The Joy of Love

Friday, November 13, 2015 terrorists viciously attacked innocent civilians in Paris. As I write these words, 129 people have died and 352 were injured under a cowardly act tightly wrapped in hate. By definition hate means: "to dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward; detest" (Webster's Dictionary). Hate is the vilest of the human emotions and most of the time, I believe hate is born out of heresy and misunderstandings. Differences can sometimes stoke fear in people - a fear that ultimately leads to decisions with horrendous consequences.
The Islamic State has declared war on the West. But their type of fighting and heinous humanitarian crimes committed throughout the world in the name of religion is foreign to many of us. These people are international bullies attacking people who are unarmed, unprepared and usually in the midst of enjoying life. Westerners are confused, mystified, horrified, disgusted and angry. As leaders of the free world head to the G-20 Summit this week, formulating a strategy to defeat ISIS will be at the top of their list. I am not a military strategist, but I do know this: ISIS does not appear to understand love and eventually, that will be their undoing.

ISIS keeps coming with one brutal attack after another and yet they never seem to grasp that we do not cower in fear or surrender to their violent demands. Instead, we unify. Lighting candles, linking arms, raising voices in song, raising flags in defiance and strengthening our stance against you -  in love. Yes, we will come after you. In the end, because of the atrocities you are committing against humanity, the people of the world who do not condone violence, will defend their right to life in a way you are not prepared to defend. Military strikes are a small part of the strategy and sometimes governments announce these strikes giving you time to defend yourself. Or sometimes, in your mind, giving you permission to hurt civilians instead of armed militia. But know this ISIS. People are praying for you. People are forgiving you. People are hoping you will see the error in your ways. People are listening to a voice that says above all else, love one another. Is this why you are angry with us? Many Westerners do not follow the path of wealth, greed and power. No, many of us follow the path of joy, hard work, family, love, tolerant religion and forgiveness. Did you hear those bells ringing through the streets of Paris on Saturday? Did you see people on their knees with tears streaming down their cheeks? Did you see the tiny tea lights illuminating Paris - the city you desperately are trying to darken? Here is the thing. Your acts of hatred strengthened our love and illuminated our light toward a higher ground. People around the world, in churches, communities, driving cars or walking on their own, were sending out prayers for healing. And here is the other thing - they were not all Westerners and they were not all Christians. They were humans that understand love is always the answer and hate will eventually dissolve like sugar in hot water.

Eventually, the ripples of hope will reach your hate camp. And these love circles will surround you like the people you tried to encase in the concert hall. But the ones we touch won't run screaming and won't be dragged down an alley drenched in blood. They will just leave you. That is eventually happens with hate. You entice lost people with dreams of power, money and greed - the very concepts you kill innocents for every day. But humans grow weary of hate. The emotion is tiring, degrading, and unfulfilling. Eventually, your recruits will look for something more - something that does not involve death and destruction. Eventually, they will follow the path of forgiveness and redemption, the path of light, the path of love, the path of life. So, one day, perhaps our paths will cross and you will take my life. But know this, you never took my light. And someone else will pick up my torch to carry on the fire of love that darkness can never extinguish. Joy, my friend, joy will always have a place in this world. And Paris, will always be the city of light and the city of love. Vive le France!!!!
 

The Joy of a Preview

As you may know by reading my blog, a long held dream of mine is to write a book. So, that is why my blog has been so quiet. I have been pursuing my dream in between raising my children, teaching preschool and enjoying my family life that has been blessed, bittersweet, hilarious, unexpected and well, mine. All mine. And authored by a higher power than me.
Deep breath. I am getting ready to give you a sneak preview of what I have been writing the past couple of months. This, by far, will be my longest, bravest and "most "naked" post. I am asking you to be just as brave (and heavens to Betsy, not naked) by reading my rough, rough draft of a story that has lived in my head and traveled down to the keys on my lap top. Please send me your thoughts, edits, suggestions, critiques and the hard truth of yes, I would continue to read this book or um, seriously, I would put in my Yard Sale pile. If for whatever reason I end up in the "yes" category and you know of an editor that would be interested in helping me, I would be grateful. At some point in all of our lives, someone was gracious enough to pass our name along. Sometimes that road became a dead end, but sometimes, just sometimes, that road lead to an amazing journey. Thank you for your time. Cheers!

 

Her face was contorted, sweaty and red. Tear trails marked the passage of a tantrum that had lasted longer than the peppermint quickly dissolving in my mouth. I blew air upward and felt my damp hair struggle to remove itself from the edges of my face. I bent down and placed my hands on Grace’s heaving shoulders. “Shhhhh,” I whispered as I tried to bring calmness to us both. The trip had been long, hot and exhausting. I could not fault her for losing her composure, but I sure wish I had the key that could get us off the porch and away from the prying eyes of neighbors we had yet to meet. I doubted anyone would be bringing us fresh baked banana bread in the morning.

I kept one hand on Grace as the other hand dug deep into my purse, searching for the flimsy tag and string that held the key that would open the door to our new life. I pulled out gas and fast food receipts and hastily scripted lists and tossed them on the wooden planks of thedust covered porch. A gust of wind whistled through sweeping up the receipts and my last bit of patience into the neglected yard. Grace sneezed, wiped the nose goo across her cheeks and took her wail to the likes of Janis Joplin. I felt the coldness of the molded metal against my sweating fingers. I yanked the key out quickly, spilling lip gloss, tissues and half sucked peppermints onto the porch. A peppermint stuck to Grace’s toe and the wailing reached unspeakable volumes. Shakily, I stuck the key into the lock and slammed the door open, leaving a mark on the wall as a reminder of our arrival to 203 Mimosa Lane.

“NO! NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” shrieked the defiant voice, followed by quick, successive breaths. “I want,” four quick inhales, “to go”, another four quick inhales, “hooooooooome!”. The foot stomp punctuated the last request. “Grace,” I soothed, “we are home. Let’s go inside and see your new room.”.

“This is NOT my home. Not going inside.” The breathing was returning to normal. The free flow of tears was drying up and the arms were folded tight, like a military bed. I leaned against the door frame, head tilted to one side and shoulders slumped in defeat. “Ok, Grace, ok. You can sleep out here on the porch tonight. But Mommy? She is sleeping inside – I remember things that slithered and popped in the night when I slept here as a child. But I know you are brave, my Gracie girl.” I sighed, looked into her bloodshot blue eyes and realized I would never win an argument against this stubborn, headstrong child who had the face of a father she had never met. I cursed silently and headed inside.

“Do I at least get a sleeping bag?” Grace asked as she smushed her face against the screen door. “I should at least get a sleeping bag.”

I kept walking looking for a made bed and praying for a stocked refrigerator. I heard the squeak and slam, followed by unsure footsteps. “Oh this place STINKS! You should have brought Bessie.” The footsteps quickened and soon I heard them over my head. “My room has a window seat and I can see the water. Mom. Mom. MOM! Come here.” Followed by a bloodcurdling scream. I smiled. She found Buster, I thought. Well, maybe not Buster, but one of her great, great, great grandchildren with eight long legs and a fuzzy round body. The footsteps slammed downward and again, I heard the squeak, slam of a departure. “MOOOOOOOMMMMMM! Sadie is gone!” followed by another Janis Joplin epic wail.

“No. No. No. NO!” I screamed in my head. Sadie, our new furever pup, was almost one-year-old, completely untrained, speedier than the Looney Tune’s road runner and Grace had thrown Sadie’s name tag out the window in Tennessee because I would not let her have another Coke. I slammed open the door and scanned the street for my daughter and my dog, neither of whom would listen to any of my commands.

“Saaaaaaa-dieeeeeeee! Graaaaaaaaaace!” I yelled. I listened to the silence and tried to figure out where a dog and child would run. Toward the water. I made a beeline down the street to the nearest beach path. The sand spurs stuck to my ankle socks and dug their points into my skin as I occasionally jumped up trying to see over the sea grass. Finally, I hit the wooden walkway only to catch my pants on an exposed nail. Bam. I lie sprawled out on the aged planks, splinters inviting themselves into skin on my palms and finger pads. I unhooked my pants from the nail, quickly surveyed for people doubled over in laughter, clapped my hands together and continued forward. My hands and my head began to pound in sync with my heartbeat. I hustled down the five steps to the soft, cold sand, kicked off my shoes and ran toward the crashing waves. I squinted and held my throbbing hand over my eyes as I desperately searched for Sadie and Grace. For a moment I thought I caught glimpse of them, but then my heart sank as I noticed an older lady attached to the end of the leash, laughing and splashing as the Atlantic Ocean gurgled over her feet. Grace would never talk to a stranger and there is no way a human being could catch Sadie. Unless, the human had a treat.

I started to walk in their direction. As my eyes caught Grace’s, she bee lined towards me, hands clasped tightly together forming a small circle. “Mom!” she squealed, “I caught a sand crab. I’ve named her Sandy. Can I keep her? Please, Mom.”.  I stopped and folded my arms in front of me. Just as I was about to unload a litany of the rules broken within the last five minutes, the lady with wavy salt and pepper hair, dressed in a faded salmon colored tshirt and tattered cargo pants stretched out her hand toward me. “I am guessing these two belong to you?” she asked. She spoke in the soft southern lilt that gave away her age and the fact that she most likely was a local. I nodded. “Might I apologize and thank you at the same time?” I reached out to take Sadie’s leash. Sadie boldly jumped up, sand stuck to her nose, her paws and her belly as a long, pink tongue lagged out the side of her mouth. Not a scent of remorse but a whole handful of happy.

“Aw, no trouble. Just out for afternoon stroll before I begin the evening shift at the café. These two won’t tell you, but they were scared. Never seen two creatures shaking like Autumn leaves in a tree on a windy day.” She chuckled, contagious and content. “Well, I have to be going. My name is Lucy. I hope to meet you all again, under different circumstances. You should come down for breakfast – we have the best food on the beach.” As she passed me, I quickly asked, “Excuse me, but how did you catch Sadie?”

Lucy winked and said, “I keep treats in my trousers.” She held up her hand in a wave and strolled on past. Lucy, I decided, was someone I was going to need to know on the island.

“So, Mom, can I keep Sandy? Huh, can I?” Grace was jumping excitedly up and down beside me. My anger dissolved, I tugged on Sadie’s leash to remind her who was in control and asked Grace if it was fair to keep a sand crab in a fake beach when there was a perfectly good beach for this captured crustacean to live. “Of course it is. A sandpiper can’t get Sandy if she is in our house.” I acquiesced and said we would have to keep her in the sink for tonight but first thing tomorrow we would build a little terrarium for our new found pet. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best!”. Yup, for the next five minutes anyway. And I said a silent prayer that Sadie would not eat Sandy during the next twelve hours.

After a dinner of stale Doritos and putrid tasting tap water, I tucked Grace into her freshly made bed with promises that Buster would not come down and sit beside her tonight. Spiders were extremely afraid of dogs. As always, Grace’s prayers reminded me that her childhood is not ideal but she is here with me and “we love chother”. I kissed her forehead, patted Sadie’s head, turned on the fan and tiredly headed downstairs.

I poured a large glass of wine and headed out to the back porch. The frogs were chirping and burping. The lullaby of waves could be heard in the distance and the salty breeze tinkled the wind chimes that hung lopsided from a rusted plant hanger. I looked up toward the multitude of stars wondering if an answer was written in the night sky. “Lord,” I murmured. “I have leaned on you hard these last six years and you have always held me up. I hope your arms aren’t getting tired. And Lord I know I am supposed to rejoice, but I will just be thankful that Sadie and Grace are safe upstairs. I hope I listened to your voice and not mine when I came back to Aunt Lydia’s.” I eased back into the Adirondack chair that used to hold my mother and me in the summer evenings. Back when life was simple. When the hardest decision I had to make was whether to have a popsicle or a creamsicle. I took a long sip of the Pinot Grigio, closed my eyes and felt the day slip away.

Aunt Lydia, I thought to myself, never in a million years will I understand why you left The Dreamscape to me. I am deep in the bowels of the longest living nightmare and the last thing I need is to refurbish a house that holds so many stories I am not ready to recall. You made a mistake, Aunt Lydia. Tomorrow morning, I call the lawyer. Tomorrow afternoon, I begin searching for a realtor.  

# 

I could feel her eyes upon me, still caked with the remnants of sleep, but intently searching my face for any signs of an awake human. I was the great pretender and lulled myself back to  sleep, hoping I would soon hear retreating footsteps. Instead I heard a fast scratching noise followed by an indescribable tickle across my face. My eyes jerked open to see a sand crab skittering down my chest and into the crevices of my nightshirt. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” erupted from my mouth as Sandy was flung from my body and my bed. I watched in horror as our newly acquired sand crab landed swiftly in Sadie’s open mouth, followed by a sickening crunching sound. Within seconds the sand crab, unrecognizable and pummeled by dog teeth, was spit upon my bedroom floor in a slobbery mess. I tried not to retch and I tried to avoid Grace’s unforgivable gaze, knowing that as a Mother, I had just committed the most heinous of crimes. “So, Gracie girl,” I slowly stated as I stretched last night’s aches out of my body, “want to give Lucy’s café a try? She said they have the best breakfast which must mean yummylicious pancakes!”. I glanced at my five-and-a-half-year-old daughter out of the corner of my eye, hair mussed, pajamas wrinkled and eyes brimming. “I bet they have homemade whipped cream. And sprinkles.” I quickly added. The tears retreated. “Ok” Grace sighed. “But afterwards, we build our testy-arium and THEN go get another Sandy.” She quickly turned to Sadie with a pointed finger and said, “No more sand crabs for you, Sadie. You are a bad, bad girl.” She turned to walk away and then spun around and hugged Sadie’s neck. “I forgive you, Silly Sadie. I’m giving you grace.”. Grace turned towards me and giggled, “I’m giving her me, Mommy!” and she skipped out of the room with the forgiven mutt trailing behind, tail wagging.

I pulled a wrinkled polo dress out of my suitcase and headed toward the laundry room. If I remembered correctly, there was an old iron and ironing board built into the left wall. I opened the door and smiled. At least I had one thing right this morning. I noticed the sink to the right and decided to wet a washcloth and throw it into the dryer with my dress. Lazy ladies iron – a trick I had learned in college. Twenty minutes later, dressed in a reasonably unwrinkled dress and leather flip flops, I held Grace’s hand as we skipped toward Lucy’s.

“What the heck are rutabaga pancakes with a lemon glaze?” demanded Grace. I forgot my little girl could read. Written in yellow chalk, this morning's specials included the pancakes, shrimp and grits with a pork sausage gravy and a spinach-tomato frittata with star fruit. “Fri-tater? What is that? Like a Frito?” Grace asked. I walked over to the cauldron of hot coffee and poured myself a styrofoam cup full. I added a splash of cream and quick shot of sugar and prayed for a Kid’s Menu. Otherwise, Lucy and I were about to have words. I had already murdered a sand crab this morning. I could not commit another crime against my daughter without being sent to the parenthood slammer.

“Let’s take a look at the menu, honey, and then we will figure out the rest.”. Grace skeptically looked at me but to my relief, kept my stride as I headed to the hostess and the pile of newly printed menus. "Oh great,” I thought to myself, “not only does the menu not cater to kids, I probably cannot afford this breakfast.” I kept walking forward, checked my hastily pinned bun and smiled at the sun kissed teen who did not have a name tag. “Hi!” I squeaked. “Might I see a menu?”.

“Ab-so-toot-leeeee!” she sang as I cringed. “And for the little princess,” she continued, “we have this adoooooooorable Le Petit menu.” Seriously? Did she just wink at me as she handed me a triangle rainbow crayon and a tiny piece of paper rolled up and tied with a delicate ribbon? Oh good grief. I slurped my coffee, raised the cup and sputtered a quiet thank you. I. Am. Doomed.

Grace scampered in front of me finding a sea shell backed metal chair and quickly hopped up and unrolled her menu. “Mommeeeeeeeee! Chocolate chip pancakes with homemade whipped cream and a Berry special fruit cup! I am so IN!”. She flung the menu at me and headed toward to the outdoor game station I had earlier ignored. “Call me” she yelled with the thumb and pinky hand signal held up to her smiling, twinkling face. I took another swig of coffee and noticed there were no prices on the Le Petit menu. Great. Boutique Dining.

I glanced at the regular menu and noticed they offered a shrimp, pepper and homemade salsa omelette with fruit and biscuits and homemade jam. I am so IN! I returned to the hostess, added our name to the list, returned to metal chair and prayed they had Bloody Mary’s to give me the courage to order when our name was called.

As Grace gobbled up her pancakes with wild abandon and I savored the best omelette I had ever tasted, a familiar voice asked if I needed more coffee. I looked up and met Lucy’s warm brown eyes that signaled she was happy we had made the trek to the best breakfast on the beach.

“Please, top me off,” I said.

“How is everything? Good, I hope.”

“Did you make these pancakes ‘specially for me, Miss Lucy?” asked Grace with a mouthful of breakfast. “These are soooooooooooo good!”. She shoveled in another forkful.

“Well, the recipe comes from my family, but Lionel does all of the cooking. He adds a special ingredient to each order that makes it special just for that person.” Lucy glanced at me and then back at Grace. “I’m glad you like it.” She topped off my coffee and headed to the next table. As Grace and I soaked up the last delicious bites of our breakfast, I started looking around for our waitress to signal for the check and noticed other diners heading toward the front where indiscriminately a cashier checked people out of the restaurant. Grace and I headed to the restroom to wash off the remnants of her best breakfast ever and then glided toward to the front of the restaurant. I sheepishly looked at the cashier and muttered, “First Timers”. She laughed and replied, “Special first timers enjoy their first breakfast on us. Have a nice day.” And she reached her hand past me to the next person in line. I quickly scanned the room before I was rudely reminded by the next person they were not special and I needed to move Grace and myself toward the exit sign. I ushered us out with an extremely nervous stomach and prayed we did not hear sirens as we took the boardwalk down to the beach to hunt for Sandy II. “Aunt Lydia,” I whispered, “I am still calling the lawyer and the realtor.”

# 

“I think Sandy II loves her testy-arium, Mom!” Grace declared as she excitedly clapped her hands while jumping up and down. She quickly gave Sadie a stern warning, “No eating Sandy II, Sadie. I can’t forgive you twice.” I smiled and agreed that our sand crab appeared content. And I said a silent prayer that Sandy II lasted longer than the original.

I looked down at my lengthening to do list and sighed. “Well, Grace, what shall we do first. Attack the refrigerator or the pantry?” Just as she was about to answer, my phone quacked. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Howard, this is Fred Roberts, your Aunt’s lawyer returning your call. How may I help you?”

“Oh, thank you so much for calling me back. I have a few questions regarding her will and I am hoping you can provide me with some much needed and hopefully easy answers.”

“Ok, shoot!” Mr. Roberts responded. I immediately liked his laid back style.

“Well, I was wondering if I was allowed to put Aunt Lydia’s house on the market and who would be the best realtor in this area to handle the sale?” I looked down at Grace’s pouting face. She hugged the terrarium to her chest and stomped out of the room. I blew my bangs off my forehead and rolled my eyes upward.

“Well, Mrs. Howard,” he replied.

“Please, call me Hannah” I interrupted.

“Ok, Hannah, well, um, your Aunt had specific guidelines written into her will about the house and you and,” I heard a deep breath within the pause and all the sudden I was changing my likable impression of Mr. Roberts. “Lydia has stated you must reside in the house one full year before you can make any decisions regarding renting or selling. Now, you are certainly welcome to..”

“WHAT?!?” I screamed into the phone. “What? Wait. What? No, no, no, that cannot be correct OR legal. I made plans to only stay here for the summer. I can’t, we can’t, oh, no, no, no, - she can’t do this.” Sadie whimpered out of the room. I began frantically pacing. I heard the shuffling of papers over the phone.

“I’m sorry, Hannah. She can and she did. In fact, I really need you to come down to my office sometime this week so I can review all the stipulations with you. Lydia worked on this for many months – she has a definite plan for you.” I heard a soft laugh in his voice.

“I am sorry, Mr. Roberts. I do not find any of this amusing. And I can’t meet with you this week. I don’t know if I can meet with you at all!” I hung up and threw the phone into the sofa. “Aunt Lydia, you were a thorn in life and you are a thorn in death.” I sighed as I crumpled to the floor knowing eventually I would be sitting across from Mr. Roberts, listening to another one of my Aunt’s notorious but well-crafted plans.

Sadie sauntered back in wagging her tail and carrying a stuffed duck in her mouth, the head barely hanging on and placed it in my lap. She slumped next to me and let out a long, lonely sigh. “Get used to this place, Sadie. We might be here a while.” I stroked her head and hoped the duck was not a sign of things to come.

#

“I don’t understand why I have to go Camp Carousel. That just sounds stupid. And for preschoolers!!!” Grace whined as I tried to braid her unkept, slept on hair.

“Grace Anne Ashenfelter Howard. Stop pulling away from me – it’s only going to hurt more. And stupid is a lazy word. We don’t use the word stupid in any form. You are a much more imaginative and smart girl.” Ha! Battle won, I thought to myself.

“Fine.” Grace said. “It’s utterly ridiculous with a capital R!”.

Sigh. Time to wave the white flag. “Grace, I have a lot of adult things to do this week that would bore you out of your guord. This way, you get to explore the island, make new friends and learn how to catch a crab or oysters or…”

“Admit it - you just need a break from me, Mom. Just say it.” Grace interrupted. For the millionth time since we had uprooted our semi-stable lives, my heart shattered into pieces that would never fit correctly again.

“Do you just want to wear a ponytail?” I asked quietly.

“Sure,” replied Grace, her eyes brimming. I turned her around, gently wiped the tears with my thumbs and kissed her forehead. “You are my Sunshine Girl and I love you very much. Without you I would always be in the dark and I will miss you while you gone during the day. But I can’t wait to hear about your adventures over dinner.” Sadie barked in agreement and that brought a small smile from Grace. Another emotional weather pattern averted but I knew it was only a matter of time before Grace’s hurricane hit land. And I had no emergency kit prepared to handle the aftermath. I quietly prayed for guidance…again.

As we headed out the door, Grace gently reminded Sadie not to eat Sandy II. Sadie whimpered and headed to her kennel as I watched Grace hop down the steps, ponytail bouncing and shimmering in the morning sun. “Lord, we both need you. Please stay with us today, hold our hands and show us the way. Amen.” I locked our door and followed Grace to our car wishing once again for an easy answer to the mess at 203 Mimosa Lane.

After I dropped Grace off without incident at her day camp, I entered the sparsely decorated offices of Mr. Roberts that smelled of burnt coffee and Febreeze. As I shut the door, I heard a voice yell from the back office, “Be right with ya!”. I tried to make myself comfortable which was the second biggest feat of the day. “You must be Mrs. Ashenfelter,” said Mr. Roberts as he brushed away the morning’s breakfast from his mouth. He brushed his hands together and reached one towards me. “Please, let’s talk in my office. My secretary quit this morning. Well, I guess really at 2am. Seems she took to a fella at Ophelia’s Oyster Bar last night and up and got married.” Mr. Roberts started laughing. “I guess my office is not honeymoon material nor am I someone to whom you give notice. Need a job?” He winked as he led me to a chair seated at the edge of an insanely disorganized desk.

“Would you like some coffee? I promise it tastes better than it smells.”

“Uh, no thank you and please, call me Hannah,” I replied. “I really just want to get on with the matter at hand.”

“Ok, well, like I said over the phone,” Mr. Roberts began as he deftly pulled a file from under the paper rubble, “your Aunt has some very specific instructions for Dreamscape. And a hefty allowance to help you with repairs, plus a list of people who she thinks would do a bang up dandified job. Her words, not mine, mind you. Now, I know you have a lot of questions and probably more than we can discuss at this meeting, but….”

“Mr. Roberts, yoooooooo hoooooooooo, Mr. Roberts, Mrs. Stagnally here. I just have to talk to you about suing Mr. Stinkpants immediately. He just refuses to….oh my, please excuse my rudeness. I did not know you had company!” Mrs. Stagnally stopped just inside the doorway and gave Hannah a full up and down. “Well, you are new, aren’t you darlin’? Oh and pretty. Isn’t she pretty Mr. Roberts?” She turned to Hannah again and said, “Mr. Roberts here is the most eligible man on the island. Oh, if only I was even five years younger I would give you a run for your money. He is just the hottest tomato we have here and just waiting to be plucked from the vine. Um. Um. Um.” She turned on her expensive heel and flung her wrist in a finger wave. “Toodle loo, young lovers. I will leave you to, uh, your business for now. William, I expect to see you at Lucy’s for our Hump Day Cocktail. Bernie has a new recipe for us and we can discuss the disastrous manner in which my neighbor has taken to treating me. Cioa!” The door slammed but the heavy scent of Chanel No. 5 hung in the air like a cartoon cloud telling me I had just encountered someone who had given Aunt Lydia a run for her money. “Who was that?” I asked Mr. Roberts.

“That,” he said quietly and without making eye contact, “was one of your relatives.” He let out a deep sigh and pushed his wavy blonde hair to the left with his fingers.

“Oh you must be mistaken – I don’t have any other Aunts. It was just my Mom and Lydia.”

“Mrs. Ashenfelter, um, excuse me, Hannah, I believe you and I should have that coffee now. With a splash of Bourbon.” And with that, Mr. Roberts exited the room, following the scent that lingered a little too long for my liking.

#

 

The Joy of a Setback

Embrace your setbacks because eventually they become the obstacles you overcome. The first question you usually ask yourself in a difficult situation is, "Why me?". Or "What did I do to deserve this?". And the answer is usually "I don't know". But a very important word  can follow: yet. I don't know - yet. And suddenly, hope appears to guide you out of the forest and up the pathway to climbing the mountain placed before you.
There are all types of setbacks. Our son, Josh, had a big one this week on his bike. He is a timid and careful child which is good in some situations and frustrating in others. His learning to ride a bike was a bit like running a marathon - it took forever! But then one day, he just pushed off on his pedals and discovered the freedom of riding a bike. So, three weeks later, Josh and I head out on a journey to discover what leads down one of the greenways that run behind our house. We had biked a little over 1.5 miles and decided to take a drink break. A large hill loomed before us and I asked if he wanted to turn around or continue up the hill. He surprised me with, "Let's go up. It's always fun to discover new things - like an adventure.". As an English Minor, I probably should have picked that statement up as foreshadowing. We continued. At the top of the hill, Josh decided we should head home so we turned around and I asked if he wanted me to lead or follow and he answered, "Lead.".

I reminded him the hill was long, steep and curvy so he would need to use his breaks to monitor his speed. He nodded and off I went. I was totally in my own moment, coasting down the hill, wind cooling off my sweating body and silently singing, "Like a Rhinestone Cowboy" in my head (there is a family story there as well). All of the sudden, an out of control seven-year-old goes blazing by me, front wheel and handle bars wobbly and without thinking I shout, "BREAK!" and because Josh is an obedient child, he breaks hard and the back wheel skids to the left as his bike careens downward. In slow motion I watch the bike skid right and Josh tumble off and roll like a bowling ball down the paved greenway to the left. My heart and my bike stop. And a large noise fills my ears. But, then he stands up, with only a bloody knee and a tearful face. As I realize nothing is broken, I inhale deeply, pick up his bike, look deep into his beautiful brown eyes and quietly say, "You know, we have to get back on this bike. In a little bit." And I stroke his back as I try to quiet my heartbeat. Because if we walk home, the bike will stay parked in our garage, permanently. So in few minutes, we climb back on and make our way home. We had a few more bumps as we did not stop at a stop sign and bumped into Mom's bike but we arrived in tact, sweaty and bright red streaking down a tiny leg. As we pushed our bikes up our driveway, Josh said, "I did not like that bike ride at ALL!". I breathed. "Yeah?" I asked. "You think the next one will be better?" I squeaked out. "Yeah," Josh responded. "But I'll probably stick to smaller hills for a while.". A tiny setback but he did not quit. And way before I am ready, he will be zooming down big hills with ramps and doing tricks that make my stomach wish he were still inside my body, safe and snug. True, in the scope of our great, big world his fall was minor. He is not facing a life threatening illness. He is not left without a parent. He is not in a cast or surgery. But to his world, he learned taking risks sometimes hurt.
We face obstacles and hard lessons in every aspect of our life. Personally. Professionally. Faith based. We have lots of questions and not many answers - yet. Some years can be incredibly hard. You lose a job. You lose a loved one. You are blindsided with a medical diagnosis. You crash your car. You choose alcohol or drugs over your family and lose a lot. Your family makes you scratch your head or hurt your heart. You fail a test. You start a diet/exercise program only to stop. You swear in front of your Mother-in-Law. You end up three credits short of earning your degree. Your business is in financial stress. You are in financial stress. You can't zip your pants. You can't say I am sorry to someone. You can't say I forgive you. Your co-workers tell you an idea won't work. And quietly, with tears running down your face, your body slumped haphazardly on the floor, you ask, "Why me?". You might tremble in this position for a while or you might tremble violently and uncontrollably. At some point all of this loud, tiring, questioning, emotion stops as you raise the white flag, whispering, "I don't know" and then hope knocks as you hear "yet". In that sliver of an instant, in that tiny, molecular moment is your opportunity to start clearing all of the muck and yuck out of your life and start climbing the mountain of "Yes, I can!". Ok, so, you lost your job, yet you can start

following what makes your heart happy. You lost a loved one, but yet, you were loved deeply, truly and honestly and you carry that person forever. You fight an extraordinary disease, that maybe you will succumb to, yet you are the reason someone becomes a medical professional. You crash your car yet you still have your life. You made a bad choice but then chose rehab and you begin to feel and see life clearly and beautifully and you gently show others how to walk with you on the safe, sober, happy path.  You fail a test but ace the next one. You stop your health program only to jump back on board with better results because the change is for you. You slip up in front of your Mother-in-Law and she shares an embarrassing story with you that maybe, just maybe, makes you wet your pants a little, but also forges a bond that can only grow stronger. Eventually, after working tirelessly and hard, you have an opportunity to earn your last three credits paid for by your employer. Financially, you are broke, but you ultimately learn the best things in life are free. And they leave a huge deposit in your heart. Eventually, you zip into a smaller size or celebrate the breathtaking beauty of your real size. You utter "I am sorry" and you hear "You are forgiven.". Your co-workers celebrate the amazing outcome of an idea that you decided was worth a try. And in that sliver of an instant, in that tiny, molecular moment you understand you need to embrace your setbacks because eventually they become the obstacles you overcome knowing that the next hill, you can totally take because there is great joy in taking your setback on the new route of a comeback!

The ABC's of Motherhood

For all the amazing women in my life who are Moms - I love you and am grateful for each of you. There is no greater gift than a loving Mom!
Happy Mother's Day!

The ABC's of Motherhood....

A is for the affection you show your child each day
B is for the beauty you share along the way.
C is for the comfort of Mommy’s caring hugs
D is for the discussions of explaining little bugs.
E is for the emotion behind each “I love you!”
F is for the fun you put in everything you do.
G is for the goodness that lies deep within your heart,
H is for the happiness you bring from the very start.
I is for the ice that tend the bruises and the bumps,
J is for the joy that is bottled in tiny jumps.
K is for the tender kisses that mend most anything,
L is for the love that blossoms like the spring.
M is for Mommy, perhaps God’s greatest gift.
N is for the numerous times you calm a growing rift.
O is for the “Oh my!” moments where you have been caught,
P is for the patience that stretches longer than you thought.
Q is for the quiet times where special moments hide,
R is for your reading voice that brings smiles big and wide.
S is for the silly times that fill your heart and mind,
T is for the tickles that create a loving, laughing bind.
U is for the understanding words that comfort all the hurts,
V is for the voracious energy you find that comes in spurts.
W is for the wisdom that only mommyhood can bring,
X is for the x’s and o’s you sign on almost everything.
And Z is for the zany zoo that has become your loving family!

The Joy of a Reset Button

In a world where we have 24-hour-a-day access to information, we are in desperate need of a reset button. We need to relax. Recuperate. Rewind. Recharge. Reset our lives, our path, our emotional and physical states. Sometimes we have the opportunity

to redirect ourselves and other times external forces make the decision for us. Either way, it's time to make a decision to take care of you.
Our Lead Pastor talked with us a few weeks ago about the importance of keeping our emotional self well balanced so we are able to not only live our lives, but ENJOY our lives. Our current culture is forcing us to let our emotional well run dry. Ok, well, technically, we are making choices that make our wells become dangerously low. This never ending cycle of responsibility, financial burden and tending to needs that are not our own can cause use to become grumpy, grouchy, obstinate and down right testy. We feel like Stretch Armstrong and pretty soon we are going to snap. But maybe we do not go back to our former shape and find ourselves dangerously close to the discard box. We have to face facts that yes, there are things in life we have to deal with in our daily lives that we may not particularly enjoy. There may be a chatterbox cubicle coworker that does not understand the need for the new soundproof headphones you just purchased. Maybe you are raising teenagers. Maybe you are in the throws of toddler tantrums. Maybe you lost a loved one unexpectedly. Maybe your neighbor's dog sings love songs to the moon. Maybe your boss prattles on in meetings enjoying the sound of his/her voice while you are growing tenser by the minute as you hear your email inbox's continual dinging. Maybe your exams are incredibly hard. Maybe school is a miserable existance. Maybe your husband/wife loads the dishwasher in a way that boggles your ever loving mind. Maybe you put your underwear on backwards. Ok, that one you can fix pretty easily. But the other aggravating factors are going to force you to adapt one way or another. Simple survival, right? Um, not really.
One of my favorite excerpts from a TV show comes from The Office (I still miss the first four seasons of that show). Jim Halpert and Dwight Schrute have a love-hate office relationship. Ok, mostly hate. These two characters are wonderful examples of protagonist versus antagonist and every week, I pulled my chair right up to their constant inner office altercation buffet. I always left the table full. In one episode, Dwight purchases an Office Orb, a round ball to replace the traditional office chair. As Dwight explains the healthy aspects of his new office furniture, you watch Jim's patience dwindle rapidly until he finally decides to pop Dwight's bubble, permanently (you can catch the video here: https://vimeo.com/21800285.) We all feel that way from time to time, don't we? We have that secret wish to carry out a thoughtless, self gratifying act without any repercussion. But the truth is, Jim is the perfect example of our emotional self being out of balance and the actions that can sometimes follow. Great TV, though.
Our pastor recommended we make a list of things that bring us joy. Everyone's happy list will be different but here is the key point: this is YOUR happy list. Not your family's. Not your friends'. Not your significant other or spouse's. This is about what makes YOU happy. And of course, many of these people in your life may be involved in your chosen activities, but the fact is, in order to take care of your family, to meet your professional responsibilities, to stay true to your religious choices, to stay emotionally healthy - you need to take care of you.

And again, sometimes our society can make us very guilty about this notion, but sometimes you have to be selfish. Sometimes you have to fill your tank so you can fill someone else's when they need a little more sustenance. We are similar to a car - the lower your reserve, the lower you perform until finally you putter off to the side of the road and wait for someone to revive you. And sometimes that bill is incredibly expensive. If you think about it, personal monthly maintenance, ie: scheduling time for you, is just as important as healthy eating and regular exercise. You need to reset your agenda and make room in your schedule to include the elusive ME time. Otherwise, you may find yourself running wildly with scissors and that probably is not going to end well.
Our Pastor made a statement in his chat (I don't like the word sermon because he is much more informal in his delivery) that really resonated with me. He spoke of people coming to Jesus asking to be healed, asking to be saved, asking for miracles and Jesus stepped away from the crowd. Say that really slowly. Jesus. Stepped. Away. He did not turn his back on these requests, but he was acutely aware his emotional bucket was not full enough to take care of his flock. He prayed. He asked for sustenance from God and he walked alone with his thoughts. When he was emotionally full, he returned, tipped his bucket and his help flowed easily to others in great need. Even in his time of respite, Jesus was still teaching. We are meant to rest. We are meant to recuperate, relax, re-evaluate - we are meant to hit that reset button often and without hesitation.
If you have one goal this week, make a happy list. Next week, on your calendar, schedule 15 minutes for your happy place. And next week, add 15 more minutes and so on. Pretty soon, the happy becomes a habit and you are able to deal with the frustrations of life that can quickly drain our bucket. But you are one step ahead of the game because you have found the joy of a reset button. And you are joyfully running forward, with the scissors tucked safely in your desk drawer.

The Joy of Writing Honestly

Writing has always been a beautiful outlet for me. I have been known to stitch together a sentence quicker than a Singer sewing machine and perhaps include enough emotion to make someone laugh out loud or let a single tear teeter totter before rolling over an eyelid and down a reader's face. Writing comes easily and freely most days. And then there are occasions, like since January, where my thoughts stutter step like a Parkinson's patient's gait. But when I scrape away the adjectives, when I peel away the emotions, when I begin to take a long, hard look at my blank space, one word pops in over and over again: fear.
I have a history of writing. When I was in Fifth Grade, I was published in the Scholastic Newsletter for a brain teaser I had sent in with no hopes of a reply. But the next month, when I arrived at school, Mrs. Taylor had taped the newsletter to the haphazardly erased chalkboard. I had been published. The surge through my body was fast and strong, like an unexpected ocean wave that tumbles you into the hard sand. You come up sputtering, but you cannot wait for the next challenge, the next rush, the next time when you dive through the wave and come up on the other side of the foam.
I became a writer for our Middle School newspaper. A short mystery story was published. Again, I was overcome with this emotion of adulation. I liked it. I liked it a lot. My writing was being noticed by my Language Arts teachers and I remember reading if you want to become a great writer, you first needed to become a voracious reader. My cousin in Massachusetts became my pen pal and librarian as we shuffled silly letters and cannot-put-down books through the postal service. I was soaking up everything.
High school arrived. I think I was the only one in my class who loved Shakespeare and The Old Man and the Sea. I thought The Odyssey was brilliant. Greek Tragedies seemed familiar, I could not get enough of Mary Queen of Scots, the Diary of Anne Frank became a hallmark of my emotional self and when I devoured The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, I knew I was a Southerner at heart and would someday, stand in the stank, dark mud of the Mississippi River. At the same time, I longed to be Harriet Tubman, Hester Prynne, Jo March or any other woman who broke conventional rules. I understood the complexities of Dorian Gray and how his character was very much alive in my 1980-something high school life. I shivered when reading Edgar Allen Poe but yearned to learn more about his dark side. He was the ultimate Bad Boy. I hung on my English teachers' every word without ever showing interest - until I had to summarize a novel and then my cover was blown as they spoke the words in class I had scribbled the night before between scrimmages or a game. I signed up for Journalism my senior year. My Editor-in-Chief liked my stories, my peers liked my stories but my subject usually did not. Kerosene on a burning fire.
Fast forward to East Carolina University in Greenville, NC where I did a stint as a college reporter and garnered a few headlines and a few calls from the administration. Again, the bull rush of me beginning to understand words can have an impact on the social core when truthfully written. And here began my disassociation from journalism. I was a conservative in a liberal world and my literal voice was upsetting my professors. Yet, they still had to give me a passing grade because although they did not agree with my ideals, my essays were coaxing them to think in a different light that was uncomfortable and against the grain for their way of thinking. And here, at this point, because of my personal insecurities and my need for financial security after putting myself through college, I surrendered and gave up the one true thing that made me happy. Fear's tentacles were tightly wrapping themselves around me. I surrendered my craft and settled on a paycheck. And the next twenty years I began searching for a happy ending that would never be written. Because I chose not to follow God's purpose, I was completely, hopelessly adrift in a sea of chance professions and child rearing. Yet, eventually, I would end up back in the harbor where I felt safe and secure writing an off again, on again blog. And people would tell me I was a good writer - I should do more. Yet I was still too scared to throw over the anchor and plunge into the literary world. The voice inside my head, reeking of fear, once again, told me I was not good enough. And once again, I fell to my knees and succumbed to a safe choice.
If you read my blog, you know, my brother-in-law passed away unexpectedly during the holidays. Somehow, he has been a catalyst for a lot of people the past few months. I know people who have lost weight. I know people who have started exercising. I know people who have quit their jobs because of the stress and had the means to reassess their life. And then there is me. I have sat for the last three months and thought about my brother-in-law and sister-in-law who had read my blog about Sadie and asked point blank, "Why are you not doing something with this?". They asked me this question one year ago. I sit at this moment, typing these black keys with white etching and looking at a screen that is blurry with my own tears waiting to jump over my eyelids. And the honest answer is, "I am scared.". But I have watched my strong sister-in-law and my amazing nieces the past three months and I have to pony up. I have to take the chance of putting myself out there in an uncomfortable place with my words and my imagination. Because I need to let go of an image in my head and connect with the passion in my heart - the gift I was given by God. I need to write. It does not matter if my words do not get published. It does not matter if my words end up in a book that is dog-eared and underlined by a student trying to convey his/her thoughts to an English professor. It does not matter if I end up on the New York Times Bestseller list, if I garner an agent, if I fall along the lines of Gone With the Wind or The Help and end up with screen credits. What matters is I stayed true to my heart, took a chance and sent my fear to  time out. I need to listen to my inner voice, follow my joy and understand that the outcome may not be a fairy tale, but that for me, the writing, my writing, is my happily ever after. And who does not want to end up in their happy place?
Paul, after all this time, your voice is still loud in my head, pushing me to places I do not want to go. But I love you for that, brother, even when I cursed you for doing the same on Earth, albeit silently. The women you held to so tightly in your life are now shoving me down the river of my life with no life jacket, no life boat, and no excuses. I see them move forward every day, lassoing the unknown and putting fear out to pasture, saddling into a new life they never saw coming. I need to write. Honestly. I need to write. You joyfully, heartbreakingly, reminded me, I need to write. And so I shall. And if ever I write that novel that I know God has placed in my heart, I will dedicate it to you. And now readers, many or few, I am asking you to hold me to this task. Joyfully. Respectfully.  Honestly. Because sometimes The End is just The Beginning.

The Joy of Better

I am not sure I will wish anyone a Happy New Year again. I think I might go with Better New Year! Our family's life path was altered this holiday season as we had to say goodbye to my husband's brother at the young age of 52. We were decorating the Christmas tree when David listened to our sobbing niece spurting news that her Dad was in the CCU and David needed to come...immediately. Never again would our lives be the same.
Unexpected death is not a joyful topic. Your mind and body maneuvers through so many emotions. You kind of feel like a compass that has lost its center - just spinning and spinning and spinning. People come and go. Messages are left to be read and listened to when you have the energy. The luster goes out of everything and you just pray the next moment in your life will enable you to laugh or give you strength to take the next step. You are numb, empty, drained, lost and grasping for any sense of perspective to make this part of your life bearable. And you lean and hope you do not fall flat on your face. And this free fall, this unknown, unchartered territory of your life is where you will find the small sprouts of joy pushing through the drudgery that has clouded your derailed journey. There was no discussion, no planning, no talk that this loss would happen in our life. But every time a person is born and every time you fall in love, you face the risk of feeling your heart break like a china plate on a concrete floor. But it is important to remember, you were lucky enough to let this person love you. And there is great joy in those treasured moments. These memories are the ones that get you through the devastation, the unbridled grief, the pretense of strength, the anger surges, the exhaustion and the realization that part of you is forever gone. But then you realize, it's just the physical part - the spiritual part, the emotion that lives deep in your heart and lives in a continual loop in your brain - is going to slowly and I mean, S-L-O-W-L-Y, heal your heart.
We are infants in the grief process but there have been snippets of joy surrounding my brother-in-law's family. As Anne Frank wrote, "...because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”. So many blankets of comfort were thrown over the girls left behind. Random acts of kindness were delivered in bulk and many were left unsigned but with a full heart. Friends and family did not skip a beat huddling around a family trying to find the new normal, gently guiding and directing everyone on a new route. All the while, reminding them it's ok to be scared but you are safe with the people surrounding you. We are your impact bag.
The stories shared at the Memorial Service were poignant, emotional, and at times, down right belly laughing funny. Paul's high school friend and college roommate exposed nuances of Paul that made us giggle like school girls. All I can say to you is Paul enjoyed college very much. And it seems he followed that same sort of enthusiasm throughout his life: his love and pride for his wife and two daughters was uncontainable. He followed his East Carolina Pirates with an indescribable devotion - until they lost. The dance school his daughters delved into became a second family. A seemingly simple gathering soon became a blowout thanks to the encouragement and contagiousness caused by a family man who lived in Holly Springs.The stories shared all had a common theme: Paul was a passionate person who was taken from his family, his community, his friends while his candle was still burning incredibly bright. It's as if we are still looking at the wick with the orange ember, waiting and wondering if once again, it will flicker. Yet we all know the answer.
Paul left a mark on a lot of people. In time, people who are grieving his absence at the dinner table, on the phone, at reunions, in the office, around the neighborhood and at ECU tailgates will retell the stories we heard that dreary Saturday. They will discuss what Paul would have thought of the call on third and long. They will discuss his laugh, his strong opinions, his willingness to help and how proud he would be of his daughters' accomplishments. Yes, in a space of time no one can predict, the family fabric will reconstruct to a different fit and somehow, Paul will continue be the thread that hold so many together.
It's true, I cannot yet say Happy New Year but I can honestly wish you a Better New Year. I can pray that you find joy in the simple, every day tasks of life. I can hope you do not take kindness, friendship or generosity for granted, but you share these things with an open heart. And I can hope you continue to prove to the world that people are genuinely good - that random acts of kindness can be intentional and deliberate. And that love sometimes hurts, but love is also the ultimate healer. A friend of my in-laws sent a lovely note to the family with a passage from Wordsworth's Michael:
"There is a comfort in the strength of love;
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset the brain, or break the heart."
Love is all around us, even in our hours of grief. It pokes and prods us, makes us cry and wail. Makes us shake and sometimes crumble. But yet love mends, tidies and cleans the wounds that pierced our heart until eventually, we will love our life, again. And somehow, things are truly - better.
"Where it's a First Down, Pirates!"