Category Archives: On Life

We weep

On Life,

Andrew

“Jesus wept.” 

In just two words, we are given a glimpse of something spectacular.

Humanity.

Suffering.

Empathy.

Jesus knew his good friend Lazarus had died. I can only imagine the small band of men walking two days in near silence. Grief drapes their group like a low lying fog. They stop to eat and rest, never forgetting their destination. A place of shock and sorrow. A place of death.

Even from a distance they hear the mourners. An entire village lends their voice to create a symphony of despair and anguish. The silence of the last couple days is overtaken by the sound of heartbreak.

Lazarus has died and the village mourns.

As the sun reaches its pinnacle in the sky one afternoon, Jesus crests the hill and sees the company of sadness.

Jesus wept.

As he stood and watched the dejection and pain, tears rolled down his face.

Humanity.

Suffering.

Empathy.

A young man we know died today. He fought valiantly against a disease that sought to destroy him. In the midst of suffering, he showed humanity and empathy. (Read his story here.)

And now we weep. May our tears be counted by the Almighty. And may the tears that fall glisten with…

Humanity. 

Suffering.

Empathy.

A day of soccer and thank you’s

On Law Enforcement, On Life, , ,

Thank a police officer

A few weeks ago, my twelve year old son started soccer in a fifteen and under division. Not only is he a rookie, but he is also at least a foot shorter than most of the other players. At a game last night, our team started the last quarter ahead by two. The goalie had done a great job but was tired of being in the line of fire. He took off the bright orange jersey and the gloves and tried to pass them off. No takers, until he got to my son.

My heart stopped as I saw Isaac pull the larger-than-life jersey over his head and push his hands into the gloves. I was reminded of what he looked like so many years ago as he would follow his dad around the house, helping with repairs. He tried to fill boots that were too big and wear gloves that continually succumbed to the pull of gravity and headed for the ground.

The game continued and the last quarter seemed to last a lifetime. The other team attacked our goal. Maybe they smelled blood. They were determined. Shot after shot. Those of us on the sidelines held our breath for minutes at a time.

The whistle blew. Although our opponents had managed to get two goals past my son, he had thwarted another five or so attempts. The game was over and we had won.

On the way home, I asked him if he volunteered to be goalie. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “No one else seemed to want to do it. And someone has to.” He had played goalie before. He knew the pressure. He understood that he would be standing alone. Protecting a large area and taking the heat first from his opponents and secondly from his teammates, should he fail.

Today is a national day, set aside to say “Thank you” to a police officer. Life isn’t a game. But I can’t help but see some similarities. Everyday, police officers put on a different color. A color that set’s them apart from their opponents and from their community. They may not wear gloves but they wear a band of tools around their middle that remind them of the gravity of their position.

They stand, often alone, between those who wish to score. And if they fail, they receive criticism and flak from their community.

It is easy to forget that we are on the same team. That someone has to put on the bright orange shirt and gloves and stand against the opponents of liberty and freedom.

Gratitude doesn’t mean we always agree with their decisions. Gratitude means we acknowledge the place they choose to stand. Say thank you to another human being who attempts to fill the shoes of men like Superman and Spiderman. They may not be superheroes but they are heroes none-the-less. And don’t be surprised if your “Thank you” is met with a similar response to the one my son gave.

A shrug of shoulders and a reply, “Someone has to do it.”

 

Bells, Sheep and Sunsets

On Life, , , , ,

the hills of umbria

We have been home from Europe for almost a month. It is beginning to feel like a dream and that scares me. I seldom dream. And even less often, I remember what I dream. So some of the next blogs are going to be the retelling of a dream. In hopes that I don’t forget.

I wish I could tell you there will be some order or rhyme. A chronological progression through England, Italy, and France. It’s not going to be that. Think of it more like, “Where in the World is…?”

And our first stop is Italy…

The ability to be in more than one place at a time is not a new wish. Who can forget Dolly?

Screen Shot 2013-07-31 at 3.31.12 PM

The scientific introduction to cloning. And in the same year, 1996, Michael Keaton did a movie called Multiplicity. He cloned himself and set out to divide and conquer. (Pun intended.) We are curious to know if we can live outside ourselves, our physical bodies.

I’ve told my children on several occasions that I cannot be in two places at once. Now I am realizing that is not entirely true. Though we cannot create physical clones of ourselves (to which my husband shouts “Hallelujah”) we do have an innate ability to be in two places at once.

 

Casa La Ripe

That’s me in Italy. It represents a piece of me that is still there.

Every now and then, my mind wanders to noon, outside the little village of Poggio Aquilone. The bells from the ancient rock church propped on the edge of the hill echo through the lush valley. Metal hits metal and reminds those within a large radius that the day is steadily moving on. An invitation to pause and listen. To be still and let the twelve chimes surround and envelope.

A sermon in rich tones.

“Today is all you have. There will never be another day like today.”

I got home and realized I had left behind a piece of me. Would I learn to compensate? Would I pine away and long for wholeness again? Would I even be able to find the pieces should I return to those places?

But Europe didn’t take anything from me. It was an exchange. I left part of me there and made room to bring something of Europe home with me.

I miss the church bells. The day doesn’t seem as sacred without them. But I look at the stark hills across the valley. The sun is setting. It radiates through the clouds and paints the sky a myriad of colors I cannot even name. Something stirs. And I am reminded again.

 “Today is all I have. There will never be another day like today.”

I close my eyes and visit the little village on the hill in the heart of Italy. And in the quietness of the Nevada desert, I hear the bells chime.

 

Valentine’s Day and Concrete…

On Life

 

concrete counters
Concrete counters at Sweet Apple Ranch

The opposite of abstract.

Stable.

Secure.

The perfect mixture of rocks, water and a binder to hold it all together.

Sort of like love.

Stable.

Secure.

No really. Hear me out.

It seems to me that love is directional. Two directional to be exact. We give love. And we  receive love. In a perfect world, both directions ebb and flow in a synchronous cycle. But in reality, love tends to be the furthest thing from balanced.

We don’t feel like we are getting it.

We don’t feel like giving it.

Unstable and insecure.

I have no delusions to believe that I can somehow affect and change the cycle of love. I may be a mom and able to read minds and intents as well as use eyes in the back of my head, but I cannot solve the love issue in the world. We all have limits.

But I wonder.

I wonder if we spend far to much time on one side of the cycle than the other. We live in a consumer age. A newsflash I’m sure. We can get hamburgers our way. We can negotiate the price we want for airline tickets. We are used to concessions. If it doesn’t work out the way it should, compensation should be made.

Several years ago, I was trapped in an elevator in a fairly prestigious mall in California. I was pregnant. Unmistakably so. I had a toddler with me. And we sat in that elevator for 45 minutes. The Pee-pee dance was born. And when the fire department freed us, the mall manager asked if my son would like a balloon. Really? A balloon? For him? How about a gift certificate for me? I said no thank you, as graciously as I could, and made a bee-line for the restroom.

And what does that have to do with Valentine’s Day? I’m so glad you asked.

Everything.

If I’m looking for someone or something to make my life better, I will always be disappointed. I could have really used a shopping spree. Did I mention I was pregnant and outgrowing everything?

But what would a gift certificate really do? Make me feel like I accomplished something while waiting in the elevator and holding my highly squished bladder. And on Valentine’s Day, I want a prize to make me feel like I’m not alone or without love. I don’t want to be a loser.

But maybe that’s backward. Maybe, on Valentine’s Day, instead of looking for what’s coming, or for the payoff, I should be taking inventory of how well I love others.

Stable?

Secure?

The above picture is of our new concrete counters that we poured a week ago. They will not be going anywhere anytime soon. Do I love people that way? Do I love like concrete?

Sometimes, not so much. But what a great day to be reminded of my goal.

I want to love people like concrete. Stable and secure.

Life is Full of Misconceptions

On Life, On Writing, , , , , ,
the yellow brick road
the yellow brick road

Misconception #1: My parents are perfect and life is fair.

Misconception #2: My parents don’t know anything and life is way unfair.

Misconception #3: I will be a perfect parent.

Misconception #4: (After having a child) Misconception #2 was way off. Life is indeed unfair but perhaps my parents knew a great deal more than I was willing to give them credit for during the throws of teenage hormonal imbalance.

Misconception #5: Having a literary agent guarantees publication.

I have taken a sort of unannounced sabbatical from blogging over the past few weeks. Granted, there has been a great deal of change in our lives recently but the lack of posts has had more to do with my confrontation of misconception #5.

Perhaps I should be embarrassed to admit such ignorance. But seeing as this isn’t the worst of my naiveté, it seems safe to share. Deep down inside, I honestly believed that once I secured an agent, I would become a published author. And I thought I was being reasonable. I waited for months. It seems to me that if another human can take shape and form in the void in ten months, an editor can pick my book for publication in less time.

Oh wait, I think I just discovered Misconception #6: The editing process is timely.

Anyway, I received another rejection yesterday. “We like your writing, blah, blah, blah, but the story is too dark.” The story happens to be about PTSD. And yes, it’s dark. I lived it. I remember.

In the face of yet another rejection I had to finally confront misconception #5. And let me just say that this blog is in no way a slight against my agent. She didn’t write the dark story that no one wants. She’s just doing her job. (nothing but love, K)

So my first book may not make it down the golden road of publication. (Misconception #7: The road to publication is paved in gold.) But maybe there’s another story in me.

I wonder if I have confused my misconceptions as failure. If I believed that I would be published and then I wasn’t, isn’t that a reflection of my ability? Yeah, it has felt like failure. They don’t like my story, they don’t like me, I’m not really a writer…spiral, spiral, spiral.

“Pilot to co-pilot, I smell smoke.”

And so I stopped writing. Or blogging. (Which is kind of like fast food writing.)

But just as I learned to overcome the misconceptions I had regarding parenting, maybe it’s time I grew up in the writing world too. Having an agent doesn’t mean I’m necessarily closer to publication. I think maybe it means that God knows I wouldn’t or couldn’t do this without a cheerleader. Which annihilates another misconception.

Misconception # who’s keeping track: I am super woman and can do anything and I don’t need anyone’s help.

How about you? Do you suffer under the delusions of misconceptions?

Two Sides

On Life, , , , , , , , ,

The two faces of theater.

At some point or other, we all experience change. But change wears many masks. Like the two faces of the theatre.

Comedy and tragedy.

There’s the category we call good. Falling in love. Winning the lottery. And then there’s the bad. Sickness. Losing money in the stock market. We grow up believing that the two are juxtaposed to each other. One can cause spontaneous fits of laughter and good cheer. But seldom does the side we call “bad” cause bursts of the giggles.

Comedy and tragedy.

Two sides to the coin we call life. There are good days and there are bad days. And I for one, have learned not to cheat tragedy out of it’s just rewards. When I’m down, I feel it only right to be very much down.

I can remember the stereotype super hero who laughs in the face of danger. So what does it look like to laugh in the face of tragedy? It sounds a bit sacrilegious.

But I have experienced such irreverence. Only a few days ago, my mother-in-law had a stroke. And in the midst of a high-stress, potentially tragic moment, laughter could be heard emanating through the thin veil of her ICU cubicle. And on more than one occasion.

Comedy meets tragedy.

At first I thought it just a coping mechanism. And perhaps that’s part of it. But as I watched and listened, I realized it was deeper than that. A room full of people, who love each other, did what came naturally. The conversation did not change because of the surroundings.

And as the days unfolded, the jokes kept coming. The doctor came in to check and asked my mother-in-law to open her eyes. She had been very groggy and dizzy and didn’t want to. The first time she ignored the request. The second time he asked she responded, “I’m paying a lot of money for this.” And the room broke out in chuckles.

Laugher didn’t change the circumstance. She still had a stroke. But in the last few days I have learned a valuable lesson. The greatest tragedy is the loss of levity. Having a stroke isn’t funny. But the ability to find some small piece of humor in the midst of calamity makes the darkness feel not so oppressive. It’s like taking the reins of a run-away horse.

We cannot control our circumstances but we can control how we respond.

And maybe it comes down to Mary Poppins.

A little bit of sugar  helps the medicine go down. 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Pioneer

On Life, , , ,

pioneer wagons

Recently a friend referred to me as a pioneer. I had to pause and ponder such an accusation.

Pioneer? Me? Really?

I forced myself to look beyond the stereotypical view of a pioneer. Remove the bonnet. Put in indoor plumbing. Replace a covered wagon with a Suburban. And sure enough, perhaps she’s right.

Maybe I am a pioneer.

We moved to a foreign and somewhat harsh environment. And we are learning new ways.

For example, I cooked a pork shoulder in the crock pot and couldn’t bring myself to throw away the stock left behind. Saving two cups of left over pork stock is new to me. But perhaps even more shocking than saving it, is having a pretty good idea  how to actually use it for consumption later this week. Trips to town are usually once a week and they are an event. Pa drives, we sing songs, and we buy what we need for the week.

But the biggest adjustment is the swing from achieving to surviving.

I have been struggling. Each morning I wake up and think of all that still needs to be accomplished before we can feel settled and immediately my body reacts. My heart starts beating faster. It becomes difficult to take a deep breath. I want to crawl back into bed and hide.

Instead, I swing my feet into my slippers. Did I mention how cold it is? And I recite my new mantra.

“One day at a time.” 

Wait a second. Um, isn’t that one of the slogans for AA? If such a saying is one of the pillars of recovery, and I repeat this saying to myself ad noseum throughout the day, does this mean I am in recovery?

This pioneer woman had to stop and think. 

If I am in recovery, what am I recovering from?

It was as if a little voice inside shouted back at me, “Well, Miss Rebecca. I’m so glad you finally asked.”

I sat down and braced myself for what was to come.

“Yes, you are in recovery.” Sassed the imperious voice. “You are recovering from an addiction.”

An addiction? An addiction to what?

“Accomplishment.”

My brain rattled a bit. The verdict hit me square between the eyes.

So here is my confession.

“Hi. My name is Rebecca. I’m a pioneer. And I’m addicted to accomplishment.”

And not just normal accomplishment. I’m talking the extreme over-achieving sort. Writing a novel in five months. Trying to remodel an entire house in four weeks. Is there such a thing as type A, extra bold and italicized?

I’ve known this about myself for quite awhile. I’ve never seen it as an addiction. But when one is faced with the task of survival, achievement takes a back seat. Or maybe even gets drug behind. The once mundane tasks of life have grown monstrously. If I ruin dinner, the closest In-n-Out is 45 minutes away. Painting trim turns nightmarish when it takes three coats to cover the pea green paint. I want to see more accomplishment. But there’s not time for that in the midst of survival.

I’ve thought about hiding under a rock, or more apt a tumbleweed, until we pass from pioneers to settlers. But there’s no telling how long that will take. And it won’t happen until all the green trim is painted.

I’ve heard that recognizing you have a problem is the first step toward recovery.

So, here’s to first steps!

What’s your name and what are you addicted too?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Platform 9 and 3/4

On Faith, On Life, , , ,
“The Sorcerer’s Stone” Platform 9 and 3/4

Oscar Wilde once said, “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” I think that might be one of those chicken versus egg kind of questions. You know, which came first? But in this instance, I believe Oscar is right.

The other night we were watching the first Harry Potter movie (The Sorcerer’s Stone.) I think it’s safe to say that we view art through current circumstances. And in this case, I couldn’t help but feel as though that movie was imitating our life. Or our life is currently imitating that movie? Was it the chicken or the egg?

Anyway, we had grown quite used to living under the stairs. We were accustomed to meeting the expectations put upon us by ourselves and others. We followed the rules. And then something changed. An invitation of sorts.

We accepted the invitation. It meant David retiring and us moving out to the country. We made our way to the train station and stood perplexed at our ticket. There is no Platform nine and three quarters. Now what?

Oh! We run full speed ahead straight at a brick wall! Of course! Why didn’t we think of that?

Leaving behind all that we know, full speed and unlimited internet, the camaraderie of the department, and the security of a schedule, to name a few, has left us running at a brick wall. But we are running. Full speed ahead. Uprooting or making a change of any kind feels like running straight at a brick wall somewhere between platform nine and platform ten and hoping not to splat.

And it isn’t the first time we’ve done this. I remember  when David was diagnosed with PTSD and it felt like we were running straight toward  a brick wall. No idea what was on the other side or even if we would make it to the other side. But we ran. We ran toward help.

We made it through the brick wall and found help. And that helps us believe. It helps us believe that this time, what lies on the other side, is a magical place beyond our wildest dreams.

Reality check. Perhaps we won’t see that this side of heaven but maybe we will find an adventure. At the very least.

Are you running at a brick wall too? What do you hope to find on the other side?

Back the Badge

On Law Enforcement, On Life, , , , , ,

 

I’ve written about being a part of the thin blue line. Joining the prestigious family of law enforcement as the spouse of an officer.

In those early years, I learned a great deal. Don’t leave the garage door open all day. Don’t answer the door during the middle of the day. Give my husband some room after work to decompress.

I also learned a few codes. The important ones.

51-50. Crazy person. I felt it was important to learn this one should it ever creep up during an argument. If he was going to call me crazy, I was at least going to know about it.

The other one I learned early on was 11-99. Officer needs help.

But last Saturday, after almost 14 years, I learned something new.

There is strength in numbers.

A fellow law enforcement wife, Rae Johnsen, felt it was time to bring law enforcement wives together and she was right. Spouses from many different law enforcement agencies came together, under one roof. She called us to Back the Badge.

Women came locally, from a hundred miles away and everything in between. A group of strong, independent women who support their law enforcement husbands.

It’s easy to tear a single piece of paper. It’s far more difficult to tear a phone book.

Over a hundred women gathered and put their pages together. We laughed and cried. And an amazing thing happened.

We didn’t stage a coup. Or start a crusade. We didn’t design our own flag. We didn’t talk politics or promotions.

We discovered common ground. 

And I learned I wasn’t alone. I am not the only woman who has learned and is learning to live in the in-between. That place where the stress of the law enforcement life and the isolation of the law enforcement life collide.

On those days when the stress is bearing down and the fear of the unmentionable looms large, all I have to do is remember that day. The smiles, the hugs, the knowing nods. I’m not alone. And even better, I’m not crazy. There are a whole group of women who get me and get a part of my journey.

A group of women who have been taught not to trust others, found each other. And we discovered there is strength in numbers. If you haven’t discovered that feeling yet, you should. And although there isn’t another Back the Badge event scheduled (yet), there are other ways to get connected.

Here are some options to check out:

Back the Badge (on Facebook)

Wives Behind the Badge (www.wivesbehindthebadge.org)

You have your spouse’s back, but maybe someone should have yours.

Have you found strength in numbers?

The “R” Word

On Life, , , , , ,

There are many words over the course of a lifetime that are monumental.

Marriage.

Children.

Moving.

I’ve done all of those. Some more than once. And true to form, each time was monumental. My life changed forever.

I remember.

Right after I graduated from high school, I chose to live in Central America for nine months. (Long story.)

“You will never be the same.” Several adults said to me before I left. They would look beyond me. A far off expression in their eyes. Like they could see into my future. Or maybe they were looking into their past. Either way, it creeped me out a little and I grew tired of hearing it.

I remember.

I resigned myself to a smile and nod in response. What does one say to that? It sounded more like a sentencing of sorts than “Bon voyage and God-speed.” I dismissed it. (Eighteen year olds are extremely gifted in that regard.)

And I left. Nine months later, I came home. A different person. A gestational period of change. I grew up, slightly. I burnt rice, horribly. I gained weight, understandably. And I changed, unavoidably.

I could not be the same. Or at least, I could no longer view the world the way I had before. I lived with children who suffered from Malaria and gun-shot wounds. Men and women in their thirties who looked twice their age. The ravages of survival etched in the many lines on their faces.

I remember.

That was a long time ago. I’ve married, had children, moved. More people are added to my world. A spouse, a child, a neighbor.

And each time, I’m changed.

I remember.

And now? Now, we are on the verge of another monumental word.

Retirement.

My husband is ending a career in law enforcement. We are moving. Saying good-bye. Bon voyage. And I have to remember the past to gain the strength to look toward the future.

Today especially has been stressful. So many unknowns. Will everything work out with the house? Will it close escrow in time? Can I survive living forty minutes from Starbucks? What will our lives look like?

Unanswerable questions that swirl around in my mind like a storm, attempting to destroy whatever it touches.

So, I remember. Monumental has come and gone. I’m still standing. And not alone. A spouse, children, friends, neighbors, colleagues. Familiar faces cross my mind and touch my heart.

I’ll never be the same.

And I remember.