Time in Between

           I remember that summer very well.  I couldn’t have been more than ten which would make my brother eight and it was the beginning of a season full of opportunity.  It all began when my mom assigned me and my brother the task of making sure the Kool-Aid pitcher was always full.  A week or so went by quickly as Ben and I alternated between cherry red (which I always picked) and lemon lime (which was his favorite).  We consumed more Kool-Aid than seemed possible.  We had Kool-Aid straight up.  We had Kool-Aid on the rocks. And best of all, we made our own Kool-Aid popsicles with that weird shaped Tupperware contraption that converted liquid Kool-Aid into icy goodness.  And that is how the summer began. 

            It wasn’t long before we figured out that if we saved the UPC bar codes from the colorful packets, we could send them back to the company and receive awesome toys and gadgets and stuff that kids like us wanted just because it was free.  So, that summer Ben and I set our highest goal… Fifty bar codes would soon get us a spectacular Kool-Aid pitcher and four cups to match.  Now, let me say right here that the picture looked amazing with Mr. Kool-Aid man all decked out and four little Kool-Aid men to complete the set.  And it would only cost us fifty simple bar codes.

           So, Ben and I started saving. We couldn’t wait for the day when we could exchange our meager collection of used up Kool-Aid wrappers for an exquisite, china cabinet worthy set of our summer time desires.  We figured out, being the bright children that we were, that the more Kool-Aid we drank, the faster we would win the prize.  We drank. We had Kool-Aid for breakfast, Kool-Aid for lunch, Kool-Aid for dinner, and any time in between.  Finally, one day Ben simply stated, “I think we have it.”  Slowly we counted out the packets one by one with anticipation building as each colorful package was numbered.  And we sent them in. 

Then we waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

            We began planning how we would use these treasures. I began thinking how posh it would be to drink from the kid sized glasses.  Ben wanted to invite people over so we could serve them Kool-Aid.  Both of us were thinking how cool we were suddenly going to become.  We thought the day would never come.  We would wait outside until the mailman came each day, hoping that a box shaped package with our official names on it would be part of the bundle of letters that arrived each day.  Every time the UPS man passed by on our old country road, our hearts would flip flop, hoping upon hope that today might be the day.

           One day, the package came.  Reverently and patiently, we slowly used the kitchen scissors to slice the mailing tape away from the cardboard box.  We reached deep inside the packing peanuts to pull out the much waited for package.  Slowly, reality dawned on us both.  Inside this package was nothing but a cheap, plastic replica of a pitcher and four miniature plastic carbon copies.  To say the least, Ben and I were disappointed.  We had worked so hard and waited so long for this day. 

  

          I remember every day saying to each other, “I wonder if it will be today.”  I remember driving my mother crazy with the all consuming joy of coming home and saying, “Did it come? Did it come, yet?”  And suddenly, I realized that the true joy was the time in between.  From the moment we began collecting Kool-Aid packets to the moment of ecstasy when the package arrived, that was the feeling I wanted to keep.

        Life as an adult is like this, too.  How many times have I said, “I just can’t wait until the weekend.”  “I just can’t wait until vacation.”  “I wish it was fall because this heat is killing me.” I think I can generalize and say that we all do this.  We are so busy looking forward to some epic event that we lose all the time in between. We miss the little things like the camaraderie that my brother and I built while working toward a common goal.  We miss the anticipation of every bright, new day.  We forget to seize the day. 

         

   I find that it all comes down to appreciation.  Appreciation is a hug from a client. A note from a family member. A kiss from a niece.  Appreciation is dropping a letter to a long lost friend.    Appreciation is looking up to the sky whether it is cloudy or sunny and saying a simple “thank you.”  Appreciation is giving back when you have nothing left to give.

            I think that it is high time that we all stop taking and start giving a little.  It is time for us to appreciate each other not just for the ways we are alike but for the ways we are different.  Because one day, when Mr. Kool-Aid comes in the mail, it won’t matter that what we received was so far from our expectations.  Because joy is found in the time between.

Scotch Tape and Love

Scotch Tape and Love

On the wall above my computer, there are one hundred and sixty seven snapshots of people whose life travels have intersected with mine in some way or another.  There are pictures of old pets from my childhood, pictures of friend’s kids with whom I am no longer in contact, and multiple pictures taken of my family across the years.  In short, this wall has slowly become a patchwork quilt of memories sewn together with scotch tape and love. 

There is the picture of me at the Candy Striper awards ceremony some thirteen years ago.  There is a picture of Harrison, one of the kids that I babysat during high school. There are photographs of me with Point of Grace, me with my best friend, Britney at the beach, even a print copy of my legendary Grandfather and his old mule.  And I realize that these snapshots are not merely ink and paper but rather, momentary evidence of lives well lived.

And sometimes, when I am at my desk trying to find inspiration to write, to keep walking, to do it afraid, to take one more step- all I have to do it look up from my pen and legal pad and know that I have one hundred and sixty seven people cheering me on.  And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I cannot do it for myself, I have to do it for all those faces staring back at me from their two dimensional perspective. 

And suddenly, I wonder if Jesus had some of these same feelings.  What if- during the whole process of his trial, his beatings, his crucifixion- what if he, too wanted to give in and give up? I mean after all, his closest friends were betraying him and denying him and falling asleep during the most intense night of his life.  I think, while he was being whipped with a cat of nine tails, while the crown of thorns was digging into his skin, while the nails were driven through his wrists, one thud at a time- well, I’ve always had the vision that when the pain was at its worst, when tears and sweat and the knowledge that he was truly alone really hit home, I think he looked up at his wall of scotch tape and love, carefully selected his favorite snapshot of me and said, “I’m doing this for you.”

            

                      I think that is the definition of true friendship. 

  

“Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

                                                                                     John 15:13

To My Friend, Elyse

those eyes
encase the words said
with emotion
so obvious
it hurts.

painful, yet the burden
seems lighter all the same
because someone listened.

and although circumstance
can be eternal,
sorrow is not,
cannot be,
i'm sure


your eyes
hold me in their grasp
letting me know
that you understand.

and then i realize
that you are a not so ordinary angel
that i have come to love
because you listened.

and although circumstance
is so eternal,
tears are not,
cannot be,
i'm sure.

Mastering the Monkey Bars

            I remember my first day of kindergarten- my first day of hanging up my jacket and storing my brand new Care Bears lunch box in my own, personal cubby hole.  I remember wearing my cool, new Velcro shoes and wearing a dress that my mama made just for me.  I had planned to face this day bravely. However, when mama said goodbye that first morning, I was sporting an attitude that could easily be translated into “I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I will not cry.”

            It wasn’t long, however, until I got lost in the amazement of a strange and beautiful world- a universe that had not been explored.  There were toys and books and circle time and other kids and trapper keepers. And, best of all, we had a whole hour of recess each day.

            The first recess was kind of awkward.  The first and second graders knew each other from the previous year so it was just this band of kindergarteners against the big, big world.  It amazed me that the “big kids” could swing their way across the monkey bars at maximum speed and without missing a beat. Some of those kids could even skip every other bar.  And suddenly, I set my first goal, my first matter of business in this, the beginning of my formal education.  I would be the first one in my class to master the monkey bars.

            And so, the year began.

            I found out quickly about blisters. Three days into the school year four little red marks displayed themselves on each of my palms.  And they hurt. And they seeped. And they begged for a break.  But there was no way that I was going to give up this early. So I kept swinging from bar to bar.  And one reach at a time, I conquered the monkey bars.

            I changed a little in those days and weeks and months that followed.  After the first time across, I began to build confidence.  At times, I would go across quickly to show my speed and at other times, I would go slowly to show my strength.  Sometimes, I pretended that I was a real monkey.

            My hands began to change as well. I no longer had oozing blisters- I now had tough calluses on my whole palm. And for awhile, there was nothing in the world that I could not do. 

            Eventually, I learned that life is a lot like monkey bars and the formation of blisters. These are the things I learned:

1.      All through life we will set goals. And the goals that are most important to us get the most attention.

2.      We will all get blisters, scars and battle wounds.  We have to remember that even when the blisters hurt like hell, you can’t have calluses until you have blisters.

3.      Sometimes, we are going along just fine but then our hands get slippery and we lose our grip. We have to start over even when we try and fail and try again.

4.      Sometimes, other kids laugh at you. It’s ok. Just focus and keep your head in the game. Suck it up and keep moving.

5.      Respect the ones who have already accomplished the goal.  Take their advice but also learn to cross the bars “free style.”

6.      Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

7.      Finally, when you reach the farthest bar and land safely on the other side- Be proud of yourself and CELEBRATE.

I know that these steps aren’t comprehensive and that there are other factors and variables and paradigms that cannot be accounted for. There are at least a few exceptions. And I believe that Robert Fulghum created a more complete list of ways that kindergarten and life intersect. However, I guess the purpose of this essay is just to say that like pain, blisters are not bad. They turn into calluses making you strong and tough and resilient.  They build confidence and teach lessons. But most importantly, they make you stand a little taller and be a little bolder just like I was on my first day of first grade when I proudly showed the new kindergarteners my rough, callused hands.

Grace

     Grace is when you have “I want to die” carved on your arm and you hear that still, small voice that says, “I already did.” And then tears start streaming down your face because no matter how hard you try to take things into your own hands, you are being cradled in the arms of your Father.  And he sees you. And he knows you. And he loves you more than anything in the world.

     I don’t know about you, but sometimes, I forget that.  Sometimes, I try to control outcomes and predict variables and convince people that I’m “doing ok” when on the inside, I give way to the voices that tell me I’m all alone, that no one cares, that the ugliness I feel on the inside is leaking out and is contaminating everyone around me.

     And sometimes, I’m scared. And I believe that I’m alone in this world. And I think how the world would be a better place without me.  And the words keep piling up and piling up until they come spilling forth in ways I don’t understand.  And then the storm commences. 

     Clouds gather. The winds pick up and the leaves on the trees begin to turn.  Rain begins to pelt my skin and hail falls with unmatched force. It’s kind of like my own, personal hurricane except it’s all on the inside and the most important thing is that it stays that way.

     

     So, I smile. I laugh. I carry on, hearing nothing but the rush of mighty waters, the sound of wind tunnels, and the screams of demons on the brink of Hell.  And I feel the heat. I see the flames- jumping, flashing, and trying to consume one more life.  I hear the lost ones who are among the ones who are void of hope. 

  

     And then, like the eye of the storm, there is that still, small voice.

     

     This is not the voice of condemnation that I have heard before.  It is not the voice of judgment. It is not the voice of loneliness.  It is, in fact, the voice of Grace.  Softly, before I can hear the words, I know that I am not alone.  I am rocking in the arms of a gentle Savior.  I am the one for whom the angels rejoice. 

And even when I know that the rest of the hurricane will come, I am sheltered in the peace of the one who created me in his image and loves me unconditionally.

This, my friend, is grace.

The Definition of Frenzy

Frenzy is when there aren't enough hours in the day to accomplish all the things you imposed upon yourself to do.

Frenzy is when you are late to a meeting and the kids won't eat their cereal fast enough and you finally get out the door only to spill coffee on your shirt.

Frenzy is when it is your brand new favorite shirt that now has a permanent coffee stain in the shape of Africa on it.

Frenzy is when you finally make it to class on time and you realize that you left your homework at home.

Frenzy is when you try to recreate the assignment in the thirty seconds it takes for every one else to turn in their analyses of "Beowulf."

Frenzy is when you open the door on a rainy day and the neighbor's 100 pound dog comes barreling in and shakes himself dry all over the kitchen you just cleaned.

Frenzy is yelling at your husband because HE was the one who convinced you that an all white kitchen is "classy."

Frenzy is when the phone rings, the baby cries, and the timer on the stove goes off all at the same time to indicate that dinner is ready.

 Frenzy is when the smoke detector simultaneously erupts five minutes later at which time you realize that the menu is now charbroiled casserole.

Frenzy is when you pick up the stack of papers, race out the door to work, only to realize as you pass out your power point presentation that your printer ran out of ink on page three.

Frenzy is when you were planning on going to church on a Wednesday night when you look at the clock and realize that not only have you been on facebook for over an hour but that you have exactly five minutes and thirteen seconds before church starts and you need a shower.

Frenzy is when you realize that you promised a good friend that you would be there.

"Friendzy" is the "little friend" who is going to forgive you for not showing up and will laugh out loud at the cleverness of this extensive definition of frenzy.

The Pajama Theory

It is her theory that pajamas tell a lot about the person wearing them. Some people say that one's handwriting or choice of hair color is much more indicative of character than one's pajamas- but she begs to differ. For instance, she remembers being in church as a small child where she was made to sit still and listen to the preacher as he droned on and on about the merits of good works and obedience. She wasn't allowed to sleep during church, or chew bubble gum, or make any noise at all (which was quite hard considering that her grandmother had given her a roll of smarties before church).
So, at least one hour and a half into the sermon that seemed to have more "ahs" and "ums" than scripture references, she began watching the old preacher as he spoke. He had to be at least 75 because the hair that he did have was combed across the top of his head to cover the baldness. He was dressed in a three piece suit with his coat buttoned all the way up to the top and he pushed his glasses up almost every time he said "um."
She remembers thinking it was almost like working with a blank slate; he was that plain. And suddenly, from nowhere came the mental image of this homely man in his pajamas. She had no idea where this idea came from but, seeing as there was still thirty minutes left in the service, she decided to entertain the idea.
Did the old man wear a three piece pajama set (much like his suit)to bed? She could kind of see him wearing plaid, flannel pajamas (with socks, of course)with the shirt tucked in and the pants pulled up to his rib cage. Perhaps, he would wear boxers and an old t-shirt that he pulled over his head and tossed on the floor as he got into bed. Or... NO! There was absolutely no way she could picture him in footie pajamas with little space monkeys on them but it did paint an amusing picture in her mind.
When the preacher reached down to receive a glass of water from the deacon, she began to realize what a pearl her mind had produced. Yes, she could see the deacon wearing red silk pajamas as he padded around the house making sure that the doors and windows were locked before he went to bed every night.
Methodically, she began imagining that everyone was wearing their pajamas instead of their Sunday best. A small smile crept onto her face as one after another, she mentally redressed them all into divers types of pajamas. For some reason, it made all those stern adults seem more approachable. After all, how could old granny "Lisbeth" look crotchety when she was wearing a brightly flowered muumuu? How could bachelor Ed be grouchy while wearing a tank top and boxer shorts?
It slowly became her opinion that on Sundays everyone should forego the suits and ties and dresses and patent leather shoes. The should forget the haughty glances, the bitterness, the judgmental stares and just wear pajamas.
She was quite sure it was a good idea and before she knew it, the preacher had called for a closing prayer.
Later on, when her father asked her opinion of the sermon, she didn't have much to say. And somehow, she couldn't muster up the courage to share her theory of pajamas. Maybe one day, when she was too old for spankings...