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My Ship Will Float, as Long as I’m Listing

4 May

I have a love/resent relationship with lists. I love them because they keep me on track—help me prioritize. Without lists I’d fall completely apart, and I’d have to change my standard salutation to “I’m so sorry…”

The resent side I’ll explain later.

Scattered through my home are myriad notebook pages, index cards, junk mail envelopes, and napkins, all bescrawled (sure, it’s a word) with reminders. I carry some from room to room as I work; others are actually filed. Filing is on my Saturday list.

Of all my memos, the most important is my daily “Priorities” list. I start this at the beginning of every week, optimistically attaching a huge “Monday” label to the top, which I then replace with a smaller “Tuesday,” and an apologetic-looking “Wednesday” as the week progresses. By Thursday, I usually have to start over because I’ve added and crossed off too much to make sense of it any more. I’ve never crossed off everything on the list. Well, I could, technically, so let’s say instead that I’ve never actually completed every task on a list.

Aside from my daily list, I keep lists of tasks other family members have to accomplish…particularly my teenager, whose most common query response is, “Sorry, I forgot.” This paper is usually left on the kitchen table so it can be easily spotted by said teenager. Somehow though, it often disappears.

Then there’s the “Some Day” list, which consists of all my promises to myself and others that I truly intend to get to, but…well, you know. This list survives on the premise that one day I’ll get to the end of my daily list and wonder what I should do next. Research phone plans? Make an eye appointment to see whether I need glasses? Visit that web page someone told me about? Spray the couch with fabric guard before it’s—what? That thing is five years old? Well then, I can cross that off the list. The good thing about the Some Day list is it kinda self-regulates that way.

I keep my Prayer List in a prominent place on a neon yellow card. Those of you with ADD know that a neon yellow card will not be ignored. I try to look at a different name each time the card catches my eye. Most days, I get through the entire list. If you’ve asked me to pray for you, know that I’m praying for you.

My “books I want to read” list gets longer every day. I rarely update this because I like remembering those I did read, and I jot notes beside them: Unbroken—highly recommend! Brave New World—good read but disturbing; Sweet Potato Queen’s Book of Love—not for me, thank you. (Which reminds me to ask you: I’m always looking for humorous books, and I’m SO often disappointed because humor requires more than a funny title…what hilarious books have you read lately?)

And yes, of course I have a bucket list. At the top is my hope to go a week without my lists. Just below that is the experience of seeing my book on a store shelf—and not because I put it there…

I also have lists of blog ideas, short-story ideas, potential publishers and magazines I’d like to check out, birthdays (a list I always seem to look at after someone’s birthday), quotes that touched me, and dogs I’d consider adopting when I one day move to a house with a huge back yard…I don’t think you should tell my husband I’m keeping that list.

So, what’s the down side of keeping lists? For one thing, I become dependent on a piece of paper I cannot always find. For another, it’s difficult to bend when a new item wants to not only work its way onto the list, but be seated at the top. And finally, some days I wonder whether I’m using the lists or they’re using me.

This past week was particularly busy, with my husband leaving for a trip that required some administrative and logistical assistance; a neighbor who left town and asked me to feed and walk her dog; a teen staring at SOL tests for which he’s woefully unprepared; doctor’s appointments; funky car noises that must be addressed; oh, and I work.

Interestingly, to me anyway, I felt peace as I worked through the lists. I was busy, and tired at the end of each day, but at peace. It was, dare I say, a fun challenge.

List of tasks

Sometimes you just have to walk away from the list…

With obsessive focus and a lot of prayer, I made it until Thursday before my ship started listing (see what I did there?). Then a sweet friend reminded me about something that should have been on my list but wasn’t, which needed to be done that day. As she was talking to me, I remembered I hadn’t picked up my son’s completed physical form from the base clinic, and that they’d said they would hold it only 10 days. I tried to focus on her words as my brain tried to calculate whether this was day 9 or 10. ADD will not let go at times like this. Nor will that voice that tells me I’ll never get it right. I went to my car and allowed myself a brief sob.

My sobs turned to prayer, as they often do, and I prayed for the peace I’d felt at the beginning of the week. Immediately I thought of my friend and former boss, Carrie. One reason I love her is because whenever someone pointed out a mistake her editors might have made, she’d respond with, “and how many words did they get right?”

She gets it. Instead of focusing on the …wait while I add ‘em up…FORTY-SEVEN tasks, responsibilities, and promises I made good on, I let myself melt into a woe-is-me puddle of self-proclaimed inadequacy over two I’d forgotten. In reality, I’m doing pretty darned well, thank you very much.

Long story short, it was day 9, and I did get the task accomplished, but not before accepting that none of us will ever get everything done. When I shed this temple and start on my Kick the Bucket list, I will leave behind many uncompleted tasks. As long as everything I do here, I do for the King, I’m doing just fine.

Ha. The devil thought he had my number…but it’s unlisted.

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“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward.” 

–Colossians 3:24

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May’s Christmas Year-round Suggestion

Invite a neighbor or two to your home for an evening, particularly some you don’t know. An evening can be so much more relaxing when it’s not one of many seasonal engagements. I recommend you nix the eggnog, however.

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Rest Easy, Moms. No Fishy Business Here

25 Apr

Today I am happy to present my first Guest Blogger, a man who I had the good sense to marry more than 30 years ago. He’s a great cook, an even better baker, and he’s got a message for moms of public school children everywhere.

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Call me the Lunchroom Lady. Everybody else does.

I’ve worked in food service nearly all my life. I started in 1974 as a 12-year old dishwasher, at a dive called the “Mouse Trap” in Steamboat Springs, CO. In 1979, at the ripe old age of 17, I joined the Marine Corps and was handed an apron along with my rifle, and I’ve been cooking ever since (for those like my lovely bride who find themselves numerically challenged, it’s been 35 years!). For the past 12 years I have been working in food service at a public school in northern Virginia.

I think I am qualified to talk about school lunches.

Over the past couple of years I have read stories about and seen pictures of disgusting school lunches. Their poor quality was blamed on the implementation of The Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act. Last night I read a story accompanied by a not-so-flattering picture of a school lunch recently served in Portsmouth, VA. Though I agree that the meal in question was sketchy at best, I would implore you not to judge all public school lunches and school nutrition workers by these incidents. I would never serve that to my own child (who is still in school) let alone someone else’s, and I’m pretty sure most of my fellow food service managers wouldn’t either.

I take my responsibility seriously. Feeding your children is my ministry. Students do not get in way of my job; they are the reason my job exists. Sixty percent of our students receive free or reduced price meals and I strongly believe that for many of these kids, the food we provide is all the food they eat that day or at least a large portion of it.

slab o fish and brown corn

Bad Lighting

When I saw this picture, I felt ashamed, embarrassed and disappointed. I am ashamed that my fellow school nutrition workers would serve it. I am embarrassed because this type of story can cause people to cast us all in the same light. And I am disappointed that the Food Services Coordinator, when questioned, blamed poor lighting and presentation. A wise man once told me, “no matter how much lipstick you put on a pig. . . ” The blame for this meal rests squarely on the shoulders of the Portsmouth, VA Public Schools Food Services Coordinator and the cafeteria staff that prepared and served it.

The new regulations are not the culprit, nor do they justify poor service.

Lunches served in public schools under The Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act were never intended to be, nor will they ever be 5-star meals. They are meant to be good, basic and nutritional. It can be a challenge but it is not impossible to find foods that meet the requirements of the new legislation and the expectations of our students.

I’d like to believe that in her heart, Michelle Obama meant well (insert a picture here of me laughing hysterically) when she championed The Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act and the resulting changes. Keep in mind that these changes affect only those public schools that participate in the USDA’s National School Lunch Program. Private schools and public schools that opt out of the program are not bound by the same dietary restrictions. However, no amount of government intrusion gives us the right to offer anything less than our best efforts in trying to serve good meals.

The impetus behind The Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act is that by some accounts one in three young Americans are overweight or obese and school cafeterias were chosen to be the front line to fight this battle.

I do not believe that school lunches are responsible for making our kids unhealthy. Our lifestyle does. We need to get our kids away from computers, TV’s and game consoles, and away from fast food, junk food, and sugar-filled drinks. We need to get our kids out of the house. Teach them joys and benefits of hiking, biking and running. If we don’t do more to change their overall lifestyles, then our kids will be overweight no matter how many fruits, veggies and whole grains we offer at school.

I am not in favor of the federal government telling us how and what to feed our kids. We should serve the best meals possible because it is the right thing to do, not because Big Brother is watching. I encourage all parents to be involved in the meals your kids eat at school. Be aware of what is on the menu; ask your children if the menu matches what is being offered. Visit your school and have lunch with your children. Take any concerns to your school’s cafeteria manager. We appreciate your input and if something is wrong, we will work to set it right.

Full meal

Good Lighting

The meal to the right was not created for this blog. This is what my staff served on fish day at our school. The lighting is a lot better in our meals, don’t you think?

As much as I have enjoyed cutting in on the Portrait Writer’s space, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m expecting about 625 guests for lunch. That’s a whole lotta’ fruits, veggies, whole grains, and . . . well, you get the picture.

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“Slaves, obey your earthly masters in everything; and do it, not only when their eye is on you and to curry their favor, but with sincerity of heart and reverence for the Lord.” — Colossians 3:22

Here’s looking at you!

1 Apr
Food staring

Livin’ in the Fridge…

Trying to start the day silly…I never figured my teenager would be out of bed before 9 during Spring Break, but he was. Caught me in the act…

Who’s the April fool now?

So, instead of this being for him, the two of us give it to all of you.

Cheers!

Winter-weary warriors, wait no more!

26 Mar

It has always been difficult for me to choose a favorite season. I can easily narrow my list down to four finalists, but then I’m pretty much stumped.

Today though, I’m rather certain I like spring best, particularly after a winter as long as we’ve had in Northern Virginia. (Yes, I can hear my New England family saying, “Winter? We’ll show you winter!” All I can say is that for some reason, I’m not pining as much as usual to visit you.)

Across most of the nation, winter receded like an ocean tide this year, ebbing and advancing. With each advance we received yet another blanket of snow, another no-school day, another bring-in-more-wood-for-the-fireplace night, another too-cold-to-leave-the-bed morning.

We’re weary, and some of us are even a bit gloomy. It’s been that kind of winter. But now we’re finally stumbling out of our homes, still dazed and a little hibernation-groggy, and we can see hope seeping up through the tired, cold land that even a week ago seemed to threaten to never thaw. It’s in the air.

Tulips

They’re coming. I don’t think they’ll be blue, but they’re coming.

The trees are still bare, for the most part. Still we know that those tiny, tight buds at the end of every branch are pieces of beauty and new life preparing to burst forth. And just below the surface of the damp ground, millions of eager daffodils, crocuses, and lilies are trembling with anticipation, waiting for the warm sun to call them upward. It’s coming.

There’s something precious about watching nature re-awaken every year. It melts the icy memories until we can barely recall running outside in jammies to warm the frozen car, or sliding over icy patches, hands clutching wildly for something stable, or re-shoveling that mound of white stacked against the mailbox by midnight plow trucks.

Instead, we remember the frogs and crickets who will be back soon to sing their evening serenades, and the mockingbirds and finches who will post themselves high in the trees, where the acoustics will do them justice. And hummingbirds, and butterflies. (And yellowjackets & wasps, but we’re ignoring them for now.)

Spring is a time to plant and wait, knowing good things are coming. Spring also reminds us about second, third and fourth chances, or however many we need. The yard is a clean slate. Squirrels haven’t stolen this year’s crop of tomatoes, we haven’t lost the grass to dandelions, and the holly bush we thought for sure had been trimmed back too far is showing signs of life. Life is all around us.

For those of you who think you can’t make it one more day, trust me, you can. Spring reminds us that all things can be made new—even people. Toss off that cloak of weariness and delight in every good thing. Allow yourself to take joy in the anticipation. Breathe deeply, and notice anew the gift that is spring.

Because in springtime, anything is possible.

See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. — Song of Solomon 2:11-12

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Christmas year-round: March

I’m a little behind with my March Christmas idea because of family concerns, but it’s not too late to do a little something. In fact, let’s deck the halls, you know, with spring—Eggs, chicks, flowers and bunnies! It’s just the ticket for driving winter out for good…or at least for eight more months.

Easter decorations

A study in Easter’s disproportionate nature

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And the Greatest is Love…

18 Mar

I haven’t been able to blog lately because the words just haven’t been there. My thoughts are across the country with family in Sacramento, and I’m having trouble stringing together meaningful words. It’s an unusual situation for me, considering words usually spring from my heart and my funny bone at the slightest poke.

Yet, as I wait for news, five powerful words circle my heart. They have become the only words that matter to me lately, and as I ponder them I realize they represent the only concepts that have mattered to millions of people throughout the generations.

The first two words are “friends and family.” When life is stripped to the bare minimum, friends and family are still there. When we’re no longer concerned about finances, housekeeping, physical fitness, status, retirement, or earthly belongings, we look at those around us and realize friends and family are all that matter.

The next three are also grouped together, and not just in an Alan Jackson song. They are “faith, hope, and love.” I’ve wondered through the years how anyone can claim that, of the three, love is greatest, but I think it’s sinking in this week.

Faith is an essential element. We all put our faith in something, whether in God’s mercy and providence or in our own ability to keep our lives on track. The strength of our faith builds or erodes as we receive evidence of its trustworthiness.

Hope sustains us. It is a desire we harbor deep inside that our faith is well placed. For those who have put their faith in God, hope keeps us from despair in troubled times and makes it possible for us to experience what the Bible refers to as “a peace that passes all understanding.”

But love, well now, that’s a grand concept, is it not? Love can be given, received, taught, revealed, demonstrated, and treasured. Love can heal, comfort, encourage, inspire, and even save someone’s life. Love is the answer. Love makes the world go around. Love is alive. In fact, I can go on listing music titles for pages and never hit them all.

Yet, none of that tells me why love is the greatest of the three, so here’s my best shot at it:

Willa

Love

One day, you see, although they will endure until the end of time, one day there will no longer be a need for faith or hope. Only love. Regardless of what you believe or hope is keeping this world on its axis, there can only be one truth. I place all my faith in God’s promise that the truth is He is Love.

God is love, and God is eternal, so love is eternal.

Willa, your family loves you, and that’s a truth for all eternity.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” — 1 Corinthians 13:13

Saluting the Grammar Police…Heroes from a Whole Nother Era

4 Mar
Egg's and Chicken's

Last year’s sign (thanks Albert). Still funny, in a sad sort of way…

I just can’t let National Grammar Day go by without sending a shout out to all my red-pen-hearted peeps out there who are struggling mightily…to find the page-sized “X” option in the track changes menu so they can truly express their preferred course of action.

Sorry guys, but that type of editor satisfaction has become a thing of the past. Sadly, it appears the well-written sentence is fading as well.

We just don’t seem to pay attention to our words as much as we used to. I recently came across a briefing slide that claims, “The average American consumes more than 400 Africans,” and a parking lot sign warning that, “Violators will be towed and find $50.”

Words are losing their identity faster than department store credit card customers. Nouns are verbing (as in, “I don’t want to brain today” and “trending this week”), and verbs are nouning (“The accomplishment resulted in a pay increase.”) Worse still, we’re getting lazy with real words. Why do newscasters insist on using the terms, “terror plot” and “War on Terror,” when we’re actually fighting terrorists and terrorism?

Our dictionary writers are caving. Find a dictionary less than 5 years old and look up “nother,” as in, “that’s a whole nother story.” It’s in there.

The AP Style book is caving. Thanks to the wonderful world of advertising, the word “over” is now an acceptable substitute for “more than” and it’s okay to start a sentence “Hopefully” without a supporting pronoun. (It’s also okay to write “ok” but I can’t make my fingers do that.) The Chicago Manual of Style may be caving, but it’s too big so I don’t use it. (I was going to tell you about Super-editor Christina here because she is the only person I know who has cracked that tome open, but I can’t exactly say she uses it—she has it memorized.)

Fat free milk

It may be fat, but it’s also free!

Why are we taking our cues from the advertising world anyway? These are the same people who gave Victoria Secret the, “You’ve never seen body’s like this!” campaign, and had Michael Jordan touting the Lay Flat Collar! Not the sharpest tools in the shed, if you know what I mean.

Just look at the printed world around us. We live in a country where the milk we drink is not only fat, but also free. And, if that doesn’t satisfy, we can swap our milk for some orange juice toted as “the most tastiest.”

Now, before you jump on my blogwagon, yes, I understand that language evolves. One day we’ll need a dictionary to remember how to use “hash tag” as a noun and to learn the purpose of a selfie stick. However, it’s not the new words that add to my life’s uhtceare (There, find your own dictionary!); it’s the wrongly used words, and the wrongly punctuated words.

So, if you’re in the writing business, hug an editor today.  You’ve probably been saved at least once by that red pen tracked change luminary. If you’re an editor, dry you’re “tears” and take a heart. Sadly, the very existance of such a day ensures you’ll halve employment for as long as your want it.

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I Got Screwed! Seduced into Humming Complacency

25 Feb

Recently, my wonderful husband noticed that my tires needed air. I don’t mean that metaphorically, although the idea would certainly blog, but the tires we’re talking about are on my Subaru.

Why don’t I notice these sorts of things? I can tell when someone spilled milk on the kitchen floor, even after they attempt to clean it up. I notice when the smallest of our neighborhood’s 10-or-so feral cats fails to show up at the back door of the home behind us for the evening meal—I have no desire to take the cat in, mind you, but I’m rooting for him to make it through the winter. I even noticed that our toilet paper no longer fits snugly in the holder, but is now a “new and improved?” half-inch more narrow. (There’s another rant that will blog—and I know you’re thinking about going to check your own roll right now…trust me, it’s smaller.)

But for some reason, I can’t pick up on the fact that my tires are so low they pour more than ride along the road, or that I could practically hear the rubber folding as the wheels turned. However, I DID pick up on that look I received from Hubby when he noticed—incredulous annoyance, I believe it’s called.

Interestingly, the moment Hubby filled those tires I could tell the difference. They actually hummed against the pavement, and I felt as if I were riding higher than usual. Of course, I may have imagined that, but considering the flopping sound of the pre-aired tires, Subi must have been at least six inches taller.

Over the next few days, the humming tone improved. Remember that rich, satisfying growl you could create by flying down the hill on your bike with a baseball card flapping against the spokes? It was like that. The noise was most noticeable when I entered a wide curve. So of course, I drove into every curve as if it were Turn One at the Bristol Motor Speedway.

“Listen to that! Doesn’t it just sound like a race car?”

My son agreed, once I made him remove his headphones.

Hubby frowned. “It doesn’t sound natural, but I don’t think it’s the engine.” He tipped his head like a doctor. “Sounds like it’s coming from the back.”

“Well, I like it.” I gunned Subi through a sharp left (is there any other direction?) and said “Crank it up!”

NOTE: For the NASCAR-impaired, “Crank it up!” is an auspicious moment during every race when the announcer closes his mouth for a full minute. Simultaneously, every motorhead across the country turns the television volume to its highest setting, and settles back to listen to and appreciate the sweet, melodious rumbling of 42 LOUD, but perfectly tuned engines as the drivers soar past the camera. Then, once Joe Nemechek putters past, they turn the volume back down. I’ve often wondered if their collective din can be heard across the nation, but I’ve never pulled myself away from our own cranked up TV to check.

Anyway, I enjoyed my NASCAR growl for nearly three weeks. Then I noticed the screw in a rear tire.

Blast!

Screw in tire

Screwed.

It didn’t help that Hubby was there when I found it. I’m always amazed at how much dialogue he can put into a single raised eyebrow. Indirectly, I blame him; a floppy tire would have just poured over something like that.

So there I am, one replaced tire and $120 later (“It might not have been so damaged if you’d brought it in right away, Ma’am.”), driving my ordinary, quiet car home, and marveling that at my age I still can’t always tell the good from the bad. It makes no sense. When something’s wrong with the car, it should sound like I’m dragging 15 running chainsaws under the car, not like one of my favorite childhood memories.

But life is like that. Inside, we’re determined to stick to a budget, eat right, remain faithful, accomplish our goals, but we all too often give them up for temporary satisfaction because something just looks GOOD. More often than not, it’s just something bad wrapped up in beautiful, shiny, delightful packaging.  Then we ignore the voice that says, “I don’t know, it doesn’t sound natural” and listen to voices we shouldn’t even be entertaining (our own included).

  • “Go ahead, you deserve those shoes.”
  • “Pot-luck desserts have no calories.”
  • “But he treats you so much better than your husband does.”
  • “One week without exercise isn’t going to hurt you.”
  • “But I want it now.”

Bottom line is, I knew better. I know what my car sounds like when all is well, and I should keep her in good condition so that any time she sounds differently I’ll notice immediately and raise an eyebrow. I also know what my life looks like when all is well. I have the benefit of excellent counsel when I choose to seek it, and I have no excuse for not inquiring about the pretty packages and distractions that come into my life. If they’re good for me, He will let me know.

“See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the elemental spiritual forces of this world rather than on Christ.” — Colossians 2:8

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Ask Not For Whom the Phone Rings…

9 Feb

I needed two quiet hours, that’s all.

An hour’s worth of un-transcribed audio notes from a recent phone interview sat on the table, screaming for my attention, but a litany of interruptions had been pulling me away all morning. So, when my awesome husband announced he’d be taking our teenager out for some father-son time, I was thrilled.

Even before they were out the door I started racing around to get settled. (That may sound oxymoronic, but ask any parent on the cusp of some quiet time—it’s a bona fide activity.)

Let’s see…Coffee? Check. Laptop plugged in? Check. Notebook? Check. Cell phone near so I don’t have to get up? Check. Cozy workin’ blanket? Check. Snack? Check.

Good to go.

I hit the button on the audio player and started typing. The sound quality was fantastic, for a change; our voices came through crystal clear (I could write a whole other blog on whisperers, bad connections, accents, and static-riddled conversations). I started typing like a madwoman.

I might just be able to pull this off before the boys get back.

Then the phone rang.

Not the cell phone, which, although annoying, I could have easily picked up. No, it was the house phone, ten whole feet away.

…Click off the tape, transfer the laptop onto the table, kick the cat off the blanket, pull off the blanket, race to the kitchen, and grab the phone.

Dial tone.

I can’t believe they hung up.

I brought the house phone over to the computer and settled back down. At least I’d be ready if it happened again.

I hit the audio button and resumed typing.

“Ring!”

Hah! I hit “pause” and grabbed the phone.

Nothing.

This happened about four more times, always one ring. I sent a text to the boys to see if they were trying to reach me. Perhaps they had a poor signal?

“Nope. Wasn’t us.”

I sent the same text to my best friend. Not her either.

Again it happened. And again.

Cat by broken phone

Careful everyone…she’s in a mood…

Yes, I considered the potential for a hidden camera, and even looked around with not a little paranoia before shaking my head. Hard.

Twice more I resumed my typing. Twice more the phone rang. The little girl in me was seriously ready to start crying.

Okay, I’m going to try to ignore it.

I started transcribing again, focusing on the voice on the tape with all I had. The phone rang once—you should know I have ADD and cannot ignore a ringing phone—twice—focus, focus, focus!—three times. If you can make it to four the machine will kick on.

Then I heard my voice on the tape saying, “Just ignore that, Sir; it will go to voicemail at four rings.”

I’d spent the better part of 30 minutes trying to answer a phone that wasn’t ringing.

Crystal clear audio. It’s not always your friend.

It made me wonder though…

How often, in my stubbornness, do I run on autopilot and not even notice that the one true voice has stopped talking? There are a lot of imitations out there…stay alert!

For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect. Matthew 24:24

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Christmas Year-Round assignment for February

Okay, you’ve had your baking break. It’s time to get the pans out again. This month, bake a batch of cookies for a neighbor…and not one you know well, either. No, you don’t have to decorate them, and yes, deliver them in person. Write to me about your new friend!

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A Year of Living Precariously: What is Success?

22 Jan Road in the woods

By Rosemarie Fitzsimmons

What does success look like?
This week marks one year since I traded my 9-to-5 job to start a freelance writing business from home. Naturally, I find myself reflecting and wondering if it was a good decision.

Financially, one could argue it was a disaster. I made one tenth of last year’s income (and much of that came from working 20 days in the old job), and my writing has yet to achieve confetti-strewing victory status. However, I hadn’t expected great riches in the first year.

So what measuring tool should I use? How about the divided paper list of minuses (regrets) and pluses (encouragements).

Do I have regrets? Absolutely. I regret missing out on the office Fantasy Football league this past fall. Every Sunday, every highlight, every game promotion—pretty much every time I saw a football on television, I wondered about the ol’ gang. Like, who had Demaryius Thomas (my money’s on Rob) and who in their right mind would had the good fortune to pick the Eagles defense?  More than that, I miss the Monday morning recaps and Friday trash talking. Big regrets there.

And I regret being away from people I came to love over my 12 years there. I miss the get-togethers, the Styrofoam rocket wars (probably shouldn’t mention those, but it’s not like I would get in trouble) and the electrifying brainstorming sessions, especially those first moments where we’d see a solution forming and ideas would just burst forth, each one building on the last. I hadn’t anticipated how deeply I’d miss my coworkers. I miss the creativity, the humor (the cat rarely laughs at my puns the way Albert did, although the cackle is eerily similar), and the practical jokes…knowing I’m potentially alienating a sizable portion of the PW readers by not giving the entire story here, I feel compelled to tell the gang that I STILL giggle when I think of mailing the Justin Bieber doll to Puerto Rico.

Surprisingly, that’s it.

On the positive side, I’ve been greatly encouraged by the way my family met many financial situations head-on this year and emerged, not only okay, but with far less debt than we’ve had in many years. How is that even possible? Well, to be honest, we did kick a few cans down the road, but every time there was truly a need (broken vehicle, vet bills, oven replacement), the money just seemed to show up. I realize the Bible teaches us that this is just God’s way, but it’s still a concept that surprises me every time I witness it. One day, just as I was starting to panic over our empty fridge, my neighbor came over out of the blue and handed me a check for walking and caring for her dog. I hadn’t asked for payment, nor expected it, and she wouldn’t take it back. It was just enough for a trip to the commissary.

Last year I wrote one book, 15 short stories, and about 30 blog posts—all fulfilling, fun work. The short stories provided enough income that I could keep writing, and now I’m looking at the possibility of having a book announcement for you by the end of next month.

I also met many new people through the freelance work I took on this year. They’ll never replace my gang, but they keep me from talking to myself and I enjoy them immensely.

Best of all, my heart is happy. I’m doing what I love and the peace of mind is incredible—not to mention the short, snow-less, and traffic-free commute. Despite what may look like (and at times feel like) stalling, I know I’m on the verge of something. I’ve learned to be content in the waiting, even though I don’t know what or when it will occur.

As I look at my list, I’d have to say the plus side is the weighted side.

Yesterday I sat at a table with some friends, and we were discussing how you know if you’re on the right track. Becky pointed out that the apostle Paul, who penned many of the letters in the Bible, and who we all know was on the right track, died with no clue that his letters would still be around more than 2,000 years later, changing lives by the millions.

I can wait a bit longer.

Road in the woods

Can’t see where the road leads, but I’m loving the walk.

So, what is success? I still don’t know. But in my annual State of the Rose report, I can say with confidence, I’m at peace, I do believe I’m right where God wants me to be, and I’m ready for another year of this.

Also, if the fantasy league ever decides to open the roster to non-employees, I’m there. I still won’t take the Eagles defense, but I’m there.

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Hope among the Embers

31 Dec Ocean

Author’s note: This blog was written in response to yesterday’s writing prompt challenge on A Writer’s Path: Ten Quote Tuesday, in which we were to write about “A human cage, built without a lock.” It’s a great writer’s site–very inspiring.

Hope among the Embers

My shelter sits on the edge of the Sea of Fear. I have all I need here.

I’ve been building this place for nearly 50 years, and I’ve stocked it well.

The floor is warm, lined with newspaper clippings and childhood essays with large, red A-plus marks scrawled across the top. The yellowed by-lines on some of the articles whisper my maiden name. I re-read the stories now and cringe at my poor grammar and worldly naiveté. Still, I keep them because of the accolades from teachers and publishers; their sparks ignited a fire that still burns in the shelter’s camp stove.

The shelter beams were fashioned over many years through friendships and mentorships. I run my fingers along the loving, encouraging messages engraved throughout in scrawling gnarled script. “I love your writing.” “Don’t ever give up.” “If you ever write a book, I’ll certainly read it.” Each beam is treasured. Some can never be replaced.

I’ve fortified the walls with tools of the trade. I’ve joined writers’ groups, taken tutorials, purchased How-To books, attended online seminars, and traveled to conferences. I’ve taken more notes and saved more useful files than I’ll ever be able to read, even if I knew where they’re stored on this blasted computer. Still, it gives me peace to know they’re there—if I ever need them.

Photographs pasted on the walls chronicle 40 years of growth and maturity, depicting victories over mind and body. Swimming across the Sakonnet River. Gaffing trees. Rappelling. The first time I fired Expert at the shooting range. Periods of extreme grief. The love of a good man. Raising two boys. Unspeakable joy. Jobs of increasing significance. Walking away from the last job to write. Writing a book. Rewriting the book. Rewriting the book.

Firelight from the camp stove illuminates the open front door and the sea beyond. I sit with my belongings and watch the water’s ripples kiss the shore. Hemmingway, Poe, Harper Lee, Erma Bombeck, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Orson Scott Card, Maya Angelou, Nicholas Sparks. My tables, my chairs, my blankets, my friends. Nestled here, I’m safe and I’m happy, but I’m not content.

There’s something out there, across the water, and it is good. My raft bobs at the pier, like hope ready to burst. It’s big enough to carry me and my shelter, and everything in it. But the sea is so vast. I don’t know what creatures lurk in its depths, or whether a storm sits on the horizon, preparing even now to churn the waters into a frenzy. If that happened, I’d lose everything. I look across the sea, and wonder…

Enough for today. I reach up and pull the shelter door closed, then snuggle against the cold with Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Drowsily, I listen to him whisper from across the years:

“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.
You must travel it by yourself.
It is not far. It is within reach.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know. 
Perhaps it is everywhere – on water and land.” 

The fire in the camp stove has been refueled. Tomorrow, I will try again.

Ocean

Or perhaps it’s a sea of endless possibility…?

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