Breakfast?

This used to be a family size pizza and a pan of garlic cheese bread until it became breakfast for six hungry young women. I had offered all kinds of breakfast foods, but once the cold pizza was spotted, it was all over. Driving a variety of distances ranging from 240-400 miles after work on Thursday, Danielle and five college friends converged at our house at 4 a.m. After collapsing for five hours of sleep they readied themselves for a full day at the rodeo. Ah, to be young and resilient. The cinnamon rolls were to help fortify them before they headed home Saturday morning.

How About Matching Shirts?

It was supposed to be an easy sub day; half a day, actually, because of an early dismissal for Roundup. Around here, the world almost stops turning during the week of roundup. Yep, partner, we’re talking cowboys and rodeo queens, calliopes and broncs. The barbecues, nighttime dances and main street entertainment can only be outdone by the underground tour complete with speakeasy and saloon girls (actresses, of course). It is all fun to do once or twice in your life, but then it just becomes too much of a pain-in-the-neck rerun.

Anyway, I left the house yesterday feeling pretty confident because I was fairly sure I would be teaching a great class that I substitute taught last week. That meant a comfortable morning and then lunch and a DVD date at home with Mom. The surprise came when I walked into the office of the school district where I was to substitute and found out the whole school was going on a field trip. That should be fun, right?

Needless to say, the field trip was to the Roundup; or a children’s version of it. The Children’s Roundup is actually a cool idea and I was glad to be able to experience it. Neighboring school districts are invited to bus their students in to walk around the teepee village, go through the Hall of Fame Museum, bring a picnic lunch, and watch the adult roundup trials followed by the Children’s Roundup, in which special education students and their parents participate. So, what’s the big deal, you ask? None, except that doing this as a sub creates some interesting challenges.

Imagine the responsibility of taking a group of children you barely know on a field trip in which you must negotiate through crowds and traffic as you walk from one sightseeing activity to another. Add to that the uncomfortable fact that, although you kind of recognize their faces from subbing once before and have a list of their names in your hand, you have yet to reconcile the two. So, when a couple of preteens separate from the group (uncannily, always at least five yards out of your reach) and nearly get sucked into a passing crowd, you are reduced to futilely waving your arms and demanding in a stern but apparently ignorable tone, “Hey! Get back here! Hey! You guys!”

There are yet more catalysts in this recipe for disaster. The first is the fact that once children have been still awhile in the grandstands, they get restless and begin slipping in with other groups of students for social purposes. Now the faces tend to blur together when you try to count noses. Parents add another twist by showing up to take their child away to share lunch with them or to claim their children early rather than let them ride back on the bus. The complication in both of these centers on whether or not they stop to tell you what they are doing first. All I can say is God bless the parent who wrote a note to let me know ahead of time!

I must have counted and recounted my ducklings at least fifteen times throughout the morning. The kids were great, but I couldn’t discount how easily we could have lost someone. I feel fortunate to have brought back the same children with whom I started out, minus the four who were picked up by parents and the two who rode in another bus without telling me. Yikes. Next time, I will seriously consider tattooing their foreheads in red and attaching leashes to their belts. As two of the regular teachers sympathetically said to me upon our return, “I looked at you today and thought, what a day to sub.” You're telling me.

FALLing

According to the calendar, there is one more week until the official first day of autumn, but the signs of its approach are undeniably already here. Daylight starts earlier and fades sooner, early mornings are cold enough for a jacket, school buses are once again making their daily runs, the hummingbird feeders have been thoroughly rejected, my fall bulbs have poked their noses through the ground, and the maize of the harvested wheat fields has over-ripened into a burnished gold. One of the things I love about this area is that we experience all four of Earth’s seasons, but I do hate to see my favorite one end.

This cycle of seasons parallels life, of course, and autumn seems to be the season of letting go, something with which I struggle. Whether it is letting go of growing children, aging parents, or lazy summer days, I fight the inevitable for as long as I can. Yes, I understand that life, especially new life, depends upon death and dormancy; I, too, have read The Giving Tree. However, it is much more satisfying to wax philosophically about it while lounging at a safe distance in a deck chair with a cold lemonade in my hand on a warm July day than when I feel the nearness of its cold breath seeping down my neck.

Herein lies my greatest error: the tendency to waste the precious little time that is left to me by fretting about what might be approaching. Therefore, I am hereby documenting these seasonal changes with a determined fearlessness about what is to come because I am determinedly devoted to enjoying what has not yet passed. I will take time to marvel at the last fingers of golden sunshine that bathe the still golden hills, feel the luxuriance of the grass under my bare feet as I walk across my tender lawn, and treasure the simple things we can still do together. After these fade into fall I will content myself with different colors, joys, and traditions, knowing that a new summer will come again in time.

Wha'd'yamean Band Teacher! Marching Where?

While school started two weeks ago for teachers and students in this area, substituting began this week for me. Surprisingly, the one day for which I was scheduled on Tuesday became two and one-half days by Friday. The comical part is that during this short time I was a band teacher, a fifth grade teacher, and a middle and high school art teacher. I’m not sure what I’ll be next week.

Variety is definitely the spice of substitute teaching, in more ways than one. Of the 90+ different kids with whom I came into contact in two school districts, only one class of about 18 were difficult. Well, let’s be honest, they were more than difficult. At least 14 of the people in that room were unmotivated and thoroughly disinterested. And we’re just talking about an art class; imagine their level of disdain in a core subject! Power plays, shirking, skulking, and noisy obnoxiousness abounded freely. I kept a lid on things, but just barely, and I won’t even bother describing the slipshod work that was handed in. Apparently, this is their demeanor with full time teachers as well as substitutes, but I felt bad that I wasn't able to get more out of them anyway. By February, I predict that they will achieve the dreaded class from hell status, which, sadly, will ring as a badge of honor in their minds.

Invariably, as I mentally rewind such days I cannot help but try to dissect each replay in an effort to understand what was really happening under the surface. Obviously, low self-esteem and powerlessness were the bases of much of the negative behavior, but how can that be better impacted in an effort to instill intrinsic motivation? Of course, the worst realization of my reflection is that, as a substitute teacher, I can actually do next to nothing to make a difference. This relieves me of the stress, but also any possibility of intervention. I might be completely ineffectual if I was a full time teacher, but at least I could try.

For now, I will content myself with the continuation of my mental exercise as to what I would try next within the context of a full time position. Obviously, first would come assigned seating and a large, loud cowbell for commanding instant attention throughout the room, supported by instant penalty and removal of a student for failure to comply with any instruction; stiff, but necessary follow-through. Next would come explicit instruction and concept practice as a large group to minimize or control interpeer dialog. Perhaps periodically inviting individuals up to the document camera to share their progress with the class would also inspire, at the very least, some motivation to follow directions and produce something positive, and at the most would offer a means of praise and pride at their accomplishments. An aide in the room would also make a welcome difference.

I will keep these ideas in mind if I am asked to sub these kids again. In the meantime, I will offer prayers of stoutheartedness for their teachers.

Tension in the Home

We have been trying to get into the psyche of the cat and dog world here the last couple days in order to break down barriers between Ellie and a visiting cousin, Bella (which I believe is short for Bella Luna de la Notte). Sorely feeling the vulnerability of being the only feline in the house now, Ellie has become quite aware of her greater responsibilities to defend the home place, even from others of her own kind who wander into our yard. No longer does she have brothers to take on the task of escorting interlopers off the property. So, when cousin Bella came to stay for a few days this week, Ellie faced her with mixed emotions and a lot of spitting.

Bella is sweet tempered and quite polite; a bit hard of hearing with perhaps slightly hampered vision. Being fully open about acknowledging her place as visitor-to-another’s-turf, she steps carefully and waits to be invited before moving, all the time somewhat pre-occupied with wondering when her family will be back.

Ellie, feeling somewhat betrayed that another should be adopted, even temporarily, and allowed to wander the house freely and even sleep upstairs, is intent on flushing out any greedy motives to infringe as well as to physically protect herself from this large, unknown canine. To this end she has vigilantly refused to give up her favorite spaces and has decided she has little appetite.

We humans have tried to acknowledge and comfort both parties and help them find safe ways to move past one another and even exist within the same room; not an easy task, by any means, but one that shows improvement. Last night, for instance, we all managed to get upstairs to our agreed upon sleeping places without any growling, whining, or hissing. Oh, to be sure, suspicion still lurked freely, but no accusations were flung about as had occurred the night before. This is definitely progress.

When Life Gives You Lemons...Make Snickerdoodles

In my estimation, cookies are best when they are still warm from the oven. You know, that stage whereby they are cool enough to hold together when they are handled but warm enough that you can still smell them from the next room. Disregarding all sensibility, I behave as if they impart fewer calories during that small window of time before they become a cool, crisp, forbidden entity. In fact, that is the only time I will partake of chocolate chip cookies; when the brown sugar dough has melded into a chewy goodness that is interspersed with chips that are melted and oozing.

Baking cookies is one of my favorite pastimes. I not only feel a sense of accomplishment from it, but it also serves as a sort of security. When I am bored or anxious, sad or celebratory, preoccupied or reflective, I bake. The physical motions of measuring and mixing are deeply ingrained and mechanical so that I can either focus on what I am doing as a temporary mental diversion or let my hands take over and immerse myself in meditation as I work. Either way, the result is delicious.

Yep. I’m a winner.
Today I wore my shirt inside out.
All day.
I even wore it that way downtown to get the mail
and stop at the ATM.
Perhaps people weren’t just being friendly

when they smiled at me.
*sigh*

Nobody else dressed me.
I didn’t dress in the dark.
I wasn’t low on oxygen from walking on the treadmill.
I wasn’t under the influence of anything stronger than iced tea.
I wasn’t distracted from being busy.
I don’t have dementia.
There is simply no excuse other than I just woke up a dweeb today.

Know what else?
It took me until 3:00 to notice my mistake.
*sigh* (shaking head)

At least I didn’t work today...

I might have fit in with the kids,
but I’m not sure my appearance would have added to my

credentials.

A Step Ahead of the Devil

I received in my email a sisterhood forward a week ago. You know, one of those irritating ones that spoils its nice sentiment with guilt-laden instructions to send it on to a prescribed number of others and back to the person that sent it to you to prove your friendship. Worse, I think, are the religious or humanitarian ones which cast aspersions on your redemption status or personal convictions, intimating a lack thereof if you choose to break the chain of forwards. Anyway, this one was worth sending back to my friend to let her know that I actually appreciated the thoughts, but I took my chances in not forwarding it to anyone else.

My favorite part of the email was a quote that still makes me laugh out loud:

Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the floor each morning, the devil says, “Oh crap. She’s up!”

I mean, picture it. What kind of a woman would that be? I am thinking that she would be a wild combination of Mother Teresa and Charro; someone quick to consternate single-minded wickedness with overwhelming sincerity, abundantly simple good works, and cleverness that outwits all possible obstacles. I picture someone funny and fun; someone motivated by compassion and drunk with joy; a woman who hands out sailboards to those who need to ride across waves of pain and teaches the lonely to Salsa dance together; a tireless champion of the human spirit.

Wow. I want to be her when I grow up.

“Oh crap. She’s up!”

Definitely Not a Sing-a-long

The tickets came to us as a combined birthday present. Both of us have been to plays, amateur hometown and college affairs, but certainly never one that reached Broadway, performed by professionals. It was the musical we would have chosen, though, because we had seen the movie half a dozen times on t.v. We never set out to watch the movie, but there was something about the music that unfailingly sucked us in as soon as we heard Chaim Topol’s tones and cadences fill the living room. "If I were a rich man, yuddy diddy diddy diddy diddy diddy diddy dum..." Can you hear the violin? Are you finishing the stanza in your mind? ("I would...biddy biddy bum") Sailing across the Keller Auditorium, his 73 year old voice was just as deep and rich on this day, the second to last day of his farewell US tour, as it was thirty-six years ago when the movie was made. Although the tickets were given to us on the condition that we would not sing along, it was a difficult pact to keep. Does humming count?

Fiddler on the Roof is a story with timeless themes running through it and the main character, Tevye is one with whom most of us can identify. Set in the village of Anatevka, Russia, the play speaks of political bigotry and revolution, cultural tradition and modernity, family love and turmoil. Above all, Tevye embodies the dynamic faith and humor of a parent seeking to understand and meet the challenges of the world and God’s perceived will while holding his family together the best he can, balancing determinedly like that fiddler on the roof. (Tradition!)

Besides the performances, it was also fascinating to see how a minimum of stage props, effective lighting, and transitional background music could be smoothly manipulated into a handful of scene changes with very little distraction. I am in awe of the seamlessness of the entire operation that managed to draw us right into Tevye’s very life. And, although this play has been running off and on since the sixties, with Topol playing Tevye since his twenties, I felt as though this was only the 25th performance instead of the 2500th. What a privilege for us, and what a joy!

http://www.fiddlerontour.com/index.html
http://www.oregonlive.com/performance/index.ssf/2009/08/topol_isnt_saying_farewell_to.html

Give It a Try

I joked with Mom that we actually had quite the social calendar this past week. It began with my husband’s family reunion a week ago, then family from my Dad’s side drove up for a visit on Thursday, followed by our weekend adventure in Portland. Mom did pretty well with all of the activity.

I really appreciated my cousin, Shari, and her son, Scott, driving five hours round trip so they could spend some time with Mom. It was good to see Mom laugh and bask in their attention.

Mom was certainly a good sport about traveling on two back-to-back weekends, which I know is more difficult for her these days. For the reunion potluck she was self-conscious about navigating in someone else’s home, trips to the bathroom, and being in the way. All of the family was so good with her, though, that she ended up enjoying herself and feeling that the trip was a success.

She had similar hesitations about going to Portland, too, and was especially nervous about our girls trying to take her out of the hotel while Don and I went to the musical. With much trepidation, I finally told her that I had borrowed a wheelchair to take in case the hotel was not able to honor our requests for a room close to an elevator and exit. She actually seemed relieved rather than irritated (usually I get reprimanded with an adamant, “No! I don’t need one of those yet. I’m not that far gone.”) so I went a step further and told her that if she felt like it, maybe she would want to use it at other times as well. For instance, she would enjoy a trip out for ice cream or shoe shopping a lot more if she didn’t spend all her energy just getting inside the first store. She could ride in the chair until she wanted to get out of it to walk around shoe and clothing displays, etc., then sit back down for a ride to the next store.

She ended up having a great time shopping with Sarah and Jen, although both were nearly fired for their wheelchair driving. They canvassed the length of Washington Square Mall twice in one afternoon and Mom bought a couple gifts and herself some slippers and a pair of Aerosole shoes. When they stopped for ice cream, she polished off a rootbeer float and started making plans for coming back to do some Christmas shopping.

I am so thankful that she had a good time and was successful in her shopping. The girls may have gained a few white hairs, but all for a good cause. Mom’s willingness to try was what made the weekend a success for her, although I know she did it only for our sakes at first. Hopefully, she enjoyed herself enough that it may open up some doors for her being able to do more during our simpler outings here at home. She is more physically frail than she was even six months ago, but her active mind drives her to still want to do things and swings her spirit very low when her body and strength can't keep up. It is a challenge to strike a balance between pushing her to stay physically active (move it or lose it) and making things physically easier for her so she can participate more and enjoy life. For now, anyway, we have had a nice little break in routine and created some new good memories together in the process.

Sarah Sunshine

Have a happy birthday week. We love you!

We Belong to the Song

Remember the Jim Hensen Muppet series called Fraggle Rock? I know my kids will because it was around in the 80s when they were young and we became firmly entrenched in its magic. The characters of this fantasyland that dwelt in caves amidst the basalt layers supporting an old man’s workshop were insanely cute and the weekly tales were fun and meaningful. My favorite part, though, was the music.

In episode 18 of the first season, a young fraggle, Red, was in search of “her song” which was a snippet of melody that would be different from everyone else’s. In the end it comes to her and after she starts singing it, all the fraggles join in, each singing their own unique little melodies which blend to become a beautiful community medley. Predictable, perhaps, but sweet and it reminds me of the song of our family.

Last Saturday we loaded up the minivan and made a trek to the home of Don’s aunt and uncle where members of our extended family converged for an informal potluck reunion. Aside from funeral gatherings, it was the first time in years that many of us had been together. Originally, the oldest members of our family reunions were the generation of Don’s grandparents and the small children running around were ours, but that older group is gone now, as are Don’s folks.

This time around, Don’s aunt and uncle were the reigning matriarch and patriarch, the parents, grandparents, and great grandparents of their brood; and their grown kids plus Don and his brothers and sisters were the next oldest. Wow. Somehow, we have become the grandparent generation, which was not only odd to realize, but was also bittersweet because it reminded us of those who were now both missing and missed; the notes that we would not hear again in this life. The people we had always leaned on were now gone except for Clyde and Carol. It seemed impossible to think that we should be expected to fill those shoes that we had long taken for granted.

Although the purpose of this rekindled K family gathering was still to reunite the older siblings who are already close, the secondary effect of introducing the younger generations of each sub-family was also reestablished. Games, food, visiting, laughter, storytelling, and the inevitable group photos drew together people whose lives had been moving apart, creating new memories that would be woven into a larger, stronger sense of family. And, as Clyde once pointed out to me, it is a time when it does no good to mark your potluck dishes and coolers with only a last name!

The day was ultimately a success. The tune was familiar, but slightly different. Some sweet refrains had been lost or taken up by new voices, but new little notes of recent years were added in their place. Overall, though, it is still music to our ears. See you next year!

Back to Basics

Mom and I had a good laugh last night. The temperature in our area reached well over 100 degrees, but, with the help of thermal windows and curtains and several area fans, our house stayed reasonably cool until mid-afternoon. I have the thermostat set at 80 degrees, which is a little above my comfort zone, but it is more economical and keeps the air conditioning from totally freezing Mom out.

After dinner, during Mom’s favorite show, Do You Want to be a Millionaire, I got up to offer ice cream to her and Don. As I turned to face her, saying, “Do you want...,” my eyes took in her sweatshirt hood pulled up over her head and I stopped short. She looked so diminutive in the chair that all she needed was a fur lining to her hood and she would have completed the picture of an elderly Eskimo hunched in our living room. I couldn’t help but think that her wanting ice cream at this point was out of the question.

I started laughing and so did she, but she hastened to ask me, “Do I want ice cream?” Then, without any pause as I nodded, “Yes, I want a maple nut ice cream cone if you have enough.” She assured me that the hood was just to protect her ear from the cold air coming out of the register across the room and that she was, otherwise, comfortable.

Ice cream cones have curative powers, after all; especially for children and grandparents. That is a known fact at our house. Remember how Betty loved hers? Even Alzheimers couldn't obliterate that memory. Our kids sure seemed to understand their value at a very early age, as our little redhead can attest below. (Notice that it is a grandparent who is indoctrinating her.)

Have you had your ice cream cone for the week? Life will be much sweeter if you do so quit being such a stuffy grown up and go have some fun. Put the world on hold for five minutes, sit in your favorite spot, get your hands and chin sticky with your favorite flavor, and see if you can’t relax a little and see things from a different perspective.

It is SO worth it!

Summer - Le Dolce Vita

And so we are more than half way through August, which always saddens me. The end of my favorite season is signaled by the school supply lists posted in the post office and the starting date of school, which is now hurtling rather than crawling toward us. I cringe to think of the coming changes and brace myself much as I would in anticipation of stepping out into a November wind.

For me summer means a slower pace of life; time to read for fun, contemplate a picnic, or watch a DVD with Mom during our lunch together. I can lollygag in the yard, pulling weeds, or pretend they aren’t there and sit on the deck with an iced tea. Although we may haggle a bit over the air conditioner setting when temperatures are in the 90s, Mom is still more comfortable than in the winter and enjoys getting out more often, which is good for her. I love the summer light, too, which cheerfully streams in the windows and brightens our outlooks.

Because I don’t work in the summer, there is more time to do fewer things. Appointments are easier to get to and we are much less rushed when doing errands. This takes the pressure off of me and makes outings more enjoyable for Mom, whose only speed is slow motion. She and Don can spar over vine-ripened tomatoes picked from his crop outside her bedroom window, while I watch for Hermiston watermelons to appear in the store.

But the countdown is on and these languorous hours will soon shorten into crisp, autumn days. To-do lists will lengthen and time will speed up to work against our efforts. Because I see the end of summer approaching, I tend to spoil these final hours of ease by rushing to do more before it is over. Perhaps this time, I can resist the panic and just enjoy the time that’s left. Want some iced tea, Mom?

Uncharted Waters...er, Bricks

Do these look like old bricks? Please say yes. Move farther back and then squint your eyes and look again. Now how do they look? This is an ongoing project that I have been puttering on once in awhile when I am in the mood. My lukewarm motivation is due partly to the fact that I only want to work on it when Mom is occupied in her room so that she does not feel deserted. However, this means I only have short spans of opportunity, which is sometimes inspirationally defeating. Also, this type of subject is new to my landscape experience, so I am in unfamiliar territory when it comes to color mixing and texturizing. I tend to paint more dilegently when it turns out right. Right now, I am feeling much better about my old brick facade capabilities than my cobbled roads (notice I am not revealing those yet).

Trust Me

In what Jean Piaget called the sensorimotor stage of cognitive development, from birth to about two, children achieve object permanence. This is the ability to understand that when a person plays peek-a-boo, stepping behind a barrier to “disappear,” the person hasn’t actually left even though they can’t be seen. In a later, pre-operative stage, generally between ages two through six, there is a skill that children acquire called conservation. The example usually given to illustrate it is when a person can distinguish that the amount of liquid poured from a short, fat glass that is completely full into a tall thin glass that becomes only half full is the same in quantity. Today I am wondering if it is possible to lose touch with such cognitive skills once they have been attained, or does Mom really consider me unreliable?

We go through some, in my mind, unnecessary rituals these days; and a greater variety of them is accumulating. It started out with asking me every Saturday if I would curl her hair after she washes it so that it will look nice for church. Why would I say no? I did it the last Saturday and the one before that; but, yes, I’m happy to curl your hair today, too. We also have to reestablish on a nightly basis that I will put drops in her eyes and let the cat in even though those things have been taking place for years. I think the basis for needing these reassurances is that she feels she is a burden and must be polite in re-asking the favors to let us know we are not being taken for granted. But, I ask you, is EVERY NIGHT really necessary?

Recently, I am loathe to say through tightened jaws, we have added to the repertoire. I now have to assert, when prompted, that I still feed the fish and her cat. I mean, come on! Does she actually consider it a possibility that I would let them starve? Me? The unofficial humane society of Eastern Oregon? (*sigh*) I mean, I was stunned the other night when, after I assured her that I had just fed Ellie, she gave me that motherly look of skepticism and pointedly said that Ellie’s dish in the kitchen was empty. (Grrr.) I calmly, though just as pointedly, said that the dish was empty because she ate the food and went outside and that I would feed her again, like ALWAYS, when she came back in for bed.

In all fairness, Mom has always had this tendency, but I think that it is amplified by my taking over more of the responsibilities that were hers for 95 years. She is partly afraid that she will forget as much as that I will forget and even though those things are too hard for her now, she misses being able to do them, being needed, and being active. I get it. (*duck head here and shift feet*) It is just difficult to not take it personally when your very motives and reliability are questioned to the point of insinuation. I really feel that if she doesn’t SEE me do something, she cannot completely believe that I did it; part of her must feel that I am just placating her.

This is when I pray for patience and God answers that he is giving many opportunities to practice it, how many more do I want? I am sure Mom is having the same conversation with him. I wonder which of us will go crazy first.

Out of the Ashes Comes Hope

(I have just come into the house from a quick trip to the library when there is a light knock on my front door.)

Me, opening the inside door and taking a step backward: Hi.

Him, holding the screen door and leaning forward a bit: Do you own a green Toyota pickup?

Me (feeling of dread – my daughter has the pickup in the city...what has happened?): Yes.

Him (rushing to get the words out): The stereo was stolen out of it? A long time ago?

Me (tumble of thoughts...confusion...): Yes. (My eyebrows furrow, taking in this sketchy character. Is he 25, 30? What does he want? Clean, but sounds uneducated. Like some of my past students? Be careful, I think. How does he know about the pickup?)

Him: I did it. I stole it. The stereo.

Silence. We look each other in the eye. He seems relieved to have said it, yet afraid of my reaction. Do I have a reaction? What? My thoughts tumble backward ten years to picture the pickup parked out front, our reaction to see it broken into, and the frustration that someone thought we could afford the loss...or didn’t care...

Me: You did it?

Him: Yes. (Heartbeat.) I did my time, but I wanted to tell you it was me.

Again we both pause. I am formulating what I want to say next, (Why is he familiar?), but I am too stunned that this is happening to formulate much.

However, he is here for a purpose and is driven to continue: How much did it cost? (Reaching for his wallet) I have $15.

Me (putting my hand up like a stop sign): No. It’s alright. (Am I just being nice, or do I really mean it?)

Him: No. I want you to take it.

Me: No. I’m just glad you told me the truth. (Realizing how much it must have taken for him to do this I want to add something encouraging. The words, stumbling but sincere were something like): I hope good things happen for you now as you work toward your future.

Thrusting three crisp $5 bills toward me he quickly adds: I’ll pay you more when I can.

Finally, something in me breaks through my shock so that I can say more firmly: I don’t want any more money. It means more to me that you came and told me the truth.

After he makes sure I take the bills, he backs up a little. Perhaps it is his turn to be a little stunned. Neither of us is sure what comes next.

Me, moving closer to the doorway: Thank you for telling me. I really appreciate your being honest.

He seems satisfied and, letting go of the screen door, turns to go. Before he is down the porch steps I lean around the screen door and ask his name. Stopping, he turns around and tells it to me without hesitation. Things click into place in my mind.

He wants to know something else as well: Did the pickup belong to your son?

Me, inwardly analyzing his question but answering honestly: No. It was the family car, but he drove it to work after school.

I watched him turn and go, unable to take my eyes off of him. His fresh start began with taking care of some old business. Setting things right. Forgiveness and grace. Amen. I will never forget.

Joy

In the funny, poignant movie, The Bucket List by Warner Brothers Pictures (2007), Morgan Freeman’s character, a quiet mechanic with a head full of Jeopardy facts, tells the character played by Jack Nicholson, his rich, flamboyant cancer comrade, about ancient Egyptian beliefs concerning death and the hereafter. According to Freeman, Egyptians used to believe that upon death a person had to answer two questions to get into Heaven:

Did you have joy in your life?
Did you bring joy to others?

Good questions, I think; but I’m not going to wait until I am standing before Saint Peter to ask them of myself. Now is better, so that I might have time to change things.

Focusing on my own happiness is really important because I can’t share what I don’t have, but we’re not just talking about happiness here, we’re talking about joy, which to me is slightly different in intensity. A hint of the subtle difference in the two emotions can be detected in Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. Whereas, happiness is described as “good luck, good fortune, [and] a state of well-being, peace, or comfort,” the definition of joy is “the emotion excited by the acquisition or expectation of good; gladness, delight, [and] the state of bliss.”

The first question is easier for me. Absolutely yes! To name a few:

- Gazing on the faces of our newborn children in the delivery room, laughing at their silly antics as toddlers (and adults!) and glorying along with them in their joys.
- Sharing a carefree moment with my beloved.
- Laughing until my sides ache with a friend.
- Seeing Venice unfold before me for the first time at dusk.

The second question is more difficult and it is the one that I especially want to be more conscious of in my life. Bringing joy to others is a goal that leaves me speechless. I think I will be contemplating the idea for a long time.

And, speaking of expressions of pure joy, watch this video one more time and see if it isn’t catching! Joy begets joy – so make sure there is joy in your life!