What? What is this? She's writing?
Ok, people. I know. You know I know.
I love and appreciate all of you who have ever so nicely and gently reminded me that it's been months since I've touched this blog, pounded a keyboard with fervor, or divulged even one measly iota about the happenings in my life.
It's as if you think I have stuff to talk about or something.
Oh how right you are.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
My Little Birdie
Secretly, I simultaneously love and hate clichés. Love them, because they are typically true and the second they come to fruition, it is a tear-jerking, joyous moment. Hate them, because they are typically true and the second they come to fruition, it is a tear-jerking, joyous moment.
It goes by so fast. Your kid growing up, that is. Understatement of a lifetime.
Over the years I have instituted ceremonies and rituals around the house which Liv can pass on generation to generation. Think a little red heart-infested mailbox from Feb 1- Feb 14 whereby I leave her notes and treats. Or, riddles at Easter (hey, big words and trivia don't just formulate themselves). Christmas is insanity under the heading of tradition.
I decided about a week ago what I would do for her Senior Year. The plan is two-fold: one, I've hung a super cute blackboard on the spare bedroom door in Liv's "wing" of the house (read: don't bother me over here, Mom.) It reads I'm Proud of You Because. So, weekly I will write, in elementary chalk-like fashion because can she please be in 3rd grade again, one of the many reasons for which I am inexplicably proud of her.
However, there is also this teensy-weensy little clip on that board. And I am going to hang some of my favorite quotes on 3x5 index cards each day, gather them in a yet-to-be-made box, and hand that to her the day I take her to college. Some of those (Scriptural) quotes have gotten me through the worst of times, and I want Liv to hear two voices, even when she refuses to call out of sheer determination under her own heading of newfound independence.
Secondly, I am going to journal every day with excerpts, fears, failures, joys, triumphs, and of course, advice. She can take it or leave it - but it will be there for her nonetheless. Because right now, I cannot stop crying that she won't be...
-------------------------------
8/13/14
Today is your first day of school. It is the 13th time this day has come and gone, excluding your Montessori years. It is so bittersweet for me, although not nearly as much as I already know - and can feel - your graduation day will be, as well as the day when I take you off to college.
Today I'm remembering our drives to the Montessori when we'd sing Winnie the Pooh OVER AND OVER AND OVER again, kissing Miss Witch on our porch every day in the Fall, riding the bus with you on the first day of kindergarten, Friday Folders, Fishes Wishes, 5th grade graduation, counting "bugs" in the parking lot every morning when I dropped you off at the front doors of school, usually without a hug but always with a "Love you," watching you from the dining room window as you maturely walked to the end of our driveway to wait for the bus by yourself, "running you over" at the bus stop on a rainy morning! (oops), taking you to the High School your Freshman year so you could walk the halls in all your glory and nerves, being awakened by the 5-0 as you and your partner in crime sat in cruisers...and now - as I drink my coffee to wake up because girl, all that made me tired!- I wonder truly how it is that I'm gonna get through all these emotions as you are continuing to spread those beautiful wings and fly this coop you're so ready to leave, beginning today - you're first day of school.
Happy Senior Year, sweets. GO ROCK IT.
It goes by so fast. Your kid growing up, that is. Understatement of a lifetime.
Over the years I have instituted ceremonies and rituals around the house which Liv can pass on generation to generation. Think a little red heart-infested mailbox from Feb 1- Feb 14 whereby I leave her notes and treats. Or, riddles at Easter (hey, big words and trivia don't just formulate themselves). Christmas is insanity under the heading of tradition.
I decided about a week ago what I would do for her Senior Year. The plan is two-fold: one, I've hung a super cute blackboard on the spare bedroom door in Liv's "wing" of the house (read: don't bother me over here, Mom.) It reads I'm Proud of You Because. So, weekly I will write, in elementary chalk-like fashion because can she please be in 3rd grade again, one of the many reasons for which I am inexplicably proud of her.
However, there is also this teensy-weensy little clip on that board. And I am going to hang some of my favorite quotes on 3x5 index cards each day, gather them in a yet-to-be-made box, and hand that to her the day I take her to college. Some of those (Scriptural) quotes have gotten me through the worst of times, and I want Liv to hear two voices, even when she refuses to call out of sheer determination under her own heading of newfound independence.
Secondly, I am going to journal every day with excerpts, fears, failures, joys, triumphs, and of course, advice. She can take it or leave it - but it will be there for her nonetheless. Because right now, I cannot stop crying that she won't be...
-------------------------------
8/13/14
Today is your first day of school. It is the 13th time this day has come and gone, excluding your Montessori years. It is so bittersweet for me, although not nearly as much as I already know - and can feel - your graduation day will be, as well as the day when I take you off to college.
Today I'm remembering our drives to the Montessori when we'd sing Winnie the Pooh OVER AND OVER AND OVER again, kissing Miss Witch on our porch every day in the Fall, riding the bus with you on the first day of kindergarten, Friday Folders, Fishes Wishes, 5th grade graduation, counting "bugs" in the parking lot every morning when I dropped you off at the front doors of school, usually without a hug but always with a "Love you," watching you from the dining room window as you maturely walked to the end of our driveway to wait for the bus by yourself, "running you over" at the bus stop on a rainy morning! (oops), taking you to the High School your Freshman year so you could walk the halls in all your glory and nerves, being awakened by the 5-0 as you and your partner in crime sat in cruisers...and now - as I drink my coffee to wake up because girl, all that made me tired!- I wonder truly how it is that I'm gonna get through all these emotions as you are continuing to spread those beautiful wings and fly this coop you're so ready to leave, beginning today - you're first day of school.
Happy Senior Year, sweets. GO ROCK IT.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Snapshots in Time
Liv and I had lunch yesterday with one of my good friends and her daughter. To say it was a ceaseless chatter-fest would be an understatement. Somehow the endless laughter seems to be always at my expense, but that's ok. To refute her "There's always something big going on with you!" would be silly and furthermore, the woman is a little fireball and totally never loses any argument. Mercifully, I only see Pina Coladas in Cabo in our future.
Her daughter just completed her undergrad at GVSU with a psychology degree and is on her way later this month to IUPUI to begin her graduate studies in social work. Liv has every intention of acquiring the same degree(s), so we thought it very motherly of us to bring those two together and selfishly catch-up and laugh over (fine, my) hideous mistakes again. It kind of never gets old. That content is rich alrighty. Whew to the we.
Today. Today my baby is applying to college. It's surreal, it's scary, and it is here. For now, I am tabling all emotion in favor of opening the mail to find an acceptance letter glistening with the letters WELCOME TO and a shopping trip to find an eight-semester-lasting chastity belt.
As part of the application process, incoming freshman are required to write an essay which must not exceed 650 words. Great, no problem, my academic-excelling child thought. Five to ten words is certainly less than 650. (She killed the Math section on the SAT, by the way. Nailed it.)
My mini-me chose to write about friendships. As she sat in the kitchen, I tried to help by sharing one of my very first blog posts written about Chels. Begrudgingly, Liv began to read. Almost immediately she looked up in disgust at me, interrupting the clearly Pulitzer flow.
"I can't write like this," she announced.
Smirking, I did what any all-knowing and prideful mother would do and responded encouragingly.
"Of course you can, honey. I haven't always been able to write like that either."
"No. It's not grammatically correct. This is for college, Mom. No way would I get in with anything like that."
Maybe it won't be quite as hard when she leaves. Wishful thinking, but I'm looking forward to a returned sense of my self-esteem nonetheless.
I wish we would have been required to submit an essay back in the day. If that were the case, I definitely would NOT have chosen the "Share a life experience in which you failed" prompt. 650 word max and all.
But, if the prompt would have been "Write about the person you are today and your progression over the next 5 years - what you hope to experience, your dreams, your passions and the role they will play in your future. Do not provide specific events; rather we are looking for a deep soul conceptual snap shot," I would have been all over that one.
It would have been interesting to see what my 17 year-old self would have written. My almost 41 year-old self would write something like this:
The person I am today is a compilation of dreams. From pipe, to shattered, to realized, there they have been. Sometimes, they plague me. Other times, they inspire me. And every once in a while, they take me outside of myself for a peek into the world in which I have lived - kind of like when my Mom used to punish me or my Dad used to say nothing with a look, providing a simple reality check. The reality of "it's never as bad as you think, but get on the right road already. It's time."
Life is a series of progressions. Experiences are attained, doors and chapters are constantly closing as new ones await, much like a swinging gate at the entrance of the next phase of your life. And I want to LEAP over that gate and land in the second half of the game, for I am finally ready to play.
The first half was a beautiful, brutal warm-up in preparation for the difference I am going to make in this world, and the game clock is running. But I don't, won't, and can't care about the time remaining. There's only One behind the scorer's table anyway and He has already won the game.
Yet the beauty is, and always has been, that He knows what kind of role player we are; we just need to show up.
So what I want is to wake up each morning and sing praises for all the blessings which have been received and are renewed each day. I want to find a way to use every minute of every hour of every day to matter in profound ways - whether it's creating, talking, encouraging, or just being still. I want to sit for hours and think only about what is happening in THAT moment with the person or people surrounding me instead of thinking about the never-ending to do list. Stolen moments will be mine instead of ruling me and thus, robbing me.
I want to pick and choose more wisely instead of filling my world and my head with diversions. When I run, I want to enjoy it instead of always running to get somewhere, by a certain date, in a certain Kenyan-like time. I want to stop dabbling in thousands of things and finally do the one thing I was meant to do.
I want to breath deeply, love with an intensity that cannot be surpassed, never take the important relationships for granted, and become a minimalist. And mostly, in so doing, I want to model the unconditional love that has been shown to us.
Because someday, when the clock strikes 0:00...I want to be sliding into home plate instead of proudly trotting around the bases like I just hit the homer on my own.
Her daughter just completed her undergrad at GVSU with a psychology degree and is on her way later this month to IUPUI to begin her graduate studies in social work. Liv has every intention of acquiring the same degree(s), so we thought it very motherly of us to bring those two together and selfishly catch-up and laugh over (fine, my) hideous mistakes again. It kind of never gets old. That content is rich alrighty. Whew to the we.
Today. Today my baby is applying to college. It's surreal, it's scary, and it is here. For now, I am tabling all emotion in favor of opening the mail to find an acceptance letter glistening with the letters WELCOME TO and a shopping trip to find an eight-semester-lasting chastity belt.
As part of the application process, incoming freshman are required to write an essay which must not exceed 650 words. Great, no problem, my academic-excelling child thought. Five to ten words is certainly less than 650. (She killed the Math section on the SAT, by the way. Nailed it.)
My mini-me chose to write about friendships. As she sat in the kitchen, I tried to help by sharing one of my very first blog posts written about Chels. Begrudgingly, Liv began to read. Almost immediately she looked up in disgust at me, interrupting the clearly Pulitzer flow.
"I can't write like this," she announced.
Smirking, I did what any all-knowing and prideful mother would do and responded encouragingly.
"Of course you can, honey. I haven't always been able to write like that either."
"No. It's not grammatically correct. This is for college, Mom. No way would I get in with anything like that."
Maybe it won't be quite as hard when she leaves. Wishful thinking, but I'm looking forward to a returned sense of my self-esteem nonetheless.
I wish we would have been required to submit an essay back in the day. If that were the case, I definitely would NOT have chosen the "Share a life experience in which you failed" prompt. 650 word max and all.
But, if the prompt would have been "Write about the person you are today and your progression over the next 5 years - what you hope to experience, your dreams, your passions and the role they will play in your future. Do not provide specific events; rather we are looking for a deep soul conceptual snap shot," I would have been all over that one.
It would have been interesting to see what my 17 year-old self would have written. My almost 41 year-old self would write something like this:
The person I am today is a compilation of dreams. From pipe, to shattered, to realized, there they have been. Sometimes, they plague me. Other times, they inspire me. And every once in a while, they take me outside of myself for a peek into the world in which I have lived - kind of like when my Mom used to punish me or my Dad used to say nothing with a look, providing a simple reality check. The reality of "it's never as bad as you think, but get on the right road already. It's time."
Life is a series of progressions. Experiences are attained, doors and chapters are constantly closing as new ones await, much like a swinging gate at the entrance of the next phase of your life. And I want to LEAP over that gate and land in the second half of the game, for I am finally ready to play.
The first half was a beautiful, brutal warm-up in preparation for the difference I am going to make in this world, and the game clock is running. But I don't, won't, and can't care about the time remaining. There's only One behind the scorer's table anyway and He has already won the game.
Yet the beauty is, and always has been, that He knows what kind of role player we are; we just need to show up.
So what I want is to wake up each morning and sing praises for all the blessings which have been received and are renewed each day. I want to find a way to use every minute of every hour of every day to matter in profound ways - whether it's creating, talking, encouraging, or just being still. I want to sit for hours and think only about what is happening in THAT moment with the person or people surrounding me instead of thinking about the never-ending to do list. Stolen moments will be mine instead of ruling me and thus, robbing me.
I want to pick and choose more wisely instead of filling my world and my head with diversions. When I run, I want to enjoy it instead of always running to get somewhere, by a certain date, in a certain Kenyan-like time. I want to stop dabbling in thousands of things and finally do the one thing I was meant to do.
I want to breath deeply, love with an intensity that cannot be surpassed, never take the important relationships for granted, and become a minimalist. And mostly, in so doing, I want to model the unconditional love that has been shown to us.
Because someday, when the clock strikes 0:00...I want to be sliding into home plate instead of proudly trotting around the bases like I just hit the homer on my own.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
The Plans He Knows
“What the?!,” I said out loud yesterday while opening the mail. Any time the return address says IRS Department of Treasury, you know you're in trouble for something you don't remember doing. While I'm totally familiar with that, all I could think was, Uh-oh. I didn’t plan for
this.
And so it goes. Life doesn’t always
go as planned.
Really, genius? you might be thinking. Yeah, I know. But give me a second here and I will explain my thought de jour.
We plan for a thousand
things to go wrong, but in comedic life fashion, the only one which ever seems to is the one you didn’t plan
for—the one you can’t do anything about right that very second, the one that leaves you feeling totally
helpless in the overwhelming immediacy of the moment.
I owe you $2,264 my <expletive>. Dear Tax Guy, I'm gonna send you a 'lil something in the morning.
While in the grand scheme of things it was not a big deal to open my mailbox and receive that correspondence (note: I am a BIG BIG fan of receiving hand-written letters/cards, and if you write me something catchy with say, a quill pen, I will jump up and down in the middle of the street...even while wearing an unnecessary "you broke your foot, you moron" boot), I was unprepared for it, so my initial reaction was the standard eye-roll and subsequent verbiage.
However, what I also noticed as I was shawty like a pimp walking back into my house was that by the time I reached the garage, I was over it. Can you say new perspective? Can you say FINALLY? Can you say...well, that part isn't for public consumption. Suffice it to say he's freaking awesome. And I even listen to everything he has to say, because I'd be even more moronic than running in wedges after four-ish Farmhouses if I didn't.
It’s easy to talk
about getting over your fears, living bravely, having faith and relinquishing control. But lemme tell ya, it’s much harder
to do when you have a memory like a steel trap and remember the pain you endured when you did NOT choose to do those things in the past.
Maybe the whole point
of getting over our fears is learning to take that step into the great unknown and expect, understand, and appreciate that it’s not
always going to go smoothly–that we have to trust despite the plans which either fall apart or cannot be executed right.that.second.
Things will go
wrong. A car breaks down. The furnace stops working. A child
spikes a fever. The IRS is bored.
The truth is we’re not
in control of our circumstances no matter how hard we try. There will be stomach flus and accidents,
broken dishes and spilled milk. There will be broken metatarsals, broken hearts, and broken dreams. There might even be a phone call from your super sweet daughter using her best super sweet voice to indirectly tell her loving mother that her boyfriend has totaled her (mother's) car.
And without question, there will also be the teeny, tiny little control freak issues which rattle around in our heads, making us think we want and need to be in charge, when the real truth is we need to just let it all go. He's got it. His hands are mighty. It's not only prideful but kinda funny to think that God needs our input on anything to make sure His plans come to fruition.
I can hear it now someday as I stand in awe: "I was just trying to help...You didn't see me check THAT one off the list?" as He hugs me because thankfully, mercifully, He loves me unconditionally anyway.
I need to open these clenched fists and pray God help me, because
all I’m really going to do is mess it all up by trying to make it right on my
own. Hey, better late than never as I like to say. A lot.
What opening your mailbox after a long day at work teaches you is that you can't control your life or anyone else's for that matter. But crazily and humanly, we let our worry and anxiety eat away at our peace of mind, the peace that surpasses all understanding. If we could just let go of our own fear, our own selfish defense mechanisms to help ourselves, then we might actually know that peace - that shalom that comes only from Him.
When I am afraid, I will trust in you. In God, whose word
I praise, In God I trust; I will not be afraid.” (Psalm 56:3-4a)
I need this reminder on loop every day, a thousand times, until it completely reverberates in this faint heart. And it's starting. It started a few months ago actually. What a lesson. What a blessing. What a time in my life. The best place to be is in love. Trust me.
We learn to trust by practicing trust. Trust that if we let go, God will work it all out. Find your place, your someone, your groove where you laugh until joy fills up the place where fear once lived. The place where trust is born. The place where we let go and hold on tight to what might be and what is to come.
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose. (Romans 8:28)
Sometimes I want to hit my own self upside the head for not constantly remembering that He withholds no good thing, even the ones 189 miles away.
So yeah, life and timing doesn't always go as planned. And to that, I say, "THANK GOD!"
Because you know what? The real plan is the unplanned, the unpredictable journey we call life.
I close with that, as I simultaneously am reading an email which says, "The IRS screws up all the time. You don't owe anything. I'll draft a letter."
Cool. Use a quill pen, dude.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
It's Not Even The Hair. Promise.
"At the risk of appearing predictable, the Bible was and remains the biggest influence on my thinking." -Hillary Clinton
Thank you, Hill. Thank you for setting yourself up in such a way so as to make someone who is in just the right mood take a time out and address this. Just for a second. Really. Give me one baby second here, if I may.
Once upon a time I started to like you, with the operative word being "started." When you went all village on those of us who actually hailed from one, my heart softened towards you. The vision you presented regarding the children of America touched upon both my sentimentality and ardency of camaraderie for a brief window of time. Until logic won battle number zillion and two over emotion and kicked that shit to the curb.
While I don't disagree that individuals and groups outside the family have, for better or worse, a huge impact on a child's well-being, the way in which you advocated its implementation makes me want to puke almost as much as I did when I first heard you utter the word, "Bosnia."
Truthfully, I kinda forgot about that, the village, and you for a while. Other things like crumpled gum wrappers on the ground and nothing garnered more of my attention. However today I read your transformational statement about the Bible and was reminded of my exact disdain for you.
Do I think you'll lose sleep over 'lil 'ol me not Facebook friending you? Nah. Nor should you. But what most certainly should keep you awake at night is your penchant for lying. Why does controversy and drama follow certain people around like a shadow on a sunny day? Because said nut jobs single-handedly create it. Author it. Manufacture it. Feed off of it like little leeches.
Well Travelgate me on a Whitewater trip, Wally, you don't say!
Nothing sets me off more than hypocrisy. I much prefer when people talk out of the middle of their mouths directly instead of out both sides. Couple that with saying that Scripture is the biggest influence on your thinking while you lie without flinching, are pro-abortion, and the most appalling of them all - decide to leave 4 Americans in the Benghazi massacre without military support, and I strongly suggest you go back and reread those 66 books again. And again. And then some more.
But hey, what do I know? I'm just a little girl from a village.
Thank you, Hill. Thank you for setting yourself up in such a way so as to make someone who is in just the right mood take a time out and address this. Just for a second. Really. Give me one baby second here, if I may.
Once upon a time I started to like you, with the operative word being "started." When you went all village on those of us who actually hailed from one, my heart softened towards you. The vision you presented regarding the children of America touched upon both my sentimentality and ardency of camaraderie for a brief window of time. Until logic won battle number zillion and two over emotion and kicked that shit to the curb.
While I don't disagree that individuals and groups outside the family have, for better or worse, a huge impact on a child's well-being, the way in which you advocated its implementation makes me want to puke almost as much as I did when I first heard you utter the word, "Bosnia."
Truthfully, I kinda forgot about that, the village, and you for a while. Other things like crumpled gum wrappers on the ground and nothing garnered more of my attention. However today I read your transformational statement about the Bible and was reminded of my exact disdain for you.
Do I think you'll lose sleep over 'lil 'ol me not Facebook friending you? Nah. Nor should you. But what most certainly should keep you awake at night is your penchant for lying. Why does controversy and drama follow certain people around like a shadow on a sunny day? Because said nut jobs single-handedly create it. Author it. Manufacture it. Feed off of it like little leeches.
Well Travelgate me on a Whitewater trip, Wally, you don't say!
Nothing sets me off more than hypocrisy. I much prefer when people talk out of the middle of their mouths directly instead of out both sides. Couple that with saying that Scripture is the biggest influence on your thinking while you lie without flinching, are pro-abortion, and the most appalling of them all - decide to leave 4 Americans in the Benghazi massacre without military support, and I strongly suggest you go back and reread those 66 books again. And again. And then some more.
But hey, what do I know? I'm just a little girl from a village.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
When Running Isn't An Option...
I love an appreciate those times more than I can express. Usually when a moment strikes me whereby I can make a correlation which should be incredibly obvious but it's been oddly elusive, I bust out laughing like a hyena.
Yeah. That happened this morning. At 5:15am. On an elliptical machine crankin' at about 276 steps a minute as sweat was flying off of my head so profusely I started looking around for Mary Poppins to float down from the upstairs track to protect others nearby.
I was on the elliptical instead of pounding pavement outside like any normal Wednesday morning for a reason. But you knew that. Fine. I may or may not have taken a little tumble last Friday night in 5" (super cute) wedges while quasi-chasing something of an even cuter 6'2" variety.
No matter. Details schmetails. The end result is two-fold: I could barely walk and some rap song about a limp ensued.
And even after all that - the spill, the pain, the change in routine, the waiting for complete healing to get back on my feet...I'd fall again.
Because for the first time in my life, I am actually not running.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
WOTY2.0: It's Time
Alas, the time has come.
My Mom used to tell me that the way to know you were officially old was
when it felt as if you could no longer control the time. When a day was a week, when a week turned
into a month, when a month became an entire season, and then…a whole year passes
by, all in the blink of an eye.
But what we also know is that there is hope. Hope for each one of us in this (very) broken world. Hope for an eternal life with newness, peace, and beauty far greater than any of our earthly brains can even begin to fathom (Rev. 21:4-5).
That might have been the only “Mom thing” she was wrong
about.
You see, it’s not that the feeling isn’t accurate. Most
days absolutely feel like there is
never enough time to get everything done, to fit everything in before crashing
and rising to go grind again the next day. But like everything, it’s all about perspective and purpose. Are we stopping along the way to simply take it all in, to be in the moment, and give thanks? What are we choosing to do with the same 24 hours we are each allotted?
In less than 60 hours, the LLS gala will be underway. As you know, that evening is a culmination of
an unbelievable amount of effort, dedication, and commitment by individuals in
our community who choose to make a difference in the lives of others.
That special and emotional evening is both a celebration and
a reminder that each one of us has only a pre-determined amount of time on this
earth. And some of that time might be in sickness. We were not put here with a
promise of everything always being easy, or for our own happiness to trump that
of anyone else’s. Much to the
contrary, in fact. We were put here to
be in relationship with God and one another, all the while giving thanks in
everything (1 Thess. 5:18).
Everything.
The good, the bad, the ugly.
Cancer is ugly. This we know for
sure.But what we also know is that there is hope. Hope for each one of us in this (very) broken world. Hope for an eternal life with newness, peace, and beauty far greater than any of our earthly brains can even begin to fathom (Rev. 21:4-5).
This campaign matters to me in ways which are
inexplicable. After walking through that
valley all those years ago, I’ve come out on the other side not with a feeling
of “Guess I just kicked THAT all on my own,” but rather an extreme sense of
gratitude. Of awareness. Of purpose and perspective. And most certainly, of hope.
It wasn’t instantaneous.
It was not in my time at all. And it definitely wasn't on my own. Things
happen exactly when they are supposed to happen. And I know, man do I know, that when it is
one of the ugly things you didn’t see coming, it’s hard to keep the faith. It’s hard to not get angry. It’s really, really hard to have all this
hope I’m going on about.
But let me tell you:
it’s worth it. Every struggle,
every uncertainty, every feeling of guilt not only for being a survivor while
others were not, but the built-in guilt and shame we all collect over the
course of time - someday, it all makes sense.
Maybe not fully, maybe not right this second, maybe not even ever to our
insatiable selves' satisfaction.
Yet the older we get, the more retrospectively we survey, and the more we are unafraid to stay on the right side of that line we drew (and erased and re-drew and erased and...) the clearer things become.
Time. That’s what it
takes, that’s what we have, and that’s what is here right now.
Please donate if you have not yet done so. THANK YOU to all of you who have. I have not given enough thanks throughout
this campaign (add that to my guilt list, please), but know that we all – every
one of us who are in this together – appreciate it immensely.
And so my friends, here’s what I will leave you with before the big night, because it matters:
Make the most of the days, weeks, months, and seasons of
life with which you’ve been blessed. There
is always time to make a difference
in someone else’s world.
Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer (Romans 12:12)
Monday, May 12, 2014
WOTY2.0: Remembering
Yesterday was a day of constant remembrances.
What is it about memories that typically causes you to recount them in chronological order? I could never recall any of the wars in order on a high school test unless there were like, 3 choices and one was the War of 1812. Loved history - hated the conjecture and non-veiled politics my teachers threw in while thinking none of us would bother to raise a hand or roll an eye.
But when it comes to all things mothering - in order, every time, every year on Mother's Day.
I remember the first time I saw my Mom cry when I was a little girl. I remember the first time I heard her drop "the bomb" while driving to OSU for a college site-visit in a chaotic car. I remember her crying harder than ever when it was time to leave me there for good. And I can definitely remember her face the first time she saw me after finding out I was sick.
Last week our Boy of the Year, Caleb, was also sick. In the middle of already being sick, he was admitted to a hospital in South Bend because he had a fever. Without leukemia, not a big deal. With leukemia? Everything stops, everything gets monitored, and everything potentially changes. Caleb's counts were high enough that thankfully, he was released and avoided a longer stay.
Cancer never bothers to check anyone's schedule. It never bothers to ask "Is Mother's Day this weekend?" No, it is not a considerate disease whatsoever. And that is exactly why we have to do something to change its impolite course.
Olivia's daughter, Bell, is sick too. She has this crazy cough that makes her sound like a 90 year-old man who has smoked hand-rolled cigs longer than he's been shaving. So instead of golfing this weekend (with me and my "I'm not going to lose to one self-proclaimed Phil Mickelson"), Olivia was up all night with Bell...being the fantastic Mom that she is.
Mothering never stops. Not when you're tired, not when you're sad, not when you need to get groceries, mow the lawn, or teach high schoolers about Emerson, Whitman, and Thoreau.
It doesn't even stop when you're in the middle of raising money to find a cure for blood cancers so others don't have to lose their own Moms ever again.
We are 18 days away from the gala. 18 days left to make a difference. 18 days to help someone have the chance of becoming a parent, remaining a parent, or maybe, in remembrance of one.
Please don't forget.
http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm
What is it about memories that typically causes you to recount them in chronological order? I could never recall any of the wars in order on a high school test unless there were like, 3 choices and one was the War of 1812. Loved history - hated the conjecture and non-veiled politics my teachers threw in while thinking none of us would bother to raise a hand or roll an eye.
But when it comes to all things mothering - in order, every time, every year on Mother's Day.
I remember the first time I saw my Mom cry when I was a little girl. I remember the first time I heard her drop "the bomb" while driving to OSU for a college site-visit in a chaotic car. I remember her crying harder than ever when it was time to leave me there for good. And I can definitely remember her face the first time she saw me after finding out I was sick.
Last week our Boy of the Year, Caleb, was also sick. In the middle of already being sick, he was admitted to a hospital in South Bend because he had a fever. Without leukemia, not a big deal. With leukemia? Everything stops, everything gets monitored, and everything potentially changes. Caleb's counts were high enough that thankfully, he was released and avoided a longer stay.
Cancer never bothers to check anyone's schedule. It never bothers to ask "Is Mother's Day this weekend?" No, it is not a considerate disease whatsoever. And that is exactly why we have to do something to change its impolite course.
Olivia's daughter, Bell, is sick too. She has this crazy cough that makes her sound like a 90 year-old man who has smoked hand-rolled cigs longer than he's been shaving. So instead of golfing this weekend (with me and my "I'm not going to lose to one self-proclaimed Phil Mickelson"), Olivia was up all night with Bell...being the fantastic Mom that she is.
Mothering never stops. Not when you're tired, not when you're sad, not when you need to get groceries, mow the lawn, or teach high schoolers about Emerson, Whitman, and Thoreau.
It doesn't even stop when you're in the middle of raising money to find a cure for blood cancers so others don't have to lose their own Moms ever again.
We are 18 days away from the gala. 18 days left to make a difference. 18 days to help someone have the chance of becoming a parent, remaining a parent, or maybe, in remembrance of one.
Please don't forget.
http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
A Closet Romantic
Our church is partnering with the Fort 4 Fitness this September in an effort to save girls from human trafficking in Thailand. We do this as part of a project called Destiny Rescue. What an important mission. I cannot imagine the lives these girls would have without intervention.
I was asked to write a paragraph (I think a means one...hmm) answering the simple question of "Why do you run?"
The following is what my fingers just typed before asking my brain for any permission:
I was asked to write a paragraph (I think a means one...hmm) answering the simple question of "Why do you run?"
The following is what my fingers just typed before asking my brain for any permission:
Why do I run? That question is like answering my favorite poem: Elizabeth
Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 43. How Do I Love Thee? Let me count the
ways.
Running is my constant, my respite, my "me" time. It is my
friend, my solace, my peace in the face of all life’s adversities, even the
unintentional ones. It frees me from monotony and the mundane, for no run
is ever the same. Some are easy, some are not. Some leave you
smiling, while others leave you bruised. Some leave you feeling capable,
while others leave you feeling humbled by ineptitude. It keeps me fit,
healthy, and strong, reminding me that I’m tougher than certain situations and unclarity
would lead me to believe. Running brings me a joy that can only be
understood if you compare it to an instant transport back to the innocence of
childhood. Because truly, that’s what it is – time spent in complete
honestness and goodness, whether alone or side-by-side in total camaraderie
with those who are on the same path…both literally and figuratively.
Running is my forever.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
--EBB
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
WOTY2.0: Sometimes There Is Crying in Baseball
Under the heading of "time flies when you're having fun"...we are in Week 7 of the campaign. Seven. There are many updates I've been remiss in sharing, so hang and I'll take you on a frenetic update ride. Let's go.
Three weeks from Friday is the gala. Three weeks. Have you purchased your tickets? Seriously, don't make me go into sales mode to get you there. It's an incredible amount of fun, the auction items are super cool, you get to dress up and make your 1980's prom-self (and probably your forgettable date) jealous, and well, the bar is open and open late. All that aside, the most important reason you need to be there? The cause.
Two nights ago, there was a collective event at Club Soda. Non-candidate specific. And do you know how much was raised by our Fort Wayne contingent in the course of a three-hour event all in the name of eradicating cancer? Over $11,500! That's pretty spectacular, as was the company.
Speaking of the attendees on Sunday, Gianna was also there. That was rough. She was clearly under the weather, her vibrant smile hidden beneath a signature sparkly hat. With her hand clutched to her Dad's, Gianna's little head hung low as she walked. She's doing much better now; however, let me tell you - in the midst of dinner and a lot of laughs amongst friends, seeing that stops you mid-sentence. Nothing causes instant cessation faster than watching a sick child and trying to make sense of it.
Cancer stops everyone mid-whatever. Mid-car ride, mid-parenting, mid-phone call, mid-life, or sometimes mid-pitch, like OSU freshman baseball player Zach Farmer, who was diagnosed with AML (acute myeloid leukemia) last week. His season suddenly looks very different.
Earlier today, cancer halted me yet again mid-work day. As I was walking a thousand miles an hour down the hallway, our Admin Assistant answered a question for me and followed it up by asking one of her own:
"Can I ask you something personal?"
<nodding as my face lost all coloring>: "Of course."
"When you were sick, did you have a tumor?"
<knowing what was about to happen>: "Who has cancer, Sarah?"
She went on to tell me the story. Sarah's forever best girlfriend called her the day before in utter hysteria, explaining that her husband - the love of her life, her guy, her person, her one - has Hodgkin's Lymphoma. I could tell Sarah had been crying; I'm sure her friend had been crying even more.
We went on to discuss the general disease, the typical prognosis, treatment, etc. Sarah understandably wanted to know so she could be in a position to help and comfort her best friend. The part that she was struggling with the most was not knowing how to counsel her regarding the emotional and relational toll it was taking. (We all do a bang up job with that stuff through our own volition; cancer doing it as a solo act infuriates me.)
Apparently, Sarah's friend's husband was in the anger stage. Anger. That one is something else.
You want to help with this campaign but don't know how? Start by upping your compassion. And I don't mean for "just people with cancer." We all have something. Some ailment; some sickness; some thorn in our side with which we struggle. Let people be angry once in a while. Everyone's "place" has been arrived at through completely different means. Our journeys are unique; our relationship histories even more so.
To watch someone you love battle cancer and yet be so completely defenseless is no small emotional undertaking.
When you are unable to step up to the plate and pinch hit for your loved one as so many family members and friends long to do, it DOES make you angry. When you are stuck in a hospital room for 7 weeks while your 2 year-old daughter is learning how to do first time things in this life that you should be showing her - it makes you angry.
When your wife, your husband, your brother, your sister, your high school "did THAT just happen?" buddy, your childhood friend, your own child, or...or the only mother or father you'll ever have is sick and you can't do a thing about it - it makes you ridiculously angry. And a whole lot of other emotions.
So let's channel that anger at the right target together, just like the OSU baseball team is doing.
"The team as a whole is obviously concerned about their brother, but we will forge on in our mission." -Coach Beals
Forge on, everyone. It matters.
Three weeks from Friday is the gala. Three weeks. Have you purchased your tickets? Seriously, don't make me go into sales mode to get you there. It's an incredible amount of fun, the auction items are super cool, you get to dress up and make your 1980's prom-self (and probably your forgettable date) jealous, and well, the bar is open and open late. All that aside, the most important reason you need to be there? The cause.
Two nights ago, there was a collective event at Club Soda. Non-candidate specific. And do you know how much was raised by our Fort Wayne contingent in the course of a three-hour event all in the name of eradicating cancer? Over $11,500! That's pretty spectacular, as was the company.
Speaking of the attendees on Sunday, Gianna was also there. That was rough. She was clearly under the weather, her vibrant smile hidden beneath a signature sparkly hat. With her hand clutched to her Dad's, Gianna's little head hung low as she walked. She's doing much better now; however, let me tell you - in the midst of dinner and a lot of laughs amongst friends, seeing that stops you mid-sentence. Nothing causes instant cessation faster than watching a sick child and trying to make sense of it.
Cancer stops everyone mid-whatever. Mid-car ride, mid-parenting, mid-phone call, mid-life, or sometimes mid-pitch, like OSU freshman baseball player Zach Farmer, who was diagnosed with AML (acute myeloid leukemia) last week. His season suddenly looks very different.
Earlier today, cancer halted me yet again mid-work day. As I was walking a thousand miles an hour down the hallway, our Admin Assistant answered a question for me and followed it up by asking one of her own:
"Can I ask you something personal?"
<nodding as my face lost all coloring>: "Of course."
"When you were sick, did you have a tumor?"
<knowing what was about to happen>: "Who has cancer, Sarah?"
She went on to tell me the story. Sarah's forever best girlfriend called her the day before in utter hysteria, explaining that her husband - the love of her life, her guy, her person, her one - has Hodgkin's Lymphoma. I could tell Sarah had been crying; I'm sure her friend had been crying even more.
We went on to discuss the general disease, the typical prognosis, treatment, etc. Sarah understandably wanted to know so she could be in a position to help and comfort her best friend. The part that she was struggling with the most was not knowing how to counsel her regarding the emotional and relational toll it was taking. (We all do a bang up job with that stuff through our own volition; cancer doing it as a solo act infuriates me.)
Apparently, Sarah's friend's husband was in the anger stage. Anger. That one is something else.
You want to help with this campaign but don't know how? Start by upping your compassion. And I don't mean for "just people with cancer." We all have something. Some ailment; some sickness; some thorn in our side with which we struggle. Let people be angry once in a while. Everyone's "place" has been arrived at through completely different means. Our journeys are unique; our relationship histories even more so.
To watch someone you love battle cancer and yet be so completely defenseless is no small emotional undertaking.
When you are unable to step up to the plate and pinch hit for your loved one as so many family members and friends long to do, it DOES make you angry. When you are stuck in a hospital room for 7 weeks while your 2 year-old daughter is learning how to do first time things in this life that you should be showing her - it makes you angry.
When your wife, your husband, your brother, your sister, your high school "did THAT just happen?" buddy, your childhood friend, your own child, or...or the only mother or father you'll ever have is sick and you can't do a thing about it - it makes you ridiculously angry. And a whole lot of other emotions.
So let's channel that anger at the right target together, just like the OSU baseball team is doing.
"The team as a whole is obviously concerned about their brother, but we will forge on in our mission." -Coach Beals
Forge on, everyone. It matters.
CAMPAIGN TOTAL RAISED TO DATE:
$108,369.83
$108,369.83
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
WOTY2.0: Phases
Liv and I went prom dress shopping last Saturday. She had no idea what she wanted, but knew
immediately what she didn’t like (zip it, please, I know). After trying on what seemed like three dozen
dresses, she announced, “This one is
fine, it’ll work.”
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A Mom knows when her kid is settling (yes, again, I know).
And while that dress looked okay, fit decently, and would have been
fine, something was missing. I ran into
the back room – the one which by that point welcomed me like The Hatch on LOST –
to find the one. I was going to find it, because I knew it had
to exist.
Exasperated, Liv grabbed the dress from behind the curtain and I
sat down. And waited. And listened.
And wondered. Nothing was happening,
but I knew not to say a word. The boutique
owner walked along the creaky hardwood floor to the front door, flipped the
old-fashioned sign to CLOSED and then - out of that dressing room she came,
beaming with the biggest, brightest smile any Mom could ever hope to see.
Better late than never, as I like to say. I know,
I know, we ALL know… (It was a looong day, let me have this.)
The store takes what they call “once loved” wedding dresses,
bridesmaid dresses, and prom dresses on consignment. I wasn’t about to point out the irony in
their nomenclature, but I will be dropping off two once loved dresses later
this week when I am there picking up that perfect prom dress find. And for those of you whispering right now,
both are Liv's.
When I confirmed with her that it was alright to ditch them,
I also asked what she thought of my super sweet red lace c.1987 prom
dress. “Think they’d want THIS once loved treasure?” It horrified her so much she had no comment,
even though her mouth was hanging wide open.
My point is this.
Time flies; yet, life is absolutely cyclical. Proms have existed for as long as any of us
can remember, and so has cancer.
But thankfully and mercifully, both look vastly different
than they did years ago.
In the last 50 years, survival rates for blood cancer
patients have doubled, tripled and in some cases, even quadrupled as a result of research and innovation. We need to keep this trend on pace. We need to fight harder than ever. We need to never give up, because settling
should never be an option.
Why would it be?
Settling isn’t an answer, it’s merely a Band-Aid that keeps curling up
on the ends, threatening to rip completely off the moment you stop trying to
habitually and begrudgingly smooth it back down.
Our lives are a series of phases. And while our cyclical experiences are each
unique, each differing in terms of joys and pains, triumphs and tragedies, we
are all interconnected.
Woven in the beautiful tapestry of our lives are similar
themes: childhood in all its magical
innocence, adolescence in all its ugly confusion, early, impetuous twenties and
all of their prideful “I got this!” proclamations…
And sometimes cancer.
--------------------------
This is an email we received last Friday from Mel, our
Campaign Director:
Candidates &
Committee,
It was great to see so
many of you at last night’s Halfway Happy Hour! I’m really glad Caleb and his
family were able to join us. Seth and Andrea have said time and time again how
much they are inspired by each of you and your dedication to our mission and
our cause.
This morning, Andrea sent me an email with the attached picture, which
she calls “Caleb’s Phases of Leukemia.”
-
Top
left:
At Riley getting a blood transfusion to prepare for chemo
At Riley getting a blood transfusion to prepare for chemo
-
Top
right:
At Riley for his first chemotherapy treatment
At Riley for his first chemotherapy treatment
-
Bottom
left:
Induction Phase, where he had to take steroids twice a day for a month. He couldn’t walk because he was so big and Seth & Andrea had to re-teach him how to walk.
Induction Phase, where he had to take steroids twice a day for a month. He couldn’t walk because he was so big and Seth & Andrea had to re-teach him how to walk.
-
Bottom
right:
3 months before his 2nd birthday he lost all his hair
3 months before his 2nd birthday he lost all his hair
She closed the email
by saying, “2 years down, 15 months to go!”
This MWOY journey
certainly isn’t always easy, but I think that’s enough to keep us all going…
Thanks for ALL you do
– it can never be said enough!
Enjoy the weekend,
Melanie
---------------------------------------
Anything short of a cure is like walking into a high school
gymnasium wearing the wrong dress on the arm of the wrong guy.
Refuse to settle.
One month to go.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Post-Boston
I really only have two things to say before I copy and paste the article the Journal Gazette (pre-editing edition) asked me to write:
1. I am beyond humbled by the whole stinkin' thing. It was and will forever be an unforgettable life event.
2. To the person who actually read this article before its final submission, thank you for doing so. I think you are beautiful, too.
----------------------------------------------------
WeRunTogether
1. I am beyond humbled by the whole stinkin' thing. It was and will forever be an unforgettable life event.
2. To the person who actually read this article before its final submission, thank you for doing so. I think you are beautiful, too.
----------------------------------------------------
WeRunTogether
By: Beth Schrader
After loading the suitcase into the car last Saturday
morning, I ran back into the house to grab my iPhone. Completely apropos, Boston’s “More Than A
Feeling” was blaring through the speakers, the perfect send-off to a long
awaited trip.
I was seated in between a fellow runner and her husband
(“No, it’s ok, don’t move, we’ve been together forever…”) on the flight from Indy to Charlotte. She had run Boston before and was giving me
the lowdown on how to approach the course.
Really hold back the
first four miles. It’s all downhill, it’s
early, the adrenaline will be on overload and you’ll want to fly, but don’t
because you’ll pay for it on the back half.
This sound advice echoed what my running buddies had already
told me, so I shook my head as if I knew.
I had no idea.
When we landed in Charlotte, we bid each other farewell and
good luck, and continued on our respective treks into the city which has eluded
me for the last 4 years. I had zero
intention of ever visiting “just because.”
I was ONLY going to make the trip through one means: qualifying.
After arriving and settling into The Westin, one block from
Boylston and the finish line, I met my good friend and co-hort, Angela, for
dinner. If you knew her, this would be
even more exceptional of a story because, by her own admission, she’s “not
thoughtful” nor does she “ever do things like this.” She’s also a good liar, because I find her
incredibly thoughtful for making this trip with me, kind of last minute to
boot. I’m not sure I can ever properly
repay her for all she did to get me through the weekend – from making sure we knew
where we had to be and when - to calming
my nerves through her precision timing of comedic sarcasm (“I found the perfect guy for you.
Four words: lime green pajama
pants.”).
Her selflessness not only will always be remembered, but was
in very good company in Boston. The vibe
everywhere was one of constant emotion: resilience,
catharsis, healing, closure, companionship, and camaraderie. Everyone was incredibly welcoming, from the
stereotypical Bostonian Super Shuttle
guy in all his thick-accented glory (“Welcome
to Bah-stun”), to the folks lining the jam-packed streets. People would smile and take the time to thank
individuals for coming back to their city, or showing up at all on the heels of
last year’s tragedy.
On the ride into the City from the airport, I was sitting
next to a woman who ran in 2013 and had just finished when the bombs went
off. She told me she had contemplated
whether or not to return, as it was scary and not something she was quite over
yet.
“Thank you for coming
back to Bah-stun,” the driver with bat-like hearing yelled gruffly from the
front seat. “This is OUR city, and people like you being here are helping us take
it back.”
After a late dinner on a dicey back alley road Saturday
night (our favorite kind of place), I walked back to my hotel. I purposely took Boylston, where the Finish
Line was brightly illuminated. It was
the first time I had seen it in person.
As I slowly approached, I could sense the respect of everyone in the
vicinity. While there were lots and lots
of people there, it was eerily quiet.
People were taking photographs, but mostly, we all just stood in
disbelief, and in deference.
There was a memorial erected for the people who lost their
lives last year. And as you stood there
looking at it, the only thing you could do is begin shake your head as tears
streamed down your face. By all intents
and purposes, it was a “normal” street.
Same pavement we have in Fort Wayne, same sidewalks, same kinds of
stores and restaurants. The whole scene
was simply surreal. To think that one
minute you could be standing, sitting, or running right there…right there…and then, your world changes
in an instant. It was a lot to take in
and even harder to try and process.
On Sunday, we went to the Convention Center. The
logistics which must go into providing 36,000 runners with everything they need
prior to the race is incredible. And
man, they nail it in Boston. As we
arrived, I walked immediately to the appropriate section of bib numbers to
receive my packet. Another proud and
smiling Bostonian greeted us, thanked us for being there, and wished me luck on
the course. The sense of communal pride
continued to be evident.
Angela and I checked out the expo which was wall to wall
people, bought a few things, and hit the streets of downtown. The history is rich; the buildings
architecturally interesting. We walked
to Boston Common so we would know where I needed to go in the morning to load
the bus for the drive to Hopkinton.
It was a beautiful, sunny day out so I detoured on the way
back to my hotel and sat on some steps people watching. Everyone was smiling and many people were
wearing their Boston Marathon jackets or other attire from years past. Many others still were adorned with “Boston
Strong” hats, T-shirts, and bracelets.
It was a peaceful hour or so, as I felt connected to this group of
strangers in a very meaningful and intense way.
The day had finally come….BOSTON. The alarm never needs to wake me on race
morning. I awakened at 5:30am and looked
out my window at Boylston Street. It was
beginning to come alive, with people walking to and fro as final preparations
for such an historic day were being made.
Patriot’s Day in Boston is an
historic day; but today was even more profound, even more sentimental.
As we stood on the back side of Boston Common staring at a
continual line of school buses waiting to transport runners over 26 miles into
Hopkinton, I saw him. Well, actually I
saw the CBS News Anchor holding a microphone in front of his happy face – a man
wearing the bright orange 2014 Boston Marathon jacket, a ravishing smile, and
one shoe. He was clearly a survivor, and
he was clearly getting ready to run this race with his prosthetic leg.
That moment, along with the seemingly endless bus ride to
Hopkinton, turned me into contemplative and emotional mush. How
could this have happened here last year?
The bus was noisy. Runners were
chatting each other up asking one another how many Boston’s they had run
before, what their goals were for the day, and mostly, if they were here last year. Some runners were traveling and running
together in packs; most, however, were total strangers like the woman sitting
next to me from Laguna Beach, CA.
And yet, we were united in a way which is almost
inexplicable. The level of true
camaraderie was not only felt, it was
seen – from the bibs adorning our torsos, to the bagels and protein bars being
scarfed down, to the matching “Boston 2014” bracelets we had all been given –
the ones made from last year’s banners which we wore as proud badges of honor.
We arrived to Athlete’s Village, which was a scene straight
out of Lollapalooza. There were jumbotrons,
announcers, blankets, food, and rows and rows of port-o-potties with lines as
far as the eye could see. Oh, and
runners. Lots and lots of runners.
When it was finally time for Wave 3 to leave and walk to the
starting corrals, I made my way alongside others who were equally as
overwhelmed with the whole production – the whole day – the whole sense of what
was about to go down. The fly over had
just occurred, and we now bowed our collective heads in a moment of silence.
And then? A starting
gun signaled it was time to start THE BOSTON MARATHON. It was surreal, it was fun, it was hot, and
it was a beast. That course is literally
the toughest one I’ve ever run.
People much better and faster than I had warned me to be
conservative the first four miles, which are all downhill. I listened as well as I ever do, and by mile
9, I started doing the math: 26 minus 9 = how much farther? This can’t be good.
My quads were a wreck, but my feelings were not. For once in my life, I was actually enjoying the
journey and not the destination. Now,
mind you, the destination of Boston WAS GOING TO HAPPEN no matter what. I just knew it wasn’t going to happen nearly
as fast as I had hoped. And I was ok
with that.
I was still hanging in as I approached mile 11. I began to climb yet another ascent and
noticed a woman walking off to the side.
It wasn’t all that uncommon, in and of itself, but she was crying a cry
of emotional pain rather than physical.
I did the “Hey, let’s run together!” thing as I went by, but then I
heard what she uttered through tears and heavy breathing and I stopped.
I’m scared to finish
by myself. There were thousands of
people in front of us, beside us, and behind us, so I had no idea what she
meant. Until she told me she was a
survivor from last year who had been stopped by the bombs at mile 25.5.
Even though I’m quite sure my brain wasn’t functioning
fully, it didn’t take long for me to tell her we’d finish together…if she
wanted. Luckily, she did. We ran together from 11-23 until the last
stretch narrowed and we lost each other at a water stop.
We talked about family, friends, stupid hills, and an
obscene craving for bananas. We shared
the pain, we shared those hills, and we shared a pretty big moment in both of
our lives – lives which until now had been completely unknown to one
another.
And much like Boston itself, she and I will be forever
connected through tears of pain and tears of joy. To Michelle from Texas…thank you, my friend.
As I turned left onto Boylston Street, I could see the waves
of arms in the air. I could hear the
loud screams of cheer, elation, and pride for a city which was being
healed. And I remembered to throw my own
limp and sunburned arms up in the air and smile as I FINALLY crossed that finish
line.
It was everything I had hoped it would be. More Than A Feeling, indeed.Sunday, April 20, 2014
WeRunTogether
(Written yesterday, posting today... "Really, Westin, $40 bucks for wireless from the already overpriced rooms?")
It's here. And right now, the only place I know where to start is on Monday at 11:00am.
The full-on emotion began first thing yesterday morning. First cup of coffee in hand, I opened the sliding door, walked onto the deck and just took it all in. The crisp air, the beautiful skyline, the simple serenity and peace in that moment – the upcoming moments I knew (know) would be a once in a lifetime experience. And yes, I started to tear up, followed immediately by a laughter filled soliloquy which I very much hoped the neighbors would not witness. I have zero time to be brought up on crazy charges. This whole thing is crazy enough.
I dialed the number. The day before, I listened to a voice mail from Becky (always "Beck") - my very first girlfriend in life. We met in Mrs. Mudrack's 2nd grade class; her in the ridiculously oversized circular glasses and me in the ridiculously unfashionable jeans with an embroidered roller skate on the back pocket. That was 35 years ago...
"What are you doin'?" she asked as she picked up the phone, no other greeting necessary. (Mind you, it's been 8+ months since we've spoken).
"Hey! Got your message yesterday. Having my morning coffee; where are you?"
"Wal-Mart. Shampoo aisle."
"Yuck. You cracked me up in your message; I do NOT plan to pack my concealed carry for the trip."
"Yeah, well...people are nuts. THIS is nuts! I can't believe you did it; you're going…you're almost there. You did it, Nap."
(welling up, but trying to remain stoic): "Thanks, Beck. Definitely ready to be there."
"Remember when you first found out you were sick? You almost died." (stoic wasn’t working and I couldn't shut it down because I was choking up)
"You know, you really are amazing. You don't have to prove a thing to anyone, well, maybe yourself…is that who you’ve always been trying to prove something to?”
My stomach felt exactly like I know it’s going to feel at the start line on Monday. She’s asking me this from our hometown, the one with a population roughly 1/7 of the number of runners who will be on the course Monday. Thankfully, she didn’t really want an answer.
It went on like this for a while, seemingly out of nowhere. She was pep talking me in a manner that only certain people have the authority or wherewithal to do. I can't quite explain it, but to hear those words out of the mouth of someone who has known you - really known you - for your entire life is paralyzing. Like, you kind of have to believe it...you want to believe it...but you have spent an entire lifetime pretty much not believing it. Maybe out of disbelief; maybe out of fear; maybe out of one too many (of the wrong) silly boys telling you differently as they walk out the door in search of someone who isn’t always on a mission. (Side note: my partner in crime on this Boston adventure told me she is going to make me wear a shirt emblazoned with “I LIKE BOYS” on the front, just in case anyone thought I gave up.)
Beck wished me luck, made me swear to text her my bib number so she could track me, and we hung up – right after the “love you’s” were said in all their soothing familiarity.
History. Roots. Friendship. People who have stood by you through thick and thin, watched you fall, and are now genuinely happy that you’re standing again, as the person God designed you to be – those people I will love and cherish until the end of time.
Speaking of the end of time, after composing myself from that conversation, I readied myself for Good Friday service. Purposely arriving early, I grabbed an aisle seat, turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and became still. I was physically still, but even more importantly, my mind was still. The only thing I focused on in that moment was the reason I was there. The reason we were there as a church body…the reason any of us are here at all.
And I started to cry all over again.
You know, when I qualified for this marathon last February, it was in the midst of a campaign supporting a 4 year-old boy with leukemia. Every step I took, I thought of him and not only the cancer struggle before him, but the general struggle of “life” he will have after that. The same one we ALL have. The ups, the downs, the fears, the failures, the heartaches…God did not promise us it will be easy. He did, however, promise to save us in the end if we just believe.
We must believe in something greater than ourselves. Sure, sounds easy when you read it, but if you truly ponder it, what does it actually mean? What does it actually take?
When you qualify for Boston, you are not automatically just “in.” You do it, you sign up with the hopes that not too many other faster runners either want in or will remember to sign up, and then you go on living your daily life as you always do until registration officially opens some 5 months later. The excitement is instantly followed by anxiously waiting for the unknown, which is completely out of your hands.
The parallels are astounding. As Jesus was walking that heart wrenching trail along the Via Dolorosa after everyone, including his best friend, had renounced him – He never looked back. In physical pain more excruciating than any of us can fathom, on His way to bear even MORE pain on our behalf, He was the picture of selflessness.
As a man, He did nothing wrong. Never. Not once. He was absolutely sinless. But He also knew this day was coming; the day he had to anxiously await, for the sole reason of fulfilling the purpose for which He was sent.
There will be 36,000 runners lined up on Monday morning. They all have stories. They all have past hurts for which only they can understand the initial piercing, the subsequent scars, and the ongoing depth. Indeed, they all have their own crosses to bear. Some will be running in remembrance of someone. Some will be running to take back what was stolen from them at one point in their life, including and especially last year. Some will be running for closure. Some will be running for hope. I will be running for all those things and one thing is for sure: Just as we are all in this thing called life together, we all run Boston on Monday together.
We will be running as sinful, broken, and selfish people. We won’t know the outcome until we cross that finish line on Boylston Street. And all I can say, 2 days before that time comes, is I am incredibly thankful. Never, especially on exactly race day 15 years ago, did I think I’d be crossing that finish line. It would have been incomprehensible for me to imagine. It still kind of is, actually.
Today, as I sit here in the grand old Charlotte airport waiting for my connection into Boston, I continue to think of one other finish line that matters even more. THAT one will not greet me with a postcard saying “Confirmation of Acceptance” (loved the irony when it arrived in the mail, by the way). THAT one awaits us all with outstretched arms…if we only believe.
There will be no giving up on Monday and no looking back. For 26.2 solid miles, I plan to give nothing less than my every physical and mental all in a 3:39 culmination of everything I’ve been through over my own 40 year course. I’m going to believe.
All this while having the honor and privilege of running alongside those who are also standing up again. Thank you, God.
I (will) have fought the good fight, I (will) have finished the race, I have kept the faith.
-2 Tim 4:7
It's here. And right now, the only place I know where to start is on Monday at 11:00am.
The full-on emotion began first thing yesterday morning. First cup of coffee in hand, I opened the sliding door, walked onto the deck and just took it all in. The crisp air, the beautiful skyline, the simple serenity and peace in that moment – the upcoming moments I knew (know) would be a once in a lifetime experience. And yes, I started to tear up, followed immediately by a laughter filled soliloquy which I very much hoped the neighbors would not witness. I have zero time to be brought up on crazy charges. This whole thing is crazy enough.
I dialed the number. The day before, I listened to a voice mail from Becky (always "Beck") - my very first girlfriend in life. We met in Mrs. Mudrack's 2nd grade class; her in the ridiculously oversized circular glasses and me in the ridiculously unfashionable jeans with an embroidered roller skate on the back pocket. That was 35 years ago...
"What are you doin'?" she asked as she picked up the phone, no other greeting necessary. (Mind you, it's been 8+ months since we've spoken).
"Hey! Got your message yesterday. Having my morning coffee; where are you?"
"Wal-Mart. Shampoo aisle."
"Yuck. You cracked me up in your message; I do NOT plan to pack my concealed carry for the trip."
"Yeah, well...people are nuts. THIS is nuts! I can't believe you did it; you're going…you're almost there. You did it, Nap."
(welling up, but trying to remain stoic): "Thanks, Beck. Definitely ready to be there."
"Remember when you first found out you were sick? You almost died." (stoic wasn’t working and I couldn't shut it down because I was choking up)
"You know, you really are amazing. You don't have to prove a thing to anyone, well, maybe yourself…is that who you’ve always been trying to prove something to?”
My stomach felt exactly like I know it’s going to feel at the start line on Monday. She’s asking me this from our hometown, the one with a population roughly 1/7 of the number of runners who will be on the course Monday. Thankfully, she didn’t really want an answer.
It went on like this for a while, seemingly out of nowhere. She was pep talking me in a manner that only certain people have the authority or wherewithal to do. I can't quite explain it, but to hear those words out of the mouth of someone who has known you - really known you - for your entire life is paralyzing. Like, you kind of have to believe it...you want to believe it...but you have spent an entire lifetime pretty much not believing it. Maybe out of disbelief; maybe out of fear; maybe out of one too many (of the wrong) silly boys telling you differently as they walk out the door in search of someone who isn’t always on a mission. (Side note: my partner in crime on this Boston adventure told me she is going to make me wear a shirt emblazoned with “I LIKE BOYS” on the front, just in case anyone thought I gave up.)
Beck wished me luck, made me swear to text her my bib number so she could track me, and we hung up – right after the “love you’s” were said in all their soothing familiarity.
History. Roots. Friendship. People who have stood by you through thick and thin, watched you fall, and are now genuinely happy that you’re standing again, as the person God designed you to be – those people I will love and cherish until the end of time.
Speaking of the end of time, after composing myself from that conversation, I readied myself for Good Friday service. Purposely arriving early, I grabbed an aisle seat, turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and became still. I was physically still, but even more importantly, my mind was still. The only thing I focused on in that moment was the reason I was there. The reason we were there as a church body…the reason any of us are here at all.
And I started to cry all over again.
You know, when I qualified for this marathon last February, it was in the midst of a campaign supporting a 4 year-old boy with leukemia. Every step I took, I thought of him and not only the cancer struggle before him, but the general struggle of “life” he will have after that. The same one we ALL have. The ups, the downs, the fears, the failures, the heartaches…God did not promise us it will be easy. He did, however, promise to save us in the end if we just believe.
We must believe in something greater than ourselves. Sure, sounds easy when you read it, but if you truly ponder it, what does it actually mean? What does it actually take?
When you qualify for Boston, you are not automatically just “in.” You do it, you sign up with the hopes that not too many other faster runners either want in or will remember to sign up, and then you go on living your daily life as you always do until registration officially opens some 5 months later. The excitement is instantly followed by anxiously waiting for the unknown, which is completely out of your hands.
The parallels are astounding. As Jesus was walking that heart wrenching trail along the Via Dolorosa after everyone, including his best friend, had renounced him – He never looked back. In physical pain more excruciating than any of us can fathom, on His way to bear even MORE pain on our behalf, He was the picture of selflessness.
As a man, He did nothing wrong. Never. Not once. He was absolutely sinless. But He also knew this day was coming; the day he had to anxiously await, for the sole reason of fulfilling the purpose for which He was sent.
There will be 36,000 runners lined up on Monday morning. They all have stories. They all have past hurts for which only they can understand the initial piercing, the subsequent scars, and the ongoing depth. Indeed, they all have their own crosses to bear. Some will be running in remembrance of someone. Some will be running to take back what was stolen from them at one point in their life, including and especially last year. Some will be running for closure. Some will be running for hope. I will be running for all those things and one thing is for sure: Just as we are all in this thing called life together, we all run Boston on Monday together.
We will be running as sinful, broken, and selfish people. We won’t know the outcome until we cross that finish line on Boylston Street. And all I can say, 2 days before that time comes, is I am incredibly thankful. Never, especially on exactly race day 15 years ago, did I think I’d be crossing that finish line. It would have been incomprehensible for me to imagine. It still kind of is, actually.
Today, as I sit here in the grand old Charlotte airport waiting for my connection into Boston, I continue to think of one other finish line that matters even more. THAT one will not greet me with a postcard saying “Confirmation of Acceptance” (loved the irony when it arrived in the mail, by the way). THAT one awaits us all with outstretched arms…if we only believe.
There will be no giving up on Monday and no looking back. For 26.2 solid miles, I plan to give nothing less than my every physical and mental all in a 3:39 culmination of everything I’ve been through over my own 40 year course. I’m going to believe.
All this while having the honor and privilege of running alongside those who are also standing up again. Thank you, God.
I (will) have fought the good fight, I (will) have finished the race, I have kept the faith.
-2 Tim 4:7
Sunday, April 13, 2014
WOTY2.0: Fearless
Campaign update in one word? Wow.
Sure, I know what you're thinking. "Wow, she never just says ONE WORD about anything." And you would be correct. But in my defense, this is an important subject matter and I don't think any of us should ever stop talking about it until cancer is no more. Eradicated. Obliterated. Kiboshed. Kaput, 86'd, ixnayed...oh, right. Less words. Got it.
So here's the deal. People have been working non-stop. Events are in full swing (thank you, James Ball and Peter Franklin Jewelers for last week), the asks continue every day, and there's no sleep till May 31st, or, Brooklyn for all you fans.
To date, the Fort Wayne team total is: $45,000 and counting!
Over the course of the last two weeks, I have been continually reminded what a difference their collective effort is making. Olivia and I attended the Boy and Girl Brunch at SweetCars Saturday morning. While there were scores of people and really cool cars (think Cobra II driven by Jill Munroe, my least favorite Angel of Charlie's), something was noticeably absent: The Boy and Girl of the Year.
Caleb is sick. It's not uncommon to go through peaks and valleys during the course of treatment. But when that happens, you are instantly put on high alert. Fighting infections becomes exponentially more difficult. Your body is busy trying to fight the cancer and has zero time or ability to fight things like a cold. And as we all know, we can literally only take so much at once.
That's when it's time to send in the cavalry.
Gianna's cavalry arrived at Bishop Dwenger High School on Saturday afternoon. Cancer invades not just the body. It simultaneously invades, and pervades, every aspect of people's lives in one fell swoop. It does not ask for permission; it does not ask for forgiveness. It just shows up, unannounced and unwanted. And it is our job and duty as members of one big, crazy, intertwined family, to help.
Friends, family, neighbors, and strangers attended Gianna's benefit to supplement the mounting costs of her treatment, much like the overall mission of LLS. Every effort matters. I think sometimes people make the mistake of saying, "I can't do very much so what's the point?" The point is this: it's cumulative. It adds up. Doing something is always better than doing nothing.
Just ask Erin. I was scrolling through Facebook before I logged on to write this and there she was!:
Erin is the daughter of great friends of mine, and a classmate of Gianna's. To see this 9-year old sitting there in support of her same-aged friend who is in the middle of a fierce battle, reminds me just how short and sweet this life is. Quotes about friendship immediately flooded my brain...a good friend will bail you out but a true friend will be right there, sitting next to you...
Chances are afforded to us every so often in this lifetime. A chance to forgive, to forget, to move on. A chance to apologize, right a wrong, and become a better version of you in spite of yourself. A chance to ignore fear and surpass last time performances solely on the basis of you know you can; like taking that shot at the buzzer, throwing that Hail Mary, or nailing that first kiss. Fearless do-overs are a beautiful thing.
I want these kids to have their own firsts. I want them to have their own learning experiences and their own do-overs because that's what life is all about. We course correct along the way. And it's high time cancer is off the course and out of the way.
So while the effort of one five or ten dollar donation might not seem like much, what if EVERYONE YOU KNOW AND I KNOW AND WE ALL KNOW did that? I may have pretended to hate math in high school, but it's that whole power of numbers thing. Addition, I believe it's called... Speaking of numbers, if there is only six degrees of separation between any of us and Kevin Bacon, I think that dude should donate. Who's on it?
Nothing happens if we don't try.
http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm
Sure, I know what you're thinking. "Wow, she never just says ONE WORD about anything." And you would be correct. But in my defense, this is an important subject matter and I don't think any of us should ever stop talking about it until cancer is no more. Eradicated. Obliterated. Kiboshed. Kaput, 86'd, ixnayed...oh, right. Less words. Got it.
So here's the deal. People have been working non-stop. Events are in full swing (thank you, James Ball and Peter Franklin Jewelers for last week), the asks continue every day, and there's no sleep till May 31st, or, Brooklyn for all you fans.
To date, the Fort Wayne team total is: $45,000 and counting!
Over the course of the last two weeks, I have been continually reminded what a difference their collective effort is making. Olivia and I attended the Boy and Girl Brunch at SweetCars Saturday morning. While there were scores of people and really cool cars (think Cobra II driven by Jill Munroe, my least favorite Angel of Charlie's), something was noticeably absent: The Boy and Girl of the Year.
Caleb is sick. It's not uncommon to go through peaks and valleys during the course of treatment. But when that happens, you are instantly put on high alert. Fighting infections becomes exponentially more difficult. Your body is busy trying to fight the cancer and has zero time or ability to fight things like a cold. And as we all know, we can literally only take so much at once.
That's when it's time to send in the cavalry.
Gianna's cavalry arrived at Bishop Dwenger High School on Saturday afternoon. Cancer invades not just the body. It simultaneously invades, and pervades, every aspect of people's lives in one fell swoop. It does not ask for permission; it does not ask for forgiveness. It just shows up, unannounced and unwanted. And it is our job and duty as members of one big, crazy, intertwined family, to help.
Friends, family, neighbors, and strangers attended Gianna's benefit to supplement the mounting costs of her treatment, much like the overall mission of LLS. Every effort matters. I think sometimes people make the mistake of saying, "I can't do very much so what's the point?" The point is this: it's cumulative. It adds up. Doing something is always better than doing nothing.
Just ask Erin. I was scrolling through Facebook before I logged on to write this and there she was!:
Erin is the daughter of great friends of mine, and a classmate of Gianna's. To see this 9-year old sitting there in support of her same-aged friend who is in the middle of a fierce battle, reminds me just how short and sweet this life is. Quotes about friendship immediately flooded my brain...a good friend will bail you out but a true friend will be right there, sitting next to you...
Chances are afforded to us every so often in this lifetime. A chance to forgive, to forget, to move on. A chance to apologize, right a wrong, and become a better version of you in spite of yourself. A chance to ignore fear and surpass last time performances solely on the basis of you know you can; like taking that shot at the buzzer, throwing that Hail Mary, or nailing that first kiss. Fearless do-overs are a beautiful thing.
I want these kids to have their own firsts. I want them to have their own learning experiences and their own do-overs because that's what life is all about. We course correct along the way. And it's high time cancer is off the course and out of the way.
So while the effort of one five or ten dollar donation might not seem like much, what if EVERYONE YOU KNOW AND I KNOW AND WE ALL KNOW did that? I may have pretended to hate math in high school, but it's that whole power of numbers thing. Addition, I believe it's called... Speaking of numbers, if there is only six degrees of separation between any of us and Kevin Bacon, I think that dude should donate. Who's on it?
Nothing happens if we don't try.
http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm
Thursday, April 3, 2014
WOTY2.0 and Spring Break: Week 3
"Is this it, Mom?"
Feeling like Mother of the Year, I reluctantly answered my sweet, yet apparently-I-like-to-forget-she's-seventeen year old: "Yep, pretty much."
"But does it like, DO anything?"
"You mean other than being one of the world's seven natural wonders?"
Clearly I've forgotten what it's like to be a seventeen year old girl. Back in the day, if my mom had announced we were going to the Grand Canyon on Spring Break, I would have politely declined in favor of, I gotta practice my free throws, Mom. Or watch paint dry.
To her credit, Liv is still very much appreciative of the last 5 days. I tempered my excitement at the "big rocky thing that looks the same from all directions" as she shivered, threw an arm around her, smiled, and said...Ok, let's roll. You've officially been to the Grand Canyon.
I may not have had that kind of reaction if our drive there had not been its own debacle. After leaving our hotel in beautiful Sedona we started the trek north, on a road which instantly causes you to wonder aloud if your affairs are in order. About half-way there, it happens. A gust of air and a lot of noise...
When we landed in Phoenix two days prior, I quickly realized it was going to take a lot of extra effort to make this trip fun for Liv. The weather was better than Fort Wayne but hey, so is Antarctica's lately. It was not conducive, however, to anything which remotely resembled the possibility of her returning to school with a tan.
So at the rental car counter, I asked if there were any convertibles available. I'm all about multi-tasking. We could have fun, rock out, AND she could catch some rays on the way to our destinations. Big 'ol Mother's Day card that plays Christina Aguilera's I Turn To You...here I come.
"We have convertible Camaro's."
Instantly transported back to circa 1989 prom: "Perfect."
(Actually I think it was a Trans Am with T-tops. And this I only remember because it rendered the Aqua Net hair in danger of reaching neighboring states complete with the obligatory penny roll bangs a total wreck by the time we got there.)
After finding out that the upcharge was the equivalent of Liv's first year college tuition, I opted instead for an even better choice: a soft top Jeep. Much more me; much more we're going to the Grand Canyon!
Ok, I've always wanted a Jeep but I may have seen the error of my ways even before leaving the underground parking garage at the Phoenix airport. Not only is unzipping that thing very Middle-East in all its revelry (writer's license, people; don't hit me up with the anti-Semitic anything or I'll send you Chels' contact info and she's a feisty Jew of a best friend) but it's kind of like when you're on a really cool road trip to nowhere, a sign appears, and instantly you scream, "Hey! Let's go to L.A.!" only to be bored and tired two exits later. Brilliant in theory; total time suck in practice.
It was too chilly to go open air on the drive to the Canyon. My unbelievably gracious, hospitable, and forever friend with whom we're staying in Scottsdale had put everything back together like a neat little puzzle. Except half-way there, it decides to come undone.
"Grab that thing, Liv! Before it flies away and starts rolling around like those desert cacti!"
The entire thing looked as if it was going to be uprooted like a mighty oak and land in Kansas next to some red shoes and a scarecrow.
"Mom! I can't hold onto this thing any longer! My arm hurts!"
Part of me wanted to bust out in hysteria; the other part still wanted the giant Mother's Day card next month and knew better.
"Just pull over," Liv begged, her arm in danger of being numb, limp or possibly amputated.
Literally, both sides of the road looked exactly alike: nothing but nothing and desolation surrounded by beautiful mountains far off in the distance.
"Ok, got it," I proudly announce mid turn.
And then I see it.
One pickup truck containing two heads roughly 20 feet away. My stomach sank. And we all know how I excel at trusting my gut in ALL situations.
"Mom, are you re-zipping that thing or something?" "Wait. Why is that look on your face?"
Sometimes I tell Liv too much; other times, not enough. The joys of parenting. Toughest job I (and other parents, I'm sure) have ever loved.
"Just got some dust in my eye, sweets. No worries."
Well, other than the two still smoking shotgun slugs I stumbled upon while walking around to the passenger side of the Jeep. It was a scene straight out of Breaking Bad sans the portable meth lab, but NOT sans those two drug cartel guys who had zero lines to rehearse. Ever.
I love new experiences. And as I shared with Liv on the drive back to red rock safety shortly thereafter, it's about taking life in, learning from it, determining what you like and don't like, deciding with whom you choose to do things (you preferably both like, but compromise lovingly if not), etc etc. You know, the serious talky-talk quasi-lecture kind of thing that I'm sure was more about me trying to feel like a better mom than her actually listening since she knows everything anyway.
Here's what I know: fifteen years later, I am beyond thankful to be here to share these types of experiences with her. There was a time when I thought she'd grow up without a Mom. A time when I thought I would miss being there for her first lost tooth, her first heartbreak, and her first near death experience with a faulty Jeep on 89A in the middle of the desert.
Without a bone marrow transplant, without the determination, perseverance, and knowledge of doctors, and without the support from scores of people that have their own unique experiences and stories, I wouldn't be writing this.
I've written numerous texts and emails this week as well. Mostly back and forth to Olivia (as in, Valencic-Miller) cheering her on as she continues to wonder how things are going, if we're on track, if this or that got done. I remember all too well.
We ARE on track, things ARE getting done, and she, along with 4 other candidates, is making a difference.
57 days until the gala. Which means two things: 8 weeks left to donate and if anyone would like to stand next to me that night be forewarned: Scottsdale has fantastic shopping and I may have purchased a pair of shoes which finally make the height on my high school basketball roster NOT an accidental typo.
Please consider helping the cause. Donate, come to an event, come to the gala, or all of the above!
On behalf of parents of sick kids...sisters, brothers, cousins, friends, neighbors who have or have had sick loved ones...and cancer-surviving mothers of teenagers everywhere: THANK YOU.
It matters.
http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm
Feeling like Mother of the Year, I reluctantly answered my sweet, yet apparently-I-like-to-forget-she's-seventeen year old: "Yep, pretty much."
"But does it like, DO anything?"
"You mean other than being one of the world's seven natural wonders?"
Clearly I've forgotten what it's like to be a seventeen year old girl. Back in the day, if my mom had announced we were going to the Grand Canyon on Spring Break, I would have politely declined in favor of, I gotta practice my free throws, Mom. Or watch paint dry.
To her credit, Liv is still very much appreciative of the last 5 days. I tempered my excitement at the "big rocky thing that looks the same from all directions" as she shivered, threw an arm around her, smiled, and said...Ok, let's roll. You've officially been to the Grand Canyon.
I may not have had that kind of reaction if our drive there had not been its own debacle. After leaving our hotel in beautiful Sedona we started the trek north, on a road which instantly causes you to wonder aloud if your affairs are in order. About half-way there, it happens. A gust of air and a lot of noise...
When we landed in Phoenix two days prior, I quickly realized it was going to take a lot of extra effort to make this trip fun for Liv. The weather was better than Fort Wayne but hey, so is Antarctica's lately. It was not conducive, however, to anything which remotely resembled the possibility of her returning to school with a tan.
So at the rental car counter, I asked if there were any convertibles available. I'm all about multi-tasking. We could have fun, rock out, AND she could catch some rays on the way to our destinations. Big 'ol Mother's Day card that plays Christina Aguilera's I Turn To You...here I come.
"We have convertible Camaro's."
Instantly transported back to circa 1989 prom: "Perfect."
(Actually I think it was a Trans Am with T-tops. And this I only remember because it rendered the Aqua Net hair in danger of reaching neighboring states complete with the obligatory penny roll bangs a total wreck by the time we got there.)
After finding out that the upcharge was the equivalent of Liv's first year college tuition, I opted instead for an even better choice: a soft top Jeep. Much more me; much more we're going to the Grand Canyon!
Ok, I've always wanted a Jeep but I may have seen the error of my ways even before leaving the underground parking garage at the Phoenix airport. Not only is unzipping that thing very Middle-East in all its revelry (writer's license, people; don't hit me up with the anti-Semitic anything or I'll send you Chels' contact info and she's a feisty Jew of a best friend) but it's kind of like when you're on a really cool road trip to nowhere, a sign appears, and instantly you scream, "Hey! Let's go to L.A.!" only to be bored and tired two exits later. Brilliant in theory; total time suck in practice.
It was too chilly to go open air on the drive to the Canyon. My unbelievably gracious, hospitable, and forever friend with whom we're staying in Scottsdale had put everything back together like a neat little puzzle. Except half-way there, it decides to come undone.
"Grab that thing, Liv! Before it flies away and starts rolling around like those desert cacti!"
The entire thing looked as if it was going to be uprooted like a mighty oak and land in Kansas next to some red shoes and a scarecrow.
"Mom! I can't hold onto this thing any longer! My arm hurts!"
Part of me wanted to bust out in hysteria; the other part still wanted the giant Mother's Day card next month and knew better.
"Just pull over," Liv begged, her arm in danger of being numb, limp or possibly amputated.
Literally, both sides of the road looked exactly alike: nothing but nothing and desolation surrounded by beautiful mountains far off in the distance.
"Ok, got it," I proudly announce mid turn.
And then I see it.
One pickup truck containing two heads roughly 20 feet away. My stomach sank. And we all know how I excel at trusting my gut in ALL situations.
"Mom, are you re-zipping that thing or something?" "Wait. Why is that look on your face?"
Sometimes I tell Liv too much; other times, not enough. The joys of parenting. Toughest job I (and other parents, I'm sure) have ever loved.
"Just got some dust in my eye, sweets. No worries."
Well, other than the two still smoking shotgun slugs I stumbled upon while walking around to the passenger side of the Jeep. It was a scene straight out of Breaking Bad sans the portable meth lab, but NOT sans those two drug cartel guys who had zero lines to rehearse. Ever.
I love new experiences. And as I shared with Liv on the drive back to red rock safety shortly thereafter, it's about taking life in, learning from it, determining what you like and don't like, deciding with whom you choose to do things (you preferably both like, but compromise lovingly if not), etc etc. You know, the serious talky-talk quasi-lecture kind of thing that I'm sure was more about me trying to feel like a better mom than her actually listening since she knows everything anyway.
Here's what I know: fifteen years later, I am beyond thankful to be here to share these types of experiences with her. There was a time when I thought she'd grow up without a Mom. A time when I thought I would miss being there for her first lost tooth, her first heartbreak, and her first near death experience with a faulty Jeep on 89A in the middle of the desert.
Without a bone marrow transplant, without the determination, perseverance, and knowledge of doctors, and without the support from scores of people that have their own unique experiences and stories, I wouldn't be writing this.
I've written numerous texts and emails this week as well. Mostly back and forth to Olivia (as in, Valencic-Miller) cheering her on as she continues to wonder how things are going, if we're on track, if this or that got done. I remember all too well.
We ARE on track, things ARE getting done, and she, along with 4 other candidates, is making a difference.
57 days until the gala. Which means two things: 8 weeks left to donate and if anyone would like to stand next to me that night be forewarned: Scottsdale has fantastic shopping and I may have purchased a pair of shoes which finally make the height on my high school basketball roster NOT an accidental typo.
Please consider helping the cause. Donate, come to an event, come to the gala, or all of the above!
On behalf of parents of sick kids...sisters, brothers, cousins, friends, neighbors who have or have had sick loved ones...and cancer-surviving mothers of teenagers everywhere: THANK YOU.
It matters.
http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm
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