Let's All Have a Meet and Greet

I'm prompted today by a small stirring in my heart to write about something I witnessed yesterday at my son's Matt3756 meet and greet at the Replay FX event in Pittsburgh.

What is a meet and greet you may ask? Well, at conventions, they are celebrities of some sort sitting behind a table with their manager signing random autographs or taking photographs with fans. Most of the time if you are fortunate, some of the celebs are very kind and engaging, spending a little more time with you especially if you are the "fan girl" type like myself upon meeting Sean Astin from the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy. Yes, sadly this fifty-something-year-old lady made a fool of herself but Mr. Astin took it all in stride and even told me how adorable I was. (I can live on that forever!)

My son, Matt is a YouTuber for those of you who don't know him. YouTube is the new television for young people these days. They watch hours upon hours of this, and Matt is very popular to the point that he has done meet and greet events nearby and out of state as well. Children and their families have come from several hours away to meet with him. When I am with him, it always makes a mom smile. For I see him spend quality time with each child and their family, as if they are the only people who matter in that moment.

Yesterday at the event, I was playing a skee ball type of game, when I saw a mother and son who had already visited Matt's booth for autographs. She told me that the only reason they had come to the event was to meet Matt and how much her son loves him. Her son is a special needs child. I wasn't sure she knew that they could go back and "hang out" with Matt at his booth. He encourages his fans to stick around, chat, and play games. She hadn't known that, and was very glad I told her. So I noticed that they came back to his booth eventually, almost in a shy way as if they were bothering Matt.

Not only did Matt engage the little boy in more conversation, he cheered him on when he played Matt's table top claw machine. He encouraged him and made him feel special. I secretly watched as Matt talked with others, his loud and crazy voice and zany ways, that the little boy was grinning from ear to ear watching his favorite YouTuber acting silly.

At the end of the day, the mother thanked Matt so much for his time and making her son's day. There was a glow in my heart for God giving me such a good son; for letting me help mold him into a wonderful human being even though he doesn't realize it sometimes.

You see Matt wondered when he was a young child what he was good at. And I honestly didn't know at the time when he posed this question to me. I told him "wait and see." A pastor friend of mine from several years ago spoke words of prophecy when Matt was in a particularly depressed time, "Hold on for the ride!" he said. We had no idea those words would come true in a major way. We had no idea that what Matt would be good at, was to be a light in the darkness for many children. Yes, it's wonderful that he's able to make a living with his YouTube channel. But for me, it's the fact that he is doing God's will in this crazy world, meeting and greeting kids all over, and helping them to feel special.

I'm reminded a little of Fred Rogers. I've often told my son this. That he is a cross between Mr. Rogers and Jim Carey. Zany and crazy fun, with a heart attached. I can only hope that I touch lives like he does someday.

May we all be a "meet and greet" type of person. May we help the friend sitting near us telling us their troubles to feel like they are the only person on earth as we listen, truly listen to them. May we meet others with a cheerful greeting and enthusiasm. May we greet each day with the opportunity to be a blessing in a world that sometimes seems a little darker every day.

God, please use us to be your light.

This young man recently interviewed Matt. His name is Colton DeBiase and he has begun a movement that encourages people to "Live Like Fred." (Rogers, that is.) I love the idea.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2PzUYBOrjU&t=47s

Matt's YouTube channel:

 https://www.youtube.com/user/matt3756

The Eighth Street Dairy

Newspaper clipping of when my parents took over the store. It says: An old fashioned store with a new old fashioned look.


A tiny corner Mom and Pop grocery store seemed like a magical place to my brother and I in the early 1980's. Especially since it was so out of character that our parents would decide to purchase the little business. Dad thought it would be a good venture for our mom to run. And even though he had a full time job at the local post office, he seemed happy to help her out during any time he had off from work.

First glance inside the old place, our family realized that it was in dire need of fresh new paint and many upgrades. Also, the flooring was bad and the look overall was outdated. Our parents put their creative thinking caps on, and purchased multi-color remnants of carpeting from a rug store in town. The end result was an adorable patchwork-type splash of color for the floor. Shelves were painted, plumbing restored, new fun items were purchased to add to the theme of a fun place to visit and set a spell.

With the help of several others, the new look of the store came together in an old-fashioned way. A glass case sat off to the left when you walked through the door; an old-fashioned tinkling bell announcing your presence. Within the case was an assortment of the magic of childhood. Penny candy sat in colorful cardboard boxes. Gum, candy cigarettes, chewy taffy, and those flying saucers that had an outer shell which reminded us of communion wafers and tiny little candy beads on the inside. Red Swedish fish, gummy bears (Mom swore we were the first to get them in the area!).

Because the store was situated across the street from our town high school, we pre-counted bags of one hundred with the most popular penny candy. After the last bell rang, the kids would flock to the store, and we tried to keep up with them as their fingers pointed out what they wanted as they clutched a wrinkled dollar bill in their hands.

We had the usual staples: bread, milk, pop, a few canned goods and cereals. Mom made fresh daily coffee behind the counter where a few stools stood sentinel. An antique game called "Kicker/Catcher" sat at the edge of the counter where we amused ourselves for long periods of time.

Nothing was as wonderful as the video games near the back of the store. One game in particular stands out in my mind. This was the time of the big standing arcade games. It was called "Super Astro Fighter" and it quickly became the major competition for me and my brother and all the kids who lived nearby. We would try to beat one another's scores. We would proudly place our initials at the end of each game, hoping to 'one up' the previous person's score.

The aroma of simmering sloppy joe greeted everyone who walked through the door. For Mom cooked the meat at home, and then placed it into a crock pot which she brought to the store daily. In a crude handmade sign, she cartoonishly drew a picture of a bun with meat inside, steam rising from the top. For some reason, this drew truckers and many others into the store for a quick lunch of one of her tasty sandwiches, a small bag of potato chips, and a pop.

The memory that is most vivid to me though, is the outpouring of good conversation with the folks that walked through the door. My mother loved people, was a good listener, and a great one to give advice. She had several friends that would stop daily for laughter and a good cup of coffee. Some of the warmest memories are of seeing my mother's beautiful face light up when a favorite friend or special young person walked through the door. She knew when they were having a bad day. She knew the right words to say, or promises of prayers for some of their situations.

I feel for the young people of today. For this bygone era of old-fashioned values is headed by the wayside. With the fast-paced world, electronic devices in front of our faces, we are losing something very precious. We are losing the ability to be kind to one another, to listen, learn and be in the moment. My mother had the right idea. She made everyone feel as if they were the only person that mattered in the time she had with them.

I miss the dairy. I miss the people we all grew so close with at that time. My brother and I were fortunate to make lasting friendships with some of them. And yet there are others that we know we will never see again. Perhaps they've moved on with their lives. Perhaps they, too, knew there was once a place where everyone truly did know your name.

On a corner of Duss Avenue and Eighth street in the small steel town of Ambridge, there once was a place of magic. A place that many could come and share their cares, dreams, hopes and troubles. And there once was a woman and man who made the magic happen. Eighth Street Dairy, I will always remember our time. Thank you for being more than just a building, an establishment. Thank you for being a home, a safe haven for many.

One of the only photos we have of the inside of the dairy during our time there. Our dear old friend, Albert Jones.

It Will Be a Year

I'm pretty sure on this day last year, a Sunday, I was sitting with my mom at her care facility. I wheeled her around outside, listening to the chirping of the birds in the trees, and enjoying the warmth of the sunny day. I told her stories about the birds we listened to, the butterflies floating nearby in the little garden of flowers, and the cute dog that was a part of weekend visits there. When we went back inside for her lunch, I sat content by her side, enjoying the time with my mother and learning all the different oddities of the others seated around her.

There was a man who wheeled himself around and around the room as if searching for his lost love. There was a boisterous lady who reminded us of an old family friend with a biting, sarcastic humor. There was a sweet black lady who was blind, and had a marvelous singing voice and a huge sweet tooth for candy. A Chinese lady who befriended me and tried to get Mom to talk more. These people had become a normal part of my life. I'd grown fond of them, and looked forward to seeing them as I visited my mother.

How was I to know that in one week my mother would be gone? How do any of us ever know? No, her health wasn't great, but she seemed stable. It had been easy to picture heading into fall and Halloween at the facility, and then Thanksgiving and Christmas. In my mind I planned all sorts of fun things for Mom and the other residents. I would read stories to them, and make little gift bags. I couldn't wait.

Friday of that week, I got a very serious phone call from the Home. Mom began bleeding, vomiting actually. They wanted to know which hospital to send her. I chose an older hospital that we had used most of our lives; I knew that they knew her history best, and would give her good care. I phoned my work office and told them I wouldn't be in. I told them my mother had another emergency.

By the time I got to the E.R., Mom was doing better, rather quiet and calm. A doctor pulled me aside and much like our decision with Dad, told me it may be time to let the Good Lord intervene if He so chose. She had lost huge amounts of blood. They would only give her a blood transfusion if the family requested it, but in observing her failing health, her passing would be inevitable anyway. My brother and I spoke about it, and as long as Mom was comfortable and not vomiting any longer (they had given her something for that), we would begin the vigil of letting her go.

I remember sitting with my mother back at the care facility later that day. She told me that I looked pretty in the color I wore. She would fall asleep, become agitated, and then awaken where I would reassure her with words of comfort. I sat by her side quietly for hours.

The next day my husband and I visited with Mom. She did not wake up. Her breathing was shallow, the gurgle in her chest had begun. I laid my head upon my mother's shoulder while tears found their way out of the corners of my eyes. I began singing softly to my mother, silly songs she'd sung to comfort me as a child. Later that night, I received a phone call around three a.m. Mom wouldn't be here much longer. I live an hour away and wanted to leave immediately. My husband was worried for me driving at that hour and in the state I was in. My brother was able to be at our mother's side, and we remained on the phone together for a long while.

My brother later told that a sound like soft footsteps seemed to enter the room though no nurse was there. A napkin blew down from Mom's table, though no breeze created it. And in our mother's hands was clutched her Miraculous Medal necklace though we couldn't imagine how it had gotten there. Mom passed very peacefully.

I remember being strong for myself and other family members during the preparations for her funeral. I remember holding up well and greeting loved ones and friends with my own comfort for them and the words, "I know she is with God and Dad now." And my mother looked beautiful--radiant almost. I had no difficulty standing near her casket and soaking in every last detail that I could of her.

Why is it that I am having such a rough time right now? What is it about this first anniversary of her passing that has thrown me into a black hole of despair? For I find that I am not the same person. I am easily offended, sad and depressed. I cannot find the laughter that was such a big part of my world--of my family's world. Why is grief refusing to let me go of it's ugly grip?

I have many emotions when I think back on all that our family has gone through in these last two years. Two years of losing both parents. Two years of Mom's dementia and failing health. Part of what I feel is guilt, you see. Guilt over relief that a burden has been lifted. Guilt over not being there for my mother's final breath. Guilt over making the decision about the blood transfusion. But what is it that Mom always said?

My mother wrote me many notes and little letters in cards through the years. And one that I found recently said this: All our love always and forever. I want you to know all bad things pass but good thoughts last forever. Hold those good thoughts in your heart.

 And another: My Dearest Karen, I'm not the writer you are, but I speak from my heart. We grew together not just mother and daughter, but best friends also. We had laughs over the years but most of all, love. When you tell me I taught you compassion, you already had it when I was sick in your early years. I have been proud to be your mother. We are human, Kar, the Lord didn't mean for us to be angels on this earth. To me being kind and sympathetic as we all are is what I believe the Lord wanted for us. Don't waste this precious life on past mistakes; live it with joy and laughter as much as possible. All my love, Mom

These tangible reminders of how my mother saw life, are guides, beacons to me,  of how she wants me to live. Would she want me to remain guilt-ridden? I think not. Would she want me to wallow in depression? No. I think Mom is speaking to me through these little notes. I think she always knew how I would feel--how I would take her passing. As always, she is there to teach me and guide me. And in my heart, I know that these feelings will pass.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (And in the mourning.)

This Is Not Easy For Me

In light of all the recent sadness brought on by so many suicides, I feel I need to share a story with you all. This is not easy to speak about.

When I was a young girl of about nine or ten, my parents took me for a visit to our relatives in the next town. I had cousins almost the same age as me, so I hoped it would be a fun time. It must have been a very hot day, so everyone decided we would head to a local pool for swimming. I was terrified of water, and not happy with the decision. I hated when rough older kids played near me, dunking one another and acting silly, and spent the day popping in and out of the pool to avoid them.

A little later in the afternoon--and this is sketchy--my uncle came to pick us up. It seemed that a little emergency had happened at his house, he'd said. And I found out it involved my mother. She'd been taken to the hospital. By this time, I was used to her hospital visits. Unfortunately, I knew all too well what her depression and mental illness looked like. I was used to the haunted look on her face, the words that didn't make sense sometimes when she spoke. I thought it was just another routine visit.

My father had asked my aunt and uncle if I could spend a few days at their house. I wasn't sure why, but I knew it was important. I was already a backward, sad young girl, not a carefree spirit as my cousins seemed to be, and I felt that I didn't fit in well with them.

When Dad picked me up after a few days, he didn't say much. I was thrilled to be back with him and my grandparents who lived next door to us. I became a bit needy, asking a lot of my father, wanting to spend as much time as I could with him, not realizing what he was going through. Mom still wasn't home, and quite a bit of time passed.

What I hadn't known, was my mother reached an all-time low during her visit with our relatives. In her mind, she felt worthless, unloved, guilty and condemned. Nothing looked right to her. Nothing made her happy. She fell into a pit of despair and decided she didn't want to live any longer.

When I saw Mom again, I had no idea what the bandages around her wrists were. All I knew was my mother was back! Maybe this time would be different and she would become a normal mommy.

As time passed, with the help of a great therapist, the love of my father, and a true miracle, my mother's depression lifted. It was as if the sun began to shine in our home for the first time!

My mother remained strong during my battle with scoliosis only a few short years later. A true steadfast presence and blessing to me, she helped keep my spirits up through frightening, serious surgery and a lengthy recovery. She used humor, great stories and prayer to get me through.

 She got pregnant in her late thirties, and though she was told to terminate the pregnancy due to complications from losing two other babies, she went on bravely to have my brother.

 She became an antique dealer, something she'd only dreamed about, and then went on to run a sweet little Mom-and-Pop grocery store where so many high school kids and others would stop daily for great conversation with her. Mom's infectious laughter, soft heart, and listening ear became known all around. To this day, I still hear stories about lives she touched during her time there.

In my later teen years, Mom had a talk with me about her dark time. She admitted her attempted suicide, and shock resonated in my whole being. Didn't she love me? Would she really have wanted to leave my father and I? Anger simmered within me. I needed time to process what she told me. But as more and more of her story unfolded, I began to understand the lost girl she had been. The child who hadn't been wanted. Who had heard her own mother speak of aborting her. Who had a father who seemed like a monster as he beat his wife and frightened the children with his alcoholic rages. And then losing the most precious person in her world, her dear sister at a young age. All of these things coupled with the sensitive person my mother was, would contribute to the black hole of depression in her life.

It was as if the scales fell from my own eyes. Not only was I able to forgive her, but my mother and I became like best friends during this time. I could talk with her about anything. And I learned compassion, forgiveness and goodness from her. I spent my life thanking God that my mother was still here!

What if?

What if she'd succeeded in her attempt? How many lives would not have been touched, blessed and affected in an amazing way? You see, my mother also had a near death experience when she suffered a cardiac arrest after the depression. She was able to share her story of a glimpse of the afterlife and to describe just how wonderful the feeling of being in God's presence was. Her story would go on to bless countless people throughout her life, giving them a reason for hope when they lost a dear loved one.

My mother's life had a purpose and a reason. Yours does too! Talk with someone. Even one person could change the course of your life. Share your feelings with anyone who will listen. Find a therapist, counselor, pastor, or friend. Be real with them. Be raw. You are needed in this world. Like my mother, you have so much more to offer. There will be someone who will benefit from your life, your very good life. There will be someone who is grateful for you being a survivor.

All my prayers and good wishes for you.

My Unknown Siblings: A story of a heavenly reunion

Miscarriages seem to be a taboo topic still to this day. But I want to share some stories that will perhaps be a blessing to a young mother mourning the child she never had.

When I was a little girl, among the many other issues going on, I remember a very difficult time of hushed words, whispering and tears. I saw a sadness in my mother that didn't seem like her usual depression. It wasn't until much later that I learned that Mom had miscarried two pregnancies within a short time of each other. One of them was so bad that my mother almost died.

As I grew into my teenage years and beyond, I thought many times of the two who were lost. I wondered were they boys or girls? What would they have been like? How would it have changed our family?

 It wasn't until my brother Rick came along fourteen years later that I didn't think about them so much. I had what I always wanted: a sibling! Rick was named Matthew Richard. Matthew means Gift of God. He was truly that in our lives, the miracle baby who survived the odds, a great blessing in our lives.

But as the years marched on, and our parents began aging, when times got difficult, I began thinking of my two lost siblings once again. How nice it would have been to have a larger family! Perhaps they would have shared the burdens of our parents health issues and been a strength that our family needed so desperately.

I had read a book about the little boy who died and was brought back to life. He mentioned to his mother about his near death experience and said that he had spoken with a young girl and called her by name. His mother couldn't believe it, for it was the daughter she had lost in pregnancy and the name that would have been chosen!

I see so many women who mourn their lost children, wondering what life would have been like if they'd carried them to term. But I believe those dear little angels are in Heaven and they are waiting for us just like the story of the little boy who had met his unborn sister in the presence of the Lord. They are not lost forever and we will be reunited with them someday.

I now know who my siblings were. Their names are Kevin and Roxanne. Mom had always been fond of those names, and had almost named me Roxanne, and Rick, Kevin. I'm sure they would have been the names of my brother and sister.

And there's some neat stories during the end of our parents lives. There was one point that my dad wasn't doing too well. Rick was in the hospital room with him when Dad mentioned, "your sister's there in the corner." That really stuck with me because it certainly wasn't me. But I know now, I feel it deep in my spirit that it was Roxanne, waiting for her daddy.

A similar story happened to Mom. She was in the emergency room for the last time. She was drifting in and out. At one point, she awoke and said the word, "Bible". I asked if she was seeing one, and she said, "yes". I asked if anyone was there with the Bible, and she said "no". But shortly after, she, too, looked in the corner of the room and said the word:"Baby". I believe one of my Heavenly siblings stood there, ready to embrace the mother they hadn't known here on earth.

When I was saying goodbye to my father as he lay in a coma, I whispered to him to go to his children who he'd never met. I knew they were waiting for him. I told him how blessed Rick and I were to have him all these years, and now it was time for the other two to get to know their beloved daddy.

I have no doubt that there were two amazing family reunions in Heaven when Mom and Dad passed. The rejoicing of the children they hadn't known, the laughter and happiness that we cannot even fathom. Somehow it's easier for me to let them go to that glory and not hold on so tightly to my own grief. The Bible says: Weeping may come for the night, but joy comes in the morning. Wow, what a morning it must have been!

The Earrings

Last summer, after my mother passed away, I had been in a deep sadness, unable to find a reason to smile or laugh. Nothing made me happy, and the weight of loss lay deeply on my soul.

I saw in my email a note from Guidepost magazine. I'd sent them several of my writings before, but had totally forgotten about it from all that had gone on with my mother's failing health. When I opened the email, I saw that they accepted one of my stories! Joy flooded back in. A reason to smile, and even to sing once again! Someone had recognized something good in my writing. And of course, it was an article I'd written about my mom. The timing couldn't have been better.

I want to share that article on my blog today since everyone may not be subscribed to "Mysterious Ways," Guidepost's sister magazine. It is not as I originally wrote it, as their editors had an idea to focus on the earrings. I had to make a few changes to my first draft. Looking back now, I see exactly what they intended. May you be blessed by the little story you are about to read:

The Earrings

     Mom’s earrings. I had to find them.

     I dug through the top drawer of my bureau, rummaging through my jewelry box and the knickknacks accumulated over the years. Printed scarves, strands of beads, dried flowers. Where were those earrings? I could see them clearly in my mind. Pink teardrop diamonds framed by rhinestones. Costume jewelry from the nineteen fifties, certainly not worth much. Yet Mom had to have them.

I’d been at my parent’s house earlier filling their pill containers and washing a few dishes left from the night before.

     Mom had been sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling the corner of a jelly donut and licking her fingers like a little kid. Her wiry gray hair stood on end around her face. Food from the previous day stained her sweatshirt.

     “Kar,” she asked, using the nickname she always called me. “Do you have those earrings I gave you? The ones with the rhinestones?” She stared at me expectantly as if she needed me to understand.

Dad and I glanced at each other. I knew what he was thinking. How in the world could she remember something like a pair of earrings when she could barely remember the names of her grandkids? Dementia had turned my mother into someone I barely knew. And here she was trying to tell me something with those earrings—giving me a clue of some sort. But every time she mentioned them, I felt like we were speaking two different languages. Like I was losing my mother all over again.

We hadn’t always been close, Mom and I. When I was little, she suffered from deep bouts of depression. She’d been in and out of hospitals for most of my childhood. She got better around the time I entered high school. A time when we became like best friends. We remained that way until three years ago when Mom was diagnosed with dementia. Now every day only seemed to bring more darkness as Mom became like a stranger. I was worried for her. I was worried for Dad and me too. What did the future have in store for us? What little did it hold for Mom?

     “My earrings,” Mom said again.

     “I’ll look for them when I get home,” I told her, giving her a kiss. “I promise.”

     Now I picked though the clutter in my bureau, searching for a pair of earrings she’d given me some twenty years ago. She’d gotten them from her mother and then passed them on to me. I’d never seen her wearing them. Why were they so important now?

     I turned to a small wooden jewelry box, one I’d kept since I was a kid. I nudged aside my grandmother’s gold locket and an old cameo pin. Underneath a tarnished seahorse necklace, I saw them. Two brilliant pink gemstones. Mom’s earrings!

     The rhinestones twinkled, casting prisms of light against something else in the box. A piece of paper so worn I could barely read the writing. What was it doing in there? I picked it up and stared at it, recognizing it at once. A page ripped from my girlhood diary.

     I plopped down onto my bed as tears welled up in my eyes and then made their way down my cheeks.

     February 14, 1970, it read. Mom went to the hospital in an ambulance today. . .

     The memories flooded back. Valentine’s Day, 1970. Mom was thirty-three and I was eleven. Too young to know the full extent of her battle with depression, but old enough to know it was bad. Mom would arrive home from one of her hospital visits with dark circles under her eyes and a haunted look on her face. When relatives and friends came to visit, I’d hear whispered words like “crazy” and “suicidal.” Dad did the best he could to take care of both Mom and me, but I felt so alone. I’d escape to my room, soaking up fantasy books and writing in my diary, trying to imagine what it would be like to have a normal mother and a normal life.

     That Valentine’s Day, her admission was different. Mom had been rushed to the hospital. She’d suffered a cardiac arrest in our upstairs bathroom. I’d watched terrified as she was taken out of the house on a stretcher. I thought I’d never see her again, that she was gone. That her depression had finally caused her heart to stop. But a week later, Mom was back at home. And she was completely different.

     The dark circles were gone and her face glowed. When she spoke, I noticed that the confusion, anxiety and sadness had vanished. There was a lightness to her step I’d never seen before. My parents became affectionate once again. Laughter replaced hushed voices and secrecy. Mom finally fulfilled a dream of becoming an antique dealer. And several years later, at the age of thirty-nine, she gave birth to my brother. Life settled into the kind of routine I’d always envied in my friends’ lives.

     I didn’t question Mom about the change, too afraid the spell would be broken. It wasn’t until four years later, when I was in high school that my mother shared what had happened that Valentine’s Day.

     “You remember my cardiac arrest, Kar?” Mom asked one night while we made dinner together. “I didn’t tell you the whole story. I didn’t tell anyone except your father. I was afraid people would talk.”

     “What do you mean?” I asked.

     Mom paused. “Kar, that day in the hospital, I died.”

     I stared at Mom, confused. Died?

     “I remember falling in the bathtub,” she said. “But the next thing I knew, I was at the hospital, staring from above my body on a hospital gurney.”

     She felt herself floating away and found herself at the entrance of a dark tunnel. The further she traveled through the tunnel, the brighter it became. She became wrapped in a brilliant light, unlike anything she’d ever seen. The feeling of complete love washed over her, surrounding her. Yet after a few minutes, Mom felt herself being pulled back. All at once, she was on the gurney again. She heard the doctor’s exclaim, “She’s back!”

     “The light was so pure,” Mom said, a starry look in her eyes. “Like an all-encompassing love. That’s the only way I can describe it. I got a glimpse that day, sweetheart. Of the joy waiting for us all.”

     I stared at the page in my hand now, and the earrings—their light so brilliant, so like the light that returned to Mom’s eyes that long-ago Valentine’s Day and the light Mom encountered when she died and came back.

     She knew. Somehow, even in the midst of her dementia, Mom knew that I needed a reminder. Of the joy that awaits her, and the light that overcomes darkness.

This is my actual diary entry that I'd found. 

 

I Am Not What Fear Says

What went wrong today? It was a lovely, warm, sunny day. All my preparations had been done for the upcoming author event. Little gift bags were colorfully put together; a big basket and afghan also completed for a giveaway. People were kind and by all rights, nothing should have been negative.

Why then did I falter so terribly? My palms sweated, my hands and voice shook. My throat dried up and felt as if it was closing on me. Darn body! I couldn't trust myself to give a good talk. All the other authors did excellent in my opinion. We had been kind and courteous to one another, listening as our fellow authors spoke. But when it came for my own turn at speaking, I completely dropped the ball today.

Life is like that sometimes. No matter the preparation. No matter how confident we feel, how good we put ourselves together, something can sneak in and loosen the best laid plans. The enemy wants nothing more than to rob us of our joy, or hit us at our most vulnerable. For me, it has always been about insecurity. I have often felt I will never measure up to others. They do everything better than me.

It had been a rough work week. Our boss has been on the warpath with several office changes. I had felt stressed to the point of not sleeping well. I had a bloody nose that wouldn't quit the other morning and I scared myself to death with it. Just an all around yucky week. I am the type of person who enjoys having something to look forward to. So it was with happy anticipation that I began planning to make the author event something special. I had all of the perfect words to say. The blog I was going to read from was heartfelt and the writing, good.

But there I stood at the head of a room filled with women and I began the comparison game. If I had stayed in the moment, if I'd have spoken from my heart as I had wanted, I think I would have had the confidence I needed. But the minute I tried to turn the page I was reading and my fingers wouldn't work, the old voice of "you are failing; you aren't good enough; you are making mistakes" kept nagging at me. My own voice croaked like a frog, and I stumbled and stuttered over what I wanted to say.

Did anyone notice? I was sure they all did. I felt certain that they were wondering why they ever invited me in the first place. After all, I only sold one book to top it all off.

Tonight I'm going to pick myself up, dust myself off, and know that I did my best. Though fear stood solidly before me, and lies tormented me, I am NOT what fear says I am. I am bold, confident, redeemed, loved, accepted and worthy. I am what God says.

When you find yourself in such a moment; when fear beckons and calls you nasty names, plug your ears, sing a great worship song, and remember "Whose" you are.

I Can Truly Imagine

I want so much for my children. I want them to have good health, happiness, and blessings. More than anything, I want them to know what a relationship with Jesus is like. They were brought up in an era that questions everything. And questions can be a good or bad thing. But they also seem to be a little more skeptical of what is holy and good sometimes. They seem to confusion religion with what really is relationship.

I can't blame them because our faith always taught us that doing good and being good would earn eternal points. God seemed like a big nasty teacher, one that would pounce on you and give you a good smack with his almighty ruler when you got the answer to one of His questions wrong.

The God I've come to know is nothing like that. I am so grateful for my church's messages and music and how they've shown me what a loving God's grace is all about. Prayer is so very real to me now, and it's something that I cannot go a day without. My conversations with God are friendly and real. I can speak with Him about everything that is in my heart or on my mind.

This Easter I wanted to do something special with my son. I thought we could go to the Good Friday church service together. It had been a very long time that he'd come with me to church. He agreed to dinner and church, and I secretly glowed. But then something else hit me strongly. That nudging of the Holy Spirit. The new movie "I Can Only Imagine" is playing in our local theaters right now too, and I wondered if perhaps this was more of what I was looking for with my son. Visuals seem to resonate strongly with him. He had loved the movie "The Shack" and gotten much from it, he had said. So I gave him the choice: dinner and church, or dinner and an inspirational movie. He chose the movie.

If you haven't seen it, may I suggest "I Can Only Imagine." It's a true story of Bart Millard, the lead singer of Mercy Me. His journey was difficult at the hands of an abusive father. He could not realize his talent and passion until he came to grips with some very hard truths. This movie was real and powerful. Though we may not have suffered abuse as this man did, we all have our own areas of pain and suffering. My own was with my mother's mental illness when I was a child. All of a sudden it hit me; I should write more from my heart and pain. Not to make my mother look bad, but to make God shine. This is what Bart Millard did: he was able to tell a story, but not glorify the bad so much as give glory to the One who can make all things--all people, new.

When the movie was over, my son leaned over and said, "Wow, that was amazing. Everyone should see this movie. You didn't tell me it was a tear jerker, though." I glowed. This one-on-one moment with my son was priceless. Being able to discuss the Lord for a few minutes with him, and for him to have sat there in awe as the story unfolded before us, showed me that God had indeed answered my prayer for the day. I don't know my son's heart. And I worry that he isn't where I think he should be in a walk with God. But God assures me in the quietness of my soul, that all is well. He has everything in the palm of His hand. It will be His timing, not mine.

Today, another seed was planted. God will water it with His word. And I can only imagine where the journey will lead.

(Top photo courtesy of David Hoffman)

Birthday Letter to My Father

Dear Dad:

I wanted to let you know that I'm thinking of you  today. It's your birthday. I remember how much you enjoyed this day. You loved the little fuss that was made over you. The fact that Mom would bake a homemade cake, and we would place that one big candle in the middle for you to wish on. I wonder what your wishes were through the years.

 It hasn't been the same since you left us, but we are managing. I know you wouldn't want us to grieve too much, but some days are more difficult than others.

I listened to your favorite piece of music tonight after work, Dad. "The Emperor Waltz." Sometimes I can picture you dancing to it. Sometimes, I dance with you.

 I dream about you, Dad. It is so good to see you and I always wake up content, knowing that we spent a little more time together. Please visit me again soon.

Dad, my brother and son are so much like you. I can see you in them every time I talk to them. They have the qualities you passed along--a quiet strength and a good heart. I know I am a lot like you too. I find myself saying your silly phrases and it warms my heart.

I don't know how you celebrate a  birthday in Heaven, Dad. I guess it's all very different. But I can imagine who is at the party!

You were my knight in shining armor when I was little. You were the one constant in a turbulent sea. You showed strength with your simple ways and humor.

The time you spent with me when I was a child will be something I carry in my heart forever. I can remember the Crystal Radio kit we built together, the wood burning craft that made Mom worry that I might get burned. I picture us painting little miniature football players in my first electronic football game. I see you making plaster statues for me. I remember asking you questions during football games, and how you patiently answered them.

You were the best role model to my son, Dad. All the quality time you gave him when he was little, building blocks and towers for him to knock over and the crafts made out of clay. And the little plastic bowling set as you patiently set up pins and played over and over, just one more time. He was so proud of showcasing you in his YouTube videos, and his fans really loved seeing "Lamp" play. He really misses you too. And I know there are days he has a hard time. Won't you visit him in his dreams from time to time?

In closing, I want to wish you a Happy Birthday. I want to thank you from my heart for being the best man I ever knew. I want to ask you to keep us all in your heart and prayers. And give everyone a big hug from all of us.

I miss you so much, Dad. And I love you.

Your little Tenya

For the Love of a Dog

Maya, smiling.

The bond between human and pet. It's beautiful. Many of us have stories from our childhood of our beloved dogs or cats, stories that almost seem incredible. Dog walks miles to be reunited with family. Or, cat shows up one year after it disappeared.

Last night I dreamed for the first time about a dog that had been with my family for many years. Her name was Maya and she was a beautiful Husky. She stayed with my parents for many years and the bond became unbreakable. Dad had been a heart patient, so walking Maya was a daily ritual for his health, but we knew that he secretly loved it too. How proud Dad was to walk alongside such a gorgeous creature. And that dog, sensing that our father had limitations, would choose to walk carefully beside him, always at Dad's pace. She understood his commands during their jaunts, and I know she kept our father healthier for this daily exercise they shared.

Mom loved her even more if that was possible. Our mother was the St. Francis of the family. Every stray animal, hurt bird, or furry casualty on the side of the road, she was the type to cry over their plight. She bonded with every pet we'd ever owned, and each of them loved her right back in turn. Maya was a faithful companion to Mom. Especially after our father passed away, that dog would be just inches from wherever mother sat. And even with her dementia, Mom treated that dog in the most loving ways.

When Maya got sick last year and my brother had to make a most difficult decision, I was worried how Mom would take it. I swear that our mother went downhill quickly right after Maya departed. She lost a true spark of living after that, and was never the same.

I remember at one of the emergency room visits last year when Mom was laying in the hospital bed, she was drifting in and out of sleep or consciousness. There was a point where she began "petting" an invisible animal, one that I could not see, but nonetheless knew was there with her. Because afterward, Mom reached her hand up as if grasping someone's extended hand. I felt that Dad and Maya were there with her at that moment.

Last night, for the first time, I dreamed about that dog. My father was walking her on a leash. Dad looked younger with dark hair--handsome. And Maya was beautiful and fluffy and whole. She ran over to me, licking my face, jumping on me with excitement in the dream. I remember feeling such happiness and wished the dream would continue much longer.

I just found out today that only four short days ago marked the year of Maya's passing. How odd that she would feature so prominently in a dream last night. And not only my dream, but my brother shared one of her too.

Coincidence?