On Reflections and Good-byes

“Do we have a plan?” I turn my body around from my comfortable right-side fetus position and roll to face my husbands inquiring eyes.

Sleepily, I ask him, “What do you mean, ‘a plan’?”

“A PLAN,” he stresses. “You know, like, for our future. We spend all this time ‘dreaming’ about what we want and what we’ll have, but what do we actually do that will lead us to having it?”

He did have a point. I have spent so much time writing of my dreams and desires on this blog, but have yet to put into place any sort of plan of action to help make them a reality. In my half-awake fog, I asked him if we could talk about it in the morning. He looked concerned, his eyebrows lying arch-less, straight across his forehead showing an emotion that was not quite describable at that moment. He swung to lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. I closed my eyes and fell asleep within seconds, not giving much more thought to his query.

On Sunday mornings, I enjoy watching Joel Osteen, a “smiling” pastor who some find more inspirational than gospel-driven, but someone who makes me feel good about the future nonetheless. In my area, he is on several different television stations consecutively from 7:30 a.m. until 9 a.m., of which I usually catch the 8:30 showing on USA network. I turned the T.V. on in my usual fashion, stirring my husband enough to make him sleepily give me the remote, and lowering the volume so he can quickly go back to sleep.

This morning, however, he did not go back to sleep. As a matter of fact, he sprung up in bed and said, “Make it louder!” After Joel’s usual introduction that included a mild joke, he immediately went into his sermon…which just happened to be all about “having a plan for your future.” He described such things as identifying what are merely fantasies and what are actual God-given dreams; he urged his listeners to write down their plan of action for one year, five years, ten years, even twenty; and he gave examples of how sometimes sacrifices have to be made in order to make the changes necessary to move on in life and to achieve your goals. This is the point in the message where his words started to hit home for me.

What some of you might not be aware of is that I was given a gift from God. Well, over the years, I have been given many gifts from God—my children, my husband, my friends. But what I’m talking about is the gift he gave me that was ingrained in me from the moment of my conception. I was blessed with the ability to draw and create, the gift of artistic ability and imagination. I would be remiss if I did not mention how I’ve spent years pushing this gift aside—it would even become a burden sometimes—and how I took for granted the complements and praise that I would receive for my creations.

About two years ago, I found a folder full of drawings and paint designs from a brief stint I held at a local college twenty years prior, majoring in art. I pulled out sheets of paper with characters that I had created, some that almost frightened me at their irony (the tiny island with one lone palm tree in the middle of the ocean with several cartoon sea creatures conversing around it; and the various vegetables with faces, arms, legs, and even names that I had created around the same time. For those of you who are lost right now, I’m speculating that I could have had a hand in creating “Spongebob Squarepants” and “Veggie Tales” had I believed in my own artistic ability when I was younger). I began to realize that by ignoring my gift, I was quite possibly throwing away the opportunity to have a very successful future.

And so, at this time, I have decided to make the very large sacrifice of discontinuing my blog until further notice. This decision makes me extremely sad, as I feel that it has been an outlet and a source of inspiration to me for the last year and a half. Reading all of your blogs and “blogging” with my “blogging buddies” has been a gift and something I looked forward to on an almost daily basis. I have learned so many different things from all of you, each one heartfelt and cherished. Although we’ve never met, I feel as if we’ve been friends for years. And it saddens me more than you know to have to give up this wonderful community of gifted writers and dear human beings for now.

I have decided to make the attempt to push myself a little farther, to force myself to grow. I can not sit back anymore and believe for a day when my dreams come true; I have to be pro-active and make them happen myself. I will consciously take the time I’ve spent on my computer, and turn it into something that I hope will become very productive for my family, and most of all, for myself. I know I have success up my sleeve. It’s time for me to pull it out.

So farewell—for now—my dear friends. I have come to adore each and every one of you, and I will be sure to check in with all of you every now and then. You have all inspired me, and I am lucky to know such wonderful people. God bless you.

(Please feel free to drop me a line now and then at againali@gmail.com. I would love to hear from you!)

Patience

I used to think I was a woman of little patience. As a matter of fact, “God give me patience” was a daily, if not hourly, mantra of mine ever since I gave birth to my two children (and acquired two new ones from a remarriage).

As life moved on, and those stressful incidents still occurred (does any parent get through the child-rearing years unscathed?), I became frustrated that all I seemed to do was ask for patience, and all that seemed to happen was that I encountered more episodes in my life that required, well, patience.

And then my “Eureka!” moment happened. How would I know that God was giving me patience unless it was tested? What I should have been praying for was, “God, please just let me sail through life without a worry.” NOT.

Let’s fast forward to my current position as a lead activities coach, working with developmentally disabled young adults. If ever there was a job where one’s patience would be tested, this is it. Although most of my individuals are adept at performing their duties and interacting appropriately in the community, there are occasions where one of them will not handle a situation in the best manner (for instance, this week on my birthday, one of my individuals pulled my hair and slapped me because I honked the horn of our minivan to prevent someone from backing into us). But in actuality, they are not the problem. It’s the general public that I need patience with.

Today, while I was food shopping for a senior citizen with four of my individuals, I encountered impatience at its finest—and it wasn’t expressed by me. After our last item was scanned at the register, I told the young cashier that we needed five packs of cigarettes—Kent 100’s, to be exact. The young man got his manager over, and she unlocked the cigarette cabinet. She perused up and down, across and diagonal, to locate even a single pack of our desired brand—but no luck. She explained that all they had were regular Kents (since I’ve never been a smoker, I had to ask her what the difference was). I inquired as to whether or not they could be returned if he was not happy with them. She told me she would check, and she’d be right back.

As I turned around, I noticed a woman had unloaded her groceries behind me. She looked at me in a somewhat annoyed manner, and I graciously told her that I was sorry for any delay I was causing. The cashier looked at me and said, “Your total is $41.50.” I politely told him that I was waiting to see if I could purchase five packs of cigarettes, and I couldn’t pay yet. With this, the woman behind me scowled, “Can’t you just pay for what’s there, and pay for the cigarettes later?”

(I felt my heart start racing, and my blood start pumping. She didn’t really just say that, did she?)

I politely told her that it was impossible for me to do that, being that the senior citizen we were shopping for only gave us one check. She scoffed at me and said, “Well, he shouldn’t be smoking, anyway!! Why don’t you just get him another brand??”

(Okay, did she just say that, too? My blood starts pounding in my ears to the beat of my now-dashing heart.)

I finally looked her in the eye and said, “Ma’am. If I was shopping for your father…and he was all alone in a studio apartment…and he gave me a list of things that he wanted, and I was responsible to purchase them for him…wouldn’t you be happy that someone cared enough to get exactly what he wrote on his list?”

With complete disgust, she exclaimed that everything was “ridiculous”, and she didn’t have time to wait there any longer. She abruptly started throwing her items back into her cart, and then backed out without looking, crashing into another woman who was unfortunate enough to stand in Checkout Aisle 9. She turned and looked at this other woman, snarling that she shouldn’t bother waiting there, and that I was taking too much time (happily, the other woman just shrugged her shoulders and gave her a blank stare). As she gave me one last, nasty look, I looked at her and said, “Ma’am, instead of becoming all upset over being in line at the supermarket, why don’t you look at it this way? Maybe—just maybe—you were meant to wait. Did you ever stop to think that because you had to wait behind me a few extra minutes, I may have prevented you from having a car accident later in the day?”

Well, that was about all she could take.

She said something about “rude”, and stormed off into the sea of carts waiting at Checkout Aisles 8, 7, and 5.

For a moment I stood there, astonished. Here I am, explaining to her that I’m shopping for a man who is unable to do it himself. With me, I have four individuals with special needs, two of whom are very obviously handicapped with Down ’s syndrome and Cerebral Palsy. And with all of that in consideration, this woman could not even spare three minutes out of her selfish time. Let’s be real; who doesn’t wait in line at the supermarket? Isn’t it a given?

Ironically, the second she stomped off in her rage, the manager came up to me and told me to purchase the cigarettes; they would have no problem returning them as long as we had our receipt. We paid for everything with the single check the man had given us, got our receipt, and walked toward the exit.

As we strolled down the exit aisle, I couldn’t help but wonder if our friend, Ms. Uptight, was in the midst of checking out (as the woman who was behind her at Checkout Aisle 9 was almost finished doing). Gleefully, I spotted her standing behind not one, but two people at Checkout Aisle 7. And better than that, she spotted us.

Walking through the parking lot, it occurred to me: Perhaps all those years of praying for patience had finally paid off. Although I may have gotten more instant gratification from throwing a bagel at her head and telling her to jump off a bridge, I held onto my dignity (and the dignity of the individuals I was with). I was proud that I kept it together. And in the end, as un-dignified as this may sound, I came out on top (in other words, I *WON*!)…

All in a Day's Work

The waves lulled gently, softly…their easy motion becoming more powerful, louder, closer…the sound was overbearing now, as if the swell was right in front of me and ready to break over my head…

Oh, wait. It’s just my Homedics alarm clock. Although it says 6:20am, I subconsciously know that it is 6:08am in real world time, and I flail my arm around its vicinity until my hand makes contact with the snooze button. The surf will be up at least three or four more times before I actually put my feet on solid ground.

I decide to make eggs for my three high-school kids, who are good-naturedly chiding each other to move over in our tiny bathroom so each one can take turns spitting out toothpaste or plucking their eyebrows over the sink. I had stopped doing this for about a year and a half; however, I began to realize that they were running out of the house with empty stomachs more often than not, and the thought of them running out of fuel in the middle of Global History was not a notion I relished. Hence, the frying pan has come out of weekday retirement once again.

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I hurriedly park my car in the lot, and look over to the passenger seat to grab my bag and my lunch. As I lift up my thermal cup, I realize the top wasn’t screwed on right and now there is a one-inch puddle of Trader Joe’s Irish Breakfast Tea (with a generous dose of milk and one sugar) sitting in the round cup holder in my console. I sigh, run into work, seize a generous amount of paper towels, run back out to my car, and stuff them into the puddle. Procrastinator that I am, I decide to let the towels soak up the mess, which I will attend to later. The soaked cloths are still there as I write this fourteen hours later.

My workday is hectic, as usual. There is paperwork to be done, reports to be filed, and no office with peace and quiet that would help me to attain these goals. One of the senior citizens that we shop for calls me up early in the morning, crying: “Lisa, I think this is it. I haven’t eaten in five days, and I’ve lost six pounds. I think the Lord is taking me home, and it’s my time. I have to go to the hospital, but I’m too weak…can you please come here with some people and help me pack a bag? Sob….”

Well, I know very well that this is not Mrs. C’s time. As a matter of fact, I tend to think that Mrs. C. is just about as healthy as a horse, physically…but emotionally and mentally, she is suffering. All alone, with no children, I have grown attached to this persnickety woman in her eighties who talks of her Christianity often, but seems to become irritated with just about everyone who doesn’t comply with her wishes regarding food items, mail retrieval, and scotch tape.

I talk to my supervisor and take two of my individuals to her home to help her pack, wash up, put fruit in the refrigerator, take out the garbage, and wash and dry some dishes. Oh, and I also put in a phone call to her doctor, who—ironically—has been my doctor for half of my life. She is worried that he is too busy to call her back (and she’s probably right, although that was not the case 22 years ago). I pull some clout with the receptionist, and they call her back five minutes later. She doesn’t want to wait in his office for two hours—she’d rather wait in the hospital for four. I leave her all dressed and ready to call the ambulance, and she blesses me over and over. She hands my individuals all the singles she has in her wallet--$3.00—and tells us to wish her luck.

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After the buses finally leave the hub site at 3:20 and all is quiet, I hear a buzzing noise coming from my bag. Realizing that I hadn’t turned my ringer back on since a school meeting Wednesday night, I flip open my phone to see five missed calls. My son informs me that our older dog, Freedom, has gotten sick all over the kitchen floor and he’s never seen so much crap in his entire life. He takes a picture of it with his phone and texts it to me. It’s not a pretty sight.

I race home to view what looks like serpentine land mines of poo in every square inch of my kitchen. Astonished, I stand there in disbelief that one dog, even a large one like Freedom, could possibly have bowels that copious. As I clean up the fallout of what I surmise was the result of either the morning’s pouring rain or an item of food or drink that wasn’t on the doggie menu, the phone rings. I pick it up and hear Mrs. C. on the other end: “Oh, Lisa…this is terrible, I’ve been at the hospital for hours, and I can’t get a cab home! I don’t know who else to ask…could you please come here and pick me up?”

Of course, I say “Of course…” followed by, “…Just give me a few minutes to finish something!”

I rush out of the house and race to the hospital. Mrs. C. is waiting for me, looking and sounding like someone who is definitely not…um…sick.

“How did you make out?” I ponder as I drive her home.

“Oh, Lisa…this is just my stomach acting up from that virus I had the other day. I’ll be fine, and my blood is perfect! But oh, Lord, Lisa…there was a ninety-seven year old woman next to me, and I tell you, I do NOT want to be here when I’m ninety-seven. I just don’t know why God keeps me around when I just want to go home to Him.”

The conversation then goes into her neighbors who refuse to get her mail for her or who snub her. She wants to know why she’s being tested. I think to myself…don’t we all?

I come back home and decide that I definitely need to cook something containing onions and garlic to get rid of the smell that two washings with boiling hot water and Lysol disinfectant have not removed. When that doesn’t work, I put up an apple pie candle. Eventually, I just cook some flounder. Honestly, I’d rather smell fish.

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My ex swings by to pick up my son. He’s taking him to Dallas to see the Giants play the Cowboys. I can’t pay my water bill, but he can make plans to fly out of state to see one of the most talked about games in years, and multiply his expenses by two by bringing my son along with him. Sigh.

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This evening, as I stood in the kitchen cleaning up some dishes, my husband snuck up behind me and hugged me while he kissed my ear. Some soft country music that he had found on his navigation ipod was playing in the background. He swayed me back and forth and I closed my eyes as he whispered, “I love you.” Time stood still, and the stresses of the day all faded into the mixed potpourri of odors that still lingered in the air. As I melted into his arms, I thought to myself before I opened my eyes…”Whether or not you are poor or wealthy…fortunate or unfortunate…right now, with your eyes closed, all that matters is how you feel in this moment…you can open your eyes and see wealth, or you can open your eyes and see poverty. But in this instant, the only thing that truly matters is how you feel in the here and now.”

Yes, my life can be stressful. It is definitely hectic, and it is sometimes really unfair. But the realization of living in the moment is becoming so tangible to me. I am really starting to understand the importance of being “present” in the present…I spend an awful lot of time dreaming of my future. But really all I have is today…this minute. And you know what? It’s not all that bad.

Ringing Out the Old

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days of auld lang syne.

Although I have sung these lyrics at the stroke of midnight every January first for most of my born days, seldom have I ever stopped to think about what they really mean. Apparently, the definition of "Auld Lang Syne" means "old long since," or "old long ago." So as I follow the theme of the song in accordance with the New Year, I find myself faced with some provoking questions: Should old relationships be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should old times be forgotten as well?

At the stroke of midnight on 1/1/08, I was confronted with the cold, hard truth...and the answer, in my case, was a resounding "yes."

For almost three years now, I have been caught in a limbo of love, compassion, anger, and hurt. A relationship that was very dear to me was ruined as a result of a lie, or rather many lies, told by someone with the power to manipulate those closest to him with the artful precision of a master puppeteer. This relationship did not die an instant death; because of the relative connection, our paths continued to cross on holidays and special occasions, therefore preventing a wake, a funeral, and a mourning period, so that I could finally move toward the final acceptance of knowing that what once was, would be no more. I wanted so desperately to heal, to have closure.

I was naive enough to believe that healing might actually come out of these forced reunions; that old feelings of silliness and sisterhood might override any current feelings of betrayal and underlying loathe. I tried to make it right, to make it "normal." Lord knows, I tried. But eventually I came to realize that it wasn't up to me, nor was it in my power, to try to control the situation. You see, the man behind the curtain was running the entire show, and continued to maneuver all the controls even after the curtain was pulled back to expose all of his deceit. As long as he had those by his side who still believed he was the great and powerful man he pretended he was, who still needed to live in their emerald castle and drive on golden streets, he could fly his balloon wherever he wanted, dropping sandbags down to squash the rest of us who continued to look up instead of down.

This year, I've decided to make a resolution, perhaps for the first time in twenty years. I resolved that, for now at least, I have to let go of the prospect of restoring this relationship to it's original condition. I have to let go of the responsibility of "making it all better." I have done all I can, and there is only one person now who can repair this broken connection. I can not allow myself to feel hope and promise, only to be shot down and critically wounded by someone who has allowed themselves to be under the influence of so many people and things. This battle has consumed me in every sense of the word...it has affected other relationships, it has stifled my talents, and it has turned me into someone I don't recognize anymore. I can not let something so negative have so much power in my life. In other words, I have to let it go. I have to let it go for good.

-For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Perhaps one day we will drink that cup of kindness together; perhaps we can do it for "auld lange syne", and completely bypass the years of emptiness and unrest. But I can not think about that day at this time. For now, it is over, and I will accept it. I will move on, and not waste one more minute of my life worrying over something that's not mine to worry about anymore . I will place it where it belongs--in God's hands--and let Him do the rest. Perhaps He's been telling me all along that this battle was never mine to fight to begin with...after all, the lines were so unfairly drawn. So I will accept human defeat, and let it lie in the fate of the supernatural. The only relationship I will work at healing right now is the one between me and my soul.

Happy Holidays!

Since my last post was so self-pitying and depressing, I thought I'd cheer everyone up (including myself) with a little Christmas movie of my family. Unfortunately, my husband's audition didn't go too well due to excessive egg nog consumption, so he didn't make the cut. But all in all, I think Santa was pleased...

...Enjoy!! And have a wonderful, blessed holiday week!!

Dust Bunny's Christmas Movie

Confections and Confessions

You know, while they’re going down, eating freshly-baked cookies certainly seems like the right thing to do.

Just picture it…the warm, sweet vapors that rise up through your nose as you place the cookie near your lips, making your mouth water in preparation for the bite you will take of the slightly crisp outside of this sweet little orb, then further down into its softy, chewy center, while tiny bits of melted chocolate touch your taste buds and send your endorphins into a tailspin.

(Okay, right about now, I’m sure you are all thinking that I spent WAY too much time over at Loving Annie’s alter-ego blog!)

…Then of course, you wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and realize that you can actually see that wonderful confection hanging on for dear life to the outside of your thigh.

Okay, tonight it was either a choice of wine or Reese’s Peanut Butter and Chocolate cookies. I started with the wine, but soon remembered that I had to drive my son to jazz band practice and then go visit a home-bound elderly woman right after that. So I drank a few sips, and then left it alone. After visiting with my friend and then picking my son back up, I began to realize I still had that “empty” feeling deep inside.

The funny thing is, I know that feeling isn't hunger or thirst. Quite frankly, that emptiness is just another form of frustration, of feeling out of control of a life that’s actually supposed to be mine.

Take my husband’s ex (please!) for instance. I have had my share of good and bad experiences with this woman and I like her...I really do. But lately her discourteousness just takes the proverbial cake. Three years ago, when her daughter came to live with us, I made the mistake of allowing her to come and visit her daughter whenever she wanted. Of course, her daughter was not at the lovely age of fourteen back then. Now, the ex will call my stepdaughter on her cell phone to tell her she’s outside my house. My stepdaughter then tells her to come in, but does not get up to let her in. Within seconds, I will hear my un-knocked door opening, and there she is in all of her blond-haired, skinny-body, designer clothing glory. Added to this is the fact that within several minutes, they will start arguing like two teenagers (which is okay for one of them)…and then a full-blown fight will ensue. Of course, by this point, I am hiding in my bedroom just to escape, feeling like a prisoner in my own home.

The other day, she came in while I was cleaning my house with crazy hair and no makeup. I ran into my bedroom until she was safely ensconced in her daughter’s room and until the voices rose high enough for me to plan my breakout without the embarrassment of her seeing me. I quietly grabbed my walking poles from the hall closet, and tip-toed really fast out the front door. As I pounded the pavement with my rubber-tipped staffs, I subconsciously kicked myself in my butt for not being able to just stand up for myself and for the sanity of my house. And I never finished cleaning, either.

Then, of course, we have all of the other lovely family holiday drama going on, with jail birds and women that eat like birds and me turning into a cuckoo bird from all of it. And let’s not forget that I am supposed to go visit a college that’s five hours away on Thursday with my daughter and my ex-husband, who drives like Mr. Magoo on crack cocaine.

Okay, but back to the cookies.

I could’ve gotten on my treadmill. But no, I baked cookies. And I ate them. A lot of them. And now I feel like crap. But when I pass that cookie jar again, I know somehow that worthless feeling will go away, and visions of chocolate chips will dance very attractively in my head. And I will happily dance with them, at least for a minute or two.

But for you, my dear blogging buddies, I wish cookies eaten in joy and not frustration. I wish many happy hours of holiday delight spent stress-free with the ones you love most. May the wonder of the season embrace you with the things that matter most to you. Most of all, may God bless you and yours now and in the coming New Year. Happy Holidays!

(For some creative holiday reading, please visit Berserker Norway...she posted a lovely little article about "Thanks and Giving.")

More Thoughts on Blessings

This post was inspired by Paul, who made a very interesting observation about the difference between “having a sense of gratitude, especially for the simple things” and “blessings.” He made a reference to people in other countries, who are a lot less fortunate than us, and how can they be blessed when they are in a constant state of lack.

Here are my thoughts on “blessings”:

I tend to think that blessings are all relative. What it comes down to is that perhaps the people in third-world countries are not on the same mental realm as we are, and I certainly don't mean that in a cruel way--only a realistic one. Here in America, the land of plenty, we tend to equate “blessings” with “money”, or things that are purchased with money. In other words, the more money you have, the more “blessings” you have…or so it would seem. However, the people in third world countries who are starving every day probably feel "blessed" each minute that they remain alive. They feel "blessed" when they can eat twice in one day. They feel "blessed" when the CARE plane arrives with some much-needed supplies and medications for their children. They feel "blessed" that there are caring people in this world who will make time for them and try to help them.

Unfortunately, people here in America feel "lack" if they can't get to drive a Mercedes—that tends to be the attitude of an awful lot of people around where I live—but for that matter, there are people in every county in every state of the USA who are poor and starving, also, not just in third world countries. Most of these people have the ability to appreciate the little things that they are "blessed" with, like a roof over their heads, even if it's at the local shelter; or a hot meal, even if it’s at the local soup kitchen. In my profession, I see less fortunate people all the time. But when I delivered a Thanksgiving meal to a struggling grandmother and her two little grandchildren, the gratefulness I encountered was humbling! The little girls must have said thank-you at least ten times each, and they couldn’t have been more than four and six years old. It was a blessing from God for me to have the pleasure to meet such appreciative small children…they are truly being raised in the light of God’s Grace. And I imagine the small feast I brought was considered a blessing to them, as well.

I also see elderly people at the senior center we volunteer at who still “hoard” food, even though they are not for want at all. I would imagine some of them experienced the repercussions of living through or right after the Great Depression and were raised to be frugal, even if they came into money later in life. So even though they are “blessed” with money that could make their lives easier, they choose to live meagerly. That’s one of the reasons I personally don’t consider money the only “blessing” one can have. It obviously doesn’t make a difference to some people for many reasons. And when it comes right down to it, the most obvious difference between America and third world countries is that we have plenty of money, and they don't.

Let’s say I won the lottery right now, and came into several million dollars. Would this be a “blessing”? Well, to me, it would be a blessing to be able to pay off my bills. I could be a blessing to someone else by having the money to give to a family in need, or an organization with a good cause! But to me, that’s where the “blessing” ends. All the money would be good for after “fixing” my stressful problem is to basically purchase, in excess, many things that my family and I most likely do not need. That’s when the “blessing” becomes the “curse”, if you know what I mean.

I don't believe that God favors anyone. The world is the way it is, and it has been like this since the beginning of time. If there were no places on earth that were less fortunate than any others, and everyone had everything they ever wanted, we would be a very unappreciative planet indeed. And quite frankly, what would be the lesson? What would be the point of existence?

...Who really feels more "blessed"...the person who just got a meal for the first time in three days, or the person who just left the Mercedes dealership with a new car?

...Do people in poverty-stricken countries actually know what they don't have? Do they even care, or do they just want to make it through another day?


So “blessings” to me are the things in our lives that you just can’t put a price tag on. In my last post, I mentioned blue jays and dog smiles…and I can add to that list my husband's smiling face and the friend who takes time out of her busy day to pick up dishwashing detergent for me. Perhaps it’s the ability to appreciate these small things that’s the actual “blessing”—maybe a blessing is not a “thing” at all.

Perhaps a blessing is really just a moment of appreciation.

I believe that this life--our mere existence, whether "fortunate" or "unfortunate"--is but a drop in the bucket of an endless universal eternity. At the end of our earthly existence, it won't matter one bit what any one person had or didn't have. We may not enter into this life alone, but we certainly leave it with nothing but our souls. I believe that there is a God who will appreciate how much we appreciated what was truly important while we were here. And perhaps for that, He will “bless” us with the gift of eternal life.

Blessings

I have to be honest. I try very hard to present a positive image when I post on this blog. However, what started as a blank canvas for my dreams started to become nothing more than the whipping boy for my gripes.

As I sit here at my computer, this night before Thanksgiving, I think of how I should be reflecting on why my life is blessed in so many ways, but all I can think about are family situations gone awry that the holidays only tend to magnify.

I find that sometimes, I just can't let things go. No, make that a lot of times. I tend to have a "victim" mentality, and I allow myself to feel persecuted, most of the time by the same people, over and over. This way of thinking is so unproductive as far as turning out positive outcomes...but it certainly produces a whole bunch of negative ones. I often wonder why I care so much, but I'm starting to really understand that how I feel doesn't make one bit of a difference to the people I allow to upset me. I only end up chasing my own tail.

My purpose in writing tonight is not to convince you, my blogging buddies, how blessed I am. It's for me to remind myself why I need to smooth the hairs down on my back, release my tense, arched body, take a deep breath, then expel the pent-up frustration into the dark, foggy void of this night.

...So here's my "thankful" list for this year:

I am thankful for my health, for without it I wouldn't be able to enjoy the other things in my life that I'm thankful for.

I'm thankful for my husband, who is not only kind and understanding, but he's pretty darn cute, too.

I'm thankful that my daughter got on the honor roll for the very first time in her life. Even though she's a senior in high school, we couldn't be more proud.

I'm thankful that my son still tells me he loves me in front of his friends.

I'm thankful that my stepdaughter started telling me she loved me first upon closing a phone conversation.

I'm thankful that my stepson has a wonderful job that will take him in a positive direction.

I'm thankful that I got to see my dog sleeping with a huge smile on his face. Yes, it was a smile.

...No, it was 2:30 in the morning and I didn't get a picture.

I'm thankful that my other dog, despite his 427 lumps, is happy and pain-free.

I'm thankful that I woke to three beautiful blue jays outside my kitchen window this morning.

I'm thankful that no matter how stressful my day is at work, one of my "guys" will inevitably make me crack up--deliberately or not. They are treasures, just the epitome of purity, innocence, and honesty. And gas.

I'm thankful that my house is clean and all I have to do is bake two apple pies tomorrow morning...all while the Macy's parade is on (it's not Thanksgiving until I see Santa Claus...which doesn't really make sense...).

I'm thankful that my cousin is going to cook tomorrow. She's the best chef in the family, and her home is always welcoming and comforting.

I'm thankful for Merlot. Cabernet, too.

And I'm thankful for all of you, dear bloggers. There is not one of you who hasn't made me think, care, and most of all, smile.

Most of all, I'm thankful for God. I rest in the knowledge that even though I tend to try to "fight my own battles" and save up my prayers for a rainy day, He's with me, always....just waiting in the wings for me to ask for His help.

If you'll excuse me, I really think I have to have a chat with Him right about now.

In the meantime, I wish all of you a wonderful, blessed, joyous Thanksgiving. May your plates be full and your hearts be fuller.

Retraction

Okay, I apologize.

I should've delved a little deeper into my subject matter on my previous post before I made any "wondrous" claims, and I didn't.

My bad.

However, I will say this: I do believe in the general concept that the FDA will not benefit financially from approving herbs for consumer use. I do believe that there are indeed treatments from natural sources that can cure diseases, quite possibly even cancer (there are many groups of people who just don't get cancer; I believe that there are reasons for that. I also believe that there are reasons why my area has the highest concentration of breast cancer in the entire country. I'm just tired of the speculation; let's spend the money and find out why already, instead of wasting it by paying people who sleep at their desks or hold shovels for contractors). Having successfully eliminating high numbers of h. pylori bacteria from my stomach using mastic gum capsules instead of the two antibiotics prescribed to me (that I refused to take for the yeast infection they would inevitably cause), I will most likely always opt for the natural treatment first.

I digress. Let me get back on task here.

Thursday, I retrieved a letter from my mailbox addressed to me. I opened it up and started reading it in front of my husband and stepson. Apparently, because my "profile" (huh?!?) from my order of the Kevin Trudeau book was so special, I was one of a very select few people who would receive this invitation to belong to a private organization that would help me to realize my full potential in every area of life. I was told that I "knew" deep down in my soul that I possessed great talent and skill, and that this secret organization would help me to bring it out and succeed in ways I never dreamed possible.

I'm not quoting here for fear of being sued, but by the time I got to page two, all three of us were laughing our asses off. Apparently, there are major celebrities who I see every single day that belong to this "secret association", some of whom are extremely prominent (okay, I don't know about you, but a certain celebrity with the initials "T.C" started to come to mind). I began to guess the intent of this letter, and tossed it aside for future amusement when I had more time to read it.

Another thing that annoyed me was that I was also signed up to a web site that I can NOT get out of....I don't even know the address...and they take $9.95 a month out of my checking account for this "health care" site. They automatically sign you up for it when you purchase the book, and tell you that your first month is free; you can cancel at any time after that. What they DON'T tell you is that when you call to cancel, you will be on the line for 45 minutes listening to an advertisement for all sorts of natural products and books that repeats itself every ten minutes...and no one will ever pick up the phone.

I should've known something was up when the original operator who I ordered the book from tried to get me to order every other product under the sun, and then told me that just because I called, I won a trip to Las Vegas for two, and she wanted to give me all the details. I told her no thank you, I wasn't interested. She tried relentlessly to guilt me into taking this amazing trip, but I finally cut her off and said "Thanks, but no thanks. Are we done?"

Silly me. It was probably a great opportunity to go hang out with all of those "famous" members of the "secret association".

Well folks, I guess it's true...I've been had. And I'm sorry I promoted my ignorance onto all of you.

Thanks to Matthew for inspiring this post.

It's All About the Money

I like to read. And although I enjoy fiction, I find that what really holds my interest are books that lead to some sort of outcome on my part, be it self-help and spiritual("Your Best Life Now" by Joel Osteen; "Secrets of the Vine" by Bruce Wilkinson), or books on nutrition and healing ("Prescription for Nutritional Healing" and "Prescription for Herbal Healing" by Phyllis A. Balch, CNC). I even adore certain cookbooks, such as Sophia Loren's "Recipes and Memories" (this is really just a lovely book with Italian peasant meals much like the ones I grew up with...but what makes this book wonderfully special are her various stories about her family and her enjoyable accounts of her lifetime experiences that seem to coincide with each recipe at hand). However, the book I just started reading, from what I've read so far up to Chapter Three, could've been written by me, myself, and I. I am aware that it's controversial. It's called "Natural Cures 'They' Don't Want You to Know About", by Kevin Trudeau. I'm sure some of you scoff just hearing his name.

Well, I don't. I believe him. Drugs are big business, there is no doubt. Take, for example, the advertisements for prescription drugs that NOW HAVE COMMERCIALS ON NATIONAL TELEVISION. You sure wouldn't have seen that twenty years ago. The list of side effects that they have to announce alone makes you wonder how desperate someone is to get to sleep or have some sex (more on the latter later). I actually started laughing when one of the prescription sleep drug ads warned consumers to contact their doctor if they experienced any of the following: Talking in their sleep, walking in their sleep or driving in their sleep. Yes, driving. So apparently, the FDA knows that certain people who take this sleeping pill may, in fact, get into their car wearing their nightcap and their puffy-eye gel blinders, and go for a joyride at the expense of innocent people everywhere while counting sheep at the same time. But an herbal "sleepy" tea has to have a warning attached to it that it is not approved by the FDA. My goodness.

And back to that sexual "magic" pill that of course was approved by the mostly-male FDA with no problem: Viagra. I can almost just hear them in the boardroom now...

"How much money do you think we can make off of a pill that guarantees a man an erection?? I mean, this stuff is so powerful that they might have a woody for four or five hours...but who wouldn't love that?!? And, okay, obviously most of the population that requires erectile help consists of older gentlemen who are probably on some sort of heart meds, but hey! We'll put a small warning on there not to take nitro glycerin at the same time that they decide to get frisky. When it comes to the more important organ, you know the penis will win out over the heart every time!"

I'm sorry, but to me, any organization that will approve a drug that will give a man an erection over an herb that may cure certain diseases for life is just not respectable. And I have touted this opinion for several years now, even before I started reading Kevin Trudeau's book (and a footnote here: I don't even know if he delves into Viagra. As I said, I've only gotten to Chapter Three).

Twenty-two years ago my mother died in our house. The attending physician was a new associate to our longtime family physician, who just so happened to be on vacation at the time of her death (he loved my parents, and would've been there for them in a heartbeat). I had never met this new associate, but when I spoke to him on the phone, he gave me all the comfort that I could ask for: "I don't want you to worry about a thing; if she needs more morphine to help her to not die in pain, I'll prescribe it. No matter what time of day or night that you need me, I will be at your house." What he offered to do for us was so generous...I knew this doctor was special.

Well, yes, he was special, and he was also adorable and right out of med school. After my mom's death, every ache and pain I had of course meant cancer of some major organ. "Dr. M" tolerated my bi-monthly visits with grace and aplomb, and was always understanding and kind, no matter how crazy my imagined ailment may have been. But let's fast forward about twenty years.

I still see Dr. M. Most of my family has given up on him...they said he spends one minute with them, prescribes them some new, fabulous med, and shoves them out the door. For some reason, he really does spend time with me and my brother; I'm assuming it's because we were two of his first patients, but I'm also assuming that it may have something to do with my mom being one of the first deaths he attended to. As much as I adore Dr. M., I had noticed in the past couple of years that he was way too "gung ho" about handing me samples of new drugs, and a prescription for them as well. Anti-depressants were his cure-all to everything. After he realized that I would take the samples, read the contraindications and throw the pills out, he started to beat me to it and throw the inserts out right in front of me, and then hand me the sample, stating that he really wanted me to take the pill and that it would help me; I shouldn't waste my time reading about all the side effects that most likely wouldn't happen to me.

Well, of course, being the great skeptic that I am, I started to doubt that Dr. M. was caring about my well-being at all. It really seemed like he was trying to make some sort of "sale"! It was just about this time that a friend of mine began working in his office. She told us that there was not one day she had to buy lunch because every single day of the week, lunch was catered in by one of the pharmaceutical sales reps! And I thought to myself...why? It started to become crystal clear to me just how corrupt this business of "healing" people was. No one was "healing" anyone. They were merely treating symptoms with various drugs, and apparently getting some sort of "kickback"...they didn't care what the cause of anyone's ailment was, or if it could be treated with something a little more natural. As long as the patients were sick, the doctors could benefit. If they were healthy, the doctors couldn't make a dime. It became all about the money.

What really clinches things for me are nursing homes. Not only was my dad in one; my work takes me into a very prestigious facility almost weekly to volunteer with my developmentally disabled individuals. What I have witnessed is frightening. When I asked to see my dad's med sheet, there were two pages of meds listed that he was taking. What was sad was that some of the meds were given solely to counteract symptoms caused by the other meds. What was even sadder was that my dad basically didn't even know where he was, and slept through most of his day. This is a quality of life?

When I volunteer at the nursing home in my area (where the minimal cost per month is $13,000 per patient), all I see are people sleeping through the remainder of their lives, being woken up only to take their meds and to get bathed. It really does make you wonder who is benefitting here. Certainly not the families of the patients, who have to watch them dying a slow death, sometimes for years. And most certainly not the patients themselves, who are so far gone they have no say in their own lives anymore--and they are so drugged up, they don't even care. No, I'm sorry, but the only people who stand to benefit anything at all from situations like this are the owners of the nursing home, the drug companies, the pharmaceautical companies that supply bandages, gauze, syringes, etc...and even Kimberly-Clark! There's not one nursing home patient who doesn't wear Depends. This is not speculation; this is the truth as witnessed from my own eyes.

I don't know where all the craziness will end. As a matter of fact, I don't believe it will end at all in my lifetime. It seems as though the world now worships money and power more than God Himself; I've even heard people try to reason that what they're doing is the "right" thing because they stand to make money off of it; meanwhile, what they are doing may only stand to hurt someone else. And to them, that's okay, as long as they see the green. I don't understand this way of thinking, and I don't think I ever will.

In the words of the dying, melting, Wicked Witch of the West: "OH, what a world, what a world!"

A Funny Thing Happened...

Funny things happen to me when I "vent" on my blogs. Any time I'm being the slightest bit negative, or sharing personal stories that I really need to keep to myself, things happen all around me that let me know that what I'm doing is...well...not exactly the best way to go about it. I seem to be reminded time and time again that this is not the blog I originally started...a blog that was more positive, and not a "venting venue" for all of my personal struggles. I enjoyed my blogging in the previous year a lot more than I do now. I was sort of reminded of this in the past week.



After creating another blog for the "darker" posts (which really aren't "dark" at all...they're just me whining....oops, I mean venting), I discovered that that blog was just as easy to locate on the internet as my "Comforter" blog. It wasn't hidden. Which meant that anyone could find it just by entering my name on "Google" (my advice for anyone who doesn't have a blog and is considering creating one...DON'T use your full name anywhere in your blog if you don't want to be "Googled." Not even on your profile. They will find you). My blog and personal information came right up on the first page, and the second as well. This is very scary to me...especially considering the fact that I just posted an article about a man who wronged me who will be permanently out of jail next month. Not a brilliant move on my part.



But besides all that, I've been starting to allow myself to fall down that slippery slope of negativity. It wasn't just apparent in my posts; my whole family has made various comments over the last month about my "depressed" attitude. I'm not exactly sure why I seem "depressed"; I'm so very thrilled about my successful surgery, and I had no idea a month ago how wonderful I'd be feeling right now. Years of health issues and fatigue caused by organs that didn't funtion properly are now in the past; at this moment, I feel like I could conquer the world. My guess is that since I've been home from work, I have no routine, and I am definitely a person who operates a whole lot better with one (of course, this has nothing to do with my disorganization...however, I do like to know that things will happen at the same time every day or will go about in the same way every day, even if it means the same mess will appear in the sink every night by 6:30pm).



Or perhaps it's because of a whole host of other problems, stemming from money to family issues. I really don't know. But what I do know is that being negative has not helped me move one step closer to anything I hope to accomplish in life, whether it's something big like moving to the country, or something small, like just being the best person I could be (maybe I have those juxtaposed, actually. It could be a very "big" thing to be a forgiving, kind person, and God only knows if I'll actually ever move anywhere...so that's not such a big deal right now).



After posting on my other blog about a not-so-nice family situation, I received some very positive comments from people, one of whom I didn't even know (thanks, Sue). I was reminded that my position in life as a woman who follows the teachings of Christ is to practice forgiveness at every turn. It's not for the other person; it's for me and my own peace of mind. Simply Me is always there for me to explain the psychological aspects of why people behave the way they do, and helped me to understand where certain people were coming from from a "mental" point of view. This in itself helps me to release those angry feelings, and to bring on a more sympathetic outlook. And really, it does feel so much better not to be angry. Actually, it gives me almost a feeling of power to be able to let go of the family drama. Just to take a step back, and let everyone else deal with the nonsense, the unkindness, and most of all, the lies. I do know my truth. And no matter what anyone says or what anyone believes, nothing can change the truth.



So with that, I have decided to delete the post from my other blog. I want to take this blog into the direction that it was originally intended to go, with posts such as Positive Dreaming and Happy Is as Happy Does. I will most likely keep the other blog for title purposes (I liked the way it was sort of in conjunction with this blog), although I don't particularly know what kind of material I will be posting on it at this time. Time will tell.

Thank you to all of you who were genuinely concerned with my feelings and offered up such comforting words of encouragement. This "blogosphere" has certainly been a great blessing in my life, and I'm so grateful to all of you for your kindness.

Shut Up and Wake Up

Yesterday, I realized that I was in a “funk” of sorts. It all started when my husband and I actually took ten minutes to discuss that most loathsome of subjects…our finances. When we realized that our debt was not moving despite our efforts to keep our credit cards at home in a drawer, we decided that our only options to release the stranglehold of the credit card companies immediately were drastic at best, and not going to be popular with the kids in the least.

Of course, the most desirable option for us as a couple would be to sell and move out of state. I paid a fraction of what my house is worth now, and even with refinancing and a home equity line of credit, I could still pay everything off and have plenty of money leftover to purchase a home and put security in the bank. Plus, from the research I’ve done, we could have a house twice the size with 10 times (or more) the amount of property. However, in doing so, our kids would have to leave their suburban, Abercrombie & Fitch high school and try to adapt themselves into the John Deer Institute of Agriculture and Levi’s. Not a popular option.

None of our other options have them doing the happiness jig, either. They range from not going on our annual family vacation to Lake George to selling our house and renting another in the area until the kids graduate. Although the latter would be overwhelming, it has thus far been the only option that anyone has even considered. However, trying to find a house to rent for half of what we spend every month on our bills and that’s large enough to fit a family of six has proven quite impossible. What’s a person to do?

Well, I decided to go to church. In regard to the aforementioned funk, I was beginning to feel sorry for myself and to question if God was actually even hearing anything I’ve had to say in my prayers. I felt stressed, I felt option-less. I figured if I was going to find an answer somewhere, it would probably be in the House of God. Or at least in the parking lot.

…Which is where I started to come to some pretty sad conclusions about myself upon walking towards the entrance.

Earlier that day, I read of a fellow blogger whose grandson was facing cancer head-on, enduring all sorts of painful tests and procedures, and coming through every one of them like a trooper. All this kid wants to do is go to school with his friends, and yet he’s stuck at Ronald McDonald house for weeks at a time. I thought of this brave boy and his amazingly strong grandmother as I walked through the rustic lot, wood chips crunching beneath my feet, and the fresh smell of cedar filling my nose. This awareness suddenly brought feelings of gratefulness and shame at the same time before I even walked through the church doors.

You see, I was alive to smell those chips. To feel the light breeze on my skin. To hold my husband’s warm hand and acknowledge his constant supportive attitude toward my needs. I started to realize that God had heard some really big prayers of mine in the past few months. Even though I’d been worried over my finances for years, they won’t kill me. Ovarian cancer could have, however, and although it was in my family history, God answered my prayers for health. How dare I complain about Chase or Citibank. I was healthy, and I was present. I had one good ovary left; I had my hair.

Shame on you, Lisa.

Appropriately, the pastor gave a sermon about our words…how strong the small orifice of our mouth is, yet how the words that come out of it have the power to hurt…or to heal. At the end of the service, he handed us little cards that we were to use as a tool for the upcoming week. This piece of thick paper, called a “mission card”, had the week’s objective on top: “Shutting up.” Underneath the title, it had a small list written next to the word “Stop:”

A. Complaining
B. Lying
C. Gossiping

Underneath that list was another:

“Each time you mess up, you will:”

A. Start the month over

or

B. Give one dollar to charity

By the time I had gotten to my car on the way out, I was up to three dollars already. Two gossips and a complaint, and that happened in the church lobby.

In those moments, I decided that, for at least this week, I am going to try to speak more positive words not only into other people’s lives, but into my own as well. What good is it if I’m positive towards others around me, but I can’t seem to convince myself that I’ll ever be out of debt? And what good is it if I’m never grateful for the things that I have been given for longer than five minutes? Perhaps my debt is in lieu of something much worse. I’m sure that my fellow blogging buddy would take ten million dollars in debt if it meant that her grandson had perfect health. I think we all would.

So in other words, I’m shutting up.

…Wish me luck.

When Things Were the "Best"

After watching me obsess over the whole Graceann issue last week, my daughter finally asked me where my yearbook was, so she could get a visual. I told her it was in the basement, and she dug it out with great enthusiasm. I showed her Graceann’s high school picture, and then we jumped over to the best section. You know, “best dressed"…"best looking"…"best hair", etc.

Graceann had won “best body.” When my daughter viewed the picture of Graceann in her white man-tailored, buttoned-up shirt tucked into her high-waist chinos with a small, thin belt, her mouth opened. Almost forlornly, she stated: “This girl would never win ‘best body’ in my school.” When I looked at the picture, I realized she was right. As a matter of fact, the only reason we knew that Graceann had a nice figure was because she was a cheerleader. She would never dream of coming to school in a micro-mini skirt with a miniscule tank top combined with a push-up bra that gave her more cleavage than one sees in a Victoria’s Secret catalog. None of us would have done that. Somewhere along the line, modesty flew out the window and headed so far down south, it made it to Antarctica. Add to this the large amount of young teachers coming into the schools, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. After going to “Back to School” night last night and meeting up with teachers who looked like they were hiding surfboards under their desks, I wondered how these young men could possibly teach a class without being distracted by the ocean of boobs in front of them.

Although we both agreed that the girl who won “best looking” was, by far, the prettiest girl in the school (and she was really nice, too, and now she’s a doctor…don’t you hate those girls?), she was shocked when she saw the girl who won “most popular”. “Mom, how was this girl the most popular girl in the whole school? She’s not even amazingly pretty, and she’s a little chunky.” Wow, I thought. So this is where our kids’ heads are at.

I looked at my daughter in disbelief, and she kindly retorted, “…Not that she wasn’t nice, or anything. But she would never win in my school, either.” I told her that not only was the girl who won “Most Popular” really nice, she was on every sport, she was one of the cheerleading captains, she was captain of “Heraea” (girl’s sports night) every year amongst other clubs, she was smart, and she knew just about everyone in the whole entire school. Surprisingly, my daughter looked at me and said, “I wish it was still like that now.” Admittedly, I felt her pain.

Perhaps there are more young girls out there than we would imagine who are tired of keeping up with their peers. Who are tired of starving themselves or throwing up to achieve some unnatural state of emaciation, just so they can fit into clothes from Abercrombe & Fitche. But what are we, as adults, doing to rectify this situation?

Absolutely not one damn thing.




Let’s take a look at our teenage girls’ (and younger) role models…Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie, and that ever-popular Long Islander who lives one town over, Lindsay Lohan. These young women (dis)grace every magazine cover at the supermarket checkout stand. We idly watch as Britney walks around with no underwear, exposing herself and not even seeming to care. We as adults watched in horror as Nicole Ritchie starved herself down to 80lbs., while the attention she received only ignited our teens’ fire for their own attention even more. And as cruel as this sounds, Paris Hilton seems to be nothing more than the world’s biggest slut. Which is sad, because she seems to be the nicest one out of her group. Haven’t her parents taught her anything about morality?






Speaking of parents, we here on LI get to watch firsthand the antics of Dina Lohan. This woman’s actions speak volumes…she’s the “white Oprah Winfrey”?!? Hello!


Ms. Lohan…I know some of your friends. Some of them are only friends with you because they are narcissistic attention-mongers just as you seem to be. And then there are the others who “knew you when.” Those people are shocked at your behavior. They are shocked at your parenting skills (or lack of them). When your daughter was making a movie in L.A. at the vulnerable age of 17, living in a hotel by herself, and begging you to come out there every week, why didn’t you go? As a matter of fact, if Lindsay’s career was so important to you, why didn’t you just up and move your family to California? Your other children were certainly young enough to make the transition. Perhaps you were too busy trying to fulfill your own selfish career needs here in NY. When we hear stories such as the one about you being at a party with your daughter and introducing yourself to George Clooney as her “assistant” because according to you, once you say you’re someone’s “mom”, men don’t want to know from you…well, what do you expect us to think? Apparently, you thought that Mr. Clooney was just going to drop everything for you. I don’t know him from a hole in the wall, but I do know this: there has been less gossip about George Clooney in the last ten years than you’ve had in the last ten months. He seems like a gentleman who appreciates honesty (how many times has he said he’s not getting married?), and to be embarrassed by the fact that you are someone’s mom makes you as shallow as they come. Shame on you. Your daughter had the talent to be something amazing for years to come. Why don’t you step out of the limelight, and be what she needs in order to get back on her feet…her MOTHER. Not her competition. Perhaps the caption should read "Bizarre."


Whew…I feel better.


Sadly, I have no idea how to make the situation better. It seems as though I fight an uphill battle with my kids every single day about one selfish thing or another. They are surrounded by narcissism and self-absorption everywhere they turn ( as a matter of fact, so are we…if I hear the name OJ mentioned one more time in conjunction with a “not guilty” verdict, you will hear my scream around the world). It is getting harder and harder to be a parent, and it’s much more stressful than when our folks raised us (and I don’t even think they’d disagree, even though they walked ten miles to school every day in the snow, barefoot). I try my best every day, and I hope for the same. Yes, sometimes I feel like running away. But perhaps someday, all of this stress will be worth it. Lord knows, it would be a lot easier to ignore my kids and only worry about myself. I guess in some way, I should be thanking the parents who have done just that. They’ve given us a glimpse of the horrors of being a child’s “pal” instead of their “parent.” And in most cases, even though I know they love their kids, the outcome is not good.


(The following video clip is supposed to be funny...but quite frankly, I found it appalling and hypocritical. What are your thoughts?)



http://crackle.com/c/Moving_Targets/Role_Models/2005534#ml=fk%3Drole%2520models%2520video%26fx%3D%26o%3D7

The Big Chill

(Please see update in comments.)


It all started with an email from a high school friend titled, "Bad, bad news". I opened it up and read a very cryptic note that gave me the chills: "Just heard....GraceAnn passed away last night, something about a train in Bellmore last night.She has 2 boys.... not sure what happened...holy...."

My first thought was to blame this damn Long Island Railroad, with it's infamous gap problems. Although I hadn't seen Grace Ann since right after high school (somehow, she never made it to any of the reunions), I always remembered how tiny and petite she was (she even won "class body"). I was saddened to think that a beautiful woman was lost to the claws of the LIRR because of her miniscule stature. But what really gave me the creeps was that I had woken up that morning at 4:30am, and couldn't go back to sleep. Since I'm within walking distance of the train, I kept hearing it's slow and steady chug-a-chug as it came in from the towns just east and west of us. It would be picking up the early birds in my own town who either wanted to get to Manhattan early enough to deal with the lines at Starbucks, or to drop off the night owls who spent a weekend in the city. Twice, I heard the honking of the express train, warning all passengers still waiting on the platform to stand back and keep clear of the tracks. But for some reason, a vision of someone nameless and faceless kept creeping into my head. My daughter had shared a horror story with me a few months ago about a passenger who met an untimely demise after being hit by a train at another station, and I couldn't stop thinking about this person and how scared they must have been when they realized that they weren't going to make it. I actually had to say a prayer to get this vision out of my head so I could go back to sleep. When I read the devastating email, I couldn't help but think how ironic my thoughts were.

I decided to look up the local newspaper online and see if anything was in the obituaries. While I didn't find any information there, what I did find after doing a quick search was disheartening: "Woman Killed by LIRR Train in Apparent Suicide."

...Suicide?? No, it couldn't be. People like Grace Ann don't commit suicide. She was one of the most popular girls in high school: a beautiful girl who was captain of the cheerleading team, a bright student, a smile always on her face. She married her high school sweetheart, and they had two teenage boys. There was just no way it could be a suicide. She wouldn't do that to her family; not to her husband, her kids, even her parents, who I heard are still alive. I don't understand. Dear God, I just don't understand.

When someone is crying out for help and feels like dying, sometimes they go a gentler route and take a handful of pills with some strong alcohol. Or they'll slit their wrists and lay in a warm bath tub. Or they might sit in their running car inside the garage so they'll go peacefully and easily (and unknowingly). In all these instances, there is always the thought that someone might find them and actually have the time to save them, and quite possibly, that was the outcome they were hoping for in the first place. But when one throws themselves in front of a speeding train, they are absolutely sure and certain of what they want their outcome to be...and it's the final ending of death.

Although I search for answers, there are none. I can not begin to imagine the pain that she must have been in to take her life in such a violent, disfiguring, permanent way. The "what if's" swim around in my head, only to be sucked into the whirlpool of helplessness. If I feel this badly after not having seen her in so many years, what must her family be going through? And those children...being a teenager is so hard emotionally as it is. Are they feeling guilt? Are they accepting all of this? Or are they just as shocked as the rest of us? Could someone have helped her? Was her depression obvious? And the most disturbing thought of all...Dear Lord...where is she now? The questions are unending, and none of them have definitive answers. But the one that haunts me unendingly is only short and sad: Why?

Annie introduced me to this wonderful video several weeks ago on her blog. I only wish Grace Ann had seen it before she took her own life. It's just a reminder that no matter what, all is not hopeless. You always need to keep the faith...and you always need to know you're not alone. God bless her family. And God, in your mercy...please bless Grace Ann.

Lifehouse Video