No-fly list

No fly list: 

On more than one occasion I have been unjustly accused of not having a 'filter'; implying that words fall from my thoughts and out my mouth without resistances. Oddly enough I thought I did a pretty fair job of holding some clever verbiage in my gray matter even though I'm sure it would have been hilarious if it had slipped carelessly into the conversation.  Either way, I can conclude at least two, possibly three thoughts about the words we utter. 

Our words matter: At any airport across the nation I often see signage indicating that TSA does not take kindly to jokes especially those related to explosives or weapons. I've not attempted to humor them with my interrupting cow knock, knock joke but I am sure they would find a mannerless Holstein irresistibly chuckle worthy. Even so I simply smile as I consider it and continuing removing my laptop from my bag, my tennis shoes from my feet, and everything from my pockets.  The words we choose and when we use them has significance and impact to others regardless what you think or what you meant or how much you apologize. I am not saying that is fair. I am saying that it is true. TSA doesn't think it's amusing in the least to casually speak of bombs in your carry on and to be quite frank, I prefer not to hear the person in the boarding line whisper under their breathe, "I hope I don't have to sit with her."  
I once heard a lady from the church say that trying to unsay something is like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. I think it is worse than that. I think it's like hitting someone in the face with a baseball bat then trying to take the violence and intent back. And if that isn't enough, try to unbruise the eye socket and push the blood from the flesh back into the vessel that has been damaged.

Words hurt: Toothpaste doesn't hurt. I have never been hit with the bat but on more than one occasion I stood proudly in my Red Bird uniform with a bat on my right shoulder and took a blow to the face from what was labeled a soft ball. It stings. Remember 'stick and stones can break my bones but words can never heard me?' That was 1970's grade school response to what we now call bullying. And though we often refer to the tongue as sharp, when it comes to penetrating your emotions, it more like being stabbed with a spoon or a butter knife at best. Half of the pain from words is the memory that sticks with you years beyond the original conversation. I can not for the life of me remember who ran against Rick Perry in the last governors race, I can't remember the birth date of my mother-in-law of 29+ years but I remember in the 9th grade when the cutest boy in high school told me I needed to start doing something more girl-like with my hair. That's what it feels like to be stabbed with a spoon. 

Words heal: Wouldn't it be awesome if when a doctor had to deliver the unfavorable diagnosis of breast cancer he could say, "well, there's good news and then there is bad news. The bad news, you have breast cancer. The good news, I just need you to chat a few little rhyming words and you'll be good as new!"  Words don't heal breast cancer or take the grief from death but they can start a healing process. Once when I was younger I miscarried a baby at 4+ months. The baby was due on Christmas Day in 1993; no relevance to that it just slipped through the filter. I went in for a sonogram and was sent directly back to the OB/GYN. It was a rough day. I remember the doctor reaching up and taking my hand. He said, "you'll heal."  There was no miraculous healing but through his compassionate words for me as a human, a mother, and hurting soul he began to doctor the wounds of my heart. A week later, while I was silently and privately attempting to recover, my cousin called. To be honest, I really didn't want to talk about this situation simply because it hurt and acknowledged pain was not my idea of small talk. She had the history to support her words as she had been through many miscarriages.  Calmly she called me by my name and said, "hug the son you have."  The healing continued. 

What an awesome tool we have in the spoken word. What an awesome responsibility we have to be silent.  Oh, to be better at them both.

Living the Hallmark Christmas!

If you are like me you have spent at least a moment or two of this very busy season watching a Christmas movie. While the grandkids were over we watched the old Rudolph movie narrated by the legendary Burl Ives. One night during a much needed downtime we sat in our recliners to watch a feel good, restore hope in humanity and family Christmas movie. By Netflix we were saturated with options; white Christmas, blue Christmas; lost Christmas, found Christmas; home for Christmas, alone for Christmas; Christmas past, Christmas future. After scrolling through the titles we randomly chose one entitled "Christmas Angels".

I guess for me the attraction to Christmas cinema is the happy ending. I'm a sucker for a happy ending even if it is predictably sappy. Christmas Angels definitely fit the bill; a family in turmoil and jeopardy of splitting up, unhappy marriage, workaholic dad, fussing children, mom trying to bridge the gaps. They take a Christmas trip to a mountain cabin to reconnect but find the cabin can not fix any of their issues. Suddenly as they are about to lose all hope a family stranded by a snow storm appears at their door. Of course they invite them into their warm cabin. Long story short, who rescued who? Happy ending with a twist, the stranded family had been in a car wreck on the mountains edge and were dead but glamorized to be Angels. Thus the title Christmas Angels. It was a cute story and I enjoyed sitting still while it played as much as I enjoyed the storyline.

 In reality our lives are not always as Hallmark as a Christmas flic. We run nonstop through the holiday season. Like OJ Simpson in the airport we approach hurdles and obstacles full speed. Jumping and dodging, we try to be everything to everyone, provide the best Christmas experience, replay the favorite childhood Christmas, buy the best gifts, try new recipes, attend parties with friends, programs at church, and recitals at school. It can be stressful. Then add logistics. I need to be every where for everyone. I can't get to point A from point B because I need to stop by point c by noon. Juggling the hours of the post office, the mall, the appointments, the groceries in the backseat plus I still need to get to work on time. Stressful doesn't seem like a strong enough word.

 Then one Sunday afternoon just before Christmas while we are trying to get to CVS to pick up a script a 1990 Mercedes in front of us starts billowing white smoke from under the hood. The car pulls quickly to the shoulder of the road. We turn around on the highway to assist. It's a young man, mid 20's, with no real mechanical know how and a broken thermostat housing. It's not likely that the small town we are headed to will have the part in stock but we offer to give him a ride into town to see. It's the small town thing to do, right?

About Andrew: he is 25 and a graduate ofUniversity of Texas. He majored in government and worked for Ted Cruzs office on the day that Cruz announced his candidacy for US president. He lived In Houston was headed to St. Louis to meet a friend before heading to Baltimore, or was it Boston, to visit with the friends mother. Then back to St. Louis before heading to Wisconsin to spend Christmas with his parents. He dad was a Pentecostal preacher in Wisconsin but he pastored a church Dalhart, Texas for many years and that is where Andrew and his sisters grew up. He recently started a web design company and didn't have a credit card to his name. He played guitar, mostly jazz, but his sisters both played piano. He bought the 1990 E-190 Mercedes with only 75,000 miles on it and had made the cross country trek before. He dreaded calling his father to let him know he was stranded and gave the impression that an "I told you so" or "what were you thinking?" Speech was likely to be coming down the pipes.

As Andrew first climbed in the back of my car he noted the King James Bible laying beside him on the seat. He commented on it and asked that guy I live with if he was a pastor. It seemed like an odd question at first and we were unsure if he asked because he was offended or comforted by the bible. He then explained he was a pastors son and very familiar. It seemed that he thought that the only people that would travel with a bible in their cars were pastors. Not the case. We often leave the church with the bible in the backseat and leave it there all day or more.

 I could seriously bore you with all of the details but in short, Carthage Texas didn't have the thermostat housing in stock but they found some type of compound to possibly patch the hole to get him a little farther down the road. They applied the compound but it needed to set up for an hour. In the meantime we needed to get church so we took Andrew along. He came to our home a good 20 miles from where his car was before we started to church. A polite young man that stood to shake hands with my son and my mother; a polite young stranger we had picked up on the side of the road. 
Hallmark writes best selling movies about this and I told him so. I explained the recent Christmas movie and inquired about his life status, "you're not dead are you?"

 The Mercedes could not be fixed that night but was driven into the local shop. He talked about renting a car to continue his journey, staying in a hotel until he could get the part for the car or have the car looked at. A quick text from Stacey indicated that Andrew would be staying the night with us. At this point I'm sure you are less concerned with the status of the car, the repairs, and the friend Andrew was to meet in St. Louis. You are likely rereading that to make sure you understood correctly. Yes, you read that correctly. I said we picked up a 25 year old stranger on the side of the road, gave him a ride, fed him, took him to church, back to town, and to our house where he stayed the night.

Are we crazy? Pause here and let's think about the answer to that before we spit it into cyber eternity. What kind of crazy are we talking about? Don't get me wrong. I'm not telling you all of this to impress you or make myself and my family seem like super heroes. I just need to type it out so that it can be real. Maybe we are crazy. If one if my sons told me he was going to a perfect strangers house to spend the night because his car broke down I might be less than comfortable.

What Andrew brought to the Christmas season:
1. A distraction. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in me, my problems, my failures; what ifs and how comes ooze from my soul like snot from a two year old in the springtime. It's not pretty. It's not healthy. I needed to take a step back, refocus, breath in and breath out with true appreciation for the abundance I have.

 2. A detour. There are many paths we can take to get to where we are going. All roads may lead to Rome but "there's a million ways to get to San Antoine" (Michael Hearne). The problem isn't finding a way, it's finding the right way. And it's not finding the right way in hindsight but projecting the outcomes and predicting the failures, charting a course. And yes, making a U turn, rerouting or taking a detour when things don't seem to be working out the right way.

 3. A decision. There is no way to say this nicely so I will just apologize in advance. That guy I live with has never been assertive or decisive or bold in his decisions. This is not a new development and I don't really consider it a failure. It's a personality trait. It's part of what makes him who he is. I don't look at it as a fault, anymore, though I did for years. I now know that we all have weaknesses and character traits that others don't like or can't explain. I finally decided that it is this marginally weak trait is what allows him to excel at so many other things. Never once during the 24 hours we had Andrew in our company did I have to say, "should we stop?" "What do we do with him now?" "will he be staying the night?" Without arrogance or pride but with confidence that guy I live with stepped up.

 You may not see this in a Hallmark Christmas movie next year but if you ever meet Andrew I hope he leaves you feeling blessed!

the hickey

I have always encouraged open dialect with my children. Though sometimes it can be painful and regretful I have had two major rules when it comes to healthy conversation. Rule one is say whatever you want but say it respectfully. It is my belief that a one sided conversation is only a lecture. I need feedback especially if I am correcting a behavior. Perhaps I only know one portion of the story, perhaps the details will change my mind or the outcome. Tell me your side but please tell me in a way I can receive it, politely as if I am ignorant to the facts not as if I am stupid. Open up respectfully so that I can understand. It's important to me. Just as important to me is rule two. I remember this example from when Angel was small. He was our first child to enter kindergarten and he stepped boldly into the bilingual class at Gibson Elementary in Corpus Christi. It became apparent that all of the words he used had a slightly different twist to them. It was nothing earth shaking but it was at that time we determined the need to establish rule two. If you don't know the meaning of a word, ask and know before you use it. Angel was a smart boy and really looked for ways to increase his vocabulary. I remember very well one day as we drove from the elementary school toward town he asked, "what's a hickey?" Oh, my! I took a deep breath and immediately remembered a preacher's wife that used to have very obvious hickeys on different occasions. "well." I started the conversation slowly trying to tell a 8 year old boy what a red mark on someone's neck was, why it got there, and what it means. I did a bang up job! After I finished my scattered explanation he asked, "is that what Mrs. Kelly (name changed to protect the not so innocent) has on her neck?" With no way to avoid it, reluctantly, I affirmed. He sat quietly for a few more miles. I could see the brain gears clogging with wonder. "Mom." He said. " why do they call Jordan that when he wears his boots?" I never look at a splotchy red neck without thinking about that day. Today, on the Eve of Valentines day, please evaluate the enclosed picture, find your state and be sure you buy your Valentine the most regional expected gift. http://www.wideopencountry.com/map-shows-most-googled-valentines-gifts-in-every-state/

Dead Man in the Terminal

I have always wondered what people thought about while they sat staring across the TGIfridays counter as passengers stream by rushed, frazzled, and exhausted. They don't let me in anyone's head but my own so this was I thought as I enjoyed my sizzling chicken and cheese skillet.

I can't believe that is him. I read his obituary. I signed the guest registry at his funeral. I hugged his sister. I sent a spray of his favorite peach gladiolas. I cried for him. I gave to the scholarship set up in his name. I took a pound cake and a bucket of fried chicken to his church for the post funeral luncheon.
Confused by the rainbow of raw emotions I first smiled. I smiled bigger as I nearly choked on my bubbling hot cheese and sautéed onions. Then I noticed he was smiling too. He seemed to be happily humming as he strolled through the terminal. Why would he be happy? He's dead! And for a dead guy he blends in nicely. He's wearing a festive tropical shirt and boat shoes. He has a nice gold watch on his right arm. I had forgotten that he was left handed. He has a leather book bag hanging over his shoulder and he is pulling a dark brown leather roller board.
Confused; I left happy– to –see–you and faded directly into confusion. Why? That is all I can think besides I have got to find my waitress so I can pay my check and chase him through this airport.
He's maneuvering gracefully through terminal C. I am rushing like a mad woman, O.J. Simpson style, thirty yards in the rear stumbling over my own computer bag and grimacing at travelers standing too casually in the walkways.
He's going to stop at C10. I have to see the destination. Where is he going?
Hoping he doesn't see me I drag my bag over to the bathroom entry way and fumble in my purse for my phone. My phone! A picture, I have to take a picture. A selfie with a dead man, (sadly enough that is probably not a first) but a selfie with a dead man in a pale blue flowery shirt without telling him. Then what do I do? I don't think I should post it on Facebook but I surely cannot keep it to myself. Who do I tell? His sister? Oh, the agony she has gone through already. She would be devastated to know that he faked a drowning at the beach to escape away to wherever he's going. Where is he going? Cincinnati? Really? Who stages their own death on a beach in Cancun, Mexico on a holiday weekend to go to Cincinnati alone? Alone? Maybe he's not alone. Is he with someone? A woman? Was he here with a woman? The gate area is beginning to churn as the incoming passengers deplane. They struggle to get around me and my computer bag and into the ladies room.
What should I do? No one will believe this. I have to say something. Something like…"Hi, Joe. How are you? Imagine running into you" or "wow, you look good for a dead man" or “did you love the peach gladiolas?” or "Cincinnati is beautiful this time of year, isn't it?"
Wait, this is criminal. It's against the law to fake your death isn't it? It is on television and movies. What if he is in the witness protection program and running from the mafia? Or maybe he is running drugs for the Mexican cartel. Or perhaps he's running away with a teenage girl he meet at a swim up bar on the white sand beach of Cancun. Maybe he's just trying to outrun a bookie from the track that he owes thousands of dollars.
Oh my, he's looking around. Does he see me? Maybe he feels like someone is watching him. That's how he lives now, always looking over one shoulder, sleeping with one eye opened, suspecting everyone. Maybe he caught a negative vibe from my presence and my camera video recording his every move, documenting the way he's sitting with his legs crossed and his computer bag lying on his lap. He's sipping an orange crush and digging in his shirt pocket. Gum; He has a stick of gum; wintergreen or spearmint but not cinnamon.
It's the shirt that distorts this scenario. It's too dramatic for Cincinnati. It's made for a tropic escape to South America not middle America.
The chicken wasn't that good but I hope you enjoyed the story.

Happy Anniversary!

Since 1990 every time I have given a wedding gift in the card I have written these words: husbands and wives are a dime a dozen but a best friend to spend the rest of your life with is one in a million. I learned this twenty seven years ago TODAY when my daddy walked me down the aisle to join my very young life with that guy I live with.
This is not the first anniversary we have spent in different time zones but this year I have this handy dandy blog to broadcast the secrets of a blessed relationship:
1. I met that guy I live with in 1984 when I was 15 years old. He came over to my house to court my sister but she was not interested. Yes, little sister gets the hand-me-downs.
2. Our first “date” was to a Junior High football game in Elysian Fields to watch Lance play. It came a down pour and we retreated innocently to the car. Most of the night we listened to Bryan Adams sing “straight from the heart”.
3. With Lance still in the back seat we held hands for the first time on the way home. Journey was playing on the radio, “Sender my love” and that guy I live with bumped my hand accidentally. I thought he was shyly attempting to hold my hand so I grabbed his like a bass on top water bait.
4. The first time we kissed our teeth bumped. It was his fault.
5. When we started ‘going together’ (80’s term) we were standing at the top of the bleachers at a football game in Beckville.
“People keep asking me if we are going together”, he said.
“What do you tell them?”
“What should I tell them?” From the very beginning he answered questions with questions.
“Tell them we are.”

Since then there have been days when I have wanted more, days when I have wanted less, and days when I didn’t know what I wanted.

Together we have had 5 pregnancies and three sons; we have buried our fathers and grandparents; we completed our four year degrees. Today, if he is reading this from Mississippi or Louisiana then he will know that I have left a surprise for him in the capable hands of my mother.
The Claddaugh Ring: the symbolism dates back centuries. According to Google University:
1. The hands represent friendship; to me they represent history, where we started, the past that we drag along with us daily.
2. The heart represents love but to me it is today and the opportunity to make today better than yesterday.
3. The crown represents loyalty. The future, the potential, possibilities, and purposeful intention to live happily ever after.
Happy Anniversary to that guy I live with!

Five things I can see from here:

1. I see a family sitting at the bar. I suspect they don’t recognize they are in a hotel tavern but think it is an extension of the atrium. The children are tumbling about on the furniture and seem to be waiting for something. One of the young youngsters is about 10 years old and is wearing purple soccer socks.
2. The Pizza delivery guy and the Chinese food deliver guy are waiting at the ‘circle table’ of the lobby. They exchange casual dialogue in an almost tragic fashion while anticipating that at any moment their caller will meander into the lobby and rescue them.
3. A fireplace in Florida. I assume it is there for the sole purpose of dangling the Christmas decorations. When do you use a fireplace in Florida? By the way, the family in the bar is now playing Patty-cake or something as unpleasant.
4. The revolving door and its exhausting crusade and determination to bring people in and take people out in chorus and without disruption.
5. Five American flags in a spray of cut flowers, (also red, white and blue) poised in graceful partisanship, exhibiting independence, and placed in celebration of the birthdate of American.
Oddly enough this seems to some extent like work.

It's not about you

I'm a little bit frazzled and rightly so. Last week I laid around in airports from Shreveport to Chicago and back. After spending 36 consecutive hours in the in six different terminals, in four different cities I took a day of mental R&R. I slept twelve hours in my own wallowed out gel top king-sized bed. I twisted and wiggled and I tried to recuperate and I guess I did just in time to start over this week. Out of Bush Intercontinental on Sunday evening, through Dallas Fort Worth into Oklahoma city. Monday night I boarded in Oklahoma City to Omaha, Nebraska and then back to OKC on Tuesday. I worked late on Wednesday but after three nights in the airports I was happy to catch up on some employee online education and emails. It's Thursday night and I have managed to get to the Delta terminal of Tulsa International Airport. Destination: Jackson, Mississippi.
This morning I drove off with my day planner lying on top of the rental car while I talked on the phone to a customer in Hutchinson, Kansas. On my way to the airport I pulled a half inch long (thankfully) blonde hair from my chin that no one bothered to tell me existed. It's all okay though because I like my job and because in seat 23B, next to me, on a dark plane into Jackson, Mississippi, I saw a reflection if myself.
I started off thinking, no, of all the crazy people on this plane, why do I have to sit by 'the guy.' You know ‘the guy’; the one who sat in the bar too long; the one that thinks his jokes are funnier than they really are; the guy in the Hawaiian shirt headed to Mississippi.
Before we were to the runway I knew he was a drug rep for Upshur Smith out of Minnesota. He's been there two years and he loves it. Before that he was in pharmaceutical sales for a global company but not happy. Before we had the wheels up he told me his life was changed and that today he was a better man. He brought it up so I asked, “what event changed your life?” If Ron was telling this he might say it was turning 49 years old and realizing that he's living on borrowed time since his Dad died at 49. He might say it was the realization that life is too short and he has much to laugh about and live for. He might tell you about the day in 2010 when he hit his knees and gave his life to the Jesus that his step grandmother told him about when he was just a kid. Maybe he would tell you it was his own kids and his determination to do right by them or the love of his life that they called mom that divorced him a few years back.
His jokes still aren't that funny (sorry, Ron) but through his stories and his willingness to share them I could see a little bit of myself and the places I could grow. He shared this simple motto: it starts with me but it's not about me.
I've heard that before; I've said that before but tonight I heard that from someone in seat 23B that needed to say it and be heard.