Perception, Part 2: The Mirror Can't Talk

Yesterday, I shared some lessons I learned about perception: what others assume about a person or situation based on what they observe or are told.

Today, I want to talk about how we see ourselves.  And how it might change your life.

Recently, I became aware of Project Semicolon and its beautiful, ambitious, faith-based mission to decrease acts of suicide and self-harm among people dealing with depression and other mental health issues.  Although I've never explicitly dealt with depression, I've had some very dark pages in my life.  Had I made some different choices, I know that my life could be very different right now.  I also know that there is still a stigma surrounding mental health, especially among the Christian community.  There's this awful idea that it's "all in your head" and that you can "pray it away".  I'm not doubting that God heals.  Believe me, I'm one of those folks who enjoys tent revivals and healing meetings, and I've seen some pretty amazing stuff.

But.  BUT.

I also know enough to know that God works in many ways, and that some people's path to healing involves medication, treatment, therapy, a holistic approach and/or surgery. And maybe somethings else.

Friendship.

I say all of that to share a little experiment undertook last week.  I asked my social media friends - many of whom I am no longer close with in "real life" - to share their honest perception of me.  In a word, a phrase, a memory.  It wasn't a bid for flattery, though I admit I was hoping that some nice things would be said.  I heard back from about a dozen and a half people, ranging from family to folks I haven't seen in over a decade.  Their responses surprised me.

Yes, many of them said "nice" things, but what interested me the most was that no one said "Christian", "writer", "mom" or "plus-size" - the four words I find I use to describe myself all the time.  Other folks distilled their impressions of me into words like "real", "frank", "bubbly", and "accepting" (that one surprised me).  An old friend from high school relayed a few touching, nostalgic thoughts, but the phrase that stands out to me is "you took the high road".

That's weird, because I don't see myself that way.  Not really.  I'd use the words I mentioned above, and I'd add "selfish", "talented", "intelligent", "perceptive" and probably "articulate".  I'd add "needy", "introverted", "anxious", "hurting", "guilty" and "thoughtless".  
We are often our own worst critics.  Isn't that what they say?  In asking my friends this potentially loaded question, I learned that the way most of them perceive me is very, very different from the way I see myself.  

I realized that I want to live the way they see me.  Not the way I see myself.  They see in me light, and strength, and optimism.  I don't just want to be seen that way; I want to truly be that way.  I want to see myself that way.  Not only because those things are all good things, but because, as a Christian, I believe those things reflect Christ in me.  All of those attributes are not unique to religious people, of course, but, for me, they are an outward sign of inward hope.  

I didn't think that such a simple request on social media would impact me as much as this has.  I mentioned Project Semicolon earlier because I am hoping that anyone reading this - anyone struggling with self-harm or depression - might be encouraged by knowing how people see them.  That their lives matter.  That losing them really would make a negative impact on the world around them.  I'm not saying that hearing "I think you're special" is going to magically cure people of self-image issues.  But I know that those words have power, and positivity matters.  

From memeblender.com.

On a side note, one of my friends answered my question with the word "cats" and it made me laugh.  She was totally accurate, of course, and I know I've styled myself as a cat lady since Thor wound up on our doorstep, but yes, in a word, I suppose I can be described as "cat" - craving solitude, needy, faithful, somewhat critical, tending towards vanity, fun to curl up with (when I'm in the mood), and polarizing.

I like seafood, too.

#CATS.

Perception, Part 1: Shawn

I love to learn.

When I was a kid, I used to read the encyclopedia.  As a pre-teen, I rejected the banal "Goosebumps" series in favor of books about Greek, Roman and Norse mythology.  I elected to become a Coffee Master at Starbucks because I had the chance to explore more about something I loved.  In nearly every job I've held, I've wound up training or teaching others, because I get excited to share what I learn.

Fabulous Twilight Sparkle GIF found at
 alicemarvels.com.

I learned a lot in college about literature, theatre, and relating to people who are different than me.  I learned a lot in church about my faith and my relationship with God and people.  I learned a lot from my parents (all of them) about life in general, and about myself in particular.

But some of the lessons that have made the biggest impact on my life came from one person in particular: Shawn Speir.

Shawn was my store manager when I worked at the Starbucks in Robinson.  He'd been a shift supervisor when I joined the Starbucks family (well, then it WAS more like a family) in Collier right out of college.  We got along very well, despite numerous differences, and he quickly adopted me as both his little sister and his pet project.  He saw potential in me and he worked hard to help me improve both my hard and soft skills.  Both of us were promoted rather quickly, I to a supervisor and he to an assistant manager.  I remember being crushed the day we learned he was being promoted again, and would no longer be working with us.  He was getting his own store.  I had grown so fond of him and was learning so much from him that I couldn't bear the thought of him leaving.  That week, though, he pulled me aside and told me he wanted me to go with him.  

I probably should make it clear at this point that there was no romance between us.  Despite one person's accusation that we were "involved", I can tell you with absolute certainty that Shawn was not interested in me.  Nor I in him.  Although I must admit, until I met Ross, I was convinced that Shawn had the most beautiful eyes on the planet.

But I digress.

At any rate, hearing him say he wanted to take me, to help me work towards my own goal, which was to become an assistant manager, made my heart happy.  I learned how to drive just so my dad no longer had to take me to work (Collier was just up the road, but Robinson was a different story).  

The reason I share all of this is that Shawn had the unenviable task of teaching me some extremely hard lessons.  He took me on as his own project, took responsibility for me, and in some cases forced me to improve myself as a barista, a manager, and a person.  I remember so many private conversations in the back room on the store, where he'd flail about, hysterically angry about something, then immediately compose himself, return to the sales floor, and address a customer or barista with absolute respect and utter calm.  He was so careful never to crack in front of people.  I, too, found myself angry or upset about something beyond my control, and Shawn would carefully, quietly whisper in my ear to leave the floor and take a break.  Sometimes he'd follow me and clearly, frankly explain what I was doing wrong - it was my attitude, or my tone, or whatever.  Because I knew that he loved me - yes, I like to think we'd grown to love each other like siblings - and because I knew that everything he said was coming from a desire to improve me, I received the criticism.  Sometimes, I responded flatly that I didn't like him or was going to cry, and he nodded and told me to finish my ten-minute break.  

He never gave up on me.

But that wasn't the most important thing I learned from Shawn.

I learned that "perception is reality".

What that means is that a customer doesn't notice or care if you just accidentally spilled a 200 degree Americano all over your arm, because all he sees is you NOT making his latte, and he decides you're lazy or slow.

What that means is that your supervisor doesn't care that you're discussing a very difficult break-up with a co-worker, because all she sees is that you're not making your requisite follow-up calls, and she decides you're avoiding work.

What that means is that it doesn't matter if you want to glorify God, because all people hear coming out of your mouth is condemnation, and they decide that religion isn't worth it.

It's true that we can't decide how other people see us, or our situations.  Each person makes his or her own decisions.  About everything.  And the media is the proof of that.  We see a report about a man being gunned down, and a whole campaign rises up about that, despite the facts about the case not being released.  A celebrity tweets her thoughts about a situation halfway across the globe and she is hailed as a hero for mentioning it.  An overweight woman puts on clothes that make her feel comfortable and pretty, and strangers splash her photo all over Instagram, labeling her with unkind words.

We control our own actions.  We can even control our thoughts.  (I share about that here.) And, though we cannot control others' perceptions of ourselves, we can take those perceptions into consideration when we act.  I'm not saying that we need to tread on eggshells around every person, on every issue, but taking care with our word choices, our tone, our body language - all of that goes a long way in regards to how people see us.

In my next post, I'll share why perception is such a big deal - and how it can change your life.

Understanding Your Introverted Female Writer Friend

We're the ones that you can't fully comprehend.  Why in the name of all things holy would we decline a Saturday night party in favor of sitting at home with microwave popcorn and Netflix?  

Because people exhaust us, generally.  And because we prefer the ones living inside our own heads.

We are the ones driving to and from work, or school, or the grocery store, listening to the radio and applying the songs to scenes in the movie-versions of our manuscripts.  

We work out and choreograph fight scenes in our mind.

We have the capacity to be incredibly kind and conversational to the cashier at Target but only for like four minutes and then we want to be done with people.

We remember you as you were when you inspired us to create a character based on you.  Not how you are today.  Which may be very, very different.

We think about writing fanfic, or we have written fanfic, and we wonder if it damages our ability to be taken seriously as writers.

We see ads in fashion magazines and create entire backstories for the people featured in the images.

We play dress-up in the mirror, carefully applying lipstick we may never wear in public, to get into our characters' heads.

We sometimes loathe selfies but we hope that ours - the ones we do take - make us look both pretty and pensive.  Smart is sexy.

We're in multiple fandoms and we do not take issue with people who like both "Star Trek" and "Star Wars" but for God's sake, people, don't confuse one with the other.

When we are not actively working on a story, we are dreaming up situations for our characters, playing with their histories and their futures.  We are listening to playlists we have created for them, trying to get to know them well enough to do them justice in print.

We like coffee.  And cats.

If you give us coffee and cats, we might put you in a book.

As a nice person.  Like, the hero.









...or maybe this is all just me.

In Search of: BFFL

In high school, I had a bestie.  Her name was Christin, and we loved science fiction and Indiana Jones and comic books and I never felt like it was weird to be a nerd when I was with her.  We wrote fanfic before fanfic was even called fanfic, and we were inseparable.

Then college happened.  We went to different schools, had different majors, and drifted apart.  It might have been a good thing, if only for the fact that I wanted to reinvent myself (like many of us do) in college.  

"Reinvention" didn't amount to much.  I was still a chubby white girl with a geek streak, but I dressed a little more stylishly and figured out what to do with my long, wavy hair (product, product, PRODUUUUUUCT).  Still conservative, although less so, being among theatre people.  Still didn't drink.  Still didn't have sex.  Still got good grades.  I had a good circle of nerdy pals, though, being a double major in English and Theatre Performance.  Few of them really "got" me, though, because another large part of my identity was and is my faith, and most of them didn't understand or share that.  

I maintain (mostly online) friendships with a lot of my college buddies.  Some, I've become closer to.  Some, I respect more because of the way they have handled life's challenges since entering "the real world".  We've all grown a great deal since then, through marriages, careers, parenthood, divorce, losing family members, facing illness, financial troubles.  Frequently, I feel more connected to them now than I did back then.

After college came work, which, for me, was Starbucks.  I think it's safe to say that I've stayed closer with my former co-workers from the coffee shop than from any other part of my life (the exception being church).  I still see many of them fairly regularly, and I feel like I learned more about life from working there than I did anywhere else.  I learned about constructive criticism, customer service, finances, kindness.  I learned about prejudice and bias (yes, believe it or not I was on the receiving end of it more than once).  I learned about responsibility.  Leading others.  Time management.

And I learned that Colombian coffee is totally my fave.

In my group of friends, the ones who are most like me, at this point in my life, are those I met at South Hills Assembly's young adults group, The Bridge.  Through associations with the people there, I ended up meeting the man I eventually married.  I met like-minded people who are now parents, to whom I often turn to for advice.  These people, like me, sometimes struggle to reconcile their faith with the craziness in the world.  But we don't see each other that often.  We all go to different churches now, and some of us work. Most of us have moved away from the ten-mile radius in which we all used to live.  It's not easy to pack up kids and haul them to visit friends.  I'm not a phone person; I'd much rather text or meet in person.  It gets sort of lonely.  Even with a nearby and supportive family and extended church family, it does get lonely.

As an introvert, I'm generally happy to be by myself.  My hobbies are usually solo pursuits - writing, reading, sketching.  But spending all day entertaining a very curious baby can be exhausting, even if he IS a generally easy-going little guy.  It's isolating.  But it's a catch-22 for me, because meeting new people is equally exhausting.  (Especially since people THINK I'm an extrovert and miss my nonverbals that day "please - I need to go be alone right now!")  But when something amazing happens to me - or when I just need to vent, or get advice, I've realized - there's no one "go-to" person I contact.  Other than family.

I realized I don't have a best friend.

I do have friends.  They are wonderful.  My step-sister is incredible and mature and wise.  My stylist Jaime is an awesome mom and energetic adventurer.  My former co-worker Jordan is an outgoing, brilliantly confident woman and mother.  There are more, of course.  I have friends at church, too, but very few in my age bracket and family situation.  (That is to say, there are a lot of women with whom I am close, but very few are young moms/wives.)  They have supported me through struggles and celebrated with me during victories.  Maybe I don't need just one best friend.

But then I see those "bestie" posts on Buzzfeed and Pinterest and I'm all like, "I want that."

But then I see the pictures of doughnuts and bay windows and tabby kittens and retro-styled kitchens and I'm like, "I want that, too."

Best friend or freshly-baked cruller.  Which do I want more?  

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Grandma Turns 90!

A few weeks ago, my sweet grandmother turned 90 years old.  We are deeply grateful that she is extremely healthy, without a hint of dementia or any kind of disease.  She is a beautiful woman who looks considerably younger than her years, who is committed to serving God and loving her family.  We threw her a surprise party at Tambellini Bridgeville and believe me, we were all hoping the shock wouldn't send her to the hospital!

We're already looking forward
to Gram's 100th!

In fact, she was quite delighted.  Like the gracious lady she is, she made sure every single guest received a kiss, a hug, and a personal thank you.  You would have thought she had just been crowned Miss America, the way she put her little hand to her heart and cried.  It was precious - which also happens to be her nickname.  To distinguish her from the other grandmothers in our blended family, Grandma Thielet eventually became "Gramma Precious", which is certainly fitting!

What touched me the most, I think, was that so many folks showed up.  There were over 40 people who wanted to be sure she knew how much they loved her - family, longtime friends, her children's friends, church friends.  I took photographs for the party, and people I'd never met kept coming up to me and telling me how wonderful my grandmother was.  I was thrilled that so many of her church friends were younger than she, lively and vibrant senior citizens who had come to act as substitutes for the many brothers and sisters Gram has lost over the years.

My gift to her was a poem I wrote and shared.  I don't mean to be cocky, but a personal piece of writing is about the most intimate gift I can share with a person.  Plus, the lady is picky and would likely have returned any photo frame, trinket, or piece of jewelry we would have bought for her!  I promised that I would put the poem online, so it is below.  Please remember that, like everything else on this blog (unless otherwise indicated), is my property and must not be used without consent.
 

I.                 Prologue

I am thankful, you dear child, that your family chose America.

That your parents left all they had known for countless generations

And were reborn in a place they had never seen,

Merely imagined,

And that they planted themselves like trees near three mighty rivers.

When the soil seemed rocky, they persevered.

When the weather seemed perfect, they rejoiced.

Knowing that rain still may come, they watched the future,

Never turning back.

II.               1924-1933

I am thankful, you dear Amelia, that your childhood was lively

And filled with the voices of family and friends.

That your brothers protected you and your sisters taught you wisdom.

That, when those terrible storms came,

And blew you all about like twigs and snapped branches,

Your faith never broke.

You locked away in your heart an understanding of poverty, of loss, of lack,

And used it to strengthen yourself in the coming days.

And you never once forgot it.

III.               1934-1943

I am thankful, you dear Mrs. Thielet, that your marriage was for love

And not convenience.

No love but God’s own is perfect, but you kept your promise to cherish and obey.

You saw your man off to war and waited for his return,

A model American,

A modern wife,

In your heels and skirts,

Cooking American food and reading American news,

And dreaming American dreams.

IV.             1944-1953

I am thankful, you dear Mother, that you faithfully raised your son,

A boy who grew up into a man who loved cars and bikes and building things,

Who was stubborn, a little bit grimy, and whose smile was shy but genuine.

Who wanted to be a hero, a rock-star, a bad-boy with a heart of gold,

Who became one,

Who has never been perfect,

Whose dreams are still great,

If sometimes unspoken. 

V.               1954-1963

I am thankful, you dear Mother, that you faithfully raised your daughter,

A girl who grew up into a woman who loved art and beauty and kindness,

Who talks to animals,

When they will listen.

Whose heart is full of compassion, who is gracious, and silly, and tender.

Who second-guesses herself when she sometimes shouldn’t,

And who has never stopped being a sweet-faced Daddy’s girl.

VI.             1964-1973

I am thankful, you dear Mother-in-law, that you welcomed into your heart

A broken young woman from a broken home,

Who was afraid of so much

But who bravely believed in hope.

Whose marriage finally crumbled but who came back to you, decades later,

With a peace offering and a humbled heart,

Knowing you were often the silent player in the drama,

A witness to a world falling apart,

Lifting always your prayers to God and giving your ear to listen,

Whether the offer was taken never mattered,

For you knew the prayers were heard and heeded.

  

VII.           1974-1983

I am thankful, you dear Grandmother, that your hands helped raise three little girls,

An ever-present smile at birthdays and graduations,

A thoughtfully-chosen card with a check in the mail,

Bringing deviled eggs to picnics,

Listening carefully to silly childish chatter,

Attempting to interpret,

Praying when sickness came,

Proudly claiming the family bond when success was in reach – and when it was not.

You never spoke disappointment over them,

Instead encouraging obedience and patience.

They are still learning from your example,

And they are so very deeply inspired by you. 

VIII.          1984-1993

I am thankful, dear widow, that your strength in God carried you through

Dark and difficult hours,

An empty house,

Endless questions,

Quiet grief.

When happiness and comfort fell away, you yet found joy – such a different bird –

In your Savior,

Who even now holds in His arms

So many who have gone before you onto eternity.

I am thankful that this faith never runs dry,

Nor does the strength God gives you,

To wake and to live each day with vibrant but quiet kindness.

  

IX.             1994-2003

I am thankful, you dear sister, that your love was not poured out only on husband, on son, on daughter,

But instead kept flowing for those who needed you –

Sisters and brothers whose bodies and minds began to grow weary,

Sick, and weak.

Patience and sensible gentleness and encouragement were your offerings.

How precious and rare they can be,

Yet you gave them freely, commitment overwhelming convenience every time.

You buried each one, acting as a pillar to their sons and daughters,

And they realize how deeply you are embedded in their memories

Of their parents, their aunts and uncles,

Their family joys and tragedies,

You were always the same –

Even without words, you were there.

X.               2004-2014

I am thankful, you dear Gram, that your prayers have never stopped flowing,

Your faith is still fresh as springtime,

Your love still eager to be given,

Your holiday cards still thoughtfully-chosen,

Your grief when others grieve still true.

I am thankful that your journey has brought you here, to the center of a circle

Of friends and family,

Who admire you enough to make you blush,

Who consider themselves proud to call you their own,

Who brag about you to neighbors and church friends and co-workers,

Who laugh and say, “Let me tell you about this lady I know…”

And whose stories are as many, as brilliant, and as varied as your years.

Privacy Policy

I made the decision to publicly share the details of my pregnancy in an effort to encourage other women who find themselves in the same situation as me – unhappily childless, for whatever reason.  Although I recently realized I’m an introvert, I guess I’m a pretty lenient one, since I’m not shy about sharing personal stories or struggles.  I’ve been told I’m a transparent person (in the best possible way), and that the honesty with which I share my challenges has encouraged others.  So I don’t have a problem being open about this particular journey.

What I am wondering about, though, is how social media is going to play a role once this baby comes along.  I’ve seen both extremes with new parents – moms and dads who refuse to post any pictures or even the names of their children, as well as moms and dads who recount the grisly details of the baby’s most recent diaper blow-out – including pictures!  Most of my close friends have babies or toddlers, and it can be fun to follow their adventures.  Two of our besties, Matt and Jaime in particular, post a lot of pictures of their fun, cute little girls.  I like seeing them, probably because I’ve known all the girls since they were born, and spent time with them, and because we’re close with their parents.  We know their personalities, and mom and dad are not all about the “look at how amazing our kids are; they’re better than your kids!” mentality.  They’re fun, relaxed parents who have a great sense of humor about parenting and life in general.  And they do post about things other than their children.  They have interests besides their daughters!  They’re Christians who are involved in their church; Matt is a super-geek like Ross and myself and we like to talk about superhero and fantasy movies.  Jaime is a hair stylist and a thrifty fashionista and we love sharing our opinions on the latest trends. 

They’re people who are people first, then parents.

However, on the other hand, there are some mothers who make me kind of uncomfortable. Moms who are hyper-obsessed with their children.  Moms who post nothing but stories about their baby bellies, sleeping babies, and the all-natural, pesticide-free, organic kale, kefir, and pomegranate smoothies they are feeding their toddlers because fast food is an invention of Satan himself.   

Let me try to explain.  It’s not an issue of the organic, whole food thing.  In fact, that's something I've been considering more and more lately.  However, it is an issue of the fact that it seems like these ladies have lost their identities and see themselves solely as child-rearers.  I mean, I know a baby is going to dramatically change my life, and I’m concerned about maintaining my identity as a woman, a wife, a Christian, a writer. 

Things already have begun to change.  For example, last year I had (finally!) developed the healthy habit of daily exercise, dropped about 20 pounds, and was hoping to lose an additional 15 more.  With the diagnosis of a subchorionic hematoma and its subsequent bleeding, I was put on strict pelvic rest, which meant that, at least for a time, I could no longer exercise.  Initially I thought, what a great excuse for relaxing and putting my feet up!  Five weeks and seven pounds heavier, I was having a hard time looking in the mirror.  (Please note, I am only five feet tall, so a “few pounds” look and feel considerably heavier on me and are harder on my health than on a person of a taller stature.  I’m not just being “overdramatic” and “hormonal” about gaining weight.)  I’ve had to make changes in my diet, like any conscientious pregnant woman.  I’ve given up my favorite food, sushi, because of the danger it poses to the baby.  I’ve cut back on artificial sweeteners and caffeine.  I’m shunning cold cuts.  I’m, asking for my meat cooked well (blech!) rather than medium.  I’m trying to incorporate more fruits and veggies (very hard, since I’ve been too tired to properly plan my meals lately).  I’m not complaining about these things, per se, because all are part of my efforts to keep the baby healthy and strong.  But it does feel strange, realizing that, right now, my body is not entirely my own, and my decisions have to reflect that.

I don’t resent this child growing within me – no!  I’ve prayed for a baby for years and was crushed when we suffered our miscarriages.  I’m saying that, even now, I’m becoming conscious of how great the changes in my life will be once there is another little human in my house, and it won’t be easy. 

If we’re honest, we have to face it.  Human nature is selfish.  We want things our way – no matter what society or country we live in.  Humanity is at its beautiful best when it is able to set aside that urge and put others first, whether it means individuals taking our turn in line, donating to charity, giving up a seat on a bus, or, more dramatically, laying down their lives for others.  I’m saying that I’m already experiencing the sting of selfishness, long before my baby arrives.

As much as I want a child, the idea of being one-hundred percent attentive to a tiny person is sort of scary.  When will I sleep?  What will my body look like?  Will I ever “feel pretty” again?  What if I want to spend quality time with my husband?  What if I act like my husband isn’t even in the picture?  What else in my life will change?  Which brings me back to those militant moms.  Did they forget how to be people?  It seems to me that their very existence is devoted to nothing other than raising their children.  Reading their social media feeds is pretty much like tuning into the “my child” station 24-7.  It’s terrifying.  It feeds into the fearful question I asked my friend Jaime when she was pregnant with her third daughter, and we were discussing parenthood.  “Will I lose my identity?”  Basically , her reply was “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.  You’re still you.  You have other obligations, more love in your heart, more responsibilities and more challenges, but you are still you.”  That was reassuring.

I mean, I don’t want a mommy blog.  I don’t want my writing to revolve around baby food and poopy diapers and unidentifiable rashes.  I want to keep writing about all the things that are important to me – my husband, my faith, my family, fashion, my cats, science-fiction, cooking, and yes – my children will absolutely make that list!  But I also want to respect their privacy and I don’t want to get into a place where I begin to  lecture other parents on how to raise their kids.  There is way too much of that already with the fiery breast vs. bottle debates, the vemonous battle between the vaxxers and the anti-vaxxers, the outspoken crunchy moms and the, um…slightly-soggy moms?  Yes, I will raise my children in the church and openly share my values and beliefs with them.  Yes, I will vaccinate my kids.  Yes, I plan to breast-feed.  Yes, I passionately and fervently believe that I will be doing the right thing for my children, but I am also determined to maintain an open mind in regards to parents who choose to do things differently (unless those things put my kids in danger). 

That being said, my friend and former college roomie Megan and I are considering starting a blog together.  She is a very funny lady who also happens to be a vegetarian, a leaning-to-the-left liberal, and a homeschooler of her three wild kids (one of whom has some different needs).  I know Megs well, and I don’t consider her “crunchy” or “weird”.   She is also a person first, then a parent.  She is a dedicated runner, a loyal and supportive wife, and a part-time professor.  She loves her kids.  She also loves spending time away from them.  She is secretly a little bit geeky.  We don’t see eye-to-eye on everything, but she’s a person who makes me laugh and whom I admire.  She’s one of the people who can talk about how passionate she is about the way she eats, and it’s neither annoying nor preachy.  We've agreed that we won't be discussing politics, and it will be a PG-rated blog (much to the sassy Megan's dismay).  Politics, religion, and otherwise volatile subjects will be discussed on our personal pages, if we desire, not our co-blog!  We're thinking of calling it "The Kid/Cat Club".

That is something I can hook up with.  Stories about her three kids, and the antics of my three cats, maybe some recipes, our adventures at work – what could possibly result but endless hilarity?

And that’s one thing all my new-mom friends seem to agree on…with a small screaming human being clawing constantly at your breast, you definitely need a laugh or two to get you through the day…

Pink Power

As we observe the final few days of Breast Cancer Awareness Month (or Pinktober, as I like to call it), I wanted to share about some incredible women in my life -all of them with gentle hearts but fierce fighting spirits.

The first woman I want to honor is, interestingly, one of the most passionately private people I know.  Therefore, I will limit my story to the basics of her fight - not her personal life.  Laurie, my church's capable and always-smiling secretary (who easily does the work of at least three people), is a lady whom I have admired for years.  Her family and mine have been very close for probably about 17 years.  We joke that Laurie's sister and my dad are so similar that they must be long-lost twins.  Laurie herself is a beautiful example of God's redeeming grace, having gone through a very difficult divorce many years ago.  I think I would have handled things differently had I been in her situation (and by differently, I mean very, very poorly), but Laurie isn't the kind of person to raise her voice unless she is cheering someone on!  I never saw her lose hope.  I know her struggle was and is an internal one, and I don't presume to know what pressures she undergoes.  But I do know that she is a woman who exudes grace and dignity even as the storms of life are crashing all around her.

She will probably blush, shake her head and laugh when she reads these things, but she needs to know how deeply to heart I have taken her example all these years.  Although she certainly has a great sense of humor, what is most remarkable about Laurie is her quiet, gentle bearing.  She is a physically lovely woman with an easy, infections laugh (I think it's one of my favorite sounds ever, and all the women in her family share it), but she doesn't like to draw attention to herself.  She doesn't pretend things are okay when they are not, but she has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to drama.  She is loyal. She is faithful.  She is kind. 

So when, several months ago, she shared with us - the members of Pastor Stephanie's small group - her diagnosis of breast cancer, we were stunned.  Laurie was one of those people who loved exercise, ate well (in part due to some dietary restrictions), and took care of her body.  How could this happen?  I, in particular, don't think it registered in my mind as fact until many weeks later.  Of course we prayed for her, but my heart housed some fear.  We had just lost two beloved ushers in our church very unexpectedly - and then I lost my mother immediately after that.  Another usher had a close call and landed in the hospital as well.  Being so deeply involved in our church, these ushers, to us, weren't simply smiling faces who handed out bulletins and guided us to empty pews.  Linda had been a friend who whore the same perfume as my mother, who lost her adult son within weeks of one of my miscarriages, who told me that her boy was already taking care of my babies in heaven because he loved children.  Steve was our head usher, patriarch of a family that I consider pillars in our church community - his widow, Kay, is a leader on the ministry team; his daughter, Sue, is one of our worship leaders; his granddaughter, Sarah, is an active and vibrant part of the youth group.  Brian, the usher who survived, is a newer member of the church with a big grin and goofy sense of humor.  We all held our breath as news trickled down to us that he was improving and, eventually, released from the hospital.

Would our precious Laurie be the next victim in this bizarre series of tragedies?  I admit, since my miscarriages, my relationship with God has sometimes been strained.  I don't blame him for "taking" my children, but I keep returning to Him like a needy child, asking again and again that simple but weighty question - "Why?"  I didn't know what to expect for Laurie.  Of course we prayed for and with her, but I feel like my faith is remedial nowadays, plodding forward with itty-bitty baby steps, rather than great soaring leaps.

So I hoped.

Laurie believed for her healing, but - like most folks in our church - had no issues with turning to doctors for support and treatment.  (Or general belief is that God has MANY ways to heal His children, and medical intervention IS, in fact, one of those ways.  We believe in prayer combined with medical attention.)  She underwent her radiation like a champ.  She lost all her hair.  She had to cut back on her hours at the church. 




Image from www.Miami.com

Last month, she had her final biopsy and got the all-clear.

Laurie is cancer-free!

Through the whole process, the only complaint I heard from her was that she was frequently tired - which was, of course, due to the chemotherapy.  She did shyly mention, however, that her nurses told her they loved working with her because she was so full of joy.  She wanted her experience there to represent her love for Jesus and share it with others.

I think that's pretty amazing.

The other two survivors I know have come into my life only recently.  My direct supervisor at work, Mary, and the office manager, Karen, are both standing tall (relatively speaking, since they aren't much taller than me) after battles with breast cancer.  Although I don't know much about their individual battles, I know that they are part of a much bigger network of support and love for victims of breast cancer.  When I told Mary that my friend Laurie had been diagnosed, she asked about her regularly.  Both women were quick to sign a get-well card I got for her, even though neither had ever met her.  When I shared the news that Laurie was cancer-free, both ladies celebrated with me as if they'd just been given the same news for themselves.

What fascinates me about this awful disease - which strikes both healthy and less-than-healthy women...which attacks the very nature and identity of the female body...which causes women to struggle with their identities as women...which has no real cure...has also proven to motivate women to support each other with an unwavering and awesomely beautiful strength.  The mildest, quietest women become outrageously fierce warriors when they wrap their arms around the newly-diagnosed, when they strap on pink sneakers to raise money, when they don pink shirts and march for the cure.

While I hate the disease, I love that, although it was meant to main, destroy, weaken and kill, it has instead raised up a veritable army of both women and men who have given each other the strength to raise their voices as once and roar, "I will overcome!"

Too Much Death

The holidays are difficult for many people for hundreds of reasons.  For some, it's the pressure of financial strain on an already tight budget.  For others, it's the great void of loneliness stretching out in the "festive" weeks ahead.  For a lot of people, it's a time of stress and travel anxieties - ferrying kids to one grandparent's house then the other, of trying to evenly divide hours between divorced parents.

For many, I think, the holidays represent the anniversary of a loss.  They are a painful time because celebration is blanketed by a sense of regret, loss, longing, and sometimes shame. 

Lately, I've seen far too much talk of death on facebook.  A friend's mother lost her long, long battle with cancer just a few weeks ago.  A friend posted about a two-week-old baby passing away.  A former co-worker's grandmother just died.  All of this in the past month.  Over the past few weeks, my family has been touched by the cold hand of death, too.  First came the dreaded due date: December 5th.  Our son Bennett was supposed to be in our arms right now - just one week old.  But we lost him.  Then, my sister-in-law, Lindsey, lost her beloved bunny, Erte.  I know that pets and people aren't the same, but like us, Lindsey and her husband Jay have no children.  They adored their pets and, frankly, they were probably more like family than Ross and I were - at least in the sense that we only got to see Jay and Lindsey a few times a year, where their bunny and cat were constant companions.  As I grow more and more attached to Thor and Loki, I can see why people take losing a pet so seriously.  So I grieved with Jay and Lindsey over the loss of their quirky, sweet little 12-year-old bunny.  In fact, for years, the holidays have been difficult for me.  Although God has restored my family in ways I never would have expected, it was around Christmas time over 15 years ago that my Dad left my Mom.  I can wholly understand why people dread the holiday season.

But just a few minutes ago, things got much harder.

I just got word from our church office that Linda Kessler went home to be with Jesus.

Linda had recently been diagnosed with an extremely fast-moving cancer that had spread throughout her body.  In a matter of weeks, she had grown weak and sick.  The doctors had performed test after test for other illnesses before realizing it was cancer.  They gave her one month to live, without chemotherapy.  They guessed she might have up to a year, with it.

Linda had three days of chemotherapy.  She ran into the arms of her Savior last night.

I hate obituaries, because they try to wrap a person's life up into a tiny, four-line black and white package to be printed in an upcoming newspaper that few people will ever see anyway.  Therefore, I will tell what I can of my experience with the amazing, wonderful Linda Kessler - before the cancer attacked her.

Linda was a woman of medium height and build, with long, slightly graying blonde hair.  She always dressed simply and modestly.  She wore Vanilla Fields perfume, the same brand my mother liked to wear.  When I told her that - that she smelled like my mom - she smiled hugely, as though it were the kindest thing in the world I could have said to her.   She worked at Sam's Club.  She had been divorced, but I never knew any details.  She had children - one of whom was a son who died last year, around the time we lost Bennett.  I remember going to her and just hugging her - like she'd hugged me so many times before, both in joy and sorrow.  I said, "I don't know how I know, but I am sure your son is taking care of my babies in Heaven."  She nodded fervently and said, "Michael loved kids.  He adored them.  I know that's exactly what he is doing right now."  And we both found hope.

Linda was a worshiper.  She could be found every Sunday morning, standing off to the side in the front of the sanctuary, so as not to disturb anyone else, waving her banner and holding her hands outstretched to the Lord.  She had a look of peace on her face, with her eyes closed and a little smile on her lips.  Her brows were always drawn together, as if her love for God was so great it might hurt her.  When I began to take pictures during church events, I frequently focused on her.  She was always there, always passionate: the picture of someone madly in love with Jesus, and humbled in turn by His love for her.

Linda was an encourager.  In spite of what she had endured in her life, she was a genuinely loving and happy person.  She liked to make other people feel happy, too.  She loved children and teenagers.  They often ended up sitting near her during special services, or before they left the sanctuary to attend their classes.  Linda liked that.  She wasn't one of those crabby older women who just wanted to be done with kids, or thought they were disturbing the "real people" from paying attention to the pastor's message.  I liked that a lot about Linda. 

Linda was faithful.  She was at almost every meeting I could think of; she served as an usher and greeter every Sunday and served at nearly every special service we held for Pastor Billy Burke, a healing evangelist.  She scheduled her whole life around church, it seemed.  It was where she was happiest.  It was where she could make other people happy.

Last night, she breathed her last and opened her eyes in paradise.

This is hard for me, personally, because I feel like I let Linda down.  I had the chance to visit with her this past Sunday, and bring to her a card the youth group had signed.  I remember being very impressed with what the kids wrote to her.  Not a single one of them simply signed his or her name.  Even those who did not know her well had something cheerful, kind, or encouraging to write.  I was deeply moved.  The kids who I worried about - the ones who sometimes seemed like they cared more for themselves than anything else - wrote loving, sweet, thoughtful things to encourage a sick woman. 

And, because I didn't visit her on Sunday, she never got the chance to read them.

I kept thinking that one day wouldn't make a difference; I had asked Ross to mail the card yesterday morning.  He did so, going so far as to pull a stamp off another letter because we didn't have any more stamps.  And, as I got out of the shower this morning, my phone chirped an e-mail notification.  I read the message from the office and I began to cry.  Thor came into the bathroom immediately.  You know how they say that animals just know things?  He curled up in my arms and licked me and purred in my ear and meowed his sympathies until I stopped crying. 

I had received my healing last week and I believed that Linda would, too.  If God could mend a tiny tear in my fragile retina, what could possibly keep him from plucking cancer out of the cells in Linda's body?  The youth group prayed with us.  Ross and I have prayed the last few days.  Linda received prayer at a healing meeting last month. 

Why did she die?

Christians struggle so much with this question.  I don't have an answer.  I don't know why Linda had to succumb to the cancer, and why some other people are healed through surgery, therapy and radiation, and why others are healed miraculously, never to get another negative diagnosis again.

I don't know.  Because I am not God.

Something that comforted me deeply when I lost my babies is this thought: God didn't make any mistakes and all of us were designed for a specific purpose.  I believe that some of us were designed specifically for Heaven.  Our roles and existence await us there - passing over a life on earth.  I truly believe that my three children had jobs that were so urgent waiting for them in Heaven that they bypassed time here.  I'd like to think that God had a Linda-shaped hole in Heaven and a job that only her compassion, gentleness and faithfulness could possibly complete.  I don't know that such an idea is found anywhere in scripture, but it doesn't conflict with anything there, either, and so I have accepted it to gain a little bit of peace.  If you are a person who is genuinely eternity-minded - like Linda was - the vastness of "forever" isn't scary or daunting, but comforting. 

I wish I could have said good-bye.  I sincerely do.  But it would have been temporary at best.  It won't be long before I get to see Linda again.   And she can introduce me to her son who so lovingly has looked after my children.

That is the hope of Christ is us.