Custody

First and third weekends
and Thursday nights
Too fast flash
with the light of your life.

Pack in the fun
between homework and flute
But send her home on a high note
or the fun stuff's moot.

Stall tactics begin.
She doesn't want to go.
Chasing a butterfly.
Walking so slow.

You'd tell her to hurry,
but you don't have the heart.
Takes it with her when she leaves
along with her spark.

The countdown begins
until the next reunion
When she brings back your heart
With another daughter infusion.





I've been learning more about this particular heartache recently.  As painful as it is to witness, I can't imagine what it would be to feel myself.  I understand fully that divorce is sometimes necessary.  But I still hate it.  I hate the heartache of it and the fallout from it.  But I'm super thankful for a God of healing who holds these precious dads and daughters in His hands.

Home Sweet Home

As I get ready to spend my last night in this home, I can’t help but be a little reflective. 

Three years ago, I moved to a little one bedroom apartment across the street from my school.  It was tiny and perfect and safe.  A bit of a cocoon.  When I fled there, it was a frantic escape.  No organization.  No planning but a sleepless night with a notepad and a pencil and a locked door.  And my fear.

That home came to be a place of healing.  The fear hung on for a while, but eventually it lessened.  The nightmares faded.  The panic attacks ceased.  The tears flowed frequently.  Hours of crocheting.  Hours of reading about the “A” word.  And healing.

By the time I got ready to move to Houston, things had changed.  I was looking forward to beginning a new job and a new life and living lakeside with valet trash.  This move wasn’t an escape; it was a rebirth.  A flight home.  And my freedom.

This home has come to be a place of learning.  I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past two years.  I’ve learned that I’m smarter than I thought.  That I can find my way around Houston.  That being a high school counselor is absolutely my calling.  That living near family is a precious gift.  That making mistakes is part of the journey.  That God still loves me.    

Tomorrow I’m moving three miles down the road to the tiniest apartment yet.  It is teeny, old, and completely unglamorous.  But I’m excited.  This move is purposeful; to save money for a house.  The boxes are packed and labeled. 

I feel like I should pack an empty one and label it “Hope”.

Father's Day Legacy

What do you do with Father's Day when yours is gone?  I've tried a variety of coping strategies over the years. As a teenager, I mostly tried to ignore it. I figured if I didn't acknowledge the day, I could pretend I hadn't lost my daddy to cancer days before starting 10th grade. Not terribly effective. 

Later, I decided to acknowledge the other father figures in my life, without whom I might not have become the fabulous adult me you see before you now.  Ha!  Kidding. Men like Jerry Selvidge, Terry Partin, and even Steve West. Some of these men, I thanked. Some probably don't even realize the impact they made. 

But this Father's Day feels uniquely different and special. In a matter of hours, I will be spending time with the two fathers who probably matter most in my life now.  Not as father figures for me, but THE fathers of my most precious children, my nieces and nephews. 

My favorite part of these family get togethers is when we sit around and talk about the old days.  The Michigan days. The persuade the sister to taste vanilla days.  The basketball in the driveway days. 

The kids love hearing these stories. They like to hear about the trouble their dads found.  The pranks they pulled on their sweet and precious baby sister. The broken window and poster covered hole in the wall. 

I love this sacred ritual of storytelling. Legacy leaving. Memory making. Where mere mortal men are transformed into heroes.  Big eyed kiddies and skeptical teens become believers in the coolness of dads.  Their dads. 

And the stories inevitably turn to my dad, their grandfather. The grandfather they never knew for themselves but have come to know and love through the stories. 

Basketball stories. Dog stories. Gardening and garage building stories. Disgusting, Dig Down Deep, Puppy Down Deep stories. And the silly, Thumbnail That Grew stories. 

But my favorite stories are the faith stories. Stories of hitch hikers leaving gifts of just the right amount of money.  Hamburger stand sales that paid car payments. Joyville and bus ministry stories. Cash left in the hand after a handshake stories. Summer school subbing without pay stories.  Stories of mysteriously paid college tuition bills. And my favorite, enthusiasm sock stories. 

On this Father's Day, I'm reminded of words from an old hymn, "Tell me the story of Jesus, write on my heart every word. Tell me the story most precious, sweetest that ever was heard."

On this day and the next few to come, I will participate in the ancient, legend making tradition of storytelling.  Where heroes are made and seeds of faith are sewn. 

My wish for you on this Father's Day is that you would join me. Tell the faith building, legend making stories of your real life fathers and father figures to the precious children in your life.  Write on their hearts the story of Jesus as lived by their dads or the men you wish were their dads.

Slammin' Follow Up

I went to my first Poetry Slam this afternoon, and what a delight.  I was so impressed with our kids who had the courage to get in front of their peers and speak from their hearts.  Whether they read their on poem or someone else's, it was their thoughts.  Their ability to stand up and be heard.  I was super proud.

I must confess though, that at one particular moment, I was a little bummed that I didn't get to share what I had written.  In fact, I was a little annoyed.  Ok, let's be honest.  For about three minutes and fifty-two seconds I was angry.  And then I got over myself. 

And here is why.

Over the last week, I've had the opportunity to share that poem (which you can find here) with some kids in a setting that was more appropriate and very powerful. 

One day last week, I had a young man in my office whose junior year has pretty much gone down the toilet.  I suspected by looking at his transcript and attendance that he smoked.  And when I refer to smoking here, I'm not talking about cigarettes.  So I asked him the question.  Do you smoke?  And of course the answer was "yes...but only on the weekends now."  That always makes me chuckle. 

So we spent the next 30 minutes mapping out a plan for how he can recover credit, get back on track, and graduate on time next year.  He'd given up because he didn't think there was hope.  I just showed him the way.  I didn't do any super fancy counselor tricks.  I just showed him how it could be possible.

Then I asked him if he was familiar with slam poetry.  Surprisingly, he was.  So I told him I'd written one for him.  He looked at me with surprise, and I asked him if he wanted to hear it.  He did.  I read it.  His eyes bugged out, and he said, "Damn Ms.  You really did write that for me."  Awesome.  Then we talked about it.  About how he needed to find his "I care."  Such a God moment. 

Not an hour later, two girls show up, friends.  One of them starts asking me questions about summer school and whether or not she can graduate on time.  I went through the same process with her.  I explained the magic of yearly averaging.  Mapped out a plan. Her face came alive; spark returned to her eyes.

Then I asked the question.  Do you smoke?  "No," she said.  I gave her the look.  It's sort of similar to the look your mom gives you when she asks if you did something and you lie and she knows your lying...yeah.  That look.  I said, "Seriously?!"  She said, "No Ms."  Then I explained how she wasn't in trouble, but her grades and transcript and attendance told a different story.  I asked again.  Gently.  She hung her head and said, "Yeah." 

I switched and talked to her friend for a few minutes and basically mapped out the same things for her.  No super sneaky counselor tricks.  Just laid out the facts.

Then I told them that they couldn't leave.  That they had to listen.  Again, I asked if they knew about slam poetry.  They didn't.  I explained.  Then I told them I'd written something for them.  I opened it.  I'm pretty familiar with it at this point and can really speak it to them.  Look them in the eyes.  And of course I changed the pronouns to feminine ones. 

The first girl completely teared up.  The second one said, "Wow.  That's awesome.  It IS for us."  So unbelievably powerful.  I could not believe this had happened twice in one day.  And the tears.  The connection.  I can't even describe it. 

So back to today's poetry slam.  I stood at the back of the room looking over the audience and realized that some of those kids were just the ones I wrote about.  So at an intermission, I went and spoke to three of my kids.  Told them I needed to see them afterward.

When it was over, I took them back to my office and told them I'd written something for the slam but it was rejected because it was inappropriate.  But that I'd written it for them.  It's so funny.  If you tell them you wrote something rebellious, they get all kinds of excited.  Cracked me up. 

So we go to my office and shut the door.  I pull it up on the computer.  Look each of them in the eye.  And speak my heart to them through this crazy poem.  I teared up this time.  Because these are my kids.  These babies were 11th graders at the beginning of the year.  But several teachers and I have ridden them like crazy to get them to do what they need to do.  And they.  Are going.  To graduate. 

And they cried too.  And it was awesome.  And then of course they wanted to talk about make up hours and grades, and I gave them the speech again about how they better not mess up in these last couple of weeks.  Because that's what you do when you're a momma. 

Another of my kids has started referring to me as his second mom, except he says it in Spanish.  I asked him what the Spanish word for son was.  "Mijo," he said.  Later I was telling my secretary about this exchange, and she said the word for son is "hijo".  The word he gave me to call him means "my son".   

Tengo muchos mijos y mijas.

Hoops

I find inspiration in strange places sometimes.  After jotting words, snatches of poetry, and paragraphs of thoughts on napkins, church bulletins, and counselor meeting power points, I started carrying a little notebook in my purse at all times.  And if for some reason there is nothing to write on, I have the notes pages in my phone. 

I was cleaning my purse out a few minutes ago and came across this little bit of silliness.  This one was in my little notebook, written at the score table during a girls basketball game this season while I was keeping stats.  Good times.

Hoops

 

Squeak on hardwood
Smell of sweat
Bright lights shining
Swish of net

Mommas yelling
Players cheer
Hot shots fake
Show no fear

Leather pounding
Pom poms shake
Fast break layup
Another make

Score is tied up
Hold our breath
Whole crowd praying
Nothing but net

Slammin'

My school is going to have a poetry slam in a couple of weeks.  I'd never tried writing slam before, but I've always liked the form.  Really, Slam is meant to be spoken and heard.  Not read.  If you've never experienced it, you've missed out on something awesome.  Google it.  PBS did a documentary on Slam last year that was really incredible.  It's a form that really appeals to youth.  It's very honest and kind of in your face.

Last week after watching a couple Slams on YouTube, I got inspired and wrote one of my own.  I think it's pretty good, but it's not really appropriate for performing for students.  Well actually, I think students would get it.  But since I'm a school representative, it might not be the best plan.  I figured I'd post it.  My apologies for the language, but I wrote it with the thought of the kids who are the subject matter also being the audience.  Just remember, it wasn't meant to be read.  It was meant to be performed.

Tired

 

I.  Am. Tired.
Of looking across my desk
Into the blood shot eyes of the future
And asking the question, “Do you smoke?”

And they stare, eyes wide, as if it’s a joke.
And say, “What?  Why do you ask that Ms.?”
Like I’m the one who’s been smoking some really good shit.

But I haven’t.  And I don’t.  And they don’t understand. 
Why?  How does she know?  And I try to convince them
That all it takes is a good look at a transcript.
And attendance.  And an Academic Plan
To see they’ve been smoking and don’t give a damn.

You see that’s the problem with smokin’
Spend your weekends tokin’
Then pretty soon it’s mornings to just get through the day
And they have all these reasons of why it’s ok

It’s not a problem.  No big deal.  “I got this Ms.”
And maybe for a while that’s true. 
But then.  It’s a lie.
Spend your whole life denyin’, trying’
to justify.  Why?

Truth is.  Smokin’ takes away your “I care."
And I look across my desk into that blood shot stare.
And I want to cry.  As I watch another one of my kids
Flushing his future down the drain.
I wonder why I strain. 

And work so hard.  And talk
And preach, and beg, and plead with them when it sometimes feels
Like I’m the only one fighting.  For their lives.
But there’s always that one.  That one who survives.

Who walks away.  And stops the madness.  And loses friends. 
But finds himself.  His, “I care.”  His, “I give a damn.”
And suddenly, BAM!
His upside down world is magically back.  Right side up.
And there is hope.  And a future.
And it’s all worthwhile.

I.  Am.  Tired.
Of looking across my desk
Into the blood shot eyes of the future
And asking the question, “Do you smoke?”
It's no joke.

And I won’t stop asking. 
Because I DO give a damn.

The A-Word

My librarian posted on FB last night about Rihanna being a great singer but unhealthy in her personal life.  It lead to a conversation between us about how we could teach our girls that getting hit by someone who claims to love you is not ok.  It is an issue we see and deal with in high school nearly every day.  I have felt an internal indictment ever since.

I have written this post in my mind a thousand times.  I have shared this story with people in person.  At first, for the purpose of healing.  Later, when prompted, for the purpose of ministry.  To share it here is far scarier to me.  But it feels like the right time.



It was a moment I will never forget.  A realization that changed my life forever.  A  paradigm shift.  The beginning.

It was about a month after I left.  I had assumed my Saturday post walk position in my recliner, watching mindless television that I could tune out and think to while keeping my hands busy on my first crochet therapy project.

This day, instead of watching “Criminal Minds” and “Law and Order” reruns, I landed on a movie, Sleeping With The Enemy.  It was something familiar; I’d seen it before.  Something  that I didn’t have to watch closely; I could escape into my head.  That was the point.

I was paying only passing attention, focused on the pattern of my blanket:  eight double crochet, skip two, eight double crochet, three double crochet in the same stitch, repeat.  Mindlessly counting stitches. Until the music indicated a change in scene. 

I looked up and watched as Julia Roberts straightened towels so their patterns matched up.  Then a frantic pass through the kitchen cabinets, desperately checking the cans to make sure the labels were all facing forward.

I watched her panicked frenzy and sat paralyzed, unable to take my eyes off the screen.  She ran around trying to make everything perfect.  Her fear palpable.  And a fog began to clear in my mind.  My heart.

I knew her fear.  Silent tears streamed down my face.  I felt her fear.  Her hopeless resignation.  The short lived joy of her courageous escape.    The heart pounding anxiety of living a life looking over your shoulder.

That was me.  When the movie ended, I muted the sound and sat stunned. 

It is so easy, for me anyway, to look at other people, other relationships, and see what is broken.  Or missing.  But in my own, I had spent so many years trying to make it look good on the outside to everyone else, that I had convinced my own self of its wonderfulness.  That was the biggest deception. 

But sitting there watching Julia Roberts.  Feeling the fear.  The desperation.  The fog of deception was burned away.  For the first time, I allowed myself to see the truth of my own brokenness.

Abuse.

I didn’t say it out loud.  Not for months.  I couldn’t.  It was far too scary a word.  But to myself, I began to admit that I had been in an abusive relationship.

To be clear, I have never been physically beaten.  No one has ever hit me or burned me or locked me up.  I think that is why the A-word had never occurred to me before.  But there are all kinds of abuse.  Physical.  Verbal.  Sexual.  Emotional.

About thirty minutes after the movie ended, I began researching abuse online.  I didn’t really understand how I could feel all those same things the character in the movie did when no one had ever physically harmed me.

I ended up ordering five or six books from Amazon.  Books about battered women, abuse, bullying between friends.  The next couple of months I read through all of them.  It was painful.  I would read a chapter, highlighting things that connected with me, and then cry.  I also did a lot of writing and reflecting and crocheting.  Eventually, I began talking about it with my mom and my closest two friends. 

Healing is a beautiful and terrible thing.  It sort of reminds me of severe burn victims.  Those wounds have to be scraped and cleaned and treated.  And it is excruciating.  But it is the only way to healing.

Admitting I had the A-word in my life was just the tip of the iceberg.  After that, the wounds had to be scraped and cleaned and treated.  Repeatedly.  But eventually, healing began.  It continues still.



I am not done with this topic or this story.  But I find that I will have to share it in installments.  One can only scrape so much at one time.  There is one thing about which I wish to be very clear though.  I am writing this as a continued part of my own healing.  But I’m also writing because I see far too many girls and women in similar situations.  And I think there is too much silence on the topic.  Especially among church folks.  It is about owning my piece of the story.  I played a role in it.  And I am the key to making sure it never happens again.  But those are stories for another day.

Plants Are People Too

WalMart plants remind me of kids who come from a difficult socioeconomic background.  They need extra food and water, love, and time.  But if you are willing to invest a little of yourself, especially time and love, they grow up as strong and beautiful as nursery flowers.

These Petunias needed some deadheading and cleanup for sure, and they had a sad little hole in the center where the stalks had all been pushed aside and were a little smooshed.  But I loved their brightness and saw potential.

 

These two little guys needed a little work.  The one on the left lived outside for a bit last summer; he didn't like it.  The one on the right is from Big Momma and just needed a bigger pot.  These guys have mostly outgrown their pots and needed fresh soil. 

 

Don't they look happier now?  I think they will be much happier together.  Sometimes a change of scenery and soil is just the thing.

 

These two guys have fantastic potential, but they have already outgrown these pots.  Their poor little roots are coming out of their pots.  They need room to grow.  They could stay in these pots, but they'd never reach their potential.  How sad would that be?

     

See how much happier they are with room to grow?  And I'd bet that within a couple of months, provided I don't neglect them, they will need even bigger pots.

 

 

 And of course, it's time for making babies!  My favorite.  Notice the little brown bumps on the stalk of the pieces on the left?  That is where their little roots will begin to grow.  I love this part, watching them root and grow.  I'll keep adding water to this glass, and their roots will keep on growing until they are ready to be planted.  I've found that the longer I let them root, the better they will grow later. 

 

These plants aren't particularly high maintenance.  But they do need to be noticed.  Acknowledged.  Given occasional love and attention.  Kind of like people.

Leftovers

Earlier today I was "listening" to a friend, we were messaging on FB.  What she was feeling is something I've experienced.  Probably most people have at one time or another.  And it brought to mind something I wrote a couple years ago, April of 2011 to be exact.  I decided to share it here on faith that my readers, all 4 of you, can handle it.  :)  I figure it never hurts to shake things up a little.  Afterall, it's after midnight on my first official night of Spring Break!  Woohoo!!!

Leftovers

 

When the meat loaf is over

Dessert is done

Everyone full to the brim,

I’m the peas left on the plate.

Pushed around in the juices

Made to look like they were eaten.

 

But the peas get scraped in the trash

Or if they’re lucky, fed to the dog

A distant memory.

 

When supper is finished

The dishes dried

Appetites sated for the day,

I’m the leftovers in Ziplocs

Thrown in the back of the fridge

So you feel better about not being wasteful.

 

But the leftovers land in the disposal

Or if they’re lucky, tomorrow’s lunch

Inhaled between meetings.

 

Someday I wanna be the main dish

Savored slowly

Filling you up with me.

No leftovers on this plate

Enjoyed and licked clean

Dressed up and presented on fine china.

 

No leftovers gone to waste

The lucky chosen, feeds on me

His last supper.

Book Review: 139 pages of YUM!

For my book reading readers, I decided to write some short book reviews.  I’ve never really written a book review per se, so I don’t really know if there is a specific formula.  So I’ll pretend we are at Starbucks sipping our favorite drinks, grandesoymochanowhip for me, and tell you what I thought about the most recent book I read. 

Wouldn’t Take Nothing For My Journey Now is a very short, reflective book by Maya Angelou.  I love Maya’s poetry.  (Notice how I called her Maya?  That’s because she feels like a friend.)  I love this book because it has one of the same qualities of poetry that I enjoy.  It is the essence of wisdom she has learned throughout her life.  It isn’t a long expository or biography.  It is the boiled down “stock” of her wisdom on being a woman, love, loss, and many other topics.  She doesn’t carry on about it all; she says it plainly in two pages and then moves on to the next chapter.  Short and sweet.  Like a poem.

Get this book and put it aside for an afternoon when you want to indulge yourself while also learning something good and wholesome and right.  Bring a highlighter and a cup of tea and tune out the world for an hour to enjoy this great read.

Nature's True Wonders

Over the Christmas break, I took a road trip with a friend to Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose, Texas.  We did see some amazing tracks, but I saw a few other things there that day that amazed me and got me to thinking.  This is one.

 

I’m not sure if you can tell, but in the center of this giant rocky formation, there is a small tree growing.  My friend and I stopped to look at this wonder.  He, like me, is a metaphorical kind of thinker, so we had a grand time thinking about the symbolism inherent in this bit of nature.  But I’ve thought back on this picture so many times, I decided to share.

 

As you are probably aware if you are my FB friend, I’m home with the flu.  Of course the whole world doesn’t know, or my whole school, so I received a wake up text at about 7:30 this morning from one of my favorite English teachers.  He was texting to let me know that one of my kids was not in class.  I have an agreement with a couple of teachers about a few of my special case kids.  If they are not in class first period, I get a call or text.  Then I begin the process of tracking them down. 

 

This particular student has come to hold a pretty special place in my heart…who am I kidding…lots of them do!  But this one, he is something else.  He is a lot like this little tree bravely growing from a rock.  He shouldn’t be growing at all.  He has no soil and no water.  No nurturing gardener or regular rain.  He lives in his dad’s house but rarely sees him.  He lives alone.  His dad pays the main bills, but he has to come up with money for food, clothing, gas, and school needs.  No one checks to make sure he is up in the morning or that he has eaten a good breakfast or that he gets to school on time or even if he has clean clothes.  The only people he really has are a few buddies who aren’t in any better shape.  And together they have gotten into a lot of trouble over the years.

 

But something changed this year and he’s begun to work and to care about school.  He sees the possibility of graduation in the distance, and he wants it.  Unfortunately, the pattern of his life and choices have not landed him in a very good place to achieve the goal, so he is having to relearn.  And change is hard.  He’s trying to get caught up on credits and maintain passing grades.  He’s a smart kid.  But suddenly, he’s trying to keep up with homework and deadlines that he never cared about before.  That is a tough change to make.

 

And if that isn’t enough, there are adults in his life whom I work with every day, I’m ashamed to admit, who would very much like to see him fail.  They are like a strong Panhandle wind gust trying to blow him over.  They look at him and see a thug.  They see a kid who has been in and out of gangs.  A minority.  A kid who has had his share of trouble with the law.  A kid who doesn’t particularly care for authority.  And why should he?  Most of those in authority in his life have let him down in some way.  Why should teachers be any different?

 

But for some reason, against all odds, he’s growing. 

 

He shouldn’t even have survived this long.  He’s a little bitty sapling trying to sink roots into a rock.  But like this tree, he’s learned some things about survival.  He’s learned that if he’s going to make it, he has to do it himself.  He’s learned that fighting isn’t always the answer and that working a job is far safer than some of the other options for making money on the streets.  That’s why losing his job a few weeks ago has been so devastating.  He came right out and told me that there are plenty of ways for him to make money, but he wanted a job.  For the life of me, I can’t figure out why kids tell me these things.  Things I’m better off not knowing.

 

Today he wasn’t in first period, so I texted him.  His reply was that his mom had a heart attack.  So he lives on his own with no parental support.  Provides his own basic needs.  Goes to school.  And is making a ridiculous effort to graduate.  And now his mom, who has very little contact with him, has had a heart attack, and he was expected to step in and be the adult.  Again.  And he did.

 

I offered encouragement and let his teacher lifelines know.  Then he texted to let me know he was about to leave the hospital and head to school.  Really?  Where does that kind of resolve come from in a kid whose roots are growing into rock?  Why is school important today?

 

Maybe it’s the safest place in his life. I do know that while there are a few wind bags who don’t want to see him succeed, there are a few of us who do.  His English teacher waters him.  His math teacher tries to shine some light even though he resists.  His homeroom teacher provides shelter by making him clean up his language and be respectful so he doesn’t get in trouble.  And his counselor tracks him down when he doesn’t show up to class and makes sure his roots have a little soil.

 

None of that makes up for a lifetime of trying to grow out of a barren rock.  But I’m hopeful, that like this little tree, he’ll keep growing.

 

Everyone has the ability to be the water, the sunshine, the shelter, or the soil.  But everyone also has the potential to be the wind.

Luxurious Negativity

I went to mass tonight with a dear friend only to discover it is the first Sunday of Lent.  I really only discovered Lent a few years ago when I sought solace at a sweet little Lutheran church in Amarillo.  I was intrigued with the customs, and my friend with whom I attended was intrigued with my ignorance.  What can I say?  I grew up in a church of Christ where we didn’t observe Lent.

On the way home tonight, my friends and I talked about what these guys were giving up for Lent.  Later, the topic came up again with another friend.  It got me wondering why in the world people give things up for Lent anyway.  So, of course, I Googled it and found my answers in Wikipedia.  I feel sure that all of my information is accurate and reliable…

It basically says that it is a time when people fast or give up luxuries as penitence in preparation for the week leading up to the celebration of Jesus’ resurrection on Easter.  It lasts 40 days in commemoration of the 40 days Jesus fasted in the garden and was tempted.  The prayers in mass tonight were focused on resisting temptation during this time of fasting.

I find this idea of giving up luxuries sort of intriguing given the life I live.  I’m pretty comfortable.  I have a job I love, a beautiful place to live, plenty of food and clothes, a laptop, an iPad, an iPhone, a new television, and tickets to the P!nk concert Thursday night.  Yeah, I’ve got it pretty good. 

So I was thinking maybe I should think of something to give up.  I recently gave up meat and dairy for the most part, so that won’t work.  Chocolate is simply out of the question.  Television maybe?  But I don’t really watch it much during the week anyway. 

Then I had sort of a random idea that seemed a little silly at first but has grown on me.  What about giving up negativity and negative self-talk?  I wonder if I could give that up for forty days?  The more I think about it, the more I think that negativity and feeling sorry for myself is most definitely a luxury. 

Given all of the material things that I have, what right do I have to complain?  Given that I have the best job on the planet, what right do I have to complain about random, petty annoyances?  Given the amazing friends and family that I have, what right do I have to worry about what other people might think of me?

Negativity is definitely a luxury.  I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone else, but griping and complaining take time and energy.  If you have time to sit around and whine, then you are blessed.  There are many millions of people who work from sunrise to sunset and sleep in between who don’t have the luxury of time to sit around and complain to others.  And there are lots of folks who don’t have true and good friends to complain to.

I am ridiculously blessed.  If the purpose of giving up something for Lent is in preparation for the celebration of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection, what better thing to give up than negativity and self-pity?  It is because of Him that I have reason to celebrate at all. 

And if I am to spend the next few weeks preparing to celebrate His beautiful gift, I think a negativity “cleanse” could be just the thing.  And while I don’t consider myself particularly negative, I think the negative self-talk could be quite a challenge.  Changing the voices in your head is not as easy as you might think.  But I’m going to focus on my blessings and give it a shot.

Leadership

If you want me to follow

Lead with your heart

And know what makes mine beat.

 

If you want to be master

Teach me to serve

By washing dirty feet.

 

If you want my devotion

Give me a cause

For the poor or sick or meek.

 

But if you want me to go

Rule me by fear

Eventually I will leave.

Fake Mom

After school today, one of my kids called me on my cell phone because one of his buddies was looking for me in need of a registration card for night school.  I was in a classroom checking on another situation when the call came in.  I headed back to my office to find the caller had already gone, but his buddy was waiting.  This same student who called me has recovered a couple of credits this year, is on track to graduate in June, and is now regularly harassing his buddies about doing their homework and coming to school.  And for the record, he is the sole financial support for his home and has the only means of transportation.

Another of my kids texted me tonight while I was out walking.  He just wanted to let me know he had finished his night school course and is almost finished with another course in our online credit recovery program.  I’ll be giving him a registration card for the next session of night school tomorrow as well.  And then he too will be on track to graduate.  Incidentally, he became a father this week.

Another student I’ve been working with for two years recently found his motivation.  I’ve been speeching and harassing this kid for two years trying to get him caught up so that he can graduate in June.  Last Tuesday, someone told him he wouldn’t graduate.  That night, while I was at a basketball game, he began texting me and talking about dropping out.  I responded with my thoughts and encouragement but refused to get drawn in to his drama.  Saturday, shortly after my plane landed back in Houston, he texted me again.  Several others had talked to him, and he’d decided the only person keeping him from his dreams was him.  He had a renewed since of purpose and declared that if he didn’t graduate in June it would only be because of his laziness. 

I was very glad to hear (read) about his decision and began planning with him what needed to be done to get to the finish line.  After this texting exchange, he thanked me for being such a great “fake mom”.  He said that his mom didn’t care anymore, so it was all up to him. 

Tonight I checked in with him to see how he was doing.  He reported in his progress, and I offered a few words of encouragement.  He ended with “Thanks fake mom,” to which I responded, “You’re welcome fake son.”

Some people go to Africa.  Others to the inner city.  But I’ve found that the greatest ministry and call on my life happens to be the place I go every single day.  I currently have 711 kids that I claim as “my” kids.  But I’ve been honored to have a handful who have chosen ME to be their “fake” mom. 

Freedom

It was a startling, pull the car over and breathe deeply, savor it slowly, kind of realization.  I was not afraid.  I was driving around Amarillo.  And I was not afraid.  My heart was not pounding.  My thoughts were not racing.  I was at peace.  In Amarillo.

Years ago, I had a life altering realization about my fear of being a counselor (which you can read here).  It was life altering because it was the catalyst that lead me to begin walking into fear in a way I’d never understood before.  Now, I regularly walk into things that scare me to death simply because I have to.  The difference is that now I know what I’m doing, and it’s purposeful.

Now don’t get me wrong.  I am no fire fighting, coal walking, confronter of the fires of ALL my fears.  There are plenty of things I run from and even more that are so deeply rooted I couldn’t begin to know where to dig to even find them to face.  But a few things, I’ve begun to walk into with purpose.

I walked into one of my biggest fears this fall.  I was planning a trip to Amarillo and really wanted to go worship with my friends at Southwest.  So I messaged one of my praise team buddies on Facebook to see if I could sit with her that Sunday.  Her response was quick and fairly surprising.  She was happy for me to sit with her, but she wanted me to know that my ex-husband would most likely be sitting on the same pew.  With his girlfriend.

For about five minutes, I was hurt.  Not because I wanted him back or felt jealousy, but because I was so easily replaced.  I guess if I’m being honest, it was mostly a blow to my pride.

But that wasn’t the problem and had nothing to do with my fear.  My problem was in knowing I’d have to see him.  That made me afraid.

I was not physically abused.  But for the vast majority of the 13 years of my marriage, I lived in fear.  Fear of words.  Fear of silence.  Fear of rejection.  Fear of messing up.  Fear of being an annoyance.  Fear of indifference.  Fear of revenge.  Fear of sabotage.  The list goes on.

Leaving was the single most courageous act of my life.

But I continued to live in fear.  Fear of words.  Fear of rumors.  Fear of family.  Fear of church people.  Fear of judgment.  I looked over my shoulder every time I left my apartment.  WalMart was excruciating.  My first trip there I had to take a friend.  For months after, I went to get groceries with my headphones on and my mom’s voice in my ear.  If I were talking on the phone, no one would approach me.  Mom was happy to be my shopping security blanket. 

The fear did not end when the divorce was final.  It didn’t end when I moved back home.  With every trip back to Amarillo, I was afraid.  The fear lessoned.  But it was always there.  A slow, small burn that threatened at any moment to grow into a devastating conflagration fanned by the familiar winds of the past in the Panhandle.

After receiving my friend’s FB message, I very seriously considered not going to church after all.  Especially with the girlfriend there.  I really had no desire to cause trouble or drama, least of all for her.  I really just wanted to sit next to my friend so we could worship in song together.

I thought about it overnight and came to the inevitable conclusion that it was time to face my fear.  I had to go to church.  I had to sit with my friend.  I had to see him.  I needed to know that I could be in the same town, in the same room, on the same pew, and be safe.  My fear was allowing him to have power and control over my life.  And that wasn’t his fault.  It was mine. 

On the Sunday morning of battle, I put on my full Woman Armor…figure flattering outfit, coordinating sparkly jewelry, great hair, rebel bonus earrings, and  woman-on-a-mission lipstick.  I was ready.

The actual battle was sort of anticlimactic.  I went in and found my friend.  Sat down and worshipped.  I saw him.  And her.  And it wasn’t any big deal.  I sat with my friend and sang my heart out.  The songs and sermon were perfect.

About halfway through the second song, I started giggling quietly.  I was on the verge of losing it to loud laughter and barely managed to reign it in.  Why?  Because I was suddenly struck by my own silliness.  What in the world had I been afraid of?

He’s just a person.  With good and bad, strengths and weaknesses.  Just a person.  No better or worse than me.  Just a person.  Who no longer had power over me.

I left that service more free and joyful and unburdened than I had been in about fifteen years.  Glorious.

I went back to Amarillo this weekend to celebrate Darcie’s life.  While I was there, I realized I have much to celebrate in my own.

Three Minutes, Fifteen Seconds

It was a much anticipated basketball game.  The Lady Mavs vs. Lady Oilers.  There is no question that the Oilers had the advantage, height, experience, and let’s just be honest…money.  Most of their girls play club ball; maybe two of ours do.  But our girls have heart.  And a great coach.

But we got off to a bad start.  Our girls were a little intimidated; and they weren’t listening.  With three minutes and fifteen seconds left in the first quarter, we were down eight points, two timeouts, and our best player.  She racked up two fouls fast and went to the bench.

Then something unexpected happened.  At three minutes and fifteen seconds, the girls head back in from a timeout.  Mavs have possession and throw the ball in from the Oiler side of half court.  Our coach calls the play and the guards and posts spread out to the corners of the Mav side of the court.  Our point guard dribbles to just past half court into Mav territory.  And she stops walking.  And just dribbles.

I sensed immediately that something was amiss because our point guard, who is a very good ball handler, looked down right uncomfortable.  All movement on the court had stopped except for her steady dribbling.  The normal crowd sounds had diminished slightly so that when our coach hollered instructions, everyone heard,  “Just stay right there and dribble for the next three minutes and fifteen seconds.”

I thought to myself, "Is he serious?"  I'm sure the rest of the gym was thinking the same.  But our guard didn't move, and I realized that he was.  And though she looked a little unsure, she listened to his voice.

The gym became silent except for the steady pound of the dribble.  Right hand.  Left hand.  Back and forth.  The tension was thick, all eyes on the guard.  Oiler girls looked to their coach for instruction and just held their positions.  Someone in the crowd shouted, “C’mon.  Play some basketball!”

But Guard held steady and Coach encouraged, “You’re doing good.  Bend your knees.  Stay right there.”  And she did. 

I watched the clock ticking down, watched Guard, watched Coach, felt the tension of the crowd, the anticipation of the players, the uncomfortableness of Guard, and courage of Coach.  And smiled.

There are times in our lives when we are called to pause.  When it is our instinct to rush in and take action.  But we are called to wait.  To slow the game.  To stand and dribble.  To hold for three minutes and fifteen seconds until the fresh start of another quarter.

We spend so much time in a fast paced game, reaching in and picking up fouls without thought or need.  Throwing up desperate junk shots that we can’t possibly make.  All in the name of taking action.  But sometimes we need to stop.  And let the clock run.

But we resist the pauses.  They are uncomfortable.  Voices from the sidelines shouting.  Unspoken pressure from our peers on the court with us.  And just when you feel yourself wanting to give in, pass the ball because it feels like you should, you hear the voice that matters.  The one that says, “Hold steady.  You’re doing good.”  And for once, you hold.

It takes courage to pause.  But in the pause, there is rest.  There is time to think.  Time to listen.  Time to regroup.  Time to heal.

May you recognize the pauses in your life and have the courage to stand steady in their uncomfortableness, listening closely for the next play to be called.