My Blurred Lines

That Year. 
The final chapter of the first "career" every person has. From Kindergarten on the ultimate goal is that diploma at the end of the Senior year. 
It's all about That Year. 
Being the big dogs. Senior-itis. The best lockers. First out for lunch. Getting OUT.

Everyone remembers high school. Some fondly. Some of us not so much in the "OMG!I'dgobackinaheartbeat!!!" kind of way. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't horrible. I wasn't bullied or pushed down in the hallways. I just wasn't one of the "cool kids". Sports wasn't my forte, which was kind of a prerequisite for being part of the cool crowd. I had enough friends, usually had a boyfriend, and was involved in a good variety of activities. I was there. 

I can tell you details of things most of my classmates don't recall... like the day Sarah said "This is crap!" in English class, to which our teacher emphatically, and somewhat hysterically, replied "It's NOT CRAP!" 

From that moment, not a single day of the rest of our HS career went by without hearing that phrase.

I remember one of the speeches I wrote in speech class. A speech about my mom. 

I remember a lot.

Until my lines get blurry. Right at the start of That Year. From then on, I can't give you more than a handful of details about my life from August to May.

What do I remember? I remember suffering through the two weeks of two-a-day workouts for volleyball before quitting. I remember giving up pop. I remember losing 20 pounds in the first few months of the school year. I remember my sister couldn't be at my HS graduation. I remember...

mom having breast cancer. 

That's it. There is very little I can tell you details about from That Year. I can tell you I was probably an awful daughter during That Year. I wasn't around much that I recall. That Year, I did what I wanted. I quit band and added the good art class. Because I wanted to. I stuck with all the other stuff. Cheerleading, drama, speech, art, work, boyfriend, youth group, tutoring, DARE representative, teacher's aide, swimming. I started going to gymnastics again. Playing golf. Whatever it was, I did it. 

I remember participating in those things, but I can't tell you what the play was (I think I was in two that year). I can't tell you which speech events I was in or how well I did. I can't tell you if the boys did well in basketball or football that year. I can't tell you...

I can tell you there was a day I knew something was wrong. Something was "off kilter" with the universe, if you will. We were weeks from putting that BIG X on the calendar in the hallway outside of Mrs. Dunsmoor's room. Weeks from being done. Weeks from getting OUT. 

I was in Coach Bailey's room for the class period before lunch. I was waiting for Geri to call me from the school office and tell me something was wrong. I knew. Something. 

Something had happened. That morning mom had attended a funeral for a friend who had lost her battle with cancer. She had to sit upstairs in the old country church with the wooden floors. Her shoes, slick from the slushy snow-melt, didn't handle the deep step down and she fell. She fell hard. Breaking one ankle and spraining the other.

Weeks from graduation.
Weeks from The Final Chemo Treatment. 
Final. 
Ever. 

In May of 2015 my mom will celebrate 20 years of being cancer-free. 20 years of doing things because she wants to. Because she can.

Tonight I finally wrote about it. About That Year. About how I know I was an awful daughter. An absent daughter. How that year blurred my lines. 

Every year my sister sends my mom a card to celebrate her last day of chemo treatment. I couldn't tell you the date. 

Those lines are still blurred.


***********
Of special note to this story are the truly incredible students my mom had that year in her classes. They did things HS students don't usually do. Through her sick days and treatments they developed a deep relationship that lasts to this day. I am so thankful for those girls. I'm thankful they were there when I wasn't. Thank you, ladies. 
***********

The Door Reopened

If memory serves me when I was little I said I wanted to be an artist and a writer. We are talking little, like six years old kind of little. After college my brother used to ask me why I didn't "do" that dream. Ummm... because I was six when I decided that. 

Dreams change. Lots of six year olds want to be astronauts and rock stars and ninjas and... right? Problem was, I wasn't writing because I was sure I wasn't good at it. There was plenty of evidence during my college years that pointed to quite the contrary. Great grades in English classes that required nothing more than the ability to read a novel, process it and write a paper about it. Easy-peasy. 10 pages due at 8am? I'll do it later, let's go out! (Yes, I wrote some of my best stuff at 2am. My roommate loved me.) But still, that fear of rejection, of negative feedback, of failure kept me away.

So why am I suddenly ravenously writing a blog? Well, a month or so ago my sister sent me this text: "Made me cry". Attached was a photo of a set of poems I had written in college for one of my classes. Of all the papers I wrote, this was the only thing I remembered. But I was certain it was gone forever. I can't find my copies anywhere. (Of course I have yet to jimmy open the lock on the fire safe they could be in.) Shari scanned and emailed the copies to me and I put them in my "writing" folder. On the top.

The Mailbox

Paul Harvey begins today's story

and blonde pigtails bounce

over grilled cheese crumbs and milk.

Huggy Bear waits patiently

until dishes are cleared.

Pulled from the wooden highchair

Huggy's tan body awaits the trip

as eagerly as the girl. 

Conversations surrounding everything,

senses absorbing more.

Wagon wheels push gravel into tracks

while girl and Huggy ride

searching for the signals of uniqueness-

anything worthy of attention

and commitment to memory-

fowers, bugs, rocks.

The sun is high and hot

and cool metal pipes quench

head-high corn stalks

and beckon to young eyes and ears,

a heart in love with water

and a tongue seeking perfect flavor.

Cold pipes under sticky legs

while a silvery tanned face

peeks under with bright eyes.

The mud meets blonde bangs.

A fascinated child in love for the first time,

forever,

with life and memories.

Quarter mile, half hour.

Mailbox greets excited mind.

Hoping for letters from sister

only thirteen years older,

always trying to remember,

print. 

At five years old, can read- 

not cursive.

Taught by many hours of 

Cookie Trees and Sunday comic strips-

anything in print.

Sister and mother with endless patience.

"College going well, send popcorn,

Love Ya Lots"

Seventeen years later the same 

"Love Ya Lots"

Paul Harvey said, "good day".

She says, "the best".

This isn't the one that probably made her cry... but that's ok. Sometimes sisters have special things they only share with each other.

So to give credit where credit is due, I give some to my sister. She opened that door again. She reminded me of what I'd done in the past and what I love to do. Other credit to my brother for wondering why that door wasn't open (even if he might not remember those conversations). More credit to my mom for loving to write. She loves it too. There's still some to go to my dad. For creativity and sincerity. Never have you met a man like my father... but that's another blog post.

I've begun to overcome that fear. I know there will be a day when someone will make a negative comment about what I've written. I'm working through how to handle that when it comes. But tonight I owe everyone who has read this jumbled mess that comes out just the way I think it in my mind, everyone who has given such crazy, love-filled feedback about my posts, everyone who has shown me love in this tender-hearted endeavor a crazy, love-filled thank you. Thank you for the encouragement, the faith and the motivation to keep going. 


What door are you going to reopen? 


Dear Lord,

Thank you for this gift. Thank you for a family who nudges without knowing. Thank you for friends who encourage and support and motivate. Thank you for reminding me of the something I want to do, just because I want to. Let me use my gifts to your glory. And give me the strength and confidence to deal with any negativity that may find its way to me.

Amen

The Mending (Follow-up to Brokenhearted and Crushed in Spirit)

Becca Groves, of the super awesome blog, Joyfully Becca: http://www.joyfullybecca.com/ has requested a follow-up the the posting about Ella's less-than-thrilled demeanor over my lunchtime visit to her school. Today is the best day to write said follow-up, so here you go my dear, sweet friends!

Volunteering. In a Kindergarten class. I must be crazy, right? Especially after my lunch experience a few weeks ago that I'm just now recovering from. I think there are no more saintly people than Kindergarten teachers and nurses. Honestly. Hands-down winners in the sainthood category. Teachers of all ages really fall into the category if we are being truthful here. I did my time as a HS English teacher 12 years ago and it was the most awful year (yes, year, singular) of my life.

So how did I approach today's school visit with the wounds of lunch still fresh? Well, we go back a few weeks and my visit with Ella. Yes, I cried when I got home from her lunch that day. Yes, I cried again when we got home after pickup and I asked her why she treated me the way she did at lunch. I couldn't help it... and I think it's good for my kids to see how their words and actions can hurt even grown-ups. So I cry when I'm hurt by them. Call me weak, but call me honest too.

Her response to my question? "I don't know momma, I didn't think my friends wanted you there." (Yup, the same friends who were chatting my ears off throughout lunch.)

 So no, she couldn't give me a good reason why. You know why? Because she doesn't know why she was acting that way. I do. She doesn't handle change well. Not. At. All.
Perfect examples:

A. I have to sit in the exact same spot every time she goes to gymnastics. And stay there. No potty breaks for this momma.

B. At bedtime I must sit on the couch after she is tucked in. The only acceptable alternative is if Dad sits on the couch. Left end, by the coffee table so she can peek out her door and be sure we didn't abandon her and run off to Egypt leaving her home alone to fend for herself and raise her brother alone. Because that's a possibility. (And no, she's never been left home alone. Ever.)

Today.... I told her that if she would prefer not to be in my group when I came to help in her class to let her teacher know. I would be fine with that. (It would be better than the silent treatment anyway.) But she wanted to be in my group and she was an absolute LOVE!!! She raced to sit by me but the chair was taken, so she raced to the other side of the table and that seat got taken. She settled for being one seat away from me and it made me smile. My baby WANTED to sit by me!!!! *insert Happy Dance*

All through the 45 minute activity she was social, friendly, sweet... herself! And when they left she said "goodbye". And I was happy.

Then she came back for a hug.
And that made me want to cry.
Again.

The Sauce

Wednesday is becoming my favorite day. No obligations. No jam-packed schedule. A drop off, a lunch, and a pick up. Today is Wednesday AND October 1^st, so I get two of my favorites all in one! I love October, don’t you? Fall leaves, crisp air, football, apple picking and all the good things that come from those apples. Today was the perfect combination of Wednesday and October: a few friends and some sauce. Applesauce. Homemade applesauce. Preserved for future consumption.

Nothing profound happened today. A few ladies learned the very basics of preparing and canning applesauce. Others played with kids and made new friends. There was laughter, tears, near-misses with the knife. Just life. But it’s a really great life.  

Lately I’ve been reading a wonderful book titled The Lost Loves of World War II Collection: Three Novels of Mysteries Unsolved Since World War II by Bruce Judish and Sharon Bernash Smith. Envisioning the unimaginable horrors of life in Nazi Germany during the cold war and world war II has me feeling all the feels. Fear, sadness, terror, sympathy, anger and joy. I’m feeling all those feels about the lives so profoundly affected. I’m also feeling the feels of pure, sheer joy at the life God has blessed me with. 

So while we chop, crush, spill, grind and pour the goodness of the apples that are bountiful and beautiful I think about how blessed I am to be able to open my doors to any friend I want. Any person I want to welcome into my home can enter it and feel safe, secure and loved. We can talk about faith, religion, politics, husbands, dogs, kids, potty-training and breast-feeding. You name it, we can talk about it. And it’s safe. Always safe. Safe from judgement, ridicule, condescendence, and the like. Full of love, care, joy, emathy, sympathy and more love. This beautiful, joyous life is so great because of friends. 

Life gets messy, just like the apples boiling in the pot, splattering their juicy goodness all over the walls. But the end result is so worth the mess to get to that goodness you can’t get anywhere else.

 We are your God-loving friends and we’re here for you, sister! So splatter your “sauce” all over us. We  wash. We want to be here for you and get you to the other side of whatever mountain you find yourself facing. We want to learn the lessons right along with you and to help clean that sauce up. That’s what friends are for. 

That’s the sauce of life.