life from a place of gratitude has already given me a different perspective.  I realize that I need to thank Him for everything...  for taking the steering wheel during busy traffic so that I can keep my hand signals to myself;  for patience with a husband who is a lousy patient; for shutting my mouth so as not to become part of the clanging and gonging and duck calling going on all around me.

 

Crazy thing about gratitude... if I am busy appreciating and glorifying, then I don't have time to be picking nits off somebody else.  

******************************************************

 

Has my life become trouble-free and serene?  Do I lounge in repose like the lady on the Calgon commercial?  Heck to the No. 

 

Being grateful doesn't make everything great; it simply helps me to appreciate what is.  Even better... gratitude strengthens my faith in what will be.

At the end of each day, I lay my head on a soft pillow of thankfulness. I close my eyes, I open my heart and these are the words that I pray:

“Sweet Jesus of mine,

thank you for this beautiful life you have given me. 

 Forgive me if I don't appreciate it enough...”

And then I go to sleep smiling, while He sings over me... telling me that everything is okay.  And that it's only going to get better.

 

******************************************************

 

Happy New Year to my friends and family. 

 

Wishes for new hope,

peace that passes understanding,

abundant love and blissful joy... 

 

 

 ...from a heart that is grateful for you.

 

MY CIRCLE OF TURKEYS

The Dickman and I have spent a shameful amount of hours arguing over whose family is the most dysfunctional.

Just about the time I feel someone with my familial DNA has reached new levels of cra-cra, he manages to provide proof that, indeed, the Haney side of our union wins the Full Blown Bozo Award. It is impossible to pick a consistent winner.  Both sides are deserving of the honor at various phases of the moon.

Except for Thanksgiving.  When it comes to celebrating Thanksgiving, the Haneys always win.

On any given year, you can bet your pumpkin pie that the turkey on our table will be surrounded by a cast of characters that are, well... just a few giblets shy of the gravy.

This Thanksgiving was certainly no exception.

For the past 20 years or so, Dickie's cousin Faron has been the Most Honored Guest at our table of thanks.  Faron is special to us in more ways than I could ever explain. If Forrest Gump and Rain Man had a son, he would almost be as fabulous as Faron. He is a uniquely precious man -- only a few years younger than Dickie -- born with mild cognitive disabilities and autism. 

Blessedly, Faron lives in a small town full of wonderful folks who have become his family and guardians since the passing of his parents. Although he does an admirable job of caring for himself, it is those champions who maintain a protective and watchful eye on Faron's naivete and innocence so that he is able to live alone.

According to my calculations, Faron spends about a third of the year planning for Thanksgiving.  It's not exaggerating to say the invasion of Iraq required less planning than Faron's annual turkey trek to Amarillo. Multiple phone calls are exchanged between various involved parties and watches are synchronized to the nanosecond, as Faron is absolutely literal in his communication.  (Which, in spite of the precise planning, has led to a few misunderstandings through the years.)

The very first year Faron drove to our home, Dickie gave him instructions to drive to the Love's station on I-40 just inside the city limits. About an hour before their designated meeting time, Dickie received a call from Faron proudly announcing, “I AM HERE ! I AM CALLING YOU FROM THE PAYPHONE AT LOVE'S !!!”. Dickie hopped in his truck and drove to Love's... only to discover that Faron had indeed stopped at the first Love's he had come to, it just happened to be in another town. Forty miles away.

Faron is a Giver. He always comes to see me with a truckload of gifts, unique and practical gifts... in bulk.  One year he gave me 40 rolls of toilet paper.  The next year... a dozen giant-sized bottles of Palmolive dish soap. This year... ? I am the proud recipient of eight rolls of aluminum foil. "Why foil?" you ask.  Because Faron remembered that I ran out of foil last year while wrapping his leftovers. 

Our Leading Lady for the last Thursday in November is, of course, the Divine Ms. Dora B, Matriarch, Mashed Potato Queen.

This has been a difficult year for Dickie's Mama. While she struggles to remember the names of her grandsons, learning new information has become almost impossible. Last week, she told me that she would not be able to help with Thanksgiving.  She had thought about it and prayed about it, but just didn't think her arthritic hands would be able to peel a pot full of potatoes anymore. She hoped I understood and would not be upset. I assured her that I loved her more than her famous mashed potatoes and we would somehow find a way to carry on.

Rounding out the Cast of Characters this year, complete with assorted quirks and social improprieties, and in no particular order:

THE ONE-ARMED DICKMAN | significant other; recovering from shoulder surgery.
 

ROBIN IN DA HOOD | myself; lisping through a brand new pair of front teeth / crowns.
 

LUCAS THE FERTILE | firstborn; in full Duck Dynasty Mowvember mode.
 

MAMA CASS | dil; gestating while still lactating.
 

M-1, M-2, M-3, M-4 | my four adorable grand-nuggets; chock full of kinetic energy and an endless supply of snot.
 

JACOB THE INTROVERTED | last-but-not-least progeny; intolerance for large gatherings outweighed by love of family and free food.

[Missing were Dickie's brothers and their wives, who always kick things up a notch.  But you get the idea... One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest meets the Griswolds joined by the Duggers. Just enough dysfunction to make ol' Norman Rockwell put down the paintbrush.]

Chaos ensued at the buttcrack of dawn on Thanksgiving morn. I had barely stumbled out of bed and into the Keurig when I was greeted by a much too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Faron. He embraced me in one of his loving-but-awkwardly-long hugs. I happen to be a big fan of hugs and am hardly ever the one who stops hugging first. But seriously, nobody can out hug Faron.  I have learned to simply hold on, count slowly to 30, give him a sweet pat, then gently pry myself loose.

I had almost counted to 30 when Dora joined us in the kitchen. I deftly removed myself and quickly inserted Dora into Faron's arms before he even knew what was happening. When he realized he was hugging his Aunt instead of me, he just laughed and squeezed harder. Thankfully, Faron is an equal-opportunity  hugger.

Just in the nick of time, the cooking cavalry arrived in the form of Cassie & Mandie Lee.  But not before I had learned everything I never wanted to know about the past 24 hours of  my mother-in-law's bowel motility.  (Which frankly had me second-guessing the massive amount of boiled eggs and onions going into the dressing...)

Simultaneous with the premature popping of the turkey timer, Lucas and his three little boys burst through the front door in a cavalcade of tempestuous testosterone. M3 immediately ripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and spontaneously morphed into a snotty-nosed Spider Monkey. M2 began rapping and beatboxing for his sister who was executing perfect cartwheels in her sparkly tutu. M4 came toddling up to me with a beautifious dimpled smile. I scooped him into my arms just as he sneezed straight into my mouth.  Yep, smack dab onto my shiny new front teeth.  I set him down on the floor and watched as he picked a glob of hardened Cheez Whiz off my pants leg... and ate it.  As I was drying off my new crowns, I spied Jacob trying to sneak in the door with a variety of sporting equipment for his nephews and niece. He was tackled to the floor before his butt even cleared the threshold.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, our spectacularly disorganized culinary efforts reached a memory-making moment when I pretended to forget proper potato mashing technique and begged Dora B for help.  Here is Sweet Cassie acting as her lovely (and oh-so-patient) assistant... 

But even that wasn't the very best part.

Because the Very Best Part of any Haney Thanksgiving is the family prayer. It's simply amazing how, in the midst of the madness, we end up together in an unruly circle of old and young...  grabbing for hands while sharing giggles and growling tummies.

And just for a moment I am swamped by the divine blessedness of it all, this circle of hands joined together by love and memories.  By heartache and faith.  By loss and laughter.

The prayer always begins with Dickie and ends with Faron. This year, our little ones joined in as well.  M3 asked Jesus to keep him out of trouble... M2 was thankful for the sweet tea and the mashed potatoes and pecan pie and the salt shaker and forks... M1 thanked the Lord for her whole entire family.

As I listened to their sweet voices, I couldn't resist sneaking a peek at these faces I loved. M4 caught me peeking and waved to me from his Daddy's arms.  I made a face at him and he chuckled. His Daddy tried to shoot me a stern look, remembered I was his Mama and smiled.  

Already my heart was filled to brimming.  Then Faron began to pray...

I wish I could find words special enough to express the awesomeness of Faron's prayers. His face turns red, his voice deepens into what I imagine Moses sounded like coming down from the mountain, and his eyes become moist with emotion.

He always begins by thanking God for our military, the warriors that protect our country. And ends by honoring Cousin Bill, whom he misses every day.  He always makes me cry.

In truth, it's not so much what Faron says; it is the heartfelt emotion he puts into each and every word. His prayers have the innocence of my G-babes, but are more humbly sincere than any I've ever heard.  I have a feeling God waits all Thanksgiving morning in anticipation of our Faron's prayer.

And it is his prayer that reminds me – in the scattered busyness of the holiday – that it is not the turkey in the oven that matters.  It's these turkeys in my circle for who I am truly thankful.

Giblets be danged.

HANEY BOYS, COUSIN FARON AND DORA B.

MASHED POTATO QUEEN AND HER COURT

We All Belong To Each Other

 

My three year-old G-boy is fascinated by the fact that all of his favorite people seem to be connected to each other.

“My Daddy is your son,” he tells me on a regular basis, waiting with a smile for me to claim his Dad as my own.

“He sure is. And your G-Dad is my Daddy.”

He used to fall for that one, much to the chagrin of the Dickman.  Now he just laughs and says, “Silly MiMi! G-Dad belongs to you. And Poppy belongs to Nana. And Mama belongs to Daddy. And I belong to everybody!” 

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I was much older than my grandson when I realized our connectedness is not only with those who share my name or Daddy's stubby fingers or Flodie's pug nose.  It took me awhile to understand that the connection extends to every single person we meet.

It's simple deductive reasoning:  If I belong to God and you belong to God... then we all belong to each other.  Right?

And it's all fun and games until you realize that 'everybody' includes the street-walking bum carrying all his worldly possessions on his back.  Even him.  He belongs to you and me.

But wait, it gets worse!  Those yahoos up in Washington who call themselves our leaders?  Sigh.  Hard as it is to accept, even they belong to us.  Just think of them as the creepy uncle you have to deal with every Thanksgiving.  The one that picks his teeth at the table and scratches his crotch way too much.

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The Dickman and I were  driving west on I-40 when we noticed a small army of vehicles with lights blinking just ahead of us. As we drove closer, it became obvious that a horrific accident had just occurred. A mangled, twisted ball of metal lay between the two lanes of traffic, unrecognizable as a car. It was unimaginable that anyone might have survived such a catastrophic wreck. I pulled my attention back to the road and Dickie started talking – saying anything to try and distract me.

The tears just started flowing. I couldn't hold them back. It was a visceral reaction, knowing that someone had died, realizing that a soul was in transition.  It didn't matter if  I knew them or not.  I was softened by sadness for a life that had ended in such a violent way... grieved for those who would truly be affected by this tragedy.

Later that evening, the deceased was identified on the news.  He was a stranger to me, yet I carry his name in my heart.  Because you see, for a short moment in time he belonged to me.

We all belong to each other.

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The wife of my new patient greeted me at the door, eyes wide with concern. “Oh! I'm so glad you are here. My daughter is on her way over. Something is wrong with him... he's not making sense. He's hurting so bad.” She led me through the tidy home and introduced me to the elderly man slumped in his recliner, obviously in distress.

“Hey buddy... I hear you're having a bad day.”

He raised his head with difficulty and tried to focus on my face. Glaucoma had left him totally blind in one eye and with only minimal vision in the other.

“Yes,” he rasped, “A bad day. Am I gonna die?”

Looking at him, I was afraid he just might.  I glanced up at his wife and saw the same concern mirrored in her faded blue eyes. I gently put my hand on his shoulder and mustered a bright smile.

“No, sir!  At least not today. Okay...?”

He gave me a long, discerning look, and the corner of his mouth turned up just the tiniest bit.

As I assessed his vitals, I threw up a quick, silent prayer...

“Hey Jesus, in case you didn't hear... I just told this sweet old man that he wasn't going to die today. I probably should've checked with you first, but I really, really hope you'll work with me here.  Please, please don't take him today.”

After consulting with his nurse and doctor, EMS was called. The paramedics loaded him onto a gurney as his wife and daughter ran around the house, preparing for an impromptu trip to the hospital. I stood with them as  our sweet man was loaded into the ambulance, knowing their anxiety and helplessness, their hopes and prayers were riding in that ambulance with their beloved. I gave them both a squeeze and promised to keep them in my prayers.

As I drove away, I once again found myself fighting back tears. Not so much for my very sick patient, but mostly for his bride of six decades, for his worried daughter. I hurt with the ones he belonged to.  Because we all belong to each other. 

My prayer was brief.

“Sweet Jesus... you know. Before I speak, you already know what needs to happen here. I pray for healing while trusting  your will. These people need you, Jesus... please blanket them with your comforting presence, give them the peace that only you can give.”

My prayers were for them, yet His comfort reached me, too.  My soul was filled with peace... that blessed peace that only comes from belonging to Him.

 

Because we all belong to Somebody...

 

DISTRACTIBLE ME

“Procrastination is my sin.

It brings me naught but sorrow. 

I know that I should stop it. 

In fact, I will---tomorrow."

~ Gloria Pitzer ~

I am married to a man who works twelve to fourteen hours a day. Mostly by choice. The Dickman has more energy than a nuclear reactor. He is the energized hare to my distracted tortoise.

In my defense, I spend at least as much energy in a single day of procrastination as he does in one manic work week. It all evens out.

Through the years, we have managed to develop a workable system of household operation that plays to our unique strengths and weaknesses.  

Since Dickie is able to get dressed with minimal effort, he is in charge of all the 'outside' stuff... chores that require going out amongst the citizens and wearing real clothes. He makes frequent trips to the grocery store to keep us supplied with necessities like toilet paper, milk and chewing tobacco. He brings in the mail and he takes out the trash. He hangs the Christmas lights in the winter and mows the lawn in the summer.  

I get to stay in my pajama pants and do the 'inside' stuff, such as... cooking twice a month and loading the dishwasher whenever dirty dishes overflow from the sink and begin to smell like pond water and / or I run out of sporks.  Whichever comes first.  I am responsible for all the deep housecleaning chores (which I totally forget about until that frantic two hours before guests arrive). I am also The Person In Charge of getting out of bed to investigate Things That Go Bump In The Night. He is in charge of spiders, crickets and rodents. 

Much to my dismay, he does his own laundry.  He does not believe in pre-treating and his sorting skills suck. To his credit, if the bed gets made, he's the one who made it. (I read somewhere---when I was supposed to be doing something else---that an unmade bed is actually a deterrent to bed bugs, as they prefer covered, warm sheets with neatly tucked corners.  It's basic science, Jack.)

I'm the one who takes care of all the birthdays / holidays / gifts / parties / cards / appointments and travel plans. But my biggest responsibility is taking care of all the finances, both home and business. I balance the checkbooks, pay the bills  and do the taxes. I'm not exactly sure how I ended up in charge of something so adult and important as taxes. Taxes require paperwork and paperwork requires organization and organization requires focus.  I don't want to shock anybody here, but the ability to remain focused for long periods of time does not happen to be one of my spiritual gifts.  For reals.  I am worse at focusing than the Dickman is at sorting laundry.

On the other hand, I am a Rock Star at procrastination. Absolute killer. And my gift for procrastination never shines brighter than during tax season.

I know there are many others out there with this gift. Millions of us.  And I think it is about time we gave ourselves a little recognition...  something pretty and shiny to acknowledge our creative achievement in tax procrastination.  I have seriously given this a great deal of thought (when I was supposed to be doing something else) and have even come up with the perfect trophy. What better way to honor a Master Procrastinator than with a Shiny Golden Squirrel to place upon our cluttered shelves?  Genius, is it not?!?

I don't wanna brag or anything, but I really feel that this year should be my year to win the Shiny Squirrel Trophy. Hands down.

I mean, it's not like I've been a slacker in previous years.  I have spent hours diverting my attention with a myriad of worthless distractions which kept me busy doing things that NEVER needed to be done so that I could avoid doing taxes that MUST be done; right up until the very last minute.

Are you picking up what I'm laying down here, folks?  It has taken me years to hone my procrastination skills. While there is always room for improvement, I am proud to say that over the years I have started (but not finished) three children's books and twenty-two blog stories. I have started (but not finished) six photo albums, dating back to 1984. I have started (but not finished) a diamond-quilted tablecloth. I have started (but not finished) Volume I of the Rosetta Stone Spanish CD's. I have started (but not finished) decluttering my cabinets and alphabetizing my spices.

And then there is the World Wide Web. Oy vey! In my hands, a computer is nothing less than a weapon of mass distraction. I can spend hours working on my Pinterest boards... get lost forever reviewing the origin and insertion of piriformis muscles... become thoroughly engrossed while researching the the sex life of the Praying Mantis (SPOILER ALERT: it involves cannibalism, y'all).

I have been distracted by all that and STILL I have managed to get my taxes completed.  At the last minute.  After filing an extension.

This year, instead of doing taxes, I decided to learn the Cup Song from the movie, Pitch Perfect... that catchy little earworm of a tune that has been covered by millions of tween girls on YouTube. 

This particular procrastination project took plenty of practice.  It is a true measure of my hatred for taxes that I actually managed to learn the silly song.  

So now, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to humbly present my submission for the 2013 Shiny Squirrel Award. I ask that you would please ignore the middle-aged tempo and intermittent pitchiness, while appreciating the hours of dedicated procrastination that went into the making of this video.  

Oh, and just so you know...  all taxes were completed and postmarked by midnight.  (At the last minute, of course.)

P. S.   I meant to publish this on October 15^th, but I got distracted...

ANDY WALKS WITH ME...

 

I've started walking, y'all. As in exercise. Two miles a day at Medipark.

It began as a desperate attempt to coax my butt back up to the tops of my thunder thighs. And also because I couldn't even think about going back to the gym until I lose ten pounds.

But then, a funny thing happened on the way to the park...

I started liking it.

 

Can you even believe it? Somewhere around the ¾ mile mark, I started feeling all zen-ish and clear-headed. AT ONE with the universe. Or at least AT ONE with the ducks at Medipark.

Could this be what meditation feels like?  Say whaaaaaat?!?

This may not seem like such a grand achievement to you non-ADHD types who already know how to BE STILL. But from my scatter-brained cohorts... I would like a minute of appreciative silence. (Okay, just gimme three seconds.)

You see, I've always sucked at meditation. I just never 'got' it. Lord knows, I tried. But my feeble attempts always managed to end up something like this:

I get all barefoot and cross legged and comfy on my pillow and close my eyes and start 'ohmmmmmm-ing' which makes my nose get all itchy and I rub it too hard and get snot on my hand so I have to get up to get a tissue and while I'm sitting back down I notice my toe polish is chipping but that's okay I need to meditate so I close my eyes and  start 'ohmmmmmm-ing' again but then a renegade eye pops open and I start picking at the chipped toenail polish which starts to remind me of that fresh box of chocolate chip cookies the Dickman brought home from the store and all of a sudden I'm afraid I just might die if I can't have one, and...

Meditation. Fail.

++++++++++++

Yet here I am, finally getting my MEDItation on at MEDIpark.
  

There's just something about being outdoors---the 30 mph Panhandle breeze blowing through my hair, the smell of duck poop and stagnant water wafting up my nose---that clears away the cobwebs and takes me to a deep, quiet place.

And you know what else?  I have discovered that everything going on around me as I walk through the pretty little park is actually a metaphor for life. For example:

1. I've noticed that the other walkers I pass fall into one of two groups:  a) the serious ones who either look down or straight ahead to avoid eye contact -OR- b) the happy ones who can't wait to catch up and say, 'HI!!'. (This is a dilemma for me, as I relate more to the first group, but don't want to be labeled a 'rude walker'.) 
 
2. If I look down at my feet all the time, not only do I miss the pretty view, but sweat starts rolling down my chesticles. On the other hand... if I don't watch where I'm going, I can get tripped up by the bumps along the path or (even worse) end up doing a Scooby Dance in a pile of fresh doggy poo.

I find myself wondering about the people I pass along the way. If I see someone  sitting forlornly alone on a park bench, I tell myself he/she must be worried about a loved one in the hospital nearby. And I pray for God to comfort them, to be with their loved ones.  Just as I would have appreciated their prayers for my Daddy, when I sat forlornly on those same benches.

I imagine the nurses walking in their scrubs are on their lunch hour, taking a break from the stress of their job... wondering if they will ever find a balance between career and family.  I ask God to give them strength, and I hope they have someone to take care of them, as they care for everybody else. 

Then, there are the old peeps, they are my favorites, of course. I always feel the urge to break out in applause, to come up behind them and cheer them on.  But that would just be weird.  So, I throw them an encouraging smile... which unfailingly comes back to me.

Last week, I was nearing the end of my walk when I suddenly became aware of some Very Heavy Breathing (if you get my drift. Wink. Wink.) As I rounded the corner, I was fully expecting to find a couple of lovebirds making out on a blanket. Imagine my surprise when there was no one in sight and I realized the heavy breathing was coming from me.

++++++++++++

With all this stimulating activity going on around me, I bet you're wondering exactly when the meditation occurs.

It happens in the In-Between. In those quiet spaces after one thought stops and before another begins.

  

And it's awesome.

Because those In-Between moments? They have become my Jesus Moments.

Those are the moments that He comforts me.

He assures me.

He restores my faith...
 

 

...He walks with me and he talks with me. 

And He tells me I am His own.

 

 

A POEM FOR MANDIE LEE

 

A few weeks ago, I received the following email from my daughter-in-law regarding a homework assignment for my granddaughter:

Hello Dear Family! 
 

Mandie is making a book of poetry and she would like to include your favorite poems. If you have a poem that you like, or one that is funny (and clean . . . MiMi ) Then please send it back to me and we will put it in her anthology. 

Much love,

Cassie and Mandie

 

 

Easy-peasy, right??  Nope.  Not so much.  Imagine my frustration as I continued to reject poem after favorite poem.  I mean, the hard part wasn't finding a poem that was clean, the hard part was finding a favorite poem that I thought would be worthy of my Mandie Lee. 

  

She is not just any ol' second grader, you see.  This is my Best Girl... the one who shares my name and owns my heart.  The only one who truly appreciates my Funky Chicken dance moves and can talk me into painting purple flowers on my pink toenails.  We are practically Peas In A Pod.  Except that her pod is only seven and mine is, well... half a century older. 

  

I am a little nervous about the poem I selected for my sweet grandgirl.  I hope she will like it; but most of all, I hope she will grow to appreciate the love behind the words...

 

 

A POEM FOR MANDIE LEE

 

She's seven, and she loves to read,

Especially words that rhyme.

 

She asked me for my favorite poem

This sweet grandgirl of mine.

 

I tried to recall and choose from them all

The verses I loved best.

 

The poems and prayers and promises

That stood out from the rest.

 

I searched in vain for perfect words,

And finally realized,

 

My favorite poem was seven years old,

With pigtails and green eyes...

  

I think you are amazing,

 

L ook how wonderful you are.

O nly God could have created,

V ibrant, shining like the stars.

E very breath I take, I thank Him;

 

Y ou make my world brand new.

O ne smile is all I ever need,

U nless... you give me two.

 

M arvelously created,

A nd fearfully made, are you.

N othing on earth will ever defeat,

D ream big and your dreams will come true.

I want you to know I am with you,

E very step, every beat of your heart.

 

L ove will forever keep us together

E vermore...

E ven when we're apart.

 

~ MiMi ~