My Favorite Windows...

Bet you thought this was going to be about architecture, huh?

Nope.

I was walking through our school's parking lot today, and I noticed a lot of cars with back windows that look like this:

See the remnants of duct-tape? The sticky substance that won't - no matter how you try - WON'T come off (save use of Goo-Gone and a razor blade)? That's the sign.

This car went on one of our many service trips. Every year, our school packs up our senior high students and heads out to all the different corners of the globe. During that week-long trip, some build wheelchair ramps for the poorest of our nation's poor in Appalachia, some run a day-camp for refugee children in San Diego, some work in inner-city LA with anti-gang ministries; some head off of this continent to Japan, to Ecuador, to Malawi...and some, like this vehicle's driver, some build homes and classrooms and facilities in an orphanage in Tecate, Mexico.

The tape is a reminder- the driver was part of a caravan that chased other members of our school up and down California's main artery, the I-5. Each caravan is numbered, and each vehicle in the caravan wears its number on its back window (so, as we're driving, we know who belongs to whom. There are sometimes 90+ vehicles that make this trek...organization is KEY).

Today, it just made me smile. It makes my heart smile. It reminds me that, even though I'm in the crunch of the "end-of-the-year" race, and I'm fighting burnout, and the students have morphed into little terrors...that what I'm feeling isn't truth. These emotions are based in exhaustion, both physical and emotional; and they're steeped in stress (how on EARTH am I going to fit eight-weeks' worth of curriculum into four weeks???). The truth is, I work with compassionate, loving, world-changing young adults.

They love deeply. They give sacrificially. They are constant examples of who I want to be.

So yes, it's a dirty, taped-on car window. And I love it.

Judge Not...

...oh, there are so many things in my life that the phrase, "Judge not," could be applied to...

...the fact that I squeeze my toothpaste from the middle.
...I eat peanut butter straight from the container (using a spoon, of course...maybe).
...I never seem to be able to put my laundry away (get it clean? Yes. Folded? Sometimes. Put away? NO.)
...I will drive MILES out of my way for a good cup of coffee.
...I have a crazy, stupid love of fake mustaches.
...I still have a childhood crush on Tom Selleck (might explain the one above).
...I pretend I'm cleaning someone else's house when I'm doing chores.
...I carry on conversations with myself all the time.
...I still think I'm 16 until I look in a mirror.
...if there are tater tots on the menu, I HAVE to have them. Even if they don't go with my meal of choice.
...I've been known to drive 45 minutes for Sonic's tater tots.
...I still want to be a flight attendant.
...I still want to be a rock 'n roll star.
...I still want to join the circus.
...I DO believe that a cowboy will ride into town on his horse, tip his hat, call me "Darlin'," and that will be that. We'll live happily ever after on his ranch (when I'm not traveling with the airlines, the band, and the circus).

But today; today's actions are in desperate need of the phrase, "Judge not." See, today. Today, I got my eyelashes permed. (I see the face you're making, J... Judge. Not.)

I had a Groupon, you see. I had to try it, I just had to! It's not nearly as painful as one might guess; it was actually kinda relaxing, to be honest.

You end up lying on the spa table with your eyes closed for about an hour. Yes, you do smell like the perming solution, and that's a little gross, I will give you that. (But, in my defense, I grew up with that smell. My momma used to give my Nonny home perms every month. Nonny lived two blocks away, and her house was our playground - I think we were in her house more than we were in our own. So, when momma would perm Nonny's hair, we'd always be there, pretend gagging at the smell, and generally causing a ruckus. Nonny's been gone over two decades now; I miss her something fierce. The smell brought back great memories of her.)

So, for an hour, I lay on that table, eyes closed, smelling of childhood ick, remembering my Nonny, and smiling.

Oh, and my eyelashes are perfectly curled, thankyouverymuch.

I can now bat them at my hunky cowboy.

Breathing

It's been a long, hard fall and winter. Normally, I'm the one jumping on the "finding joy in all circumstances" bandwagon, but these last couple months...it feels as if everyone I know and love has been blindsided. I remember writing these words almost a year ago, and I knew that it was coming, I just...

...I'm tired.

The other day, I was digging through an old notebook. I'm not sure what I was looking for, to be honest, but I turned the page and found this written, in my handwriting, so I know I wrote it:



Been trying to remember to do that...

During Staff Meetings

I have a confession. I HATE meetings. Any kind. Every kind. I get antsy, my butt-cheeks go numb, and after a while, all I hear in my head is, "He/she is STILL talking? Why? Why is he/she still talking? Makeitstop makeitstop makeitstop."

I've found coping mechanisms for such meetings. I knit (they've gotten used to it), I grade (again, no surprise there), I text surreptitiously to other meeting members - usually the mantra I just wrote above. Sometimes, if the person drones on a bit too long, I can find a creative bent.

This was one of them. Funny thing is, this is exactly, EXACTLY how I felt, years ago, when I "found" myself again. I remember talking with a friend, and she said, "You're BACK." I thought at that moment, "Not quite. I'm better."

“Hey,” he whispered, drawing her attention away from the swirls and shapes she was contemplating at the bottom of her coffee cup, “I remember you.”

“No,” she answered. “No, you don’t.”

He hunched down to look her fully in the face, and stared, trying to get past the barrier of friendly-polite-yet-aloofness. His eyes were still the bright blue; the twinkle not diminished by time. The crinkles along the sides of those eyes and the gray just starting to show at his temples? Those were new.

She did know him. From before…just before.

“Yes, I do,” he smiled. “You’ve been gone a long time, but you’re back now.”

“I guess I am,” she acquiesced. Smiling slightly.

“Same old gal, huh?”

“No,” she spoke the words slowly and carefully to make her point. “Not at all. I’m stronger. Better.”

A Little Less Time in Purgatory

Last night, I headed over to my friends' house for our monthly dinner/gathering/late-night-drinking-good-wine-and-laughing fest. K & M have hosted this every month for a few years now, and I do everything I can to be in attendance (pretty much short of dying, I'm there...possibly even then).

When I parked my car, I noticed a cell-phone lying on the ground. They live near a jogging path, so I figured a runner dropped it, unknowingly. I picked it up, thinking that all of us at the gathering (many of whom are waaaay more techie than me) would be able to contact the owner.

Before we could even get to digging through the address book, it rang, and Michi answered it. Sure enough, it was the owner; and she guided him to her house for a pick up.

Here's the kicker...while it wasn't THAT great of a phone, it was still a pretty nice phone. Turns out, a kid had STOLEN it. Even though it was lifted by someone with questionable morals, it found its way into the hands of people who want to do the right thing.

The man got his phone back, but more than that...I hope he was able to rekindle a bit of his hope in humanity.

The Motley Crew...and Grief

Ever been to a memorial service that felt more like a party? Where there seems to be more laughter, celebration, and reconnection than mourning?

I was at one of those this weekend. My friend, Levi, finally lost his three-year, valiant battle with cancer a few weeks ago. Cancer is one of those words that cuts me to my core. I hate it. HATE it. And, although I use the word, “Hate” more than I should in my vernacular, I don’t honestly HATE things or people. I strongly dislike them, but I don’t hate them. Except this. I HATE cancer. With everything in me. It’s wrong. It’s cruel.

I digress.

Levi’s memorial was a party. In fact, his family called it a “Celebration of Life,” and that’s exactly what it was. He collected people like others collect coins or stamps. The group that showed up to his celebration was eclectic – we had members of the small-town where he grew up, and friends from his time living in a commune. You had people who could be considered as part of the “fringe” of society talking and laughing with church elders and town leaders. In truth, though, it was a testament of who he was.

Levi was odd. Even his brother, during the sharing time, described him as such. He was one of those guys who had a hard time finding his place in life when he was younger; which allowed him, as an adult, to love and accept everyone around him. In that acceptance, he collected a group that was as ragtag and odd as he was.

It was utterly fantastic, seeing who all came out to laugh, cry, and mourn with each other. To see who loved this man deeply, and who – through being loved by him in return – were changed. There were tears and moments of deep sorrow, but there were also shouts of laughter and recollections of deep joy. This club, this “Friends of Levi” club, is one to which I am proud to hold membership. I just couldn’t help but think how much HE would’ve enjoyed the other night, being surrounded by those who love him and who love those whom he loved.

I spoke earlier about death being a severe mercy, and that this road we’re on hurts. Finding mercy gives us strength to continue to walk this path of grief and mourning. I found the other night, at a pot-luck filled with an motley crew of people, sharing our love, sharing our grief, mourning, and even laughing together gave us a bit more strength to continue this journey.

It’s not easy. Loving well and losing that loved one never is. But, we have each other to lean on and give support through this, and I think…in his own, odd, collector, wise way…Levi made sure we did.

A Severe Mercy

I received some bad news the other day; a friend of mine, someone I loved deeply, finally lost his battle with cancer. He wasn't even yet 30.

Although his death was expected, it doesn't stop the pain. The knowing that there will never be, on this Earth, another heated debate, another goading of me until I re-examined my stance on things, another laughing-until-I-cry moment with him. It hurts.

Grief is a weird thing. You have moments of okay-ness, where life seems to be chugging along, and although there's a hole in your life, you think you're going to be fine. Then, without warning or seeming provocation, you get hit between the eyes with a pain so intense, it takes your breath away.

I've walked through grief a few times in my life, and what I've learned is that when those moments hit, I need to not squelch them, but rather, I need to lose my breath, acknowledge the pain for what it is, call it grief, mourn in the moment, and let it pass. Not doing so is wrong. It's not how we're supposed to mourn. It's unhealthy.

Yesterday, I had one of those moments. I had stopped by my friend's parents' house, where he had spent his last months. His sister is my best friend, and she was there, doing things that needed to be done.

One of the things that needing doing was his laundry. His favorite clothes of the past few months had been washed and dried, but folding them...that was a final act that was almost too hard for them to do. Dad couldn't do it, and Mom didn't even know the laundry was being done...the grown kids were trying to make it as easy as possible for her.

The thing is, I could see in their eyes, even the grown kids weren't sure they could get through it. So, I walked into the garage and started folding. It's a mundane job, really. Nothing huge, but I had this surreal feeling that every fold needed to be perfect. I think I folded one t-shirt three times, because it wasn't correct. His pants, his socks, even his underwear...I folded every piece.

I bit my lip hard to keep the tears at bay, and I had to stop a few times to breathe a couple deep breaths before I could pick up the next item of clothing. I might've even kissed the beanie that he was wearing the last time I saw him.

Sheldon VanAucken called death God's "severe mercy," and I can't think of a more apt way to describe it. It's severe in the pain - the ripping of a loved one away from our arms, and the tearing of our hearts. Yet...there is mercy. Mercy for my friend - because I know in my core that he is no longer in pain, no longer suffering, and he is at peace. That mercy gives US mercy - in the knowing.

It doesn't make this path any easier to climb, but the mercy gives us some strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other.