Some Days Are Hotel Rwanda

Never again.  The world vowed after the horrors of the Holocaust. Never again can this be allowed to happen. Until it happened again. And again. And again.

Never again is happening now.  In the Iraqi city of Mosul, there is a mass exodus as the Islamic State orders Christians to leave, convert, or die. The Syrian civil war has displaced tens of thousands of Syrian refugees to Lebanon.  Historically, Lebanese hate Syrians. The stage is set.  It will happen again. And again.

On Sunday evening, I had the privilege to listen as Mr. Paul Rusesabagina spoke to a group in Arlington Heights.  Paul Rusesabagina is the Rwandan hotelier who protected 1,268 Hutu and Tutsi refugees during the Rwandan Genocide of 1994. We know his story best through the movie Hotel Rwanda.

1994 - the year before I met my husband.  I was living in Chicago, working, and watching cable television.  Cable television made global events up close and personal. During the Iran-Iraqi bombings, I hated being home alone. It seemed as though the bombings were as near as Schaumburg.

By 1994, I was finding the trick to T.V. news watching. Reports from Rwanda were devastating. The word Genocide was being used. Again. My solution unfortunately was as simple as a remote click: Click On. Watch. Gasp. Shudder. Click Off

I went to hear Paul Rusesabagina for two reasons. One was that he is a hero. It is an honor to be in the same room as a hero. The next person I hope to be in the same room with is Pope Francis. Or maybe Matt Damon. Or Emma Watson.

The other reason I went is I was curious. What would he suggest we do?  By "we" I mean those of us living in the cozy, cushy northwest 'burbs of Chicago.  As a citizen of the world, what can I hope to do as 20% of a population is being decimated in a landlocked country in central Africa? Or in the Middle East?

There was so much said by this man and so much more he could share. Three takeaways:

It's All About Power

Almost every situation in human history is about getting and keeping power.  You either have the power or you do not.  Us/Them, In/Out, Good/Bad, Right/Wrong.  The power is always shifting.  If you do not have the power, you are out - exiled or marginalized. Convert, leave, or die. Think like we do, get out of our lives, or go to hell.

Every day we can be influenced by power or by lack of power, by trying to gain power or by trying to survive the powers-that-be. Adults/children, Bullies/Bullied, My Faith/Your Faith, My Orientation/Your Orientation. We can think about this and how it is influencing our lives. Then we can think about helping our children think about it.

It's All About Leadership

It is human nature to try to distance from or pretend not to see unpleasantness. As crazy as it sounds, it can be reassuring when our leaders ignore issues or talk around the issues.  Or, as in the case of Rwanda, leaders could ignore as almost a million people lost their lives in less than one hundred days.

It is obvious to most of us that our current politics offer major distractions. What we have here in the U.S. is pretty much a partisan pissing contest. Where are the politics of challenging systems that don't work, of cooperating despite our differences, of protecting the most vulnerable? Call me idealistic. Paul Rusesabagina remains idealistic, despite what he has witnessed. And he continues tirelessly working for change in the world.

We can dislike our own complacency. We can expect more from our leaders. We can teach our children to challenge and to question, without punishment for doing so. We can help them recognize that compassion is cool. In their own lives, they can speak out for those that are bullied, for those that our marginalized, for those that may be different.

Words

Mr. Rusesabagina said more than once, "Words can be the best and the worst weapons in a person's arsenal."  He encouraged us to sit down and talk. To share awareness. He encouraged the audience to never be silenced as silence implies affirmation.

We can search for truth. We can listen to the truth by which others live.We can teach our children to search for truth.

The truth is I did not come home Sunday evening with bullet points detailing steps to take, as a person or for a nation or for the world. I came home knowing for certain that this will happen again. And again.

The most horrible reality I took home with me Sunday evening was this: Genocide is a product of basic human nature. It is said that we can't change human nature.  But, I listened to Paul Rusesabagina and I disagree.  He witnessed evil.  He continues in hope.

The Kingdom of God is here.  Don't take my word for it, Jesus said it first. I believe we can make the world a better place, maybe just one person at a time.  One of Paul Rusesabagina's closing comments was this, "He who saves a single life, saves the entire world." That is from the Talmud.

Shalom.

Paul Rusesabagina

Some Days Are Nostalgic, Part 2

If you are younger than forty, chances are these nostalgia posts are a bit foreign to you.  Unless you have a mom or dad or grandparent who shares stories about "things we did in the old days."

I never refer to my past as the "good old days." Nor "the bad old days" for that matter. I think every generation is not without its own mixed bag of good and bad. For example, when I was younger, things in our culture were far less open. It was my experience that families argued once all the windows were closed so it appeared that no families (but ours) argued. More secrets were kept and only weak people sought mental health help.

Today our family talked about S&H Green Stamps.  Our fourteen year old daughter said, "What's that?" So we googled a picture of S&H Green Stamps:

We told our daughter how some stores gave their customers sheets of stamps after every purchase.  Customers saved the stamps, sticking them in books. Customers could redeem the books of stamps at the local S&H Redemption Centers for stuff. Stuff like appliances.

What is funny is both Jay and I shared stories of sticking the stamps in books for our moms.  Both our moms would wet a sponge and put it on a saucer.  We could use the sponge to wet the stamps so our mouths would not turn green. But neither of us remember anything that our family redeemed.

For reasons I do not totally understand, this past month I started saving the Jewel Osco saver stamps. Honestly, I have never saved stamps for anything before in my adult life. I am wondering if I never saved stamps because I remember all the work of pasting stamps but do not remember any of the reward.  Who knows? I just never became a stamp saver.

But...I think there is something going on with my decision to save stamps right now.  I am pretty certain it is not an intense longing for Cuisinart Classic Stainless Cookware. Truth be told, I have never been gaga for cookware.

But look at this picture of my Jewel stamps and Stamp Saver Card:

Yes.  These stamps are GREEN.  I think I am subconsciously channeling my mother! That is why I stopped after sticking but two stamps on my Stamp Saver Card. I am going to ask my daughter to stick them for me. She may not remember the fabulous cookware we get but she will probably have a great story to share some day.

Some Days Are Nostalgic, Part 1

I was paging through the new Lands' End catalog and saw this:

I wore this!  Same turtleneck.  Same jumper.  Almost the same herringbone except my jumper had the more traditional herringbone pattern.  I wore my jumper in the 80's. What a trend setter!

I love that jumpers are returning to style.

Here is something I was hoping would never returns to style:

Years ago I donated these, along with platform shoes, to my daughter's dress up clothes stash. I wore them in the 80's. Not with the jumper, of course. I had several pair in different colors, some with wooden soles. We called them Barbie shoes. Anytime I needed to get somewhere in a hurry, I kicked them off and carried them.  And driving? Forget it.  Crazy kids and their crazy fashions!

I think Barbie shoes have been back in fashion. I am sure podiatrists everywhere are secretly happy.  It's a cash cow.

I believe this calls for a blist! A blist is a list on a blog.  I actually thought I invented this word. But I did not. It is in the Urban Dictionary. The fourth possible definition of blist, according to the Urban Dictionary is, "A list written as an addition to your personal blog."

So this blist has a compare and contrast feature.  We can compare Fashions We Would Love to See Return to the contrasting Fashions We Hope Never Return. Fun way to start the weekend? There is great potential here for bridging any awkward conversation gaps at parties, on the sidelines, on a drive, on a golf course, or at the dinner table. Let the blists begin!

FASHIONS I WOULD LOVE TO SEE RETURN

OVERALLS

Similar to jumpers, they are so comfortable and do not nip or tuck anywhere on your being.

PEASANT TOPS

Always a classic style.  So pretty and flowing, fun to wear. Similar to jumpers and overalls, peasant tops can be worn by many body types.

HATS

By this I do not mean the currently popular skater hat like this:

I'm thinking more Jackie Kennedy or Audrey Hepburn hats like this one from Breakfast at Tiffany's:

And, for the men, fedoras. My dad wore a fedora. Now my daughter does:

FASHIONS I HOPE NEVER RETURN 

BELL BOTTOM PANTS

This was a silly look. Also it was dangerous any time you got on a bicycle or a motorcycle.

BIG SHOULDER PADS

There was supposedly some optical illusion that took place to make a person's hips look smaller.
I thought they just made shoulders look bigger.

HIP HUGGER PANTS

For us of the high-waisted persuasion, a day in hip huggers was a day in a vise.

Some Days Are Whoppers

I have been blessed with several people in my life who never said "I told you so." My Aunt Harriet and my friend Mary Jo never said this straight out to me.  They knew I had food sensitivities about twenty years before I came to the realization that I had food sensitivities.  Many years ago, my friend Noreen asked me, "Why would you have white bread in your freezer?"  Back then, I did not even understand the question.

Food sensitivities are complicated. They are different from food allergies - think nuts and difficulty breathing. They are different from food intolerances - think milk lactose and bathroom challenges. Food sensitivities stem from a plethora of reasons. Symptoms are varied, even delayed several days after eating something culpable.   My understanding is that 95% of humans have food sensitivities to varying degrees. When I consider this statistic, I do not feel so alone.

When I am feeling disciplined and emotionally healthy, I restrict my diet.  I feel great - less achy, less foggy, and more energetic.  Two mantras that help me a great deal are

"My body is a temple." (Bible)

and

"Let food be your medicine and let medicine be your food."  (Hippocrates)

The very first time I restricted my diet, it was hard for me to believe I would never eat a Burger King Whopper again.  I am not sure why a Whopper. I was not addicted to Whoppers, probably had one several times a year.  I think they must represent for me the ultimate in something that is so good and so bad all wrapped up with a side of fries and a Coke.

Over fourteen years ago, Jay and I experienced something that was so good and so bad all wrapped up together. We felt overwhelming joy while witnessing unimaginable loss. Both at the same time. This is the reality of adoption.

As we settled at home the first evening with our beautiful baby daughter, I made plans for our dinner.  I told Jay, "I'm going to Burger King. You want a Whopper?"  Jay said something like, "Whoa."  It had been a long time since either of us had asked the other this question.

As I drove to the local Burger King, I realized that it had been impossible for us to prepare.  We had known that the day after our daughter was born would be the best day of our lives juxtaposed with the worst day of our birth mother's life. Somehow knowing this and living this were not the same.

I gave my order at the drive thru menu board.  "Two Whopper meals with Cokes, please."  The young man taking my order asked, "Do you want onion rings with that?"

I guess I lost it just then. It hit me, like a sucker punch, "My God, does everything have to be this difficult?" And in a measured voice I asked, "Did I say I wanted onion rings?"

I did not know until months later that Burger King changed its meal options to fries or onion rings. The man taking my order was asking a simple question. He just did not know what he was up against: a new mom, experiencing joy and loss, knowing the joy would never completely ease the pain of loss for any of us, ever.

Now over fourteen years later, I still think of that drive thru moment. When things in life seem hard, perhaps much harder than they need to be, I ask under my breath, "Did I say I wanted onion rings?"

Some Days Are Vulnerable

This blog entry is dark and a little bit creepy. Proceed with caution.

When I was in my twenties, I was sick. I do not think I understood at the time how much illness colored my world. I would not relive my twenties if you paid me.

During a rather dark stretch, I wrote a poem. I found it recently, handwritten and buried in some old cards and letters. It is bleak but not without hope. I will always be grateful that hope wins.

I never wrote a serious poem again. But I did find a Ghostbuster. My Ghostbuster's name was Mary, a gifted social worker.

There's a ghost in my room and I am afraid

Afraid of the Ghost of the Unknown

Now surrounding me like a shroud

I can sense his gnarled fingers beckoning me forth.

But I cannot move

There are other ghosts lurking in the darkness

Holding me captive with their beguiling familiarity.

The Ghost of What Was

Holding tight, knowing pain

Protecting my heart with an icy grip.

The Ghost of What Is

Billowing fog, hushing dreams

Clouds of caution muting risk.

Take my hand and walk with me

If one of us stumbles, we both may fall

And lose each other in the darkness.

But together we can light a candle 

And face our Ghosts in the flickering light. 

Some Days Are Twilight Zone-esque

One of the best television series was The Twilight Zone.  The element of suspense and the unexpected twist at the end of each episode was the winning combination. Goosebumps every viewing.

I blogged weeks ago about an experience I had at a Stevenson High School football game.  Well, now you are going to hear...the rest of the story.

My daughter is a member of the school's marching band.  On Fridays with scheduled home games,  she remains after school to prep with the rest of the band.  The football game in reference occurred on a Friday my husband Jay was out of town.  So I was home alone.

True confession: that particular evening, I took what was suppose to be a quick, pre-game nap.  It would have been wise to set an alarm.  I awoke with a start, realizing I had missed at best the entire first half, including the halftime performance.  Bad mommy.

But, this is a big school and football draws a big crowd. My plan was to go and simply blend in. Who would know? I got in the car and went to the high school.

Cue Twilight Zone music here.

The football stadium lights were on. There were cars in the parking lots. There was not a soul anywhere to be seen. I am saying nobody, anywhere. It was still. It was freaky.

The words crossed my mind.  "...you've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone." Either that or I was Left Behind.  That thought crossed my mind too.

The unexpected twist at the end of this episode was not so exciting. Lightning had been sited during the game.  Everyone was inside the school, waiting for a designated amount of time to pass before returning to the field and sitting on metal bleachers.

This is the same lightning I apparently napped through. The best drama of the evening was my performance.  I walked into the school, pretending I knew what was going on. Because, really, what kind of card-carrying Band Booster Club member sleeps through a home game?

"It was just another night of football in Lincolnshire, Illinois. Athletes, cheerleaders, marching band, fans. Then the lightning was sited. They will all go on playing - in the Twilight Zone."

Some Days Are Game On

We have a closet in our home with board games stacked floor to ceiling.  Many of these games are from long ago: Scrabble, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, Battleship, Operation, Candy Land.

I remember playing The Game of Life. This game had a very cool three dimensional board with a built-in clickety spinner.  The place markers were little convertible cars. The goal of the game was to retire (finish) with the most assets (stuff).

The Game of Life was suppose to mirror real life. The first choice in the game was college or business.  Then you got married, had a family, and collected stock, property, and cold, fake cash. The most coveted square was Pay Day. I believe a better name could have been The Ultimate Status Quo Game.

There have been several revisions to The Game of Life since the original 1960 edition. Even with revisions, there is no way any game can mirror real life.

How do you revise The Game of Life to accommodate the impact of the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam, the Cold War, the Digital Revolution, 9/11, the recession, escalating political discord/dysfunction?  Just for starters. It would take more than changing the convertible car to a minivan.

The Game of Life, even the most current edition, is a game, not a mirror, and certainly not real.  Honestly, what could be more not real than the status quo?

Oh, I know.  Barbie's body measurements?

Some Days Are Bumpers

I was out and about early this morning.  Traffic was light.  I was behind a minivan with this bumper sticker:

For me, these new driver signs are effective.  I automatically gave the minivan in front of me a wide berth.  I had a heightened awareness of the potential for unexplained slowing down, swerving, or stopping. The driver's passenger could be patiently coaching or impatiently slamming the imaginary brake.

We stopped at a light. The car with the bumper sticker remained in front so I was unable to see the face of the possible student driver. No way to ascertain degree of driving confidence.

I could see the drivers to my right and to my left however.  One was a man who was clean shaven. Corporate casual looking.  He was talking to himself.  More than likely, he was talking on his handsfree cellphone.

To my left was a twenty-something woman.  She looked comatose, staring straight ahead, still.  I wanted to beep the horn to help her out in the event she had fallen back asleep.  But I could not.  The student driver in front of me could freak out.

When the light turned green and we moved on, I got to thinking. Thinking about New Driver, Business Caller, and Not Awake and all the others who were out and about early this morning. Thinking how other bumper sticker would be helpful:

Please Be Patient, Heartbroken Driver

Please Be Patient, Infertile Driver

Please Be Patient, Parenting a Sick Child Driver

Please Be Patient, Insecurely Employed Driver

There is a beautiful quote, “Be kinder than necessary because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.” Good rule of the road, in or out of the car.

Some Days Are AKA

So many of us wished at some time in our lives that our parents had given us a different name. I remember my friend, Susie, telling some boys we met ice skating that her name was Gidget. I went through a phase when I wanted my name to be Bobbie. So I was not surprised the day my daughter told me she wanted a different name.

My daughter took it a step further.  She asked what she could do to have her name legally changed.  When I explained all the legal hoops a woman jumps to have her name changed when married, my daughter decided she would kill two birds with one stone and wait until she married to change both first and last name.

My daughter is bright.  She also wants to be known as Zena. That is Zena, not Xena.

There is a scientific area called Anthroponymy which is the study of personal names. This must be the science upon which name your baby books are based. I do not know the science behind the wanting a name change, but I have some theories.

I believe Susie wanted the new boys at the skating rink to perceive her as the perky Gidget of movie and T.V. series fame. Maybe. I never asked, just admired one more thing about my friend Susie.

I wished my name was Bobbie. Bobbie would be short for Roberta. My dad was Robert, so it was within the realm of possibilities that I could have this name. It just seemed much cooler to share a name with my dad rather than with just about one out of every five girls I knew. My generation was filled with lasses named Kathy.

Before giving my parental approval to the nickname Zena, I did a little research. Xena (same pronunciation) is a Warrior Princess.  She arrived on the scene with a dark past. She possessed formidable fighting skills and used her skills to help the defenseless. She journeyed the world, always concerned with the greater good.

Yes.  Xena Warrior Princess is a redemption story.

Zena is a great nickname. Jay and I call her by our own special, extended version: Zena Queena Tessalonia.

Some Days Are Remembered

I would wager a bet that everyone in America over the age of twenty can answer these questions:  Where were you on September 11, 2001?  How did you hear the news? How did your life change from that day forward?

Driving to school this morning, I retold my daughter our story of September 11, 2001. She was in her 14th month of life on that day and sitting in her high chair in the kitchen.  I was listening to the Spike O'Dell radio show when it was announced that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.  Toddler in arm, I went to my husband's office, conveniently located down a flight of stairs.

We stayed together all day. I held and stroked my daughter more than usual - when she napped, while she ate, while we played.  Jay and I took turns listening to and sharing the shocking events throughout the day,

Hearing 9/11 stories, I believe there is a common thread.  Most everyone held each other close that day and in the days that followed.  The huge catalyst for our closeness was fear.  If this happened there, it could happen here.  If it took the life of a husband, it could take my husband's life.  If it took a mother, it could take my baby's mom.

Fear is an extremely strong deterrent.  We have used it in our talks to our daughter about illegal drugs.  We want her to be afraid of illegal drugs, potently-laced and potentially fatal.

Fear can be a driving force, a force we can learn to name and own.  When my daughter is confronted with something bad and worthy of fear,  I want her to be able to say to herself, "This is bad and I am scared."  I want her to be able to problem-solve her way out of the fear in a healthy manner.  I want her to be able to ask for help.  I want her to be able to know how to say "no." I want her to be able to express her reasons for saying no to herself and to another person.

I don't ask for much.

I don't believe we can let go of fear.  Plus, it gets wired in.  Every time I see a plane in the sky, I think of projectiles. Can't help it.  September 11.  Wired in.  But, as I am trying to teach my daughter, I think we can name our fears, real and imagined, and expose them to the light of truth.

Elizabeth Gilbert said it better, "You cannot force out the darkness.  You can only bring in the light."

Some Days Are Racing

Ever since I was a young child, I had good taste in men, especially men I could admire from afar.  I had a serious crush on Paul Newman.  In fact, I hung a 24"x 36" poster of Paul Newman in my dorm room.  My friends once designed and taped a "Nya-ah-ahh Dishonest John" mustache on Paul.  It was funny.  One of these friends sent me a sympathy card the day Paul Newman passed away.

There was so much to Paul Newman, a beautiful person on the inside and out.  His life has inspired me.  At minimum, I buy his salad dressings and pasta sauces.

In the 70's Paul Newman started racing cars.  He claimed to have a "need for speed" and that "racing beats the rubbish of Hollywood."

My husband, Jay, has that same need for speed.  I actually met Jay at a race, Road America June Sprints.  As we dated, I learned that he had been into fast vehicles probably since he was a toddler.

For a number of years, being behind-the-wheel has taken a backseat to Jay's business and his family  He started his business, Brainchild, around the time our daughter was born.  He still frequented the track, mainly crewing.  His racing friends are amazing people and will be friends for life.  They are all crazy.

Jay is back behind the wheel again.  This summer, he was driving a Sports 2000 in regional races.  Then, several weeks ago, he tested a car owned by DJ Jans for the Trans Am Pro Series.  He is almost giggly.  Well, he is the Jay Shuler-equivalent of giggly.

You can read all about Jay's racing on his racing webpage www.jayshuler.com  I think he last updated it several years ago.  He has been busy.

Here is what I wrote years ago on his Supporters Page:

I am Kathy, Jay’s wife. Our relationship proves the adage that opposites attract. I dislike roller coasters and I always break when approaching an onramp. But I love Jay and I knew his passion for this sport when I fell in love with him, so he speeds (on the racetrack) with my complete support….and my constant prayers.

My idea of a good day at the races is spending most of the day on a comfy lawn chair with a good book. My favorite racing story is when the guys were testing Tony Ave’s Midget. This event occurred before we were married so please keep in mind that romance and new love were very much a part of Jay’s and my life. 

After sitting alone and reading for several hours, I decided to stretch and take a walk around the grounds. As I was walking, I passed the guys. I had not seen them for most of the day as they were very intent on tweaking the car to make it go faster. 

They were just returning from a test around the track and were very intent on what had just transpired. Imagine four guys, pushing a race car, yet talking with their hands, and using somewhat incomprehensible techno-language, with words such as “torque”. 

I, with the exuberance of a former cheerleader, exclaimed, “Hey, guys, how’d it go?” Well, all four of them looked up, obviously aware that a sound was coming from a non-engine-related source. But not one of them exchanged a nod, a wave, a “hey”. They were in the zone, the speed zone!

So it's 2014.  He's back, sports fans. Godspeed and GO JAY!

Some Days Are Novel

I just reviewed the books on my daughter's list for Freshman English class.  I am so excited for her, but please do not tell her. The best way to squash a child's academic inquiry is to tell her how excited her mother is about her academic requirements.

From way back, reading has always been my safe place, my down time activity, my source of adventure, my chance to see the world from the suburbs of Chicago.  As a young child, I read late into the night with a flashlight under the covers, unbeknownst to my folks.  I was hooked, a reading junkie.

That last paragraph could be summed in five words:  I really liked to read.  Still do.  I am able to read more these days, now that my daughter is a bit more independent and my husband is back into his passion for racing cars.  I need a major safe place for both of these reasons.

My daughter's reading list has stirred memories.  There are fond memories of my first books, many of them in the Nancy Drew, Cherry Ames, and Hardy Boys series.

Then there were the books I learned I should not be reading.  I remember reading West Side Story.  When I read the part where Tony cupped Maria's breast, I slammed the book shut.  I made a vow to God I would never read a dirty book again.  I was way too young and oh so innocent.

Then there was the book I got in trouble for reading.  We were on a family vacation, driving to the Ozarks.  I was reading as we drove, of course. The book I was reading was The Godfather by Mario Puzo.

My dad, as he was driving, called back to the backseat, "Hey Kath, what are you reading?"  When I told him, he asked to see the book.  I handed it over the seat and my dad threw the book out the car window!  He told me that I was reading smut.  His word, smut.  My dad could always teach a lesson in a very dramatic way.  I think it was the Irish in him.

I read Valley of the Dolls later when I was still living at home.  I was smart.  I took the cover off that one.  It was definitely smut and I knew it.

So, back to my daughter's reading list.  One of the books on her list is To Kill a Mockingbird. This was the first book I read that made me cry when I finished.  I wanted it to never end.  It was also the first book that taught me a movie can never do justice to a great book.  And that movie was so good.

I read (of course) recently about the benefits of travel and seeing the world.  I believe that through reading we can see the world, learn perspective, and lose sleep which is akin to jet lag.  Other than several visits to Canada and a cruise to several Caribbean islands, I have never been outside the U.S.A.  But I have read the world.

Some Day Are Anniversaries

On a beautiful, warm day sixteen years ago, Jay and I were married. 

I sobbed through my vows.  Lord, I am crying again.

PROMISED TO JAY SHULER

SEPTEMBER 5, 1998

For many years, I believed I was meant to live my life singly

Now I know God meant for me to wait until I met you.

So, before God, our friends and family

I want to declare my love for you.

I love you, Jay Shuler.

I love the strength in your gentle nature.

I admire your integrity and ethics both personally and professionally.

I am proud of all you have accomplished.

I love your modest genius.

I love how you love me, 

not in a romantic, sappy way,

But consistently and unconditionally

When I am kind and when I am moody.

When I am healthy and when I am sick.

When I am strong and when I am weak.

Today I take you to be my husband.

I promise to stand by you always.

To laugh with you in the good times

To struggle with you in the bad.

To celebrate your triumphs

To comfort your disappointments.

To stay open and honest when love is an ecstasy

And when it is an effort.

From this day forward, I promise

To never take advantage of your gentle nature.

To work with you on becoming a family.

To strengthen our faith in God.

And to love you sweetly and thankfully

All the days of my life.

Some Days Are Icy

Many years ago, in a town far away....Okay, this town was not really that far away. Just seems like a good way to start a story....

Where was I?  Oh. I was driving.  I was alone and the weather was wicked. Torrential rain turning to ice and ice on the roads building fast. I had my hands at 2 o'clock and 10 o'clock. My shoulders were near my ears.  Maximum travel speed probably 25 mph. Tense.

A stop light about 200 feet ahead turned yellow and I started to brake ever so softly. Thankfully, there were no cars ahead of me because I was not stopping.  I laid on the car horn to alert other drivers and slowly slid right through the intersection, semi-sideways. Finally stopping was sweet pleasure.

Next thing I knew a police car was behind me, flashing his lights. Truthfully, I was relieved to see someone because this slide-through had totally unnerved me.  When he approached my car (walking carefully because it was so slick), I let out a nervous string of babble, "Did you see that?  So scary. I could not stop. This ice is crazy."  The officer gave me a ticket. I was flabbergasted. A ticket?  I wanted a hug for crying out loud.

Depending on your experience, you may know that traffic tickets come with certain options, including a date to appear in court. I went to traffic court. When my name was called, I walked confidently to the judge and announced my plea. "Guilty with an explanation, Your Honor."

I proceeded to give the judge a detailed description of that fateful evening's road conditions, a humble appraisal of my amazing behind the wheel grace under pressure, the impossibility of stopping, and my gratitude that no other cars were involved.

This was a kind and gentle judge.  He looked at me as a father would look at his daughter. He told me that he was sorry for my obviously harrowing experience.  And then he declared me guilty. What?

The judge explained that by law I left him no choice. He had to declare me guilty because I told him I was guilty. Just as the officer had witnessed me illegally going through a stop light.

The judge told me that if I ever appear in court again with a reasonable explanation to never ever plead guilty. What a goofy system. I was suppose to say I did not blow a light when I had blown a light despite an excellent story. How the heck does one know these things?

Yesterday after school I told my 14 year old daughter this story. She was actually intrigued enough to stop texting and listen. Trust me, in our world this is significant. She said, and I quote, "Now that is some story, Mom."

I told her the reason I shared this story with her. I wanted to apologize for something I had said to her several days ago. It was not nice, what I had said, and we both knew it. Why I said what I said did indeed have an explanation.  But I was guilty. I said something hurtful.  Explanation or no explanation did not change that.

So I said, "Sorry."  My daughter responded, "Accepted."  She went back to texting. Can I tell you how much I wanted to give that explanation? However, I knew explaining would serve me, not her. I was the guilty mom, not the offended daughter.

Certainly there are times and situations in which simply saying sorry is not enough. Sometimes it requires us to do a helluva lot more. Other times the two words "I'm sorry" are all that is needed.  God grant me the wisdom to know the difference.

P.S. Never plead "Guilty with an explanation."

Some Days Are Still

I am about to dis words, the very things I cherish. Paradoxical.

I just read something written by Cheryl Maloney. She has a Facebook page Simple Steps Real Change.

In one of today's posts, Cheryl wrote, "Words are not always necessary...whether you are alone or with others...Be still and listen to what your soul is telling you...when you observe rather than engage...you can see more clearly..."

In my faith tradition, Cheryl is describing the Spirit.

I have a friend whose blog is entitled, "Listening for the Still, Small Voice."  I love her title.

My mom would not allow us to say the words "shut up."  Family rule.  However, I think I am being nudged today to do just that.  A little less words, a little more stillness.