Almost a Miracle?

I've struggled with whether or not to publish this on my blog. It is about an intensely personal, yet very shared experience I had just over six months ago. It's taken me a while to sort through my feelings, work up the courage to contact the family for publication permission, and figure out just what I'm supposed to do in my life with the events that transpired that night. Perhaps this piece is the answer to that last question. I hope it is a blessing to you.

Something about the way he stumbled caught my eye. Even with the noise of my children playing in the backseat, the buzz of conversation from my cell phone, the distracted thoughts bouncing around in my brain, and the task of getting us safely home in the twilight – something about his fall caused me to pause. I hung up the phone, turned the car around, and pulled in the driveway to within 15 or 20 feet of where he lay. As I surveyed the situation and replayed what I had seen, my mind exploded with ‘what if’s’. What if he had fallen because he had been shot? What if the tank that was hitched behind his running truck, with its driver’s door agape, was leaking a toxic chemical? What if this was a trick to lure trusting passersby into a trap? What if? What if? What if? I prayed silently for wisdom, and scanned the area. My senses were all attuned, but the overwhelming thought that ruled all others was that I had to help this man. 

I told my girls to sit tight – that I’d be back in a minute – and got out of the car, letting the door close quietly behind me. Before I’d even let any words asking how he was escape, I already knew the answer. I heard him take a shallow, rattling breath as I walked over, knelt down, and put my hand on his shoulder. I shook him gently, asked if he was alright, and only got silence in return. Swallowing hard, I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. The rest is a bit of a blur.

 I recall the reassuring voice of the dispatcher, who seemed so utterly confident in me that I couldn’t help but believe that I could do the things he was asking me to do. That I could roll this stranger over, check for breathing, do CPR. Mostly, he made me believe that we could keep him alive - together. And, he was right. After what seemed like an eternity (but was really more like three or four minutes) an EMT arrived on scene and took over doing the chest compressions and rescue breathing with a confident, practiced air – so different from my awkward, unknowing attempts.

 She asked me to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket and find a family member to call. I fumbled around, trying to discern the right number from his call log. This felt like a complete violation of this stranger’s privacy – even more than the rescue breathing and CPR had been. That was somehow clinical. This felt personal. I was a bit relieved when I was unable to reach the faceless ‘Jane’ whose number I had dialed. Then I felt guilty, thinking of how much I would want to know if it was my family member lying there.

Within a few minutes more, the ambulance arrived. The intimate silence of the driveway was suddenly shattered by a crew of professionals, each one doing his or her job efficiently and nobly. I saw them shock him. I felt lost in the hum of activity, and headed back to my car. I was pulling out into the road as they loaded him onto the board and into the waiting ambulance. It all seemed like a dream, but I recall the EMTs thanking me – saying what a miracle it was I had been there when he fell, and had stopped to help. A miracle.

I spent the rest of that evening in a daze, processing my thoughts and trying to figure out what it all meant. I have believed in God since my childhood, and witnessed His power in many situations. But, by His grace, I had been allowed on this night to be a part of His mighty works. I had been allowed to participate in a miracle. 

At some point the 911 dispatcher called to let me know that the man had made it to the hospital and was still alive. Though his prognosis was uncertain, he wanted me to know that any chance of survival the man had was because I had just happened to be in the right place at the right time. The next day an EMT called and let me know that - against all odds - this unknown stranger was still alive. Alive, indeed, and with a family that wanted to meet me. 

A few days later, the name I had seen on his cell phone became more than just bits of digital data on a display screen. Standing in the waiting room, I felt instantly connected to her as we embraced. She shared with me that the doctors had declared him dead a few hours after arriving at the hospital that first night. The roomful of family and friends had been told that he was gone. As she sat in the silence of his room, grieving the loss of her beloved husband, she had felt an insistent pulse arise. Ignoring it at first as the fanciful wishes of someone unprepared to trade in the title of wife for widow, she had only dared to believe once she looked up and saw his ashen face flush with color. The doctors had rushed in, asking what had happened. Her tearful, joyous response was that it had been a miracle. E.R. doctors and nurses who had witnessed the events of the evening had had no choice but to agree. Another miracle.

This man, who had been in a fitful coma ever since returning to life, was a testimony to God’s healing power, and I was getting to be a part of it.  I had been privileged to be there when he fell and start CPR. Privileged to hold his hand and pray for him while the EMT worked. Privileged to meet his family and hear their wondrous story of him coming back from death. Privileged to pray with them, and to be drawn into their lives. I was privileged, above all else, to witness the mighty hand of God as He worked a miracle that boldly showed even doubters and unbelievers His unshakable power. I was thrilled because the world needs more of that. I needed more of that my in my own life, too. 

The day after I had visited him and basked in the light of the miracles of his story, the doctors told the family that his MRI results showed very little meaningful brain activity. A few days later, he was moved to the palliative care wing of the hospital. The next day he passed away - surrounded by his wife, children, brothers, mother, and friends. I do not have any right – in light of their suffering – to speak of my own devastation. Yet, it was as palpable for me in the following days as my excitement over his miracles had been. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had somehow participated in an unfinished work, and I didn’t understand it. 

I learned long ago that God doesn’t answer to me. His ways are not my ways, and His thoughts are not my thoughts. But, that doesn’t stop me from asking questions and seeking answers. I prayed earnestly, pleading with God to help me understand why He had chosen to have the man die, when his testimony and the story of his experience could have touched so many lives and hearts. I felt burdened for the family he left behind – his grieving mother, wife, and teenage children. I prayed over and over again for some way of understanding why I had been brought to that place at ‘just the right time’, and been allowed to participate in something that I had come to think of as almost a miracle. It was at that point – when I had come to doubt the perfect and complete acts of the almighty God– that He reminded me of the truth. 

It was a simple scripture that I had read a thousand times before, but never understand so well until that moment. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints – Psalm 116:15. Upon reading those words late one night, it suddenly occurred to me that every moment of this man’s life and death hadn’t been overlooked by God – as I was starting to believe – but, rather, overseen.   I was reminded of the story of Jesus coming to visit Mary and Martha after Lazarus’s death. Though He knew before He even left on His journey to their home that He could (and would) bring Lazarus back from the dead, the scriptures are very clear that He wept anyway – moved by his compassion at the grief of the two sisters and their friends and family. I believe it was that same compassion that drove God to order the events of that evening when my life intersected another in a very powerful way. 

Because this man was precious in His sight, God hadn’t wanted him to be alone as he lay dying. Because he is a tender heavenly father, God allowed the man’s earthly family time to grieve and reconcile with their new paths in life. Because He is ever-ready to woo the hearts of men, God allowed this amazing, faith-filled family a week to demonstrate what mercy, love, grace, and peace look like – a powerful testimony indeed. And, because He knew I needed it, God allowed me to participate in the greatest miracle of all – helping escort one of His beloved into the throne room. 

I have finally come to believe that there is no such thing as an ‘almost’ work of God. His perfect plan was completed 2000 years ago on a barren, wind-swept hill outside of Jerusalem.  There is nothing – not time, distance, or circumstances – that can take away our access to that all-sufficient work through Jesus. No life is hopeless, no person unseen, and no act of God will ever be an ‘almost’ miracle because of the moment that Christ proclaimed, “It is finished.”

Let's Give Fiction a Try - Chapter One

Meredith was tired. It was partly because she was 30 pounds overweight, and partly because she didn’t have the energy she did when she was younger, but mostly because she hadn’t been sleeping well lately.  Her husband, Frank, had been a chronic snorer during most of their 29 years of marriage, and the condition had only been made worse since he, also, had put on a ‘few pounds’ over the last several years.  She had long ago learned to turn a deaf ear to the nightly nasal serenade, but wasn’t so successful at also ignoring the surging hot flashes she’d been having for about three months. After every rattling and noisy inhalation, there was the steamy cloud of nighttime breath that flooded over her from Frank’s side of the bed, which only added to the feeling of being in an oven.  Sometime she swore that he and her hormones were working together to slowly drive her crazy. Wheeze, steam, flash. Wheeze, steam, flash – over and over, night after night. It was starting to take its toll, and even though she was sure she was being just as kind and chipper as always, Meredith noticed that people gave her a wider berth than usual, and avoided unnecessary conversations. At first it bothered her, but lately she had been enjoying the silence and the opportunity to be left to her own thoughts, perhaps never more so than this morning. Thankfully, the phone hadn’t been ringing too much, and her boss was away at a meeting with a potential new supplier.  There was nothing official on her agenda for another three-and-a-half hours, and she considered taking a long lunch break so she could go home and catch a nap. But, there was a one inch stack of invoices in her inbox, and pay checks had to be done before the end of the week. She shook her head ruefully, and grabbed the invoices.  Just like at home, it seemed the more she worked to get ahead, the more things piled up around her.

Home.  Even thinking of home made her wince inwardly. It was so quiet there these days, since Cindy had left for college. Meredith had honestly thought this wouldn’t be so difficult since she’d been through it twice before. But, when the older ones moved out, there was always someone left behind. When David graduated and went to boot camp, Kelly had just finished middle school, and Cindy was still losing baby teeth and bringing home stray puppies. Four years later, when it was time for Kelly to leave for college, at least Cindy was still there. Now, there was no one but Frank and herself, and their nine year old Basset hound, Boxer.  This was the very same puppy, of course, that Cindy had snuck into the house three days before David’s graduation party. In all the rush to get things ready and the house cleaned up, Meredith hadn’t noticed him until she discovered a pile of puppy poop outside the hall closet and the dust ruffle on her guest bed chewed to bits. Back then, Meredith wasn’t working outside the home, and she ran a tight ship. She was furious over the mess, and had ordered Cindy to get rid of the dog immediately. Cindy, like always, ran to her dad and begged for mercy. And, like always, Frank handled the situation with a quiet sense of calm.

She paused and looked up from her invoices, recalling the scene.  There she was on one side of Frank, frantic with anger at the mess the dog had made the way it had disrupted what she intended to be a perfectly clean home for a perfect party. On the other side was Cindy – nine years old and all earnestness and drama – sobbing and pleading for her daddy to save the poor, tiny, little animal. Frank looked at his wife, and then at his daughter. He waited for the wailing and yelling on either side of him to subside before issuing his quiet decree. After a moment of silence, he reached out a finger and scratched the little dog under its chin. “Well, let’s just give this a try and see what happens.” Cindy hugged him gleefully and dashed to her room with the puppy’s head bobbing off into the distance with her.

Meredith felt a bit ashamed as she remembered that day. Cindy had been happy, but she had not, and  was sure that she had probably punished Frank for the decision in some way or another, even though he was the one who had cleaned up the puppy’s accident and changed the bedding. And, of course, he had been right in his decision. Though it irked her to no end, he almost always was right. His  ‘let’s just give this a try and see what happens’ attitude had brought no end of good things into their lives. He had said that right before he swept her into his arms and kissed her at the end of their first date, in the quiet moment in the church’s foyer right after their wedding recessional, as he swaddled and rocked his firstborn child, and, of course, the day that they decided to keep good old Baxter. Though Meredith preferred to take decisive action and make bold statements, she had to admit that Frank’s philosophy had been good to them, and he seemed so much happier and more content in life than she felt. After all, she’d only been working for 12 years in the workforce, and had been dreading having to come in to work for months now. On the other hand, Frank had been steadily plugging away, working every day, for 35 years - ever since he started going to jobsites with his dad when he was 15 years old. If there was one thing you could say about Frank, it was that he was reliable.

The phone jangled in the corner of her desk, and Meredith was startled back to the real world from her land of long-ago memories.

“Langston Bathroom Fixtures, this is Meredith speaking.” The phone call was from a distributor a few counties away, wanting to know when their shipment would be arriving. When she hung up, she was more depressed than ever. So, this is what her life had come to – the highlight of her days was telling someone a hundred miles away not to worry because their toilets would, indeed, be there by noon. She decided to cancel her 2:00 appointment and take the rest of the day off after all. Invoices and pay checks could wait. It was good to have so much flexibility in her job.  Since she was salaried, she didn’t have to account for each and every hour she worked. Her boss, Ed Langston (son of the original owner of the company) only cared that she got things turned in on time and kept her desk tidy. It was a good arrangement, especially in such difficult financial times when so many people were losing their jobs and companies were looking for ways to be leaner and more efficient.  Meredith knew she should be more appreciative, but her job still felt like a stone around her neck, and she dreaded the thought of having to work for 16 more years before she could retire.

She nodded to the front office receptionist on her way out, but the woman didn’t even notice. She was busy taking a call and shuffling paperwork with a frown - clearly in the middle of a hectic workday. All that work and dedication, and she was just a temp. Meredith grimaced with guilt, and hastened out the glass doors and to the parking lot. The late-September sun was startlingly hot, and her minivan was like an oven. It was an old vehicle, and had seen their family through a lot. It had only been a little over a month before that all five of them had been together in that very van. She clicked her seatbelt on, turned the key in the ignition, and cranked the AC to full. As she looked in her rear view mirror to back out, she noticed that there was still a book in the back seat from their trip.

Their oldest child, David, who had given his heart to the Marines when he was sixteen, and signed his life over to them two years later, was still a military man.  Long after most of his buddies had decided to get out and pursue life as civilians, David had pressed on, seeking higher offices and more knowledge. In early August, he had finished a grueling six-month special ops program. Because he was deployed and in training so much of the time, there were only a handful to times that the whole family had been together since he had left home. Meredith and Frank had decided that his graduation from special ops training was cause for celebration. And, since Kelly was off from college for the summer and Cindy had just finished high school, it was the perfect opportunity to take what would most likely be their final family vacation.

Meredith had wanted to do something big, go somewhere exciting.  She had always wanted to spend a vacation sitting on a beach sipping fruity drinks, and suggested that they take a family cruise together. Frank, of course, didn’t want to spend that much or be that far away from home, and suggested a road trip to the kids instead. It never ceased to amaze Meredith that practicality, apparently, is a dominant gene, and the children all chose a road trip through the Appalachians over her beach paradise. So, they had spent 10 days cooped up together in their old van, stopping during the day to hike a trail or see some roadside attraction, and staying each night at local hotels or camping under the stars. She had to admit, Frank had been right again. The vacation was everything she could have asked for, and created wonderful memories that would last a lifetime. Memories that made her feel a little old, and a little sad at times, but wonderful memories nonetheless.

Not many families could be together so much for so long and still be on speaking terms.  Kelly had once said, when she was about eight years old, that she thought their family was different from others – better than others. At the time, Meredith had pooh-poohed her announcement, and reminded her that all families had their strengths and weaknesses, made their own choices, functioned differently.  Looking back, though, at the years behind them, Meredith had to admit that maybe Kelly was right. She and Frank had gotten married when they were still just kids – she was 20, and he was 21. The odds of their marriage lasting as long as it had (was it possible they had really celebrated their 29th wedding anniversary just three months earlier!?) were not good. She had read somewhere that only something like 4% of couples married so young make it to their 25th anniversary.  And yet, here they were, still going strong. Or, at least still going. Meredith pushed the button and rolled her window down.

“Yes, I’d like a number two with an iced tea, please.” She pulled forward and paid. As she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and waited for her food to arrive, she tried to zero in on feeling good that the iced tea didn’t have as many calories as a soda would have. Of course, the overwhelming feeling that she was struggling to suppress was guilt. Fastfood burgers and fries were a large part of the reason she carried those extra pounds around with her, and this indulgence would probably send the scale’s reading in the wrong direction again, but she didn’t care. It felt good to not have to think about what she would make when she got home, and she was starting to get a headache. When her food arrived, she had already taken the first bite of her sandwich before she even merged into traffic again. It tasted good, but didn’t sit well in her stomach.

Brassiere Basics

I'm a big girl. You know - curvy. Feminine. Buxom. I guess what I'm trying to delicately hint at is that I've got boobs. Which, of course, leads to the inevitable need for a bra. I say need, here, in the most fundamental sense. I don't wear one to ensure a 'smoother profile' or 'better posture'  - two of the many lies promulgated by bra manufacturers. No. My motivation for struggling into one each and every day is more a sense of self-preservation. You see, after breastfeeding three babies, they've become a tripping hazard. I can't say for sure, but my guess is that I'd be violating an OSHA mandate if I didn't keep 'the girls' safely contained - for my own safety, and the safety of others. A bra for a well-endowed woman is really more about structural support than sex appeal, which is all the more reason why you'd think someone like me would invest in top-of-the-line gear. Alas, that is sadly not the case.

Why am I exposing myself (figuratively and a bit literally) and writing about such things? It's all my bestie's fault. She is one of those people who is funny, cute, and always looks pulled-together and neat. During a break in a conference we attended together, she commented about how much she loved my dress, and asked me to take off my jacket so she could see the back. Thrilled to have impressed my fashionista friend, I started to slip my arm out of the sleeve, and then froze. I hemmed. I hawed. I made excuses, and blushed furiously. Finally, I had no choice but to admit the truth - I couldn't take my jacket off because the halter neckline of the dress would expose the back of my bra. Usually, this would not be a problem between buddies. However, my bra, on that particular day, looked like something out of a redneck fix-it shop. You can see, then, why I was hesitant to show it off.

The implement itself wasn't all that unusual. It was your typical Walmart bra - white, with a three hook closure in the back, and made for nursing. The problem was, I hadn't nursed a baby in two years. Since the time it was purchased, I'd also gained some girth, and had added a handy extender to give me some extra breathing room. The extender was black. And six hooks wide. And had been repaired in hot-pink thread. I might as well have used duct tape and baling twine when it came to aesthetics. The final result couldn't have been much worse.

My friend, being the intuitive gal that she is, began to throw questions my way about the offending item of clothing. In short order she had guessed that I was ashamed to show it because it was a nursing bra, despite the fact that I was no longer a nursing mother. Thankfully, she accepted that as the reason why I was hesitant to flash some skin and show off the back of my dress, so I was spared the embarrassment of having to actually reveal my neon stitches and mismatched extender.  I did, however, have to sit through a mild chiding about the importance of finding the right bra. Arguing was out of the question - partly because I knew I deserved the lecture, and partly because I was afraid she'd want to point something out and discover just how shockingly bad my undergarment really was.

At any rate, she was right. Since then, I've tried to be more mindful of my choice in brassieres. I no longer own a single nursing bra, and am down to just one extender, which happens to be the same color and width as the bra it is affixed to. Moreover, just last week I actually discarded a bra after the underwire broke, rather than simply pulling both wires out and continuing to wear it as-is, which is (I'm ashamed to say) something I've done in the past (Hey, at least it's economical...)

All in all, I'm glad to report that I've taken some major steps in the right direction, and am well on my way toward having an arsenal of support garments that's both attractive and strong enough to tote the load. And, not a moment too soon. After all, I'm raising three daughters who (if genetics are any indicator) are likely to be similarly well-endowed. I'm determined to not let them down when it comes to brassiere basics. I'm sure the answers are out there - some mysterious combination of fact, science, lore, and spandex - hidden deep within the pages of the Victoria's Secret catalogs, blueprints in the basement of the Vatican, and the annual OSHA safety guidelines. If all else fails, I can always get out the extenders and pink thread. They may not be pretty, but at least they work.

On Getting Older

I'm getting older. At least I'm in good company, though. Turns out, you're getting older too. We all are. Despite scientific, medical, pharmaceutical, cosmetic, and even surgical advances,  you cannot stop the onslaught of time. It is relentless. I have recently come to discover that it is hairy, as well. Allow me to explain.

Picture it - Mother's Day. After church my adoring family had announced that they were going to take me out to the restaurant of my choice to celebrate my role as matriarch of our little clan, since that's what tradition (and Hallmark) require on this made-up May holiday. A few minutes later we were perched on greasy seats at a wobbly table in a local fast food joint.  (Yes, that's what I chose. Partly because I love their burgers so very, very much, and partly because the faster we ate our food, the sooner I would be able to go home for a  much-anticipated Mother's Day nap. Don't judge me.) 

Anyway... the sun was streaming through the window. My children were grinning in my direction (they liked that I chose the fast food place too.) My husband was staring intently at me. I was just thinking how lucky I was to have a healthy, happy family, and a man who still found me beautiful after so many years of marriage, when he leaned forward, brushed my cheek softly, wrinkled his brow, and said, "Is that a hair?" I paused, french fry in midair.

"Is what a hair?"

"That." He pointed. "That thing. On your mole."

Oy. Now those are words you don't ever, ever want to come out of anyone's mouth about you. Especially not your husband's. Especially not on Mother's Day. Especially not in public. My greasy hand instinctively went to my face. (Which, in hindsight, wasn't such a smart thing. Who wants a pimple on top of a hairy mole, after all?)

"I think it is. I think there are two, actually." He said, with great interest.

"Nu - uh!" I gasped in horror, and excused myself to rush to the bathroom. 

In the ladies' room, I locked the door and peered into the mirror. He was right. Though the hairs were blonde (thank goodness!), they were there, nonetheless - long, mocking, and a reminder of the fact that I was getting older. I think all women eventually come to the place of thinking they've either turned into hideous old crones, or (even worse) their own mothers. That's how I felt. I plucked the hairs, washed my hands (because touching mole hairs is gross, you know), and returned to the table. My husband grinned, and inspected my face closely.

"You got 'em, eh? Nice job!" He offered an upheld hand for a high-five.

I figured that since I had officially turned into a witch, I would be able to vaporize him on the spot with one glare from my wizened, cloudy eye. After all, though he hadn't technically caused my facial follicles to explode, he had been the one who noticed them doing so. Same difference, right? When I realized that my pouty stare hadn't worked, I couldn't help but grin back at him, though, and return the high-five - an action typically reserved for victors in sporting events or for moments of great triumph or importance. In retrospect, I realized that it was the perfect gesture.

For one thing, life is a great race. The most we can do is endeavor to run our race well, to the very end, until we cross the finish line and share the fullness of the victory of Christ. The mole hairs and other unpleasantries we get along the way are simply indicators of the mile markers passing by. High five - you're still running your race! And, the fact that I have someone to share my life with - even the unpleasant bits - who loves me through thick and thin is a great triumph in and of itself. High five - there are people in your life who will run your race with you, from the highest highs, to the lowest lows, even if you turn into a troll.  That's pretty sweet stuff indeed.

Since then, I've discovered a few more signs of age, and I'm sure that trend will continue. But, it's all good. Every hair, sag, and wrinkle I come across is another reminder of the fact that I'm still here, and still going strong. Life may not always be pretty, but it certainly is something to celebrate.  I'm getting older. But, I'm in good company. You're getting older too. Can I get a high five for that?

Lee Ann

It's my best friend's birthday, and I want to shout it from the rooftops! (Actually, six months and three days ago, when I first started this blog post, was my best friend's birthday. But one of the many reasons I love her so much is that she tolerates my procrastination.) I have a really good plan for a really cool birthday gift that I'm really going to make for her eventually. Really. Honest. But, since I am a procrastinator and always run late (see previous sentence), I at least wanted to take this chance to tell all of you (my devoted, faithful readers) about my best friend, Lee Annie.

Ok - first off, her name is just Lee Ann, not Lee Annie. But, she and I have been like two peas in a pod since I was born (and she was six weeks old), and we used to giggle in utter abandon and delight about how well our names fit together -  just like us. We would skip through the park, hand-in-hand, in our matching, hooded capes when we were little and be content in the knowledge that we had the world by the tail. To be honest, I still feel that way when we get to hang out (though the capes no longer fit, and matching clothing is a bit strange for honest-to-goodness grownup ladies like ourselves).

It helped, of course, that we have a shared red-neck upbringing during our tender, formative years. Though, truth be told, if push ever came to shove, she'd out redneck me in a competition any day of the week.After all, I've never had a pet raccoon, squirrel or alligator. Let alone several of each. She has. True story. Anyway - even if that were to happen (is there such a thing as a redneck competition?),  I'm pretty certain that our attachment would survive. I think it can make it through whatever life might throw our way. In fact, it kind of already has. We've done everything from living a few blocks apart, to having several states separating us. Even more amazing, we've even survived living together! (Briefly, and when we were very young. There were no squabbles over the division of rent or utilities, but the nightly arguments about whose turn it was to wash and whose turn it was to dry was every bit as rough as any adult disagreement could ever be. I'm sure of it.)

Despite such seemingly-insurmountable challenges, our friendship is holding strong. I'm sure there are a lot of reasons for that. First off, our mothers are still friends. Our children are as well, which makes us the gooey center of a lovely, multi-generational friend sandwich. We also, finally, have the joy of being buddies within fairly close geographic proximity (not as close as we were before I had the nerve to move to the other side of the state, mind you...) But, most of all, we are still friends because we both know waaaay too much about the other to leave the friendship without serious fallout. I'm pretty sure either of us could ruin a potential presidential campaign for the other, for example, just from the information we know about the other's teenage years. The thing is, though- we wouldn't.

I know I can trust Lee Ann to keep my secrets - from what I looked like the one and only time I wore a two-piece swimming suit, to just how ratty I let my undergarments get before buying new ones - to the very end. She still chuckles at my lame jokes, and guffaws at the really good ones. Hearing her ring tone on my cell phone is enough to cheer me up. When I pulled the first nasty, long hair from a mole on my face, I texted a picture of it to her (along with a friendly reminder that I might be turning into an old crone, but she is 6 weeks ahead of me in the process, since she's the older one.) And, I'm pretty sure the only reason we haven't each jumped the parenting ship and headed for the border is because we remind one another - on a daily basis - that it's normal for children to scream and whine, that it doesn't mean we're bad parents if our children scream and whine, and that if we don't stick around for the long haul we won't be able to re-tell the stories of when our children screamed and whined when they are listening to their own children scream and whine. And that, my friends, is what real friendship looks like.

Let the Commencement Commence

Seems like they'll let just anyone do a commencement speech these days! I had the honor of giving the key note address to the 2012 graduates of the Mid-Prairie Home School Assistance Program. I couldn't be more honored. While there were lots of things that I could have said, here's what the final draft looked like. Seems like prudent advice to all of us:

Graduates, teachers, parents, students, and distinguished guests – Welcome. We are here today to celebrate a monumental achieve…

Ok – I’m just kidding. I’ve always wanted to start a speech in some fancy, high-falutin way. But, I’ve got it out of my system now, so we can move on.  I think most of you know me, and know that’s not really the kind of person I am. For those of you who don’t know, my name is Andrea Farrier. I was a supervising teacher in the MPHSAP for 10 years, and loved every minute of it. Three weeks ago, however, our family embarked on a new adventure, and moved to the town of Atlantic, in western-central Iowa.

I really, really miss you guys, but am totally enjoying ‘only’ being a stay-at-home, full-time home schooling mom. To be honest, I’ve never worked harder in my life, and I’m exhausted. I salute you all!  I’m open to the idea of skipping the rest of the speech so all of you moms out there can get a well-deserved catnap, but somehow I don’t think that’s what Jan had in mind when she asked me to speak to you all today.

In fact, I’m not 100% sure what it is that I’m supposed to be talking about, so I’m just gonna wing it, alright? I think the general theme is transitions, which I’ve had a few of in the past couple months, and our new graduates will have a few of in the months to come. Maybe some of the things I’ve observed and lessons I’ve learned will be helpful to you as well. So – here goes:

1.)    Don’t Take Junk. For me, this was a somewhat literal lesson. When trying to fit a whole household of stuff for 5 people into one moving truck, you’ve got to be selective. Let me give you an example. I, like many people my age, sort of had two wardrobes. You know what I’m talkin’ about ladies? I had my regular clothes, that I wore everyday. And, I had my skinny clothes. You know – the ones I used to fit into, that I really, really, really wanted to fit into again someday, and that made me feel miserable about myself every time I looked at them. Some of them – I kid you not – I’d had since I got married. There was one skirt in particular that I wore on my honeymoon that I adored, and it had been mocking me from my closet for 12 ½ years.

When I was packing up my clothes, I really debated whether or not to throw it in with the rest, even though I know full well I will never wear that skirt again. What I realized – and it was very, very freeing for me – was that that just because you’ve spent a lot of time with something, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s something you need or something that’s good for you. I had loved that skirt when it served a positive purpose in my life, and I would always have those memories. I didn’t need to drag it halfway across the state, though, so it could continue reminding me of what I’m not. Get what I’m saying, here? Familiar isn’t always helpful. 

Graduates – I encourage you to stop and think in the days ahead - are there things you’re keeping, habits you’ve formed, ways you think or talk about yourself or others that aren’t going to be helpful in your next steps? This – right here, right now - is an opportunity to choose what you put into your box to carry into your future. Don’t drag something along just because you’ve had it a while or it feels familiar. Instead, be selective, and make sure you’re not packing junk

2.)    Don’t Forget People. Newsflash – I wouldn’t be where I am today without all of you, and so many others who have invested in my life. And, you wouldn’t be where you are today without all the people who have cared, loved, worked, helped, prayed, hugged, taught, etc…  you, either. Don’t forget about them. Don’t forget about the person who taught you how to tie your shoes. Don’t forget about your buddy in fourth grade. Don’t forget about the person who cleans the toilets in your church. Don’t forget about your family. Don’t forget about your friends.

Some of them will not continue to be in your life in your next steps. That’s ok. You need to make peace with that. Learning to let go of relationships – good and bad ones – gracefully is a necessary life skill. One of the people I thought I’d be best friends with forever is still my best friend. The other one is not. We haven’t spoken in years. And, that’s alright. Our friendship served its purpose at the right time, and we drifted apart at the right time.

Some of the people in your life, however, are destined to be a part of your next steps. Call them. Email them. Send smoke signals if you have to. These are the people who were put into your lives to be a support. They’ve already earned your trust, and proven you can count on them. That’s worth more than any pay check, or college class, or cute new boy or girl could ever be. Don’t neglect those relationships. When hospice workers ask dying patients to reflect on their regrets in life, one that comes up almost universally is not tending important relationships like they wish they would have. Don’t make that mistake.

3.)    Be Flexible. True story – when Mark (my husband) and I first started feeling like we were supposed to move in a different direction in life, we kept thinking that direction was North Carolina. We felt called there. He interviewed for jobs there. We just knew we were going to end up living on the Atlantic coast. Instead, God moved us to Atlantic, Iowa. Now, as much as I have come to love my new little town, it is not the ocean. There are no endless beaches. There are no coastal breezes. There is no marine life. And, that’s ok.

Don’t get me wrong – at first it wasn’t really ok. Not in my heart of hearts. Mark interviewed for the job in winter, and I was seeing more white snowbanks in my future than white, sandy beaches. I grumbled a bit, more than I should have, but then I did one of the most important things that anyone can do – I got over it. I moved on. I got flexible and embraced what was happening, not what I thought would happen.

Graduates – you better start brushing up on your yoga, because you’re going to need to be flexible too. A lot. Like, all the time. You’ll need to flexible in the little things – like where you live, what your job or class schedule will be, how much money you make. And, you’ll have to flexible in the big things, as well. Statistics show that most of you, ten years from now, will not be doing the job you think you’ll be doing. Neither will the person next to you. Your life – most likely – is not going to end up how you think it is going to right now. But – if you’re flexible along the way – it’ll end up being exactly where you need to be, which is even better.

4.)     It’s Good to Be Scared Did that last one scare you a bit? You know, someone standing up here telling you that your life’s not gonna turn out like you want it to? Good! It’s good to be scared. If you’re not feeling at least a bit apprehensive, that means you’re not trying something new. I tell my kids all the time that learning only takes place beyond what you already know. It sounds simple, but is rather profound when you think about it.

If you only eat the foods you already know you like, hang out with the people you already know everything about, go to the places you’ve already gone a million times before, watch the movies you’ve already watched before, and do the things you already know how to do, there is no room for growth and change. The most productive times in your life are probably going to be the scariest. My husband was, with all respect in the world, scared to death when he started his new job, and I couldn’t be more proud of him for taking that step. It has turned out to be a wonderful thing for him, his employees, the City of Atlantic, our family, and so many more. But, it didn’t come easily.  Most great things don’t.

I encourage you to live enough on the edge of life to know apprehension, and to be a bit scared sometimes. Don’t get me wrong (please, please, please don’t get me wrong!). I am not telling you to drive at 95 miles per hour, make unwise financial decisions, or even to watch scary horror movies. That’s not what I’m saying. Don’t misquote me here. But, going into the unknown is the only way you’re going to broaden your horizons. Don’t be afraid of being afraid once in a while in life.

5.)    Enjoy the Ride Seriously. On the good days, take time to look around and recognize that it’s a good day. Savor it. On the tough days, take time and look around and recognize that it’s still a good day. We all woke up this morning – hooray! We have food to eat, clothes on our backs, a place to live, people around us – there is always, always, always something to thankful for. Take the time to be grateful. Every day. Period.

You will not always be able to choose how things turn out in your life. But, you always have the power to decide how you will react to them. And that, my friends, will make all the difference in the long run. I’m talking about big things – choosing to learn the beautiful life lessons that a dying loved one is imparting rather than wallowing in feelings of sadness during the final days, hours, and moments. And, the little things – have you noticed how sweet the air smells sometimes, how many colors God puts into each sunset for us to enjoy, or even just how beautiful the smiles of the people around you are?

Graduates – fifteen years from now you will almost certainly look back on pictures from this time of your life and marvel at how pretty, skinny, strong, and beautiful you were. Trust me on this. Why not go ahead and give yourself permission to feel that way right now? In fact, why don’t we all go ahead and give ourselves permission to feel that way right now? Why not choose to savor all the good stuff life has to offer right here, right now, in this moment? We will never again get the chance to be here and now. Let’s enjoy it, shall we?

In the interest of not overstaying my welcome, I’ve decided to condense the rest of my pithy advice down to a simple list. Here goes: floss your teeth; start saving for your retirement today;  eat well most of the time, but pig out every once in a while on something truly delicious; be nice to old people; don’t ever think too highly of yourself, or let someone make you think to little of yourself; don’t whine; don’t forget how to play; walk in the woods at least once a year – it’s good for the soul; be polite to police officers, soldiers, waitresses and waiters, librarians, checkout people – oh, what the heck – be polite to everyone; don’t use cuss words; wear clothes you like, not clothes that everyone says you should wear; be an active and informed citizen;  make a budget and stick to it; hug people; sit up straight, be on time (still working on this one myself).

And, remember – it’s not just in the big transitions – like moves and graduations – that we have the chance to make the changes we want to in our lives. Every moment is an opportunity to take a step toward becoming the person that this world needs us to be. Happy trails, everyone. Here’s to a roads well traveled, and lives well lived….