Perhaps because they played it the night we recently camped our at the zoo, or perhaps because, throughout our childhoods, my sister had the entire soundtrack memorized and so its lyrics are engrained somewhere deep inside me… Whatever the reason, the song, “Circle of Life,” from “The Lion King” has been on repeat in my mind all day today. Not the whole song, just the title, really. This morning was rough as I sat in the doctor’s office, thinking about fears and mortality and children. Entire atriums of scared butterflies flew chaotically in the cramped, small space of my stomach, some escaping to lodge in my throat while my hands trembled and grasped for something to hold, landing only on the iPad. Alone, my eyes darted between the other patrons waiting. I tried to people watch, tried to imagine what they were sitting in this specialist’s office for. How many people have to visit an endocrinologist for these kind of tests every day? How many doctors have been forced to see fear as a symptom rather than an emotion? How many have forgotten what it is like to sit in the chairs, staring at blue, unadorned, sterile walls while precious minutes of their lives skip on by? My environment was overwhelming me so, slowly, I closed my eyes before they created new oceans.

Isaiah 41:13 came to mind first : “For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand, saying, ‘Do not fear, I will help.” This verse shepherded me out of a very, very dark childhood. Sometimes, I’d hear breathing above me, as a young child… Even when there was no one there. And sometimes, someone -would- be there and I would clutch my hands into fists. I’d try to lock my eyes on my hand and imagine, as vividly as I could, seeing God’s hand. I pictured its color, whether or not hairs were on it. I pretended I could see it… And derived more comfort than I ever have from anything else. I’d hold my shaking hand out in the dark and pray. Isaiah 41:13 would whisper into my soul and the fierce trembling of my terrified heart would calm, I’d stop holding my breath and find sleep again. Morning would dawn and I’d always look at my hand and feel tenderness for God. I remember consciously refusing to seek His hand often because I was afraid that He’d grow weary of my dependence, tired of helping. It was hard to see the bigger picture then–the present was all I could focus on. The “future” was a blurry, dream-coated hope of which I was altogether uncertain. I kept waiting on that magical day to come that would transform me into a grown-up… Would it be aging children, living alone, graduating? Which event was it that we going to catapult me into this fairytale I called “someday”, when some man would hold me, look at me as if I were delicate ad special despite the flaws? I kept waiting but one day merely turned into another. Decisions were made but they didn’t seem to make me feel any more like a grown-up than ever—the “someday” still hadn’t come, the fairytale still existed only for my characters. I remember the first time a man called me a woman, and how strange the word felt when used to describe me. Was it simply reaching an age that transformed you? I’m still uncertain when or how but, one day, I simply didn’t question it anymore. I’d never felt like a child—but I was able to understand things that I hadn’t been able to before… I could see what “next year” looked like… I knew what summer would smell like without having to imagine it. I knew how to check my daughter’s temp without a thermometer, although I wasn’t quite sure -how- I knew. I knew how to cook, without really knowing how. I knew what “bad” milk smelled like, and that I couldn’t drink it. Shortcuts were still forbidden; change, strictly avoided; confrontations, terror-ridden; goodbyes, dreaded; children, mandatory. But small pieces of myself had changed. Instead of hoping for a soulmate, I began to long just for a father. Instead of intimacy, companionship. Dreams were exchanged for prayers for my daughters’ welfare. Where once my world revolved solely around survival, now it included play designed to teach my daughters I was there for them. I’ve built the last eight years around them and have worked hard to make sure they’d have fond memories of me in case I died before they were old enough to remember unaided. Why? Because, even though I am quite ordinary and forgettable… I love them, and I know how important and foundational it is for children to truly believe that their parents love them. I know this because, even though I had the great support of a loving mother, I always longed for the real love of a father.

“It’s the Circle of Life
And it moves us all through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Til we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the circle
The circle of life.”

And so, here I am, discovering that my path in life is being a mother and teacher, and of sharing some of the most painful and private parts of my life out of a desire to help others and to be loved. You see, the fairytale isn’t magic. It is not about cute houses with pools and white picket fences, compete with a dad, mom, two kids and a dog. The fairytale isn’t about marriage at all. It’s about living day to day, juggling the bills and the housework; deadlines and mortgages; long weeks without a single adult conversation; baths and bedtime stories–the fairytale is in maintaining all this while still planting seeds of joy inside those around you, and of soaking in the feeling of being loved by anyone. The fairytale is in the undying, persistent faith that insists God is not the grown-up version of an imaginary friend but rather is quite real. It insists that He did and does, hold your hand. The fairytale is in choosing humor and tenderness in lieu of doubt and fear. It’s in the decision to see the point in life regardless of how long you have. The fairytale is in forcing yourself to lie still through a biopsy, to whisper to yourself “just breathe” when what you’d rather do is hide beneath a mound of blankets because you optimistically believe that if medicine can add a day or a year or thirty years to your life, it’s a gift, not a curse. The fairytale believes we matter more than progress, more than a computer, more than money. We come full circle when the survival mechanisms we employed during childhood meet the informed desire to live, knowing full well that the “someday” of our childhood fantasies may or may not ever materialize. In short, realizing that our place in life isn’t necessary a position of royalty but is nonetheless monumental in its influence upon the well-being of those who surround us.

As a grown-up, my fears are different than a child’s. But what delights the child also delights me: conversation, laughter, surprises, hugs, time. The child’s fairytale includes an abundance of love and joy in the absence of pain or struggle but an adult’s fairytale includes an abundance of love and joy in the midst of pain or struggle. The child’s monster captures the princess and locks her in a hidden castle, stripping her of her freedom as she awaits rescue from a brave knight willing to make sacrifices on her behalf. It’s about the princess. Adults’ fire breathing dragons are scary tests that threaten to cast a spell of darkness over the fragile kingdoms of peace and stability we’ve worked hard to obtain. In the end, though, the child’s hero and fair maiden share a love that inspires them to forgive the injustices they’ve endured—injustices that barely matter once the two are together. The adult fairytale’s conclusion is incomplete–she knows nothing is guaranteed–but, like the child, she still believes in the value of others and, while its definition may have altered, she never stops believing in the possibility of a happily ever after.

Once, when I was a teenager, we had this huge piece of furniture. Honestly, I’m not even sure what it was anymore, only that it was massive. Several people told me I couldn’t move it and needed to wait for help. I moved it. Probably just because they told me I couldn’t. One of the most poignant stories I know is called The Chair Carrier, which is about this old man who walks from town to town carrying a massive, ornate, very heavy chair on his shoulders. Everyone sees him carrying his horrible burden but no one, not even the narrator who feels sorry for him, offers to help. But… Beyond that, the chair carrier never asks for help. He carries it alone, totally unwilling to admit that he could use help. He feels that he, and he alone, can successfully carry the burden. I deeply empathize with the chair carrier because his problem has been mine most of my life. I am afraid of asking for help. Afraid of burdening others, afraid of being seen as weak, afraid of those I might ask for help refusing. There’s also this idea that I have to constantly prove myself and how can I do that if I ask for help?

Sometimes, though, a curve ball gets thrown at me so fast I barely see it coming before it knocks my world off its axis. Sometimes I just know deep inside that there is nothing I can do by myself to correct the problem. Sometimes the burden isn’t a chair, it’s an entire mountain that I cannot physically even pick up alone, much less carry. When faced with something so overwhelming it takes my breath away, the verse from Matthew 18 comes to mind: “For where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am also.” Community. Friendship. Family. Relationships. They were created so that we might no need to carry heavy burdens alone. They exist for times like now, when I’m scared and uncertain, when I very much need a hand to hold. When the normal facade of strength is ripped down—when that happens, I have to lean on others, on prayer and on God’s promise.

For the last three years, I’ve experienced a myriad of progressively dehabilitating illnesses. First, 2 mini strokes that led to the discovery of holes in my heart they had to surgically repair. Diagnosis of a thyroid condition that explained mysterious weight gain of ten pounds, despite a daily diet of less than 900 calories and moderate exercise. A D&C surgery to try and stop constant bleeding–a surgery that did not work. Severe anemia. Intensifying migraines and insomnia that led to a specialist who finally told me she believed there was an underlying medical problem driving the multiple problems. She said she thought my thyroid felt enlarged and advised me to talk to my primary doctor, who, last week, ordered an ultrasound of my thyroid. Come to find out, I have a few nodules inside a large goiter on my thyroid. Most are usually “warm” and benign but they can be cancerous, so a biopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning, which will likely precede another surgery to remove the thyroid altogether.

When I was in college, I routinely wrote out a Last Will and Testament, not because I had any serious intention of suicide but because I did not believe I would live very long. I didn’t know if I’d die by car wreck, or by a random act of terror or by anger from my father, or from a freak accident. I didn’t know. But a deeply rooted belief that I would die stayed with me. When my daughters were born, I was terrified because, though I wouldn’t admit it, I didn’t think I’d live long enough to see them into adulthood–I worried that I’d die before they were old enough to remember me as adults so I started writing regular letters to them and documenting our daily adventures through a boatload of pictures and stories, home videos and letters. My greatest motivation in life was the need to make every day count… Lest it be that night that I die. That fear, that belief, inspired me to homeschool, to play like I never have, to spend every moment I can with the girls. A constant fear… Sometimes, I’d lay awake at night, holding my stomach in and rationing my breaths because the least amount of space I occupied, the less likely something dreadful might happen. You see… I’m not afraid to die—-but I am afraid of my girls not knowing how much I adore them. It is because of them that the word “biopsy” scares me to death.

Doctors assure me that a surgery can easily remove my thyroid, and medicine can replace it. Chances are blood I’m —not— going to die. And in fact, in recent years, the fear has finally distanced itself a bit from me. Be all that as it may, though, the idea of something that could be or become cancerous inside my body is a completely frightening possibility, and the physical, spiritual and emotional exhaustion and pain is devastating. The idea of trying to recover from yet another surgery is … Overwhelming. In other words… I’m not sure I can do it alone. I make it a habit to never discuss difficult things in a conversation-driven venue, like FaceBook: 98 percent or more of my updates revolve around the joyful activities of my daughters. I know others don’t like or need negativity–we all need to be uplifted and inspired, motivated and encouraged to smile. I make a deliberate and conscious effort to be positive. But you can’t hide behind a smile if the world is crumbling because, if you do, my past has taught me, you’ll emerge even more deeply traumatized and resentful. Prayer is my refuge, my mother and sister, support. But knowing others are behind me too, and joining in prayer, strengthens and encourages.

Jesus said that there’s power in numbers. When more than one join hearts, and hands, and prayers… Mountains move and God’s miracles confounds doctors. Fear has a way of haunting us–it adds weight to our hearts, making it harder to smile, harder to laugh, harder to live. It chokes us, narrowing our vision until all we can see is the shame and doubt and confusion. Fear makes the world’s music sound like chaos, the richness of its colors blindingly bright. My heart throbs with it at night, and when I hug my children. I have a good support system with my mom and sister – but the circle is small and sometimes fear traps us all. So I write. I reach out, hold my hands out and ask for a community of friends to gather around. Asking for prayer, asking for help, fills me with humility… It is hard. But I remind myself that the chair carrier could have actually enjoyed life, could have seen the promise of the rainbow, could have felt the rush of energy and adrenaline as he raced effortlessly down the grassy meadows, could have known the feel of a belly laugh if only he’d protected his time on earth by asking for help. He didn’t prove how strong he was… Instead, others either ignored or felt sorry for him. He carried the burden… But he lost a lifetime. Intimidating and frightening as science, fancy tests and doctors can be, the idea of being so weighed down with pain and concern that I fail to notice the flower growing in concrete is far more frightening.

Hope is found through the warmth of an embrace, in the caring call of a friend, in the feel of a hand in mine, in the knowledge and faith of God’s words. Hope is found through the collective prayer, through a sense of community and friendship. Hope is being part of the forest instead of an island. I believe tomorrow’s test will be cancer-free. I believe I will be here to see my daughters into adulthood. I believe.

The air is warm but not humid; a slight breeze comes in just often enough to make the heat bearable. The sun set a few hours ago, sometime between when we were playing on the Jungle Gym and standing in line for the hayride. Two bonfires are set up, around which multiple families have gathered with their paper plates of hot dogs and marshmallows and long, thin twigs. Children learn the art of roasting a perfect marshmallow–gooey and warm without being blackened by patient adults who delight in this experience as much as the children do. For once, our bare feet match the majority of those around us: most have long since abandoned their shoes in lieu of feeling the damp, dew moistened grass beneath their toes. Children scamper everywhere—in one corner, they are bouncing from one inflatable fun zone to the next, while in another, they are mastering the art of hula hooping with multiple hoops. The Beech Boys and Taylor Swift blare from loud speakers… Kids create new dance moves to the tunes. A handful of stars dot the night’s sky while a crescent moon and games of flashlight tag illuminate the festivities. Newfound friends laugh, develop secret plans and exchange phone numbers for after the morrow. Nearly three dozen tents have been pitched along the perimeter of the field–200 have registered for tonight’s campout. Fireflies sparkle and attempting to discover their exact location so as to catch them brings forth peels of laughter, from children and adults alike. Beneath all the fun, though, is the sound of relief… Of gratitude for having frozen a few hours of time, conviction that the memories of tonight, of time spent away from the computers, away from the table of bills, away from the phones, is worth it. Unheard by human ears, everyone hears and rejoices in the joy.. Children run from one tent to the next, and venture further away from parents than usual, assured by the silent symphony of peace that all is well. Adults relax, find excuses to say yes instead of no, offer to help one another pitch tents or watch a stranger’s child while the adult finishes setting up camp.

Hours later, my four young campers were asleep, cradled side by side with blankets and friendship. I, however, lay restless. I moved to sit outside our tent, stared up at the stars, thought again about how life is a balance: if we don’t take time to be serious, we end up living unstable and insecure lives; if we don’t take time to play, we risk failing to see why life is a beautiful thing. We have a lot of fun. We go places a lot. We laugh a lo. We play a lot. It’s been a top priority in my life to make certain my children know that I have time for them, and that I love them. But we don’t just laugh. Earlier in the day, my oldest daughter and I talked about how sometimes dreams are scary–she worried about sleeping near a bonfire and needed reassurance that the fires would be extinguished long before anyone laid down. My youngest is a “cuddle monster”–sometimes she needs to curl up and cuddle more than she needs to laugh. Fun balanced by tenderness and seriousness. I thought about all that. I made a wish on a star. In fact, I sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” even though all the children were asleep. I looked at the tents spread out around me and wondered about the lives of the people within them… What made them spend $30 pp on a camp out at the zoo? What brought about a whispered need for relaxation, for time spent playing cornhole and tag?

Still restless, I stretched and walked around the field. Our tent never left my vision, of course, it was after one in the morning. But I wanted to capture all images of the night, I felt a strong need to remember it, and to catalogue and index every word from the preceding, perfect day. Eventually, I made my way back to the tent. I crawled inside, slid between the sleeping bag and closed my eyes… Only to have them pop back open.

Insomnia… My constant companion… But rather than reaching for my iPad or phone, I laid perfectly still. That’s when I heard it. First, it was a long train. Once the train’s whistle stopped, the expected song of crickets piped in. Still, I laid perfectly still. Soon, a new scent seemed to fill my nostrils — this one of ground and summer. I waited. A moment longer, and there it was: the unmistakable cawing of some animal. I’m still not certain which animal it was—we weren’t far from the monkeys, maybe it was them. We weren’t far from the aviary—but it didn’t sound like a bird either. The elephants and giraffes were too far away, and go inside at night anyways. Maybe it was a wild animal, not one of the exhibits… An owl perhaps. I don’t know which animal it was but, when I heard it, joy filled my heart. Alert, I perked my ears up and listened attentively. I was trying to hear the sound of whatever animal it had been again but, instead, I heard the train whistle again, then the crickets… Then the rustling of grass as some other night owl walked around the field… And then there it was again—the animal noises. I smiled, relaxed, became alert again. Again, I heard other sounds, sounds of nature–wind, grass, crickets–mixed with sounds of man–a train, feet, what sounded like a tractor’s engine. Finally, the strange animal noise. Briefly, I thought about how, when it’s done right, man and nature can complement one another… It doesn’t have to be a competition between progress and simplicity. Sometimes the two can work together–the animals we were sleeping near are part of a zoo, but the crickets were not. The grass was not. The train was made by man but so predictable it was that soon its whistle became part of the night’s soundscape. I was struck by nature’s harmony that was underscored by the threads of peace and timelessness by which the day had been woven together.

Music has always done this to me. Seeped into my soul and created beauty even when reality was very challenging. Out of all the dozens of schools my sister and I attended, we only rode the bus once or twice. I remember those rides, though… Feeling alienated by groups of kids who seemed to have always known each other, I always sat in the first seat, leaned my face against the window pane and whispered Tanya Tucker tunes under my breath until we got home. Yes, I –was– different. After dressing every morning, I added required coats of shame, ugliness and “weirdness” to my skin. The extra weight made it hard for me to breathe, or move. Even if I wasn’t actually doing so, I usually felt like crying.

Except when writing or music pierced my armor of self-loathing. The comforts of writing shaped my life and dominated my dreams but music… Music was a luxury, music was a gift. I could not create music, so instead I was left to just enjoy it. I remember my mother’s love for the group Alabama—I grew up singing “Mountain Music” and “Song of the South.” When Achy Breaky Heart was released, we joined the craze and sang it as we walked to the grocery store. Tanya Tucker spoke to me… Her songs were stories, her voice wiser than her years, her rebellious behavior tempered by fierce devotion to family. If a song came on the radio whose lyrics I knew… I’d sing along and it did not matter who I was with. It made me feel carefree, it effortlessly submerged my heart in three minutes of fun or, with songs like, “How Can I Help You Say Goodbye” provided the words I needed to break the dam of tears. I’d sing, allowing myself the freedom to pretend to be a part of the story, to be the singer performing… To be lyrical and graceful, rhythmic and melodic… Beautiful. Music made me feel beautiful, soulful and accepted. Music took the stress away, even if only for three minutes at a time.

As I clutched a pillow to me and laid in the sleeping bag, listening to the nighttime sounds at the zoo, I remembered that sometimes the greatest song is that which plays when we’re quiet. Music exists in everyday—I don’t have to have a familiar beat. God has provided the melodies: rushing waterfalls, whispering wind, crickets and locusts, rustling grass. And at six in the morning, after those sounds lulled me to sleep, I woke to a different, natural melody: a family of birds chirping. I heard them because I was quiet. I heard them because I allowed myself to hear them. I heard them because I took the time to listen and to remember that, like all music, nature has a soothing, healing and welcoming rhythm. My heart was happy for it and I promised myself that no matter how lonely or stressful the return to normal life may be… I would take time to turn all the noise off and listen to the music.

One of our favorite children’s books of all time is “The Giving Tree.” My girls like reading the book because, when Breathe was an infant, I colored in all the black and white pictures. For some reason, this fact seems to matter–they bring it up at least twice whenever we read the book. I’m rather certain that all sorts of papers and even some treaties have already documented the book’s qualities but I can’t help but wonder if “hope” has yet been cited as one of the book’s timeless messages. Over the eight years we have been reading it, it’s offered me tenderness and laughter and insight into giving but tonight, when I’ve been in need of comfort, “The Giving Tree” comes to mind and, with it, an injection of hope and solace.

In the story, you’ll remember, the boy goes to the tree every time he is sad or lonely or in need. The inevitable conversation this sparks is on the nature of true friendship, and it’s a worthwhile conversation, but tonight I’m struck by the idea that, out of all the tree gave the boy, one of the most important was a sense of comfort. The tree, in essence, was the boy’s hiding place. He went there when he was lost, when the whole world stopped making sense, when the rain became a fearful downpour from which he needed to run instead of a refreshing reason to dance. It was his friend, it was his escape.

Most of my characters have such an outlet. Anna had Ash. The four orphans in unpublished “Pirates Cove” had a secret hideout in the middle of the woods. Abrielle, in “Me”, had art. Nick, in “Dreams of a Dancer”, had the sea while Nicole ran to dance. Landon had horses. And me… I have the characters, of course. And, oh how strong is the comfort they offer. Still… I can lose all my agonies out in the lives of fictional characters but, when I lay the pen down, the truth is I’m still staring at reality and the tears are both silent and invisible.

Yesterday, I had a doctor’s appointment at 1. I finally saw the doctor at 5. I’m awful at math, granted, but that’s a four hour wait. In a tiny exam room with no windows and no one to talk to. Solitude is a dangerous thing. By the time the doctor showed up, I was apprehensive, nervous and absolutely exhausted. When she asked if I had been writing, I unexpectedly broke down in tears. I don’t know this doctor on a personal level but she remembered I write–and she knew what I write about. I have no idea why she asked me a non-health related question. But, at the time, it felt like someone was trying to get to know me. It felt like someone cared. And it reminded me that that’s what a hiding place really is–that’s where the greatest amount of comfort comes from: the belief that we are in the presence of someone to whom listening is not a burden but rather a genuine reflection of their desire to understand… us. I’m quit sure that wasn’t actually my doctor’s intent. I’m sure it was just a “how are you today” type question—the kind that’s meant to be almost rhetorical. But it struck a nerve because it was exactly what I most needed.

Sometimes being strong is scary. Sometimes the world is colored gray no matter how optimistic I try to be. Sometimes medical tests yield troubling, rather than reassuring, answers. Sometimes they bring just more questions than you had to start out with. And sometimes daily routines exhaust rather than intrigue. I mastered the art of silent tears as a child. I mastered the art of smiling in the face of challenges. I learned how to view setbacks as detours rather than dead ends and, most of the time, an can swerve around them in order to avoid any collisions that might be traumatizing. I learned that, as long as my girls are happy and safe, there really isn’t much that can top everything, both as a child and as an adult, I’ve already survived: this lesson has produced a “it’s all okay” attitude in the face of obstacles. But then, sometimes, all the noise shakes me up and leaves me longing for more than a fictional world, longing for the comfort a warm embrace or heartfelt conversation could bring. I submerge myself in a garden hot tub with coconut and strawberry bath salts, light a few candles and extinguish the light; I pick up my pen and lose myself in writing a chapter or a blog post; and then at lay down, holding a soft blanket and try to soak in its gentleness. Mostly, it works. But every once in awhile I remember that human connection is the best hiding place because only fellow humans can understand our words, only human beings can share fear and joy, sorrow and triumph.

Joy shared is joy doubled, sorrow shared is sorrow halved. Only humans can see tears and help wipe them away. God created Eve for a purpose… Adam needed a human companion–even though he walked with God Almighty himself. Of course, as the book illustrates, we should not see friends as gift cards, or as counselors, but they exist for more than fun and games too. “The Giving Tree” reminded me tonight that tears don’t have to be invisible, that sharing isn’t selfish and that hope exists in every face we see: we just have to be willing to listen AND to share… We have to be willing to accept the gift… We can’t be in so much of a hurry to prove we’re strong or to get the promotion or to find a husband or to lose the weight that we allow the overwhelming stress to bury us. I’m sure I can indeed handle it myself. I’m sure indeed things will be better soon. I’m sure that, if I just work hard enough, I can do whatever I want to be and then achieve that all elusive American Dream. I’m sure I am capable of complete self-reliance. That strong tree in the yard, the one that looks invincible, will die too. Or get snapped in two by a single bolt of lightning. We are really as strong as how many hands we hold, by how many cherished friendships we protect with meaningful conversations, fun and weaknesses revealed. The hope is in realizing we don’t have to be strong all the time. The hope is in accepting the fact that sometimes we need to cry, to give ourselves permission to let all of life’s worst boulders knock soul racking sobs from us. It is honest. It is real. It is allowed.

I used to pretend that some of the particularly strong characters in my books–Landon, Clayton, Sully–came to talk to me and hug me when I laid alone shaking in a bed full of horrific memories. I was unable to fall asleep without their images, and their imaginary–but warm–hugs. They told me it was okay, assured me I wasn’t dying, offered me a safe place to cry. Even today, favorite characters often lull me to sleep. They are a hiding place. They are a saving grace. They matter–deeply. But, as wonderful as they are, as crucial as they are, they are sometimes limited. Sometimes what I most need is an attentive ear that doesn’t mind my rambling about a plot, or as I sing for an hour, or about how well the magical safari in the backyard went, or about frightening test results or about the baby I miss or the childhood memory that’s interfering with sleep tonight. And sometimes all I need is permission to cry rather than smile, a verbal reminder that all emotions are equal and accepted and won’t change the way I’m thought of. In the end, all the gifts the tree offered the boy became unimportant — except the gift of companionship, of acceptance and of love because these things offed the boy hope that life was still worthwhile and that the pain could be overcome, that there is a reason to get up tomorrow. Therein lies the magic of friendship and of “The Giving Tree.”

Tonight was a busy night at church: it was the rehearsal of next week’s awards ceremony. A ton of kids and adults were in one room, with the noise level kicked up a notch. In the midst of this noise, J, a student in the sixth grade, came in. She handed me a folded piece of paper. Without saying a word, she turned and left, before I was able to even open the folded piece of paper up. When I did, my heart melted. This was the beautiful sight that greeted me:

This marks the second time in as many weeks that J has added sunshine to my world. Recently, she came into my class with another sweet friend, O, and asked me for a hug. Hugs are important. Hugs tell us that we are important and that we matter. Hugs give us warmth. As big a fan as I am of words, hugs are stronger than words–hugs speak a thousand times louder than a voice. And she asked me for one. Then, tonight, she gives me a beautiful letter. While all three of her items touch me, the one that means the most to me, the one that added the most sunshine to my day is the last one, the number three one: “Just for being awesome.” Whenever someone feels the same way about me that I feel about her, joy bubbles up and out of me. You see, as “awesome” as J may think I am, I think she is even more so.

This is not your average young lady we’re talking about.

I first remember getting to know J when she took part in a class I taught at the church a couple years ago called Imaginations. There were, like, forty kids in the class, and J is a quiet sort of gem–she doesn’t talk much and yet she stood out for me. She worked hard, she followed instructions and when I asked her to help, she did so. I was later to discover that J doesn’t just work hard at church–she works hard at school too, maintaining As and Bs in her schoolwork. Meanwhile, I’ve watched how she interacts with her younger sister — she is a terrific role model, and a much loved one: her younger sister is in one of my current classes and talks often of her big sister. Playing an instrument, J is also quite talented as a musician. Her friends are always smiling and talking with her when she is near. And she is beautiful, too. I don’t know what she sees when she looks in the mirror–but what I see every time I see her is a shining beautiful young princess. She has some of the most awesome hair–it’s dark color used to be the exact shade I wanted mine. Her eyes sparkle when she is happy. And her smile is so sweet it lights up entire rooms. She’s also wise for her age: her mother discovered a note, written in text style, she’d written that encourages others to trust in Jesus’ love for them. And there are undoubtedly major gifts God has blessed her with that I don’t even know of. I hope she knows that kindness is a special gift she has that impacts lives and blesses others. Three times–the first at the conclusion of Imaginations when she asked me to read her a letter I’d written her, the second when she sweetly asked for a hug and the third tonight– she has touched my life, and enriched it. Indeed, above all her special talents, above all her beauty, there lies within J something even more amazing: her open and giving heart. This is what sets J apart, and what makes her shine like a most precious gem. You see, anyone can make good grades if they try hard enough. Lots of people can play instruments. Far fewer people, though, put themselves on the line in order to reach out to someone else. Far fewer people think to give others gifts: out of three classes this year and approximately 30 kids, J’s letter marks the third I’ve received all year. That makes her extraordinary.

You see, J didn’t just give me a letter tonight: she gave me the gift of words–she allowed me a glimpse into her thoughts. There is no gift sweeter or more precious than being granted access into someone else’s thoughts. That is what makes words so powerful—they give us the opportunity to be understood. I don’t know what I have done that made J think me worthy of the time and effort she put into this letter (the colors are awesome!) but the fact that she thought of me touches my heart. The idea that she sought me out, came to find me one week for no other reason than a hug and then brought me this sweet letter tonight matters to me. She made me believe that my presence every week makes a difference. She made me remember that, beyond the crafts, beyond the songs, lie a monumental reason for attending each week: the human connections that we form, those obvious ones with classmates and leaders but also those subtle ones, the connections that are formed simply by observing and BEING observed. Behind the fun games and activities is a tender and serious truth that binds us all: we are here to emulate Christ and to uplift those around us. We are here to care. We are here to hold hands and support. We are here to love and to draw each other closer. J does all of this consistently — she uplifts those around her and she’s brave enough to show affection for those she cares about. How lucky am I to be included among J’s list of people with whom she wishes to share a connection?

The thing about genuine and heartfelt gifts is that they keep on giving. She thought she was just making a card, a letter. In fact, though, I’ve put her letter in a place I’ll see it tomorrow. I’ll look at it and smile. I’ll look at it and think that, maybe, the youth of my church know how much I care about and love them, maybe my presence is important. I’ll look at the letter and think of God and of what a magnificent masterpiece He fashioned in J. I’ll look at it and its sweetness and beauty will color my whole day, adding a touch of hope and sunshine to my day. I’m not invincible — sometimes I feel discouraged and tired. Sometimes it is hard to imagine why God needs me at the church, or even wants me there. Old fears and insecurities, combined with all the modern day stress and smells of doubt still sometimes cloud my eyes. When they do, though, I have been given a gift of hope and the warmth of a hug from a young girl about whom I deeply care. How great a God I have for granting me the privilege and honor of working alongside this group of youth, who a full of pure hearts, bright smiles and kind natures. Thank you for your recent gifts, J… They are treasured. Ms. T is more and more proud of you every day, and my heart has a special place in it for you. Most of all, though, thank you for sharing yourself with me these past couple years, for allowing me to watch as you grow and for being awesome you!

Last night was the last full night of PRIMS, a program I teach at church.  If you are not familiar with this, it is similar in concept to the Girl Scouts:  it’s a Christian-oriented club for girls that’s under the Missionette umbrella.  We have sleepovers, we go on field trips, we do community service projects. It’s purpose is to encourage fellowship in girls while also teaching them fundamentals of Christianity, and how it connects to everyday life.  For completing units, girls earn badges, pins, and other rewards.  I have been teaching this program for a couple of years now and I just cannot stress enough how ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC it is, or how much I believe in it.  It really does change the lives of the girls, establish friendships that last for years and it also changes the lives of the leaders.  I know, at least, it has for me.   Last night, my heart simply overfilled with love and gratitude for my group of girls, half of whom are “graduating” from the two year PRIM program and moving up to STARS, and for the amazing grace of God that has allowed me to be a part of this program, and these girls’ lives.

I never have had many friends.  Growing up, I had none.  Part of that was because we moved more than any nomadic tribe ever did.  Part of that was because I have serious, deeply rooted issues with trust and intimacy.  I fail to understand why in the world anyone would want to remain my friend — and I question it so seriously that I am convinced the only intelligent thing for others to do would be to walk away, should they ever get to know the “real me”.  So I simply build nearly impenetrable walls and deny others access to the deepest parts of myself.  Being alone by choice is, after all, better than being left.  But, still… I remember watching my younger sister,  who has always been able to make friends much easier than I, and wishing I was more like her, wishing I knew what it felt like to be “normal,”  to have others as friends.   The irony is… I LOVE people.  I think the human being is God’s Monet, only ten thousand times better.  The compassion and strength humans are capable of displaying blow my mind.  How people can endure the kind of hardships they do and still come out believing in the point of living is really… Just mind boggling.  I really love people.  I care very deeply about them.  So I’m generally quite friendly and engaging.  Sincerely so (at least until you try to dig past the ready cheerfulness).  My point is, I’ve always been much more of a private and guarded person than I appear to be–and that has left me alienated from much of the human race.

I think about all of that and then I think about the girls in my PRIMS class and how some of them have shared a Missionettes class since Kindergarten.  Last night, we made autograph posters for each other and the girls wrote messages on everybody’s poster.  I was struck by how much they seemed to know about each other…  ”you are so smart,” “I hope you have a good life in KY,” “You are a great artist!”, “You are so silly!”  These were a few of the poster messages the first and second grade girls wrote to each other.  We’ve watched girls suffer badly through the year with uncontrollable illnesses, we’ve talked about the bullies they have dealt with at school and looked up Bible verses to give them courage and encouragement, we’ve seen them come in praying that their grandmother will start coming to church, we’ve seen them lose their first tooth, we’ve seen them move into new homes after crisis, we’ve seen them welcome baby siblings, we’ve seen them baptized,  we’ve discovered through some of our community service projects that a few of them have a heart for the elderly, while some can always be depended on to help others learn the memory verses.    These girls share more than classmates–they have grown together,  they have shared their hearts with each other, they have grown stronger in their faith because they have had a place to grow it.   And, most of all, we have felt the presence of the living God.  At Easter, He moved them to tears, at the sleepovers, sweet, young hearts followed His voice and gave their hearts to Him.  And we’ve encouraged one another, we’ve hugged one another, we’ve laughed, we’ve healed and we’ve made it through another year together.

 
The girls aren’t the only ones who have learned valuable lessons, though.  Our unit on Health deeply moved me.  One night, during the lesson, I asked them to do an affirmation for themselves. As they took turns doing so,  it dawned on me that what I was telling these beautiful girls WAS TRUE.:  we ARE made in the image of God Himself, and we are made in His image without a single drip of make up.  We are made in His image if we’re tan or pale as a ghost.  We’re made in His image whether we’re ninety pounds or two hundred and ninety.  We’re made in His image whether we have hair like Rapunzel’s or purple and pink striped hair.  We’re made in God’s image and God is beautiful–more than the stars, more than any person on earth. And His mercy and blood keep us pure.  Therefore, we can’t be that bad.  We can’t be that ugly.  I was supposed to be teaching my group of 12 girls–but I had learned alongside them that night.  I’ve learned re subtle lessons too.  I’ve learned that not everybody leaves when they find out you’re not perfect.  I’ve learned that it’s okay to admit when you’re wrong or have made a mistake because the people who really care about you won’t use it as an excuse to shame you.  I can’t even tell you how many Wednesday nights I’ve gone to church to teach and had a kid hug me or tell me they thought of what I said sometime during the week, or been super excited because she finally knew the memory verse and, as a result, I walked out of the church uplifted, refreshed, touched by grace and with a more complete understanding of what friendship is all about.

When my girls were born, I decided that we would go to church every week, no matter what.  I decided this because my own childhood had taught me that socialization skills are definitely NOT innate– they must be taught.  And being strong but alone is a really hard road to walk.  As a result, they have made what I hope are lifelong friendships, with the adults who have acted as their leaders and with their fellow children, with whom they roam our huge campus barefoot, cartwheel at midnight during sleepovers and bow their heads in collective prayer for one another as they continue to mature into beautiful, strong, compassionate, intelligent, Godly friends.  That’s what friendship is about–supporting, guiding, laughing, crying and trusting.  I’ve been with this group of girls for two years so far, and will be moving up to lead their STARS class in the fall.  I’ve watched them, and I have seen God in them.  What greater honor, what greater privilege is there than to count myself as a part of them.  They have given me hugs, they have drawn me gifts, they have trusted me with their secrets, they have allowed me to share in their joy.  But I can only hope they know that their love is returned full-fold.  I can only hope they know that they delight me, and that their unique personalities are what has made our group so special.  I hope they can feel that their lives matter to me and that I am sooooo proud of them–not because they’ve made awesome crafts, not because they know their motto and their pledge, not because they can recite the memory verses but, quite simply, I love them because they are each special treasures, beautiful and shining lights that have lit my heart and enriched my life.  I am proud of them because they are caring and compassionate, sweet and innocent, full of hope and overflowing with joy.   They have each put their handprints on my heart.

The greatest lessons we ever learn are the ones we learn when we least expect it.  I came in a teacher and am ending the year feeling quite humbled and as much a student as they.  It is how every year in this club leaves me feeling because it isn’t about me:  it’s about standing amazed in the ever bright and awe-inspiring light of God.   This Fall, we will leave PRIMS behind and enter STARS–I cannot wait to see how much brighter that light gets and discover the growth another summer unearths in each of you!

Half of my group, taken during the church sleepover.

When my oldest daughter was born,  I remember the night I sat in the rocker with her, rocking her to sleep, thinking,  “I want her to remember I sang to her.”    Anybody can sing  “Twinkle,   Twinkle Little Star” and  “Jesus Loves Me”,  so I wanted something different, something “special” that she would remember as hers.  That night, as I rocked, I came up with a simple little lullaby and sang it to her.  I sang it over and over and over so that I would remember the words the next day when I rocked her.  It wasn’t an award-winning lullaby,   it was actually quite simple.  But it was special to me.  When my second daughter was born, I did the same thing for her—I created a spontaneous lullaby that I’ve sung to her all her life.    Today,  I played with them.  I took them swimming and watched as they splashed around in their awesome new mermaid tails.  All day, an overwhelming sense of tenderness has shadowed me.  I’ve hummed the two made-up lullabies all day, and I sang them tonight.    The small songs have turned my thoughts towards lullabies in general… I started thinking more about what a lullaby is, and what it means.  In my mind, a lullaby is a special song designed to bring rest, solace and peace… things which ultimately bring confidence and strength.  In my mind, a lullaby is more than just a sleep-time song,  it’s a tender melody that whispers  “you are precious.”    It nourishes our hearts and souls.  It’s a hug.   Lullabies set apart a piece of time,  devote it to tenderness and cuddles, prayers and kisses.  Lullabies bring up visions of mothers holding babies,  of little children running through wildflowers straight into their mother’s waiting arms, of mothers who are tired finding one more smile for the child who wants to her the page just colored.   Perhaps the gifts of lullabies are so pronounced in my life because a lullaby has been the soundtrack to my entire life.

My mother used to anoint the door of my bedroom with oil.  She’d pray over it, then come into my room, give me a kiss while she thought I was asleep and pray.   At the time, I didn’t understand half of what she said but I felt her warmth.  I felt her gather me close to her.  She would put her hand gently on my hair,  she would kiss my forehead.   She would cover me up if the blankets had gone askew.   Her nighttime ritual was a lullaby.   And just like a song can have meaning,  her oil, prayers and nighttime hugs did more than comfort a child–it taught me that she really loved me.   It made me believe that, no matter what terrible things might have been happening, I was a priority because she took the time to pray over me and to cuddle me–even when I was asleep and unawares.   The realization that I mattered, and that I was a priority, was especially monumental and life-altering for me–it was a lullaby that probably saved my life.

You see…

People have called me strong for as long as I can remember.   And maybe I am strong.  But strength isn’t innate–strength is an acquired characteristic.  In order to get it, one must endure trials and war.   Strength comes from facing real life nightmares with eyes wide open.  There was nothing right with me… I was fat, then I was too skinny.    My face had acne.  I had braces for what felt like decades.   If I was quiet, then I was sulking.  If I talked, I was demanding attention.   I was either totally ignored or violated.  Most of the time, I was a nuisance.  To everyone except my sister and Mama.   My sister and I have always been friends and have shared a unique bond that was borne from understanding and from sharing the same unstable childhood environment.  And we were held together by a mother who constantly sang lullabies.  Like a songbird,  whenever we were hurt,  even if she didn’t know why we hurt,  she not only knew it but she knew how to make it better.   In her own quiet way, she’d come in and whisper a soft lullaby, the one whose words were only,  “You are special, you are beautiful, you are mine”,  while she applied a soothing mix of tenderness and wisdom to our wounds, be they from a bully at school or home.  When my heart was absolutely broken for the first time, she comforted me.  When the bully from school threw a page of my book into the garbage, she spent the night getting excited as she helped me work out the details of the plot.  When my teacher hurt my feelings,  she was there.   When I made a mistake, she reprimanded me, then moved close to my side again.   She reminds me of my dreams if I forget them.  She knows with one look at my face when I’m in need of a serious break.   She is a wonderful listener—-she gets excited when I am excited, she gets mad at the injustice of the world when I am sad.  When I started missing  my great-grandmother,  to whom I was very close before she died, she found me a picture of her.   One night, she sang a song that my great-grandmother had loved… “Gathering Flowers” and, years later,  when we found the song on iTunes on my birthday, she cried.   She helped me with my math.    She’s taken the time to read my books,  her heart overflows with love for my daughters.   Her own dreams, she put on hold so that she could help me and my sister achieve ours.  She taught us that money is not the answer to life.  God, and family, are.  My whole life,  she, my sister and I have been the “Three Musketeers,”  and we share memories and bonds unlike anyone else’s.    For, so far, thirty-one years, her lullaby has been a steady source of stability and comfort for my life.   Without the sweet lullaby she’s always sung,  I probably would have given up the writing.  I would have remained trapped in a war of silence and shame and horrific pain.  People praise my strength but, without Mama’s lullaby, a softly spoken but consistent message of love and hope,  I wouldn’t have had any way of believing in myself.   I wouldn’t have had an example of how to constructively handle extreme pain and opposition.

Mama’s family never supported her.   The only person who ever sang a lullaby to my mother was her grandmother.   Everyone else criticized, demeaned and otherwise alienated her.   Yet, to my sister and I, she was a vision of hope and faith.   She prayed all the time.  She noticed the small things in life.  She wasn’t bitter or resentful.  And she never gave up… she never stopped trying to provide my sister and I with all she never had.   She never stopped singing  the “You are special, you are beautiful, you are mine” lullaby we heard in her words and felt in her actions.  As a result,  despite all the chaos,  physical, mental and sexual pain that cut like a knife in my life,  I never doubted that my mother loved me.  I believed it because I felt it.  You see,  the seed won’t grow into a beautiful rose unless it’s given water and sunshine.  Without those ingredients, it will remain a plain, ordinary brown seed.   Without enough food,  the caterpillar can’t change into a butterfly.   Without heat,  chicks cannot hatch from the egg.   In order for anything beautiful to blossom, it must be cared for and loved.  There are many, many blonde haired, blue-eyed, precious little girls who are trapped in a bedroom tonight without a mama to come and kiss them while they sleep.   There are many, many blonde-haired, blue-eyed little girls who will have their innocence shattered tonight without a mama to hug them in the morning.  There are many, many beautiful children who will get up tomorrow and go to school, then come home with nothing to eat and also no one to talk to.   My mama always kissed me at night.  She always hugged me in the morning.  Even when there wasn’t much to eat, she would talk to me.  And she always told me I was beautiful, even when I wasn’t.   Maybe I have blossomed by now into a strong tree.  Maybe the rose has sprouted, and will bloom.  But only because  it was cared for.   Only because it was sang to.  Only because it was taught to believe in itself even if no one else did.

I write a good amount about the stark and degrading pain I felt growing up.  I write about it for a number of reasons… one,  I was taught to believe that God is good and that He can take something horrible and transform it into something good but that, in order for Him to do it,  I have to do my part… in order for someone to feel understood, in order for someone to take comfort from knowing she’s not alone…. survivors have to speak out.   I also write about it because, frankly, I’ve got work to do… I’m not one hundred percent healed.  I still have nightmares.  I still have intimacy issues (still trying to find the courage…).   Writing helps me process and resolve those fears.  Three… it was my life and Mama taught me that all life is valuable and worthwhile.  I’m trying to believe that that applies to me as well.  So,  I write about the pain.  But there was much more to my childhood than that.   Mama sang songs with us all the time.   We quoted movie lines all the time  (“Get off my BENCH!”,   “Daddy!  It’s time!”).  We camped out for Fan Fair.   We made up games for the car rides.  We played cards.  Mostly, we learned to believe in each other,  in the power of affection and in a wonderful God that holds our hands and never leaves our side.  Whatever good there is in me came because I had a mama who loved me, and who loves me still.    A kite cannot sail without wind.    A bird cannot fly without wings.  Mama’s the one who has the real strength, she’s the one who stands in the shadows, overwhelmed by pride when I do well and ready to catch me when I stumble.   She’s the wind beneath my wings that sends me high.  I have no idea who I would be without her influence, without her prayer and without her hugs.  I have no idea  to whom I would have talked, or to what lengths I might have gone to feel loved, without her.  Her lullaby comforts me even today.

Children provide light to the world but good parents, loving parents, provide the match.   I am filled awe as I think about all the amazing challenges Mama handled alone, and how well she did it.  I am humbled by all she sacrificed for my benefit.   Mostly, though, I’m deeply moved and touched and grateful that my life has a sweet and soft lullaby of hope and love by which I continually gain confidence and comfort.  As I sing the lullabies I created for my daughters tonight,  my thoughts are with Mama as I revel in the glow of all I’ve gained from Mama’s sweet lullaby.

There’s a fella I want to spend some time recognizing tonight.

His name is Art.  He works the morning/afternoon shift at the local Shell station near our house.  He is a gem.  When we moved here,  I was in a not-very-good shape of mind.  I was sad, and listing five things for my gratitude journal every day was a challenge.  One blustery, gray morning,  we stopped there to fill up.   We’ve lived near this neighborhood before but I can’t recall ever using this particular gas station.  It was morning when we walked in.  An older, gray haired man with slumped shoulders stood behind the counter, looking rather ordinary (don’t the really good people ALWAYS look ordinary?) except his mouth.  He wasn’t really smiling, but then again, he kind of was.  Frankly, at first, I didn’t notice much about him.  I just wanted to pay for my gas and get out without buying the girls something sugary.    Then, he said,  “How you doin’  this fine night, young lady?”  At first, I thought it was a slip on his part—-he KNEW it was only, like, nine o clock in the :morning:.  He knew it wasn’t nighttime.  He just slipped.  But he didn’t.  Although he still wasn’t actively smiling, I noticed his eyes twinkled.  I laughed and nodded.   “I’m alright.”
“Good,”  he replied, then asked, looking down at the register,  “And what flavor would you like tonight?”   Me, laughing:  “Regular, please, number 12.”  He looked up and winked.  “Fast learner.”   I was still smiling and shaking my head as we walked out.   That was some time ago.  Every time since Art has been unfailing full of bland humor and the twinkle in his eye when I see him.  Today,  we stopped around dinner time, again to fill up.   Feeling stronger,  and armed with the knowledge of how Art operates,  I smiled as I approached the counter.   “Good morning, Art.”   Straight faced, he replied,  “Still mighty early, ain’t it?”   When I laughed, he said,  “You’d hear about the pregnant woman who was in a very bad car wreck?”   I shook my head, frowning.  He nodded, looking down at the register.  “Yeah.   She was in a coma but went into active labor.   This was about three months ago, I guess.”   Me:  “Oh, goodness.  Was the baby okay?”    Art nodded:  “Well, when she woke up, the first thing she asked the doctor was that, was if her baby was okay.  The doctor said, ‘You had twins.  Both babies are okay but… well, your husband… he died in the wreck.  The woman tried to make sense of that and then asked about the babies again.  The doctor nodded, ‘They’re both fine.  Your brother named them for you, though, since it has been three months.  The woman said,  ‘Oh no.  My brother don’t have a living cell in his brain.  What did he name my kids?’   The doctor said,  “Well, he named the little girl Denise.”   The  woman thought,  ‘Denise.  Okay.  That’s not too bad.  What about the other baby?”  The doctor said,  ‘He named the boy  ‘Da-Nephew.”     I laughed appreciatively.  He waved me on, telling me to go away so he could ring up the next lucky customer.    I walked to the door but Joey came to mind.  Joey hung out at gas stations too, and I lost him because I failed to say what I wanted to say when I wanted to say it.  So I turned back around, armed with my phone’s camera.  “Hey, Art…”  I said, and he looked up.  “Thank you for always making me laugh.”  He winked.  “Have a great morning.”

Number one, I don’t really like jokes.  I don’t know any and I’m always half confused.   Jokes generally are not the way to convince me of your everlasting charm or intelligence, no matter how good the joke may be.  Art’s joke … shrug… sure, it was funny in a off-beat kind of way but his humor has done more for me since moving here than make me chuckle.  Art is a little bit of sunshine in human form.  He works the cash register of a gas station.  I know he has troubles.  I know that sometimes six a.m., when he has to be at work, comes early and he’d rather not be cheerful.  I’m sure there are people in his life who have medical concerns, or financial worries or a half dozen other issues that could dampen his spirit.  But, somehow,  it doesn’t.  He has —never— been anything but humorous and kind to me.  See, for me, optimism is something that, honestly, I have to work at.   I want to be positive and optimistic.  And so I deliberately, consciously make myself be that way, even when I don’t want to.  My philosophy has always been that if I smile, even if I don’t want to, eventually, I will start to feel some of the joy that I’m pretending belongs to me.  Self-fulfilling prophecy, basically… if I want to be happy,  and I make everyone else believe I’m happy, then, eventually, I WILL be that way.   That’s my philosophy and I’ve held to it because,  most of the time, it works.  But it’s a struggle.    Sometimes it feels like a lie, especially when I want most is to curl up under the covers and disappear.  I used to think there was something wrong with me because I didn’t seem to  feel so genuinely happy most of the time.  When someone I loved told me I was broken… well,  it made sense, it was easy to believe, because I didn’t feel things the way most people seemed to feel them…. I either felt them TOO DEEPLY or I was numbed when I  “should have”  felt happy or joyful or excited or angry.  I’m good at pretending to feel carefree and optimistic.  But it isn’t natural for me.   It seems like it is for Art.   He could come to work every morning and do nothing but mumble the total of my purchases.  I would think nothing of it.  Half the gas station sales clerks do that all day, every day.  Art could come to work andexist.  Instead, he comes to work and chooses to make the most of his time there—he chooses to interact and engage the people he sees and he chooses to do so by making them smile and laugh.  As a result, people like me leave the gas station having filled up with more than gasoline… we’re filled with just that much more sunshine and joy.  We’re filled with that much more hope and belief in humankind.

And the thing is…

Art is not the first angel I’ve met at a gas station.  Joey was a bonafide, come-from-heaven kind of angel who hung around gas stations disguised as a homeless man.  I’ve written about him before.  Then there was the young college student who worked at the same station Joey haunted.   I don’t know her name but, one day, as she was cashing me out, she said,  “It’s always so good to see you… you’re always smiling and so friendly.”   Because I had never really noticed her before, and because she had no reason to say that if she didn’t really think it,  I believed her. I’ve never forgotten that a stranger thought I was consistently friendly and engaging.  I should have remembered her name.   I should have somehow suggested becoming friends outside of the gas station.  I should have… but I didn’t.  And it probably had nothing to do with her and everything to do with how I viewed gas stations in general.

My daughters, eight and five, love to help me pump gas.  They think they are super cool as they stand holding the pump into the tank.  I remember being a young teenager and thinking the same thing as I pumped gas by myself for the first time.  When you’re little,  anything that has to do with cars is exciting—going through the wash, pumping gas, running inside to buy a stick of gum.  But then, after your, you know, hundredth time pumping gas…. well, it starts to lose it’s novelty.  Slowly, day by day, it becomes a chore—if you don’t do it, your car won’t go anywhere.  It might even quit on you while you’re driving.  You must have gas.  So you stop to get some… but you’re there for the gas, not to socialize.  You’ve stopped because you need something, but you’re in a hurry, your mind is on where you should be, where you’re going,  and whether or not you’re going to be late.  These days, you might stare in horror at the pump as it eats away your cash much faster than it once did.  Whatever you’re thinking about, it probably isn’t:  Who am I going to meet behind the counter inside?    Whatever you’re thinking, it probably isn’t excitement about the possibility of making a friend or of having your life’s perspective changed by a gas station attendant.  I know because, too often, I still think those same bland things about gasoline.  But the thing is…  that gas station attendee is a human being.   The person in line in front of and behind you is a human being too.  And wherever there are human beings, there are stories…. beautiful ones, sad ones, tragic ones.   Have you ever been stopped at a light and looked at the driver of the car beside you, only to think:  “I wonder what s/he’s thinking,  where s/he’s going.”  Maybe they were bobbing their heads to a song or talking on the phone and you wondered briefly what their conversation was about, what song made them feel the need to sing along.   Sometimes, you realized, you sing along to the radio in the car too.  You talk on the phone too.  You’ve probably had a similar conversation while driving that that person’s having right beside you right now.

Because we’re all connected.  We’re all made of the same stuff—-bones and blood, nerves and tissue, heart and soul.  We all shared the planet during the last twenty four hours.  Time moves too fast for all of us.  We can rush through it,  we can overlook treasures we see every day like Art and Joey in lieu of progress, we can attack our jobs with barely concealed resentment like most of the gas station attendants I run across.  Or we can remember that caring for each other,  getting to know each other,  seeing each other is what matters.  I have a bank card, I could easily avoid going into the gas station every day.  I could stand outside, pump my gasoline in silence,  play on my phone so I could avoid thinking while my tank filled up.  I wouldn’t have to wait in line that way, I wouldn’t have to overhear snippets of conversations that don’t concern me,  I couldn’t be “held up” to indulge an older attendant’s joke.  I could exist in the isolation,  I could achieve a little bit more productivity by alienating those around me in lieu of all I can accomplish on the phone in 2 minutes.  Paying at the pump probably is more efficient and convenient.  I could exist.  But then I would not have such a simple and yet profound reason to feel a genuine smile either.  I wouldn’t know about Art’s fondness of switching day and night, or of telling jokes.  I wouldn’t have noticed that someone walks around with the corners of his mouth naturally tilted upward—a sign that he’s smiled a lot in his laugh.  I can use time as a crutch:  “I’m late, I gotta go, can’t talk.”   But, if I do that,  how much longer will it take my heart to feel lighter, how much longer will it take for peace to settle in, than if I allowed a stranger to touch my life?   Our lives are not limited to the people we know intimately.   Our lives are not limited to the people we work with, or to our families, or to our neighbors.   How many faces do you see each day?   How many conversations do you have with people you don’t know?  Each of those faces, each of those conversations, no matter how brief, present an opportunity for hope, a chance to lay claim to a little bit of joy.  Interacting with each other may take a few extra minutes out of our day… but it makes us richer in compassion, empathy and emotional well-being.

I tried to take a picture of Art today.   I asked him if I could.  He laughed and shook his head.  He said he wouldn’t his own boy take a picture of him.   His response made me think of my English teacher, Stackhouse.   Stackhouse changed my life, and his hatred of the camera was legendary.  Art impacts my life in happy ways, through our short and animated conversations in which morning is night and night is morning.  Art helps me leave the gas station armed with a little bit of optimism that isn’t a charade.  He  helps me genuinely believe in the overall kindness and decency of people.   I don’t know him.  I don’t know his flaws.  I don’t know his troubles.  But I know that he’s beautiful and that his sense of joy and humor has helped me find peace and comfort during a trying time.  On the days when I’ve stopped at the station and he’s not been there… I’ve felt a loss from having missed the chance to see his eyes twinkle and his permanent, funny looking half smile.   He, and Joey and the college student girl,  are all excellent reasons for why I almost never pay at the pump.  I choose instead to go inside the gas station because I know that ordinary treasures await me there.

from promisetosmile.blogspot.com

I’ve decided I’m going to share a secret.

I’m not a woman.

No.  I’m a mom.    And teacher.   And, by the ever increasing grace of God, a writer.  Mostly, though, I’m a mom.  A very, very BUSY mom.   I homeschool, which means that I’m with my girls 24/7.   I cook,   I clean,  I act as referee.   Every night, I come up with the next day’s “schedule.”  It’s not set in stone but it makes sure that we use the most of every hour in every day.    Some people think it’s easy for me to come up with unique ideas to keep the girls occupied.  Sometimes it is.  Sometimes it’s really hard.  Being a mom means that, when I go to the playgrounds,  I play.    The mother of a child I mentored once told me that she wasn’t sure who got the dirtiest during our outings–her five year old son, or me.  One of our favorite things to do is enjoy Picasso Days, where we dress in swimsuits and basically paint our entire bodies.  I make a fool of myself on a regular basis because it makes them laugh.  And when I’m not dancing around like a chicken with her head cut off,  I’m more interested in what’s going on in the recesses of my eight year old daughter’s mind than I am in … pretty much anything else.  In short, my world evolves around children.  Entirely.  Which is exactly how I want it.

…

Until I see other women.

Now, don’t get me wrong.   I  KNOW that they’re stressed out, even if they don’t look it.  I  KNOW that they really aren’t endowed with magic powers that makes them beautifully feminine and Supermom at the same time.  I also KNOW that it’s ridiculous to compare myself with people who are undoubtedly comparing THEMselves to someone else.  I don’t have any secret desire to be one of them because their lives don’t include my girls, or the children with whom I work, and I wouldn’t trade the children in my world for anything at all.  Truly.  When I am surrounded by happy children,  my heart sings.  When I am able to embrace a hurting one and believe that my hug makes a positive difference…. I feel God Himself smiling down on me.  Not even writing compares to the joy I take from trumpeting around the house like an elephant, or in having great sleepovers or in listening as one of the children I work with tells me about problems she’s having with a school bully.  There is no doubt in my mind that I would not be the person I am today, I would not be fulfilled or happy, without the innocence and the joy and the sheer precious-ness of children.  They are why I am here.   Also, as mentioned above, I already know that looks can be deceptive and that even the most feminine woman on the planet has complicated issues beneath the surface, probably ones I wouldn’t handle so well.   So, I don’t see other women and think,  “Man, I wish I was her.”  Sometimes, though, I do see other women and think,  “Man,  I wonder what it feels like to feel … pretty, feminine, womanly.”    In my world, most of the time, I feel clumsy, awkward and inept.  Unless you’re under three feet tall, I’m not fun to be around.  I may appear to have it all together, as I have been told, but all you have to do to shatter that illusion islook… at my totally messed up feet or the paint that can, on any given day, be found somewhere on my body.  I laugh a lot.  I smile a lot.  But I do so because I’m usually in a leading position.  I’m usually teaching, or mentoring, or being Mommy or speaking at a conference.  Leaders have a knack for appearing strong and confident.  And I totally am those things.   But…

Here’s the truth.

I dream of being asked to dance in the rain.  Sometimes I read Judith McNaught or Elizabeth Lowell or even some of my own books just so I can pretend someone thinks I’m a princess too.  Even though I understand that it’s not really “real”,  the dream-like dates on shows such as “The Bachelor” make me sigh.  Tell you the truth, I don’t dream much of physical intimacy, not the type most adults do.  I don’t know how.  But I DO dream of being held.   Hugs mean something to me.   Real ones, the kind that makes you feel enveloped in warmth,  the kind that seems to speak words of reassurance and comfort.  I do dream of those type of hugs, stubbornly holding to the belief that they aren’t just things of fairy tales.   The idea that someone might care enough to overlook the “broken glass” that surrounds much of my heart, or might actually want to know what’s behind the smile without any ulterior motives…  that appeals to me.  Survival breeds strength… when you survive tragedy of any kind, you inevitably come out stronger.  You pick up the pieces and you move on.  Despite what many think,  I am actually quite strong—and it’s a trait I generally like about myself.  In my world, though, strength has almost always equaled loneliness.  See… God created women not to be a female version of Hercules but to be delicate and tender.  I’ve fought most of my life to hold on to those characteristics in myself…   undoubtedly, I have walls.  Thick, heavy, TALL walls that are hard to climb.  Looking into the depths of my heart is not a pleasant thing to do and I know it, so I have a tendency to assume that no one even wants to.  Too often, I fail to give people the benefit of the doubt.  Marilyn Monroe once said that a wise girl leaves before she is left…. It’s better to be alone by choice than to be alone because no one wants you.  You see… people look up to me.  I know that sounds arrogant and self-righteous, and I wish it didn’t, but it’s the truth.  They do.  They want me to lead, they want me to teach, they want me to write, they want me to speak.  They admire me.  But all of the things that they seek are just behaviors…. behaviors that anyone, anywhere, could do themselves if they would but try.  It isn’t hard to find ideas for children.  It just takes a little time.  It isn’t hard to write.  All you gotta do is jot down the thoughts you have in a day.  It isn’t hard to speak in front of hundreds of people…. not if you’re speaking on a subject about which you truly care.   It really isn’t hard to do the things I do.  People admire and respect the things I do.  Do you know I do those things because I have an intense fear of being forgotten?    They don’t want me.

And, on normal days, when I’m lounging around the house or covered up to my elbows in mud…. I can’t say as I really blame them.  I don’t know if I’d take the time to try and know me either.   But…

What comes to mind right now is a group of girls I teach at church every Wednesday night.  Recently, we completed a unit on Health.  During the unit, we talked about how we take care of our bodies, and why.  We talked about how our bodies are temples for the living God.  I asked them why they thought God would want to be their friend… I was trying to coax affirmations from them.  Without intending to, I said,  “You know…  God sees the things we do wrong.  He sees the dirt.  But, unlike the people around us, He sees something else.   He sees the edge of something sparkly and glittery lying beneath the dirt.  Like an excavator, He wants to get to the glittery, sparkly part of us.  He wants to get to the pure part… so, when everyone else might just cast us off as sinful or bad,  He digs through the dirt, pushing it away, until He reaches the beautiful part of us.  And then He polishes it and makes it shine so brightly that others start to notice it too.”   Talking to the girls, my own eyes filled with tears.  It made me remember that crying is okay.  It made me remember that  it isn’t betraying my daughters to sometimes long for a heartfelt and meaningful adult conversation.  It doesn’t make me less to need a real hug from someone who wants more from me than something physical.  Longing to see someone’s eyes light up when they talk to me doesn’t make me selfish, it makes me human.  Seeing other women and then wishing I was pretty too doesn’t make me weak.  Being feminine doesn’t mean being weak, it means reveling in being the creature I was meant to be.

A woman is a beautiful thing.   She’s gentle and nurturing,  smaller and more delicate.   Words can make her melt faster than a hundred touches.   She wants to be playful and carefree, but can’t ignore the seriousness of her thoughts or the cries of her heart to take action.   She’s a provider, but she needs support.   She’s stronger than steel, but she needs a safe place to cry.   Dolly Parton has a song that comes to mind that says it all perfectly.

She’s been there, God knows, she’s been there
She has seen and done it all
She’s a woman, she know how to
Dish it out or take it all
Her heart’s as soft as feathers
Still she weathers stormy skies
And she’s a sparrow when she’s broken
But she’s an eagle when she flies

A kaleidoscope of colors
You can toss her around and round
You can keep her in you vision
But you’ll never keep her down
She’s a lover, she’s a mother
She’s a friend and she’s a wife
And she’s a sparrow when she’s broken
But she’s an eagle when she flies

Gentle as the sweet magnolia
Strong as steel, her faith and pride
She’s an everlasting shoulder
She’s the leaning post of life
She hurts deep and when she weeps
She’s just as fragile as a child
And she’s a sparrow when she’s broken
But she’s an eagle when she flies

She’s a sparrow when she’s broken
But she’s an eagle when she flies
Oh, bless her, Lord
She’s an eagle when she flies

(lyrics and song by Dolly Parton)

Today, a lady I don’t really know asked me for my autograph.  It reminded me that God’s dream for my writing has come true— even if I still sometimes feel like I’m running in place.   My daughters were laughing hysterically before bed.  And my eldest and I talked for a long time today about the stories SHE writes.  They are healthy, safe and happy.  I want them to grow up believing in themselves.  I want them to grow up taking pride in who they are, and knowing that they are remarkable creatures.  In order for that to happen, though, they must see me embracing the same truths about myself.

And so I’ll try not to feel guilty if I open up a book and delight in the trials and triumphs of a fictional couple’s romance.  I’ll try not to feel ridiculous if I still grab the nearest pillow to hug at night.  I’ll try to remember that God sees something sparkly and glittery somewhere in ME too… He must, as He’s been granting me the deepest desires of my heart for eight years now.    I’ll try to remember to give myself permission to embrace instead of apologize for the sentimental and emotional side of me.   And,  I’ll dream.

When I was growing up, there was one question I hated, one question that always seemed to put me on the spot like none other:  “Where you from?”    What that question really asks is  “Where did you grow up?   Which city has a little bit of your DNA carved into it somewhere?   Where have you lived most of your life?”  Where are you from?  is a question that asks where someone’s roots were planted.  The answer is supposed to be easy,  it’s not supposed to require much thought.  I mean, everybody knows where home is.

Unless, of course, you’re me.  If you’re me or my sister, you spent most of your childhood in the backseat of a car, usually on the interstate.   The hum of a car engine and eighteen wheelers, a lullaby.  If you’re me, you had far too many homes to count or to remember.  Nothing was permanent,  the knowledge that all was temporary was engrained into your soul so much that when you were awakened in the middle of the night to start riding to some new, unknown destination…. THAT felt normal.   The ground in over half the states and in three countries have known my footprints.   Too many cities to count and backward small towns to enumerate… or to even remember.  If you’re me, the question,  “where are you from?”  always stumps you.  How do you answer?  Do you tell them the name of the last city you lived in for a month?  Or maybe the name of the last state you called “home” is better, for some reason?   Maybe just say the name of whatever place you currently like the best… or the first that comes to mind?  Memphis…. I could always say Memphis because that’s where I was born…. although my personal knowledge of Memphis is limited to a couple months’ stay when I was in the seventh grade.   And then there was Nashville.   My dad’s family lives here, and has lived here since I was a year old.  For this reason, no matter where we went, be it Canada, Hawaii or New York… we always came back to Nashville.  Sometimes for a week, sometimes for a year,  sometimes for a couple months—whatever, we came back.  I’ve attended more schools in Nashville and its surrounding counties than in any other state.  McGavock,  Mt. Juliet Christian, Light House, Ezell,  Una,  Lakeview and Glencliff  to name a few.  When we moved at Christmastime during my Junior year of high school, my heart shattered because I didn’t think I was going to get to graduate from McGavock–the only school I’d ever attended for more than 1 consecutive year.  Coming in from some other state, my heart would quiet and I’d smile when we drove into Donelson or Antioch.  Opryland, Percy Priest Lake  and Hickory Hollow Mall were icons to my childhood—places that represented security and familiarity that I didn’t have in any other city or state.   So… for this reason, when asked “where you from”  I always responded with:  “Well, we move around a lot, but Nashville… we always come back to Nashville.”    A complicated answer to a complicated question.

Lately, the question of home has weighed heavily on my mind and heart.   What it is, and what it means.

My daughters still talk about the “old house”, the place where they spent most of their lives.   We had land, we had a porch swing.  The house was… an antique… but simply because we were there for all but three months of Breathe’s life, a lot of memories were made there.  Our first lemonade stand.  The first puppet shows.  Making homemade bread for the first time.  Breathe’s surgery.   Heart surgery.  Certain toys.   The decor.  Everything is etched into our minds, even after we’ve been gone from that house for a while now.   From there, we went to a very special place, a place of serenity and peace;   a place where thoughts of idyllic childhoods spent roaming a safe and happy place filled my brain an heart.  It comforted me when I was most in need of solace.  It sits on the outskirts of Nashville,  everything and everyone moves at a slower pace there than they do in the city.   I fell in love with everything about it.  I’d never lived in that small town before —- but it spoke to me.  It seemed to call my name in ways few places ever have.  Until crippling crisis struck.  When it did, there was no alternative but to leave ….. and come home.  To Nashville…. to the place whose parks and landmarks are by now as familiar to me as my name.  It’s the only place I can drive without a GPS and not get lost.  It seemed to open its arms and cradle my hurting heart as I came in.  My family is here.  My girls.  My mom.  My sister.   My church.  It molds the fabric of my life by holding my memories—good ones and painful ones alike,  it seems to store the memories of yesteryear and days gone by.  The familiarity and stability it offers is what I most wanted when I was truly hurting and alone—thus, even if it isn’t the place of idyllic childhoods spent romping in clover, it is home.

Home is the place you never forget and that seems to never forget you.   If you run from it,  it seems to follow you, shadowing your thoughts and dreams.  Homes can be painful… sometimes they teach us things that are wrong,  lessons even that can leave deep and wounding scars.   Sometimes breaking away is the right thing to do.  But even if you break away,  whether it was the right thing to do or not,  part of you gets left behind in whichever town you’ve invested bits of yourself in, either by working or dating or going to school.   Painful homes present an opportunity—an opportunity to rise above it all, an opportunity to change it or ourselves, to learn from the pain and grow.   But the reason that home, even if it’s painful, is difficult to leave is because in order for a place to become a home, time must be spent there.  Time is a funny thing—it has a way of bringing joy into our lives even when there are huge rainclouds hovering above us.  If you spend enough time anywhere, there’s going to be joy interwoven with the pain.  It’s the joy that makes it hard to cut the ties, the idea that something good blossomed alongside the weeds.  There have been painful memories for me in Nashville, many of them traumatizing in some form or fashion.   It is why the serenity of the small and very different town appealed to me so greatly.  It is why I thrived there,  I was wrapped in modern day seclusion.   The whispering wind and rolling hills and small parks and deserted nighttime streets reminded me of Andy Griffith and all that, as a child, I dreamed a home should be.  I thought it was perfect.  Until pain cut through the dream.  When that happened, all I longed for washome, the place where my family lives, the place where my girls were born, the place whose streets I know, whose hustle and bustle motivates me.  I’m out of seclusion now.  I’m back in the midst of the fast paced, ever changing world of Nashville where the wealthy Belle Meade executive goes to a church that sits mere blocks away from Little Mexico.  It is also the place whose residents have spent decades telling me to believe in myself, that I’m loved and wanted.  It is home to the parks and the library I cherish, to the landmarks I’ve enjoyed with my children,  to a collection of memories  I carry around with me every day.   The truest hugs I’ve ever felt have come from people who share this city with me.

Home isn’t about a place.  Home is the connection we have with others while sharing space and time.  Home is the sense of being where you belong.  It’s comfort isn’t like a refreshing burst of water, like the other town was for me.  Instead, home is the quiet song that gets stuck in my head that replays itself over and over and over again until, finally, you turn it up and find the joy that comes with singing along.   Whether it’s a house on Main Street or the back seat of a car driving along an interstate, we’ve all got some place to which we’ve laid claim simply by living.  No matter how far we may roam, we return not because we have to but because our hearts desire peace, familiarity and security.  I love the city of Nashville.  I love her not because she is the most beautiful or the most serene or the most idyllic.  You probably won’t find her on  any of the Best Places to Live lists meandering about the Internet.  But that’s okay.  That’s not why I love her either.  I love her because of her people, and because, when I was a child,  the sight of her streets offered me security.  I love her because no cabin in Georgia, regardless of how peaceful, could compete with the peacefulness of lying on the grass outside in Nashville watching the stars.  I love her because no matter how tempting the oceans may be in California, they can’t compare to the memory of my daughters’ faces, brightened by laughter, racing to splash through the waters of Percy Priest Lake.  I love her because no matter how stellar the hospitals in Oregon may be, both my girls were born by the same doctor at Baptist, and caring physicians at Vanderbilt cared for my brother and for Breathe during her surgery.   Nashville may not have the quaint cobblestone of Chattanooga but it’s got the Greenway, and all the memories I hold with my girls there, instead.   I love Nashville because she’s watched me grow up while allowing me to watch her grow as well.  I’ve seen her change and expand.  I’ve watched how we come together when there’s tragedy.  I know what the Batman building is.  I’ve been on the balcony of a room overlooking the cascades in Opryland Hotel.  I took field trips in school to the Nashville Children’s Theater, and have taken my daughters there to enjoy shows.  I’ve fed the ducks and watched the movies in the park at Centennial.  The Ryman is a familiar sight. I have eaten at The Melting Pot.

Home is comforting because it is what we know,  because it helps mold us as much as we mold it and because it is simply where we are meant to be.  Vacations are exciting, travel can be fun and full of adventure.  We have to spread our wings, even if that means flying beyond the borders.  But… “train a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it.”  No matter how far we go, no matter how exciting we make lives,  sooner or later, we long for home… to embrace it, to weep within its accepting embrace, to stand strong and confident in its midst.   If the United States was a Monopoly board, Nashville would be my Boardwalk, the most prized of all the cities.   It would be the key to my locket and the smile to my frown.   It is my home.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.