the Guitar

This weekend, I cried.

Tears for my friend who lost her mom.  Tears of gratitude for a host of beautiful, talented friends who shine with God’s Spirit; and all of us throwing a big bash in our friend’s honor.

Then, I got the call.  A sweet lady that I have never met named Judy on the other end saying, “hey, we are on 1-40 and I’ve got your dad’s guitar, where do you wanna meet?”

This isn’t just any guitar.  This is the guitar that laid across my knees as I sat in my daddy’s lap while his fingers gently strummed melodies that I translated as complete adoration for me.  I don’t remember my life with my dad without this guitar.  Seems ironic that my dad played the piano for a living, but yet his guitar encompasses our closeness.

“How about the Memorial exit?” I said.

Sitting in the car, waiting, I thought about how many years it has been since my dad passed away.  I thought about how young he was to be battling cancer and how courageous he fought it.

He wasn’t my hero until it was too late to tell him.  Every little girl wants to be the apple of their daddy’s eye.  In that respect, I was like every little girl; but unfortunately, I didn’t see that his world had always revolved around me until I moved out of his world.  That is one of the ugly truths about divorce; sometimes, the children move away.

Judy steps out of the car, happy and hyper.  I loved her instantly.  She hands me the guitar in its case.  I smile and politely say thank you and get back in my car.  I cried the whole way home.  Some tears just ran down with no explanation, just a heart overflowing.

After sharing my latest prize-possession with my family, I busted out the ol’ video camcorder and promptly played a video of dad playing the guitar to Eden.  She sat curiously in my lap watching her granddad play a tune and reaching for the strings.  She was all of nine months old.

So, I have given you where I have been with this guitar and where I was as I got it, but now…let me tell you where I am going.  I am going to learn to play this dearly beloved guitar so that I can someday put Eden’s kiddos in my lap and play them a memory.

2012

This year I am vowing not to sit down and spend countless hours creating spreadsheets charting a year of resolutions pertaining to personal growth, spiritual growth and a play-by-play of how to change the world.

I am learning what is important now.

Laying in bed with my daughter, both snuggled up with books we cannot put down.

Dancing when I hear a great song and engaging whomever is with  me to do the same.

Griping finger for finger the hand of the man I love.

You know, I could never put all the car rides with Eden after school listening to her day in a spreadsheet, yet – wouldn’t that fall under at least one of the 12 areas of focus?  Sure it would, but why spreadsheet it when I can just live it.

If you’ve had the privilege of changing diapers, building sand castles, swinging a child for hours, holding sticky fingers, dressing a moving target, reading the same bedtime story over a thousand times…or have ever heard, “I love you!”  Then you don’t need to be making resolutions, you need to be keeping a gratitude journal.

2012 nights are going to conclude with a thank you prayer.  I will be thanking God for all the moments of the day and asking Him to direct the next if He so desires to give it to me.

Everyday Heroes

“Everyday heroes don’t let life’s challenges bring them down. Instead, they stay positive and find a way to overcome their obstacles. Everyday heroes don’t always succeed, but they consistently act on the belief that they can do something to improve their situations and those of the people around them.”  

Noah Blumenthal

My husband sent me this quote many, many months ago.  I saved it in my email inbox and find myself opening it – a lot.  For one, it is a great source of encouragement.  My husband considers me a hero – AMAZING.  I don’t feel like a hero.  I feel like someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, who can’t always keep her mouth shut and most recently, like someone who puts milk in the pantry because her ADD is out of control.

Now, I am opening it to be reminded of all of those everyday heroes that have changed my life.  The heroes that wanted to improve my situation.  I have a childhood riddled with people who improved my life – investors.

Marilyn Bowers was one of those investors.  She lived across the street and her daughter was my very best friend.  She took me in as one of her own, thrown in with three great kids.  She introduced me to the concept of a Saturday night date with the family that involved grocery shopping and ice cream after.  Her laughter was contagious.  Her influence is seen in my home today.  My daughter is reaping the benefits of my time as a Bowers family member.  Eden had no idea in October when our family danced around the house to the “Monster Mash” it was because Marilyn made it a tradition.  What a gift.

I also had the gift of a coach, Harold, that was willing to work with me night after night to be a ballplayer that averaged thirty-two points a game as a fifth grade basketball player.  His investment as an everyday hero changed my mindset.  I gained confidence in myself and my abilities.  I never lost that confidence.

I could blog for a year and still not cover all of the everyday heroes that have crossed my path and changed my life.  Everyday heroes are better than superheroes – they are real people doing real things.  And I thank God for all of them.

Blind Spot

"More and more people are buying bigger and bigger,...and the bigger the vehicle, the bigger the blind spot." - Consumer Reports


I think we are living bigger and bigger lives.  Relationships are at an all-time high.  Facebook, Twitter, cell phones - we can communicate all day long if we want to.  


But what are we saying?  Are we using our voice to edify or lift up each other or are we using our voice to hurt people?  Or, like me, do we speak without realizing we might have a blind spot in our communication?


Think about it.  Think about your emails, think about your blogs, think about what your saying and how it might be interpreted by the reader.  


I know I have a serious blind spot.  I know I speak from a candid, transparent heart.  Most of the time I am describing a journey or an event - typically I describe moments, but seldom have I stopped to think of the inference that might go along with my interpretation.  


"More and more people are talking bigger and bigger,...and the bigger the voice, the bigger the blind spot." -Monica Epperson

the CHURCH

“The single greatest cause of atheism in the world today is Christians, who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door, and deny Him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.” – Brennan Manning

If the above quote rings true for you, I am so very sorry.  I have had the opposite experience.  Actually, so opposite that my quote would say, “the most believable evidence of God is found in His earthly hands and feet – His children.”

I have a Christian family.  Some call them a LifeGroup, or a CareGroup – whatever, it doesn’t matter.  What matters is the connection.  Living your life with people who respond and react as your family.  In this respect, I come from a huge family.

Part of that family was over on Saturday night, September 24th.  Typically that is a rough date for me, my dad’s birthday.  He would have been sixty-one years old this year.  But it wasn’t rough this year because this year was John’s 40th birthday (our fearless leader these days.)

Many times throughout the night I scanned the room with such love and appreciation. Women who have blessed me with always showing up.  Men who have rallied around each other through some tough circumstances.  And my favorite, kids who are growing up with each other and surrounded by adults who love them and accept them even as they are jumping off sofas and smearing sticky fingers all over the glass.

We are not a perfect group.  We have unruly children at times and might not always glorify God with all of our words, but we understand love.  We understand what it means to be patient, kind, long-suffering, and most assuredly – not keeping a record of each other’s wrongs.

So, this morning as I am finding beads, feathers and half-eaten candy wrappers – I am reminded of this incredible gift I have been given, love and family.

Our babies, now self-proclaimed “big kids” will have all these memories of homes filled with love and happiness and hopefully, Lord willing, when they hear a quote about Christians being a cause of atheism, they will give the same disconnected stare I have given such quotes….hugh??

Picture Book Review by Lia Constanda

A Heart with Two Homes by Monica Epperson

Reviewed by Lia Constanda

The writer of “A Heart with Two Homes”, Monica Epperson is the CEO and co-founder of the organization “The child of divorce, Inc” (formerly known as “Blended Love, Inc.”)  along with her husband Dr. Brian Epperson. They are both educators.

Published in 2008, “A Heart with Two Homes” generated a lot of discussion amongst professionals working with children who acknowledged the need for resources for the growing numbers of children of divorce. Responding to this Monica founded “The child of divorce, Inc”, a nonprofit making organization, which she funded   from donating the royalties from her book.  Helping children of divorce is the mission of the organization.  “A Heart with Two Homes” is its first work that later led to forming a committee charged with writing research based curriculum for students and teachers.

The book is about a little girl called Elizabeth, whose parents divorced when she was 8 yrs old. She continued to live with mom and had regular visits with dad. In both environments she assumed a different persona. When with mom, she was a little girl, enjoyed dancing and did girly things, to please mom. When with dad, she was a little tomboy, played sports and did boyish things, to please dad. As time went on she found it difficult to define her true self.  She was confused: was she Lizzie, as mom called her, or was she Beth, as dad called her.

Eventually Elizabeth discovers with the help of a school guest speaker the benefit of writing therapy and later the benefit of sharing and talking openly about her feelings to friends and family. These processes help her confront her parents about their lack of communication as far as she was concerned. The book ends on a positive note, as the parents through their actions acknowledge their mistakes thus helping Elizabeth to find her true identity as a whole person and not as the two halves of one.

The book identifies some of the problems created by parents in divorce cases, such as a child’s emotional turmoil, confusion, insecurity, isolation, lack of trust, unresolved conflict, to name but some. 

The book also offers options for the children of divorce on addressing their concerns about their feelings. The idea of a private Journal, where they could confide their most inner thoughts and feelings is eminently suited to those situations.  It is a well known fact that one of the merits of writing is to help clarify thoughts. As the famous French writer Gustave Flaubert once said:"The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe." The idea of using a journal helped the little girl in this case to cope positively with change once she identified her true concerns and discovered what she really believed about herself.

The Scar

For most of my life I have been incredibly protective and discreet about a scar I have on my upper right leg.  It marks a childhood cancer scare and a week in our city’s pink palace, a hospital.  Most of my friends are not even aware of this scar, even those I have spent time with on the beach or in pools.  I have hidden it, cleverly, most of my life – until now.

Last week, my daughter had one of those days that all of us moms dread when we have a girl – the day that other girls hurt them.  We all know these days are coming.  The minute the doctor says, “It’s a girl.” A flash of the sharpest-tongue, meanest-spirited junior high girl you’ve ever known pops in your head.  OH,NO!

So, when Eden told me her sad tale of rejection, I was semi-prepared.  What I wasn’t prepared for was her long pause and decision to withhold any more information about her insecurities until she was confident that I had once visited this emotional place myself.

She glared deeply into my eyes and asked, “Mom, have you ever been left out?”

At that moment I could honestly see that all she has ever known is two very outgoing parents that typically plan the party and persuade the wall flowers that the middle of the room is safe.

“Yes,” not even realizing that I was about to reveal to her my most hidden secret.

“When I was in second grade I had to go to a lot of doctor visits.  At one of the visits I was told that I would be having a surgery because I had something on my leg that could cause me to get really sick.”  I said wondering if she would even care.

“What happened?” she leaned in wanting to know all of the details.

“Well, they scheduled the surgery for the last day of school before the Christmas break so that I wouldn’t miss a lot of school.  But, what they didn’t know about that day is that it was the day of the big Christmas musical and that all of the second grade kids would be a part of this musical except for me.  So, each and every practice for the three weeks leading up to that day, I sat along the gym wall alone.  I would watch my friends laugh and sing and whisper while on stage together and sometimes they would whisper and point at me.” I said shocked I still remembered.

“How did that make you feel, Mom?”

“Truly left out and like I didn’t have any friends for a while.”  I concluded.  “But it didn’t last forever and now I try to pay attention to the people who feel on the outside because I can relate to how they are feeling.  It was a gift.”

And so I immediately recognized that my scar was a tremendous gift.  That silly, insignificant scar on the back of my leg that I have hidden for way too long is actually  now a prized possession marking an experience that I had that won the trust of my baby girl.  Thank you, Lord, for my scar.

How many other scars do I bear that have been masked instead of used?  Or maybe I should say how many gifts do I not give away?

Maybe we should quit asking, “Why me?” and just say, “Thank you for choosing me.”