She said... He said...

 I said, "I'm on the rebound from a serious boyfriend in Spain, so I'm not sure I can commit to anything right now."
He said, "Okay. I can wait."

I said, "I love to travel. Alone. Often. If you can't live with that, then this isn't going to work."
He said, "Okay. Go see the world. I'll be here when you get back."

I said, "That ex-boyfriend of mine, the one that lives in Portugal, he's getting married. I'd like to go to the wedding. And the ex-boyfriend in Spain, he's gonna pick me up from the airport in Madrid on my way back thru Spain."
He said, "Okay. I think you should spend time with your ex-boyfriend in Spain. I think you need to decide whether or not you are over him. I'll pay for your ticket. And I'll be here when you get back."

I said, "Are you for real?"
He said, "Yes, I am. I love you, Gail, and I want you to be sure that you love me, so I'll give you all the time and space you need in order to be sure."


In August of 1990, he picked me up at JFK Airport after I'd spent six weeks in Madrid. He drove me to the hotel he was staying at in Reading, Pennsylvania. (The GE Audit Staff sent my dear boyfriend to some exotic places during his years of service there...) As we got off the highway, he began to fumble with the cassette player in the car. (Yes, folks, there were still cassette players in rental cars way back then...) When "our song"* came on, I started to cry. I wiped my eyes, looked through the windshield and saw the hotel marquee that read, "Gail, I love you. Will you marry me?" I cried even harder.

We dragged my stuff up to the hotel room (yes, folks, it was still possible to check two bags that were as large and as heavy as we were without paying any bag fees way back then...) which he had decorated with balloons and gifts of various sizes, shapes, and colors. There on the bed sat the box, the little black box, the box that would instantly change my status from "single" to "engaged" - if Facebook had existed way back then... With trembling hands, I picked up the box, slowly opened it, and to my shock, surprise, and dismay, it was EMPTY!

In full-blown panic mode, I wheeled around on one heel, and there was my beloved,
down on one knee with the ring in his hand.

He said, "Gail, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
I reached for the ring. He wouldn't let go of it.

He said, "You didn't answer my question."
I said, "Yes, Steve, I WILL MARRY YOU."

Later that evening, we went back outside to sit on the railing across from the hotel sign and stare at it. Two women walked by, and one asked, "Are you Gail?"
I said, "Yes, I am!" They looked at Steve and said, "Nicely done."
And, of course, I showed them the ring.



Twenty years ago today, we faced each other on the small platform in the front of the sanctuary of the Williamstown Baptist Church, and spoke the vows to each other that we had written together. We listened to the music. We laughed. I cried. He handed me handkerchief after handkerchief. (How did he know that I'd need more than one?)

When my turn came, I said, "I do."
When his turn came, he said, "I do."


By the grace of God, the counsel of therapists, the support of friends,
through time together, time spent apart, sheer force of will,
buoyed on love, laughter, patience, and forgiveness,
despite my selfishness, discontentment, complaints, criticisms,
many screw-ups, transgressions, faults, and misdeeds,
for the past twenty years, this man of mine,
this loyal, generous, gentle, kind, and outrageously funny man,
keeps on saying,
"Okay. Go see the world. Do what you need to do.
I'll be here when you get back. In fact, let me buy your ticket."

Happy anniversary, Steve.
I don't deserve you.


* Our theme song was "Always," by Atlantic Starr

Girl you are to me, all that a woman should be,
And I dedicate my life to you always
The love like yours is grand,
It must have been sent from up above
And I know you'll stay this way, for always

And we both know, that our love will grow
And forever it will be you and me
Ooh you're like the sun,
Chasing all the rain away,
When you come around you bring a brighter day
You're the perfect one
For me and you, forever we'll be
And I will love you so for always

Come with me my sweet,
Let's go make a family,
And they will bring us joy, for always

Oh boy I love you so,
I can't find enough ways to let you know
But you can be sure of course, for always

And we both know, that our love will grow
And forever it will be you and me
Ooh you're like the sun,
Chasing all the rain away,
When you come around you bring a brighter day
You're the perfect one
For me and you forever we'll be
And I will love you so for always

I will love you so, for always

I wish...

I wish I didn't care what other people think of me.
Of what I wear and don't wear.
Of what I read and write.
Of how I choose to live and refuse to live.

But I do care.
I care less now than I used to - and that's a good thing.
But I still care way more than I want to.

I worry what people will think of me if I curse or post a link to a blog with curses.
I worry what people will think of me when I say I don't go to church very often anymore.
I worry what other people will think when I say that I miss church sometimes.
I worry what people will think if I asked the questions that plague me at times.
I worry what other people will think if I stop asking those questions.
I worry that I worry so much about this stuff.
I wish I would stop all this worrying.

I read other people's blogs - about gardens and books and miracles and art journals and scrapbooking. I read about how great things are for them. Or how crappy. I read about how much they write and cook and work and sew and how many photos they take and books they publish every year. I read about the eradication of puppy mills and the creation of elephant sanctuaries and about how some people don't kill ants; they just usher them to the safety of the outdoors. I read about people's workout schedules and study schedules and travel schedules. I read about organic food and vegan food and processed food. I read about travel hacking and round-the-world-travel plans and how much of a difference they are making for orphans in Nepal or refugees from Rwanda or prisoners in Cuba.

And I wonder what I'm doing that makes a difference. What I'm doing that will matter in five or ten years. I wonder if I'm being positive or realistic or loving or honest or transparent enough. I wonder if I'm kind enough or gentle enough or loyal enough or faithful enough. I wonder if I'm waiting too long to live out my dreams or if I haven't waiting long enough. I wonder if I'm good enough, too good, bad enough, or too bad to be loved, accepted, forgiven, trusted, or taken seriously.

I wish this stuff didn't matter to me as much as it does. Most of the time, I keep all this worry and wondering and wishing in check. But sometimes, it's all I can think about. Some days the only question I ask myself is, "If anybody really knew me, knew what I think, what I don't think about, what I believe, and what I stopped believing years ago, what would they think of me?"

I recently read an anecdote from The World Domination Summit that took place a couple of weeks ago out west. Apparently, one woman stood up at the end of a session and said something like this:

"In my 20s, I worried a lot about what other people thought of me.
In my 40s, I stopped caring what other people thought of me.
In my 50s, I realized that nobody ever really thought that much about me at all."

I'm more than half way through my 40s; I've got a long way to go before I catch up with her.

Something I found this morning...

perhaps it is closer to the truth to say that this found me.

It is challenging me and many of my notions about holding myself together. Making me ponder many things that I need to stop doing and many things I need to do a whole lot more of.

I need to dance more and laugh more.
I need to listen to more stories and tell more too.
I need to touch and be touched.
I need to celebrate the wonder of life and the glory of love.
I need to let myself be moved.

Check it out HERE.

Georgia on my mind - and under my feet...

I am sitting at the desk of Suite 101 at the Homewood Suites in Macon, Georgia. It's my fifth night here. Two nights left. Nope, I haven't been condemned, sentenced, and banished to middle Georgia for a week of 90+ degree heat. Come to think of it - this wouldn't be a terrible place to send someone who deserved banishment to a very hot place for what feels like an eternity...

It's my son's fault. This tennis-playing phenom I adore and his doubles partner are on the move. Tomorrow they compete in the 14s boys finals double match in the Southern Closed Tournament. Nine states are represented here - North and South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, Arkansas, and Kentucky. And these two unseeded underdogs (CORRECTION: My son informed me that they were seeded 9th) will play in the finals tomorrow.

So here I sit. Alone in my room. With Georgia on my mind, under my feet, and in my sweat-clogged pores. (After writing this, I'm gonna jump into the shower where some of Georgia's finest dirt will flow down the drain where it belongs.) Several tennis moms are talking and drinking wine in the hotel lobby. Not me. After five days and four nights, I'm tired of listening to discussions focused on teenagers and tennis. I'm tired of listening to tales of earlier tennis tournaments, other people's bratty kids, and how special our kids are - of course. Enough is enough. I'm sequestered in my room, surfing the net, reading two fantastic books (Halfway to Each Other: How a year in Italy brought our family home and How to Improve your marriage without talking about it - both HIGHLY recommended, by the way), journaling, talking on the phone with my husband, and every now and then, it hits me: my son is in the finals. Win or lose, he goes home with a trophy from the Southerns. Yahoo!!!!!!!

It's true; I've heard a lot of stories about tennis matches and cheating and broken rackets and heat exhaustion and divorce and the cost of travel, hotels, and meals out. I get it. I really get it. Then I sit back in my seat at the restaurant and look around the table of adults. I look over at the kids at their table. I find my son in the middle of the fray, and I smile. We get to watch our children play elite USTA junior tennis. These are kids who, most likely, will receive college scholarships to play tennis. Several of them have older siblings, cousins, and friends who are at schools like Yale and University of Southern California and Furman playing tennis. These are bright, strong, determined, happy kids - for the most part. They are healthy, friendly, polite (for all its problems, and there are many, the South does a pretty good job of raising polite kids) and ambitious. They compete against one another fiercely on the court and then play ping pong jokingly with one another off the court. We travel with our talented offspring from tournament to tournament all over the south and beyond, check into and out of hotels, watch top-notch tennis, and cart home several trophies each year. We eat well, we travel well, we live well.

We are enormously blessed.
We are enormously blessed.
We are enormously blessed.

I am deeply grateful. So very grateful.

I'm not much of a commentator, especially after the fact, but here goes. In order to get to today's semi- final match, Daniel and his partner, Jack, (who have never played doubles together before this tournament!) had to win three other doubles matches (CORRECTION: My son informed me that they had to win five matches to get to today's match. Somehow I forgot about two matches. What kind of tennis mom am I???), including one against the number 1 seeded team in the Southern region and another against the team that had won the Georgia Qualifying Tournament two weeks ago.

Today's match, however, was literally a heart-stopper for me. Daniel and Jack, were up 6-2 -> two games from victory because they play to see who wins 8 games first. Then they went down 6-7. My heart raced. My blood pressure rose. I held my breath. I prayed. I did the sign of the cross several times. None of which helped I don't think because the parents of the boys on the other side of the net were doing the exact same thing, so, in effect, we canceled each other out. Jack served 2 aces in a row. Then he double faulted. At that point, my heart stopped - and then it beat again, almost immediately, I think. My breaths became dangerously shallow. Then a blur of shots, volleys, deuce, ad in, deuce, ad out. And then it happened: we won. WE WON * 9-7! A roar went up from the crowd. Well, a roar went up from the two moms of the two winning players, Jack's little sister, and a few other folks standing around - most of whom just wanted to go find dinner someplace nearby before heading back to our respective hotels in order to wash Georgia dirt back into its rivers and lakes.

Tomorrow at 3:30 pm, they are scheduled to go on court for the final match.
But they might go on sooner if the other team is willing to start earlier.
I'm gonna cross my fingers and toes. I'm gonna wear my cross necklace.
I'm gonna sweat. I'm gonna pray. I'm gonna call on angels and archangels
and good fairies everywhere to carry our boys on the wings of love
all the way to the trophy table where they will receive
either the first place or the second place trophy.

UPDATE: Our boys lost the final match, 6-3, 6-3. (Two full sets are played in the finals.)
It was a good match at the end of a great run in the doubles.
I am quite the proud tennis momma.
For sure.

Not my words...

but my sentiments, for sure.

Please read this.
Slowly.
Savor it.


It reminded me of a quote from one of my favorite books, The Temple of My Familiar, by Alice Walker.
"And she fell in love at the drop of a hat with all kinds of people, not all of them spirits. But sleeping with them didn't seem that important to her."

To love and be loved - that is the quest, is it not?

Against the odds

I believe in the power of hope.
I believe in the wonder of love.
I believe in the miracle of grace.
I believe in the freedom that forgiveness provides.
I believe that new life and new love are possible.
Against the odds.

Why do I believe in all of those things? Because I have seen them in action. I saw the effects of hope, love, grace, and forgiveness last week when Kristiana and I were on our road trip up north.

Hope granted two lovers and their children a chance at a new life together, a new marriage, a beautifully blended family, and a joint battle against stage 4 breast cancer. Hope gave - and continues to give - confused and sometimes despairing parents the strength to love their confused and sometimes despairing daughters.

Love granted another couple second, third, and fourth chances at reconciliation after as many broken moments in their marriage. Love brought aunts, uncles, and cousins together to celebrate a college graduation.

Grace welcomed the wandering spouse back home after a public and painful scandal. Grace welcomes the one who caused a betrayal back into the circle of friendship.

Forgiveness covers a multitude of sins, failures, abandonments, and sorrows. It doesn't erase them from memory, but it releases both the one wronged and the one in the wrong from the prison of bitterness and the desire for retribution.

I saw all of this and infinitely more with my own two weak eyes and felt them with my infinitely strengthened heart.

Hope keeps me hungry for, searching for, and attentive to signs of love, grace, and forgiveness in the face of all my doubts. I look into, under, around, behind, and at the most ordinary moments in order to sniff out, dig up, rejoice over, and cling to the hope that so often eludes me. In comparison with the most blatant reasons to lose hope - tsunamis, earthquakes, tornadoes, flooding, fires, wars, divorce, prolonged unemployment, deadbeat fatherhood, alcoholism, illness, starvation, poverty, greed, etc, etc, etc - the quiet moments of peaceful conversations with my children, the quotidian mysteries of oatmeal and coffee for breakfast while the morning's cool air wafts in through the kitchen along with the sounds of birdsong, the simple wonder of conversations with caring, community minded neighbors while walking my tiny, little dog, rebuild my hope, strengthen my weakened soul-knees, and fortify me for another day.

On the morning of yet another scorchingly hot day in North Carolina,
sitting in the darkness of our homeschool room talking to my children,
sipping my hot, sweet, minty coffee concoction,
and later when I will undoubtedly be
folding laundry, dusting, washing pots and pans,
looking at photos from the most recent trip and the ones that came before,
listening to phone messages, reading facebook messages,
working up a lather in cardio funk class,
then standing under the cleansing and cool waters of our shower,
reflecting on the wonder, the agony, the joy, the shocking depravity,
the abundance, the surprises, the hope, the grace, the love, the forgiveness,
all of which make up this life I live, this life that defies so many odds,
I will be careful and deliberate in giving thanks to God for all that has been.
All that is.
All that is yet to come.

Against all odds, in spite of so many reasons to look the other way,
I look up with hope.
I look up with joy.
I look up with peace.
And I say, "Thanks be to God."
And thank you too, all who come to this page to read the story of my life's journey.
Thank you too.

"You don't have to smile."

My daughter and two of her cousins.

Memorial Day, 2011 - Brooklyn, NY. 

Several years ago, I read about a photographer who would tell her "photees" that they didn't have to smile for their photos. She said that some of the best photos she took were when people didn't smile, and when they weren't expecting to be photographed at all. 

In theory, I agree with her. In reality, I find it difficult not to smile when a camera is pointed in my direction. And apparently, that is also true of my family and friends. I like to think that when I point a camera at them, smiles happen spontaneously because they are so glad to be in my presence. Seriously, my loved ones and I have a serious smiling problem!

Me and my girl in Greenwich Village just before eating a fabulous meal at Aquagrill. 

Thanks, Raquel and Jay, for the many delightful delicacies.

Kristiana and Dr. Lisa Rooney, K's Stamford, Connecticut-based pediatrician from birth until the age of 11, at which time we moved down here. We drove past her office... and then we turned around and went back to say hi, tell a few stories, and thank her for being the great doctor that she was all those years ago. The good doctor was glad to see her former patient - her smile speaks volumes.

Steve planted those pine trees in front of our Norwalk house over ten years ago. At the time of their planting, they weren't even shoulder height. I couldn't help but laugh when I saw how large they are now.  

In Williamstown, Massachusetts. The breath-takingly beautiful young woman on the right, my niece, Clare, graduated from Williams College this weekend. My daughter and I put many miles on the minivan making our way up there. Smiles were shared by all.

 More cousin love.

She couldn't be any more beautiful. 

After the graduation. Before the sad farewells. One last pose for the camera. 

One of the happiest moments of the entire journey. Reconnecting with a dear friend, Sharon, whom I haven't seen in way too long. In the middle of an event where 200,000 meals were packaged and prepared to be shipped around the world. In one two hour shift on Sunday, the volunteers packed enough meals for 137 people to eat for an entire year - and we helped. Kristiana and I sat at a table, putting expiration date labels on hundreds of plastic bags, catching up with old friends, and marveling that we "stumbled into" this opportunity to make a real difference in the lives of people we will probably never meet. Those were undoubtedly the most important 90 minutes of our entire journey.

As I think back on the journey Kristiana and I have just returned from, 

as I ponder the time we shared with family and friends,

the food eaten, toasts made, wine imbibed in, 

the tears shed, stories told, hugs and kisses both given and received,

the many beds we slept in, the many floors we slept on, 

the miles we put on the car, the songs we danced to in the car,

the book we listened to in the car,

the clothes and books and shoes and jewelry and coffee and postcards

and cookies and drinks and other goodies we bought,

when I consider and reconsider all that we saw, thought, experienced,

I cannot help but smile.

I mean, I know that I don't have to.

But, really, I have no choice.

Another wild goose chase...

The other day, the kids and I came upon a family of geese wandering across one field of grass,

across a wide driveway, (have no fear, the fourth gosling is to the side of the one in front)

and onto the grass on the other side of the driveway. The little ones stayed close to Mom and Dad, not wandering away, not trying to make a new path for themselves. The parents vigilantly watched not only their babies, but also they kept a wary eye on us in our minivan and another car that approached from the other direction.

Not long thereafter, my son tried on these very ugly, although reportedly very comfortable shoes.

My long-legged son said that it felt like he had webbed feet... and as I watch him grow up (he is now taller than I am), as I watch him run from one side of the tennis court to another, as he chases some friends and is chased by others, as I wonder what the future holds for him while wandering all over several southern states with him, I recognize that I too am a wild goose, on a wild goose chase, crossing many roads and driveways with my no-longer-little ones in tow.

I am not entirely sure why we, this fluffy, fleecy family, cross so many roads, protecting one another, looking out for one another, watching each other grow and expand in all the myriad ways and directions that we are growing. I have watched over my younglings closely (some have argued a little too closely!), keeping an eye out for real and perceived enemies on all sides, and done a lot within my power and a whole lot outside of my power - emboldened by faith and prayer - to protect my precious and wild-hearted offspring. I confess that I haven't always been successful at that. There have been accidents, sprains and pulls. There have been visits to the emergency room, hospital stays, and medication regimens. There have been crying jags and silent rages.

What a wild ride it has been. What a fast ride it has been. But thus far, we have made it. Intact.  And more than that, we have thrived. We have accomplished much. Borrowing the words of one of my favorite empowerment songs in history: We have overcome.

My daughter will finish high school this week. She has spent her entire educational career here at home. When we started out umpteen years ago, my goal was to teach her to read and write and then send her off to school. But as the months and years rolled past, I felt less and less confident that anyone else could teach her, guide her, love her, and train her up in the way she needed to go. As I watched her develop physically, emotionally, and spiritually, I realized that I didn't want anyone else to be there for her first step, her first full sentence, her first failed test, her first period, her first triumph as a basketball player or softball player - or her first heartbreak. I didn't want to miss one minute of it.

I wanted to be with her, by her side, holding her hand, and wiping her forehead when she was sick. I wanted to cry with her and laugh with her. I wanted her to be able to sleep late if she needed to. I wanted her to be able to learn to be stronger and more confident, recover from illness, rejoice in her successes, and belabor her defeats right here at home. So we did exactly that. We pressed on. We pushed ahead. We lagged behind. We let things slide. We watched her blossom. We held our breath. We cried out for mercy. We begged for healing. We gave thanks for each hour, each day, each week, each month of progress.

And all along the way, every day, I kept going back to the same statement,
the same plea, the same prayer:
All shall be well. All shall be well. All manner of thing shall be well.

And now, here she is. At the cusp of a new phase of her life. One with teachers other than her mother, students other than her brother, rides on the public bus, lunch in the college cafeteria, and surprises of many types on all sides. Including, apparently, the occasional alligator.

I look forward to watching her look ahead, ride off, making her own life, her own family, 

and embarking on her own wild goose chases.

This journey of motherhood has been and continues to be one long wild goose chase. And this Mother Goose is sitting pretty at the moment, plumping my feathers, and looking forward to the next time we need to cross the road to the other side. Together. Looking out for one another. Hoping against hope, praying, pleading for mercy and safety until we reach other other side. Wherever or whenever that is.

It made me laugh. It made me cringe.

http://chadholtz.net/2011/05/14/youre-not-christs-followers-just-fans/

And it makes me think. Feel sad. And completely understand why so many people who say they follow Christ and long to live out the answer to "what would Jesus do?" are considered hypocrites and liars and just as fanatical and dangerous as those they are so quick to condemn.

(Thanks for the link, Jacob.)

Here's another video I watched today. It too made me laugh and cringe and wonder what on earth folks can possible be thinking when they predict the date of the Rapture... whatever "the rapture" is.

http://brianmclaren.net/archives/blog/see-you-in.html

"Between the launch and the landing"

At the funeral yesterday, the pastor recounted the Biblical account of Jesus and His disciples crossing the lake on a dark and stormy night. As the disciples battled the raging sea, Jesus slept soundly.

Then, the Pastor said, "Somebody had sense enough to call on the One who is the Master of the Seas. Somebody had sense enough to call on the One who is the Master of the Skies. Then Jesus woke up, spoke to the wind and the waves, and the Bible says 'there was a great calm.'"

I took this photo in the car on the way home from the funeral yesterday.

He went on to say that between the launch of the boat and the landing on the other side of life, there are furious storms. Between the launch and the landing, life seems uncertain. Between the launch and the landing, fear takes over. But between the launch and the landing, the Master of the Seas proves Himself strong and mighty, present and aware, and most importantly, between the launch and the landing, He is with us. He never leaves us alone in the boat. (I absolutely LOVE the way that black Baptist preachers, in their robes and collars, choose a phrase and work it into their sermons over and over. Chanting. Stomping. Shouting. Driving the point all the way home. In the spirit of full disclosure, however, I must also confess that I often wish I had earplugs to reduce the impact of the volume of the shouting on my innocent eardrums.)

A stormy takeoff from Barcelona this past February.

Between the launch and the landing of my life, there have been storms. Some far more fierce than others.

The storm of growing up with three older brothers - all of whom were comfortable with the practice of torturing their younger sister. Two of their favorites stand out in my mind: 1- two brothers would hold me down while the third one tickled me, usually  until I had to pee. My only defense was to train myself to stop laughing. To this day, I am not ticklish.  2 - two brothers would hold me down while the third poured water into my mouth, laughing and telling me that I had better swallow the water fast or I'd drown. I still don't like drinking water while lying on my back... not that I have ever attempted that other than with the help of my sadistic siblings.

The storm of heading off to college - my three aforementioned brothers each attended a Christian college. (I wonder about the connection between Christian colleges and the use of corporal punishment and torture. Apparently there are statistics that indicate that the more frequently one attends church, the more likely one is to support torture. I am NOT making that up. Hmmmm...) Anyway, I informed my parents that I did not want to attend a Christian college as I had my head and heart set on attending Williams. Permission denied. After a few difficult exchanges on that topic, I declared that if I were forced to attend a Christian college, I would do so only as a freshman. I would then declare my emancipation as an 18-year-old and transfer to the college of my choosing. They relented.

The storm of getting married - I met my husband at Williams College, the bastion of secular teaching and free living... hardly. Wonderful man whose skin color is not the same as mine. Let's put it this way: Stevie Wonder's song, "Ebony and Ivory," used to make us smile at each other, intertwine our fingers, and try to figure out whose fingers were ebony and whose were ivory. Not everyone was happy about our union. Not everyone in our immediate families attended our nuptials.

The storms of illness and injury - cancer, congestive heart failure, bipolar disorder, high blood pressure, diabetes, obesity, alcoholism, adult attention deficit disorder, depression, burned fingers, cut fingers requiring stitches, infertility, miscarriage, cracked teeth requiring crowns, high cholesterol, dangerously low blood pressure - have blown into, through, over and around my life and the lives of those I love most all life long. And that's just the physical stuff - my friends, family members, and I have also dealt with job loss, having to move from one state to another, bankruptcy, divorce, foreclosure, pornography addiction, loneliness, betrayal, infidelity, flooding, fire, theft, and abandonment. Mine, like yours and everyone else's, has been a stormy life.

This was a moment in time when the lake was very calm.

Not just the lake in the photo, but also the one in my heart.

Certainly, there have been days of smooth sailing. Sometimes days, weeks, even months on end. At those times, I celebrate the fact that I am someplace between the launch and the landing, precariously balanced between one storm and another, watching, waiting, alert, attentive, hopeful, peaceful.

But then storm clouds rise again, open, pour down rain and hail, sleet and snow, making it nearly impossible for me to remain afloat and continue believing that I will, indeed, make it to the other side. At those moments, like the twelve desperate disciples, I turn to The One I thought was in charge of it all and ask: How can you be asleep at a time like this? Don't you care that I'm drowning here? Does it matter to you that the one you love is sick? What about the promise to supply all our needs according to your riches in glory - are you not gonna keep that promise? Didn't you also promise that you would do whatever two or three agree on and asked for? We've been asking for healing for her from MS and her from bipolar disorder for years. We've be praying for a job for her for two years now. We've been begging for mercy from storms and earthquakes and tsunamis; why are they still coming? We thought you were the one, but this faith thing, this life thing isn't working out like we expected. Not even close. Are you in charge or not?

When I'm done with my pleading and crying out for help, I remember once again that I've gotta wait until my boat ride is completely over to see when and how the storms are resolved. One thing I know about boat rides is that they aren't over until the boat docks safely on the other side.

 Peaceful waters in Hilton Head two weeks ago.

After describing fear-inducing storms yet to come and then promising them that they would always be Accompanied by Someone who would comfort, teach, guide, and strengthen His followers on their own life journeys, on our life journeys, on my life journey, Jesus told His terrified disciples (including me) this: "I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

Life is too short...

I attended the funeral of my father's last surviving brother today. He was a remarkable man: he was one of the original African-American pilots trained at the Tuskegee Institute and went on to train the famous All-Black 99th Pursuit Squad - which made history in aerial combat in the European Theater during World War II. Those pilots are well known as the "The Tuskegee Airmen," and he taught them everything they knew! After the war, he ran a business, taught in the Columbia South Carolina's public schools, working his way up to being an Assistant Principal, was heavily involved in church and community service, and was one of the gentlest, kindest, funniest people I have ever known. He lived 94 years.

The preacher at the funeral said that even those 94 years were too few.
Too few to carry grudges and bitterness.
Too few to be selfish and angry.

He reminded us that ife is too short to hold out and hold back:
give freely, laugh loudly, love deeply.
Too short to miss weddings or funerals.
Celebrate love, celebrate life.

Too short to spend so much time in pursuit of stuff and status.
Too short to constantly deny oneself every pleasure.

Too short to hang on to what has stopped working.
Too short not to try one more time.

Too short to keep it all in: tell him that you love him.
Tell her too.

Too short to save the good linens, highly polished silverware, and crystal goblets
for holidays and special occasions.
Too short to go out and buy that stuff; take a memorable trip instead.

Too short to hide the good jewelry in the bottom of the lingerie drawer.
Wear it every day. Be dazzling every single day.

Too short to lose faith; keep hope and trust alive.
Too short hold on to old ways of thinking; open your mind and heart to new questions and responses.

Too short to stay angry at the kids or the ex-wife or the current husband.
This is not a dress rehearsal. This is it. This is the only life I have.

Uncle Earnest lived his life fully to the end. In his dementia, he could still recite poetry, play the piano, and sing the old hymns of the church. He still smiled and hugged his grandchildren and told great stories. He will be greatly missed.


As I stood near his casket and looked at the headstone that will soon adorn the plot where it will be laid to rest, the preacher's sentiments echoed once again in my mind: life is too short not to live my eulogy every day. Reaching out to those I love. Smiling and laughing. Taking photos and writing blogs. Filling the pages of my journal with stories and collages and great memories. Serving others. Feeding the hungry, befriending the lonely, corresponding with the son of a dear friend who is in prison. Teaching and speaking and walking alongside fellow life travelers, listening to their stories and learning the lessons and living the experiences of a life well-lived. Daily giving thanks to God for all the people, all the days, all the hours, all the moments that make up this very short life of mine.

PS. Life is also too short to worry about being embarrassed 

by taking notes on the sermon at the funeral 

or taking photos at the burial

of one of my favorite uncles.

Just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach...

Coming home from the Y tonite (Zumba is awesome!!!), as I thought about taking a shower, I cringed. Not because I don't want to be clean. Not because I don't want to slather on my homemade moisturizer and Tom's of Maine deodorant. But because the ants are back. Every spring and every fall, my bathtub comes under attack. And this is the second wave this spring. Thanks to the remarkable effectiveness of Terro baits, I know the ants will be gone within 48 hours. I know that. And I knew that as I drove home from the Y. But as I came up the stairs and approached my bedroom, I was thinking, "Just the thought of seeing those ants makes me sick to my stomach."

Earlier today, Daniel was making his famous homemade chips. (He uses whole wheat tortilla wraps, olive oil, and salt. He drizzles the wraps with olive oil, cuts them into triangles with a pizza cutter, sprinkles salt on them and bakes them for 7 minutes in the oven. Then he dips them in salsa or hummus. And two clementines and a glass of chocolate almond milk and Voila! Lunch!!! Crunchy, salty, duper deliciousness.) When he pulled them out of the oven with the oven mitt, he discovered that there a hole in the mitt. Hot right thumb. In a moment of panic, he grabbed the pan with his left hand, his ungloved left hand. OUCH!!! Aloe vera gel. Baking soda paste. Cool water. Ibuprofen. Prayer. Hugs. Tears. And a blister, a small hard blister. Just the thought of the pain he felt makes me sick to my stomach.

Ten days ago, one hundred sixty tornados blew thru the southernmost part of this nation. Homes flattened. Lives lost. When I think about all those folks whose homes are gone, whose places of worship are no more, whose livelihoods have also been lost, the thought of the despair they must feel makes me sick to my stomach.

And don't get me started on those who still suffer the consequences of that devastating earthquake and tsunami in Japan. Or the ongoing wars in the Middle East, Africa, and the drug-related conflicts in Mexico and other parts of Central and South America.

Or the joblessness, the bankruptcies, the foreclosures,
the troubled marriages, the longing for companionship,
the troubled children, the longing for children,
the emptiness and loneliness and fear that plague so many of us so much of the time.

At this rate, I will feel queasy for many days and weeks to come.

Then I think: peace is possible. joy is possible. gratitude is possible.
And all of that is true. All those things are possible. They are available.
But they don't always happen. They certainly don't always come easily.

I think: it's only ants. Terro baits work. This will all be over soon. There are folks in Alabama who would love to have a house with ant problems, so grow up. Deal with it.

I think: it's a minor burn. He'll be fine. The tears will dry. My heartrate will get back to normal. There are folks who would trade their son's cancer for my son's burn anyday.
And all of that is true too. The burn will heal.

I tell myself: Have faith, Gail. You talk about your faith and prayer and trust all the time.
Remember what God said: Be strong and of good courage. Fear not. I am with you always.
I tell myself: Now is the time to live all this faith stuff out.

Nevertheless, suffering is real.
Drought devastates. Floodwaters rise. Fires consume.
Parents pass away. Children lose their way. Loved ones walk away.
Divorce happens. Depression happens. Desperation happens.
Loss in life happens. Loss of life happens.
Life hurts. A lot.


Just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.


PS. Earlier today, a friend of mine posted something on her facebook page that comes to mind now. She wondered what it would be like to never say "should" again. It's funny how "The Mean Pastor" gremlin voice in me keeps saying, "You should put a happy ending on this, Gail. You should be upbeat and cheerful. No one needs to read something so sad. God is good all the time. All the time, God is good." Perhaps He is, but that's a tough sell with someone whose very soul is breaking and aching, someone whose wife has been confined to a wheelchair with MS for over 15 years while their children learn to take care of her rather than the other way around, someone whose engaged daughter is fighting the side effects of chemotherapy just six weeks before her wedding, someone who is the sole breadwinner in her household and has been out of work for two years, someone whose marriage has been lonely and empty for a decade, someone who has been abandoned by her husband and the father of her three daughters, someone whose mother died recently and is acutely feeling her absense, someone else whose mother is slowly disappearing behind the partition of dementia. The truth is that sometimes life truly sucks. Tonight, my heart is feeling that suckishness to the max. Tonight, it's making me sick to my stomach. Period.

Wanna see my mother's day gifts?

Here they are: priceless!!!!!

they heal my heart and they break my heart

they make me laugh and they make me cry

they keep me awake at night and are part of my sweetest dreams

these kids, these two amazing kids

A prayer of thanksgiving...

  

Thank you, Lord, for the sheep and goats, the llamas and donkeys

the turtles, alligators, deer and squirrels,

for the chickens and the children, for curiosity and awe.

Thank you for the bravery and example 

of the one that tried to get away.

Thank you also for the example set by

the ones that are comfortable in their gilded cages.

Thank you for endless bicycle trails and 

my endlessly patient teenagers who said "Yes"

every time I asked to go on a bike ride.

Thank you for enough balance to be able to take a self-portrait while riding my beloved bike.

Thanks most of all for letting the last street 

at the end of a long road

on my very last bike ride

be the street on Hilton Head Island that was named just for me?

(Notice the yellow sign that says: ROAD ENDS.)

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

My life at sea...

Let me correct that - my life at the seashore.
Sunshine. Biking. Smiling. More biking. Eating way too much. Biking to burn off those calories.
Have I already mentioned that I have become OBSESSED with bike riding? What will I do when I return to the busy traffic and absence of bike paths in my home city?

Stopping in the middle of a bike ride to get on the swings.

An evening ride to the beach.

Me and my new best friend.

Daniel, checking his texts before we ride.

My crew leaves me in the dust... in the sand, really.

A sandy city at sunset.

Life at the seashore makes me smile.

PS. these photos were taken with my blackberry camera. not bad.