Boo

I stood there at the worn door, prepping myself for battle. 

I could faintly hear a television through the thin apartment walls, and could just make out my mother's voice asking John to get something for her.  

John was my mother's eighth husband. Not my stepfather, just my mother's husband. I'd had so many stepfathers as a child I decided when I turned 18 and left home that I would never have another.  Any husbands after that would have nothing to do with me.  As a child our bizarre lifestyle had made me feel special.  I didn't excel in sports or music or academics, and I usually had no idea what was happening in politics or current events - those things were rarely discussed at our house. But I was the sole possessor of weird. I was the girl with the truly dysfunctional home in the days when dysfunctional wasn't the norm.  I didn't know then that a child will cling to anything to feel special.  Now I did.  Now I had a say. John was just my mother's husband. 

A soft questioning meow brought me back to the present, and I looked down at white whiskers poking through the carrier at my feet.  "Now?" I whisper.  "Now, you have to meow like a cat? After your perfectly quiet little interview and our perfectly quiet ride over here?"

My mother was a cat-person. Not a cat-lady, though I think if she'd had the means and space she would have hoarded cats for pleasure at the cost of reason. But she was a cat person, fully appreciating all things cat. She loved their purr, their fur, their independence and sass, their silky grace, soft paws and sharp brains, and always attributed to them her own dark, dry humor.  She used to say things like, "Cats were once worshiped as gods. (Add a perfectly-timed pause). Cats have not forgotten this."

But my mother had not owned a cat in over 20 years. Not since marrying this husband, this one who had lasted longer than all the others, though I could not understand why. This husband had said with resounding conviction for many years, "No cat!"  And my mother, rather than running off to look for Number Nine, had stayed to quarrel and fight and do the rest of her life with Number Eight.  She had thus remained cat-less. 

I knelt down and looked with trepidation at my new friend. She was absolutely beautiful. A long-haired, black and shockingly glossy Himalayan, she was the chic, celeb wanna-be of cats everywhere.  She reminded me of a roommate I once had who always woke up gorgeous. Her mere existence made it hard on all the tabbies of the world. 

"She has such a gentle personality," the nice lady had said. "She would be so perfect for an elderly couple," she had promised. 

She had been perfect for them, too, the lady explained.  Until their baby grew into a cat-chasing toddler, and two new dogs had viewed her as a chew toy.  Born on Halloween, almost completely black, they had named her Boo.  Now she was three and sitting in a strange carrier in a strange hallway with a strange new lady looking at her. 

I looked into her stunning green eyes, and wondered if I had been cat-hypnotized into believing this was a good idea. 

No. No, I understood boundaries. And yes, yes, I had stayed inside all boundaries, both reasonable and ridiculous, for the past 20 years. Because this was their marriage, her husband, their life, not mine. 

But it was easy to see that my mother's health was failing. She was 78 now, and that meant more trips to doctors with long hours in waiting rooms, more medicines, more anger, less mobility, less humor, more depression, more anger.  And more anger. What I didn't run from screaming, I wanted to help fix.  A cat wouldn't fix anything, I knew, but no cat-person should have to live, and eventually die, utterly cat-less.  

And now the moment of dread was upon me. The television program inside the apartment had just started a new game show while I gathered my nerve. 

"Oh, Boo," I sighed. "What have I gotten you into?  What have I gotten myself into?"

And I heard my mother's voice in my head answering for Boo. "Lady, is my new room ready?  They serve tuna, right?  I don't do the dry stuff.  So, where's the staff?"  

My mom was gonna love this cat.  But what to do about that no-cat husband of hers? 

I stood and again began to prep my mind for battle.

I had to prep my heart so many times for these visits.  "Go low," I would say to my heart, "Go so very low.  Remember, you’re only here to serve and to give. Don't let yourself expect anything - not affirmation, not appreciation, not connection, not love. You will only be hurt and disappointed. Again. Just give, just serve, just stay humble, just go low."

Now I felt the need to prep my mind for battle. This was a new a new stance, going to battle for my mother. I knew better than to do battle with her as I had never won. But now, of all things, I'm battling for a cat. For this insanely beautiful creature that I knew would bring her joy. 

I prep.  

I breathe.

I wait. 

I knock.  

John calls out in his usual high-strung manner.  

"Yes!!  I'm coming!!!"

And then lower, more to himself, "I'm coming, I'm coming."

I didn't like this man, this eight man my mother chose so much like the other seven, a former alcoholic, former chain smoker, with low self-esteem and easily manipulable.  My mother was the poster child for the manipulative relationships that prevailed in the 40's when she was still in her drop-dead gorgeous twenties. Pretend you are incompetent so your man feels smart.  Pretend you are weak so he feels strong. What amazed me was that it was still working in the 21st century, and for a woman in her seventies. And that there actually were men around who did not catch on, could not see through it.  Or, a new thought I began to entertain 10 years into this union, maybe they did.  Maybe they guessed her weaknesses were an act, but ignored them because they liked the feeling of pseudo strength and pseudo smarts. 

I thought of my own sons, raised by their own dysfunctional mother who was still, even after they were grown and gone, trying to fix the broken parts inside herself. I breathed a prayer of gratitude that they were not intimidated by strong, capable women. In fact, they cherished them. Then they married them. And then became even better men because of them. And yet none of them were manipulated and each knew how to lead. None were manipulated by their wives. They each, in turn, had been manipulated by their mother, because it was the only parenting class she ever attended as a child, and lessons thrust upon one in life tend to stick longer than all the workshops one signs up for later.

And my daughter? I'd spent her lifetime wondering how she could be mine. Healthily independent, terrifyingly adventurous, and so discriminating in her dating that she eventually found someone, in her words, like her brothers. 

If being strong was the only thing I admired in my children, it would have been enough. But I still wanted to grow up to be like them.

I could hear John manipulating the two locks on the door.  Always two locks.  Always fearful of the world.  He is telling me the whole time it's almost open. John is easily anxious, easily offended, always worried, often critical. His hyper-anxiety sets off an auto-trigger in me of extreme calm and assurance, a counter balance to downplay to his continual storm.  I realize now that I learned this downplay from my children, who used it in turn to counteract my meltdowns. If he lived long enough, I believe John would have tempted me to downplay the end times even as they descended on us. It's never fun seeing your weaknesses in people you don't like. It's probably why we spend so much time looking away from them. 

Now I would be creating his storm. 

The knob turned and the next sound I heard was, "Meeeeeeoooooow?!"

Not the soft inquisitive mew of a moment before, but a shrill cat-like meow more like, "Lady, if you don't show me hot food, cold milk and a litter box neeeeeoooowwwww, I'm going to find my way out of this prison and eat your face.  Your time has expired."

John never even looked up. He didn't have a chance. His face went from doorknob to hall, and without even a hello, he said, "What's that?!"

Prep was now over. The battle had begun. 

I picked up Boo's carrier, and smiled toward John (in case he ever took his eyes off the carrier).  I looked at him in a fun way that implied I brought cats to his place every morning, and said, "Oh, this?  This is Boo."

"Boo!?" John repeated as though he was waiting for me to tell him what a Boo was. It was a totally sane response, but I was so used to un-sane conversations in this relationship that I wasn't about to give him credit for switching sides. 

"Yes, Boo.  She's a cat."

I lifted the carrier eye-level and man and cat exchanged glances.  Neither uttered a sound.  Lowering it I broke the silence as naturally as possible. 

"Is Mom here?" 

It was a rhetorical question. I knew she was there. She didn't leave the apartment without him. She barely left it with him. John did all the grocery shopping, all the bill-paying, all the cooking, all the pill-counting, and all the cleaning, including now cleaning up after my mother.  The less she was capable of, the less she pretended to be capable of, the more he did. Unless she was in the hospital or rehab, my mother was always there. 

John eventually moved aside to let me by, and I forced myself to use a casual, yet respectful step. I could not describe what those 11 steps from door to recliner looked like, but the battle was now on, and I knew I had to carry myself carefully.

My mother was seated in the largest, softest of the two worn chairs in the tiny studio. I had actually bought both recliners five years before, and the two chairs before them. But they looked ragged and ready for replacement again from full-time use. 

I watched my mother's eyes catch mine as I entered, and immediately dart down my arm to the carrier. But my other eyes, the ones that my children said I had in the back of my head, those eyes were on John. I could feel him watching me. I could see his now reddening face just off to my left. I knew he was prepping for battle. 

I put the carrier down next to my mother, and knelt front of her. She would not look at me. She knew exactly what a cat carrier looked like and she only had eyes for it. Opening its door, I lifted out the softest, most dreamy blob of love in the form of cat that was ever created. Boo, as if on queue, immediately purred and curled into a massive ball on her lap. 

I have no medical training and don't ever wish to. Most things medical repulse me. I am a writer, a word sculptor, and the reality of cells and organs and blood and mucous totally ruin a story. This outlook is unlike my daughter's, who for reasons I will never relate to, enjoyed holding peoples' guts together so much as an emergency room nurse that she went on to stitching them back together as a PA. 

But at that moment, watching fibers in my mother's being soften, hearing her soft coos to Boo, I would swear on a stack of medical journals that I had witnessed someone's blood pressure come immediately down. Her face instantly brightened and softened, and her entire being was instantly happy. She was absolutely lost in cat. 

I, however, was still absolutely present with John. He had been talking almost non-stop since I entered. 

"A cat!?  I don't like cats."

"Did you ever have one?" I asked, still kneeling, not daring to look at him. 

"No!  We never had a cat when I was growing up."

"They can be pretty nice, John."

"I don't know anything about cats."

"There isn't a lot to know.  They are pretty easy."

"I heard they can be mean."

"I don't think this one is."

“Well, we don’t have any litter.”

“I bought some.”

"We don't have a litter box."

"I brought one."

"We would have to leave it alone when we go out."

"She would be okay."

"She might destroy things."

"She is declawed."

"Well...she might not like us."

"She probably won't."

"What??" 

"She probably won't like you."

I had taken him off guard.  This is a good thing to do when one is in battle.

"What??  Why is that?" 

"Cats don't like people, John."

He was slowing down. He wasn't acting as defensive. He was thinking. 

"They don't?" 

"No. They like themselves. It's part of their magic."

"Well, I never heard of that."

"Well, you never had a cat," I smile. 

I stand up and gently pry this thing that is now one with my mother from her lap. 

"Mom, let's let Boo meet John."

The dynamics in the room are palpable. My mother's pleasure, John's nerves and my terror.  In 20 years I had never crossed this man's boundaries, and I just walked into his home with a creature he had forbidden. Now I was going to place the enemy in his arms. 

I turned toward John with Boo filling my arms and could see that he had stiffened.  I can retreat or I can go forward. I've prepped for this battle. I must go forward. 

I took a step toward John and lifted Boo to eye level.  They gazed at each other again. 

"I don't know anything about cats," he repeated. "It probably won't like me," he repeated.

"She is analyzing you right now, John."  

"She is!?"

"Yes," I flatly state.  "She's deciding if you are worthy enough for her to master."

"What? That's not going to happen.  I'm not going to let some cat be my master."

"You will if she decides you will,” and I slip Boo into his arms. 

This cat must have guessed which side her bread was going to be buttered on because she immediately re-melted into John and cranked her purring several decibels up. 

"She's purring," he smiled.

"You must be worthy," I said. 

My boldness surprised me. I had never been so forward with this man. Indeed, I had never tramped so blatantly over someone else's boundaries. At least not since learning about boundaries. When one is raised without them, other people's fences are nonexistent. When one is raised in dysfunction, it's hard to perceive where your own fence lines belong. 

But now I knew. Now I was an adult. Now I had years of jumping over peoples' fences, with intentions both good and bad, years of making amends and starting over, years of no excuses for walking into someone else's door with that which has been forbidden. 

Boo faithfully kept up a powerful rendition of, "You Cannot Live Another Day Without Me" in a rumbling bass, and I could see that John was beginning to slip under her spell.  Boo had just joined the battle.

I finally decided her weight would likely put an abrupt end to her concert and slipped her gently back into my mother's lap amid my mother's purrs and John's ongoing postscripts. 

"Well, she's soft, I'll say that.  She purrs loud, doesn't she? Could you hear her purring? She's shiny," and many other accolades. 

The next thirty minutes brought relative calm to my soul, John distracted with gathering laundry and my mother transfixed with Boo. I don't who know was happier, my mother, the cat, or me. 

Finally, John said he was heading downstairs to start a load of wash, and as soon as he was out the door I knelt again in front of my mother. 

"Mom," I began.

She looked up, delighted. I pushed down a thought that maybe, perhaps she would love me now, that this moment might spark some kind of motherly connection.  "No, Down Hopes! Down!", I silently barked at myself. "Disappointment ahead!"  And true to my gut, my mother's look drifted back to the cat, where all the motherly instincts she possessed would be spent. 

"Mom, this cat is just here on trial, " I began. 

She jerked her attention back to me and said, "What?  Why?!"

"Because I talked her owner into one overnight stay to see if you two were a match. If John insists, I will take her back in the morning. I don't want this cat to come between you."

My mother's reply was meant to be humorous, but she was sincere as she put both hands on Boo and stated with flat conviction, "Over my dead body."

We both laughed. I knew the battle had just become hers.  Hers and Boo's.  

To be continued....

100 Questions

Some time last year, I started listening to an audio book about Leonardo da Vinci, and how he thought. In this book, it talked a lot about being able to think differently from everyone else, and having a variety of skills that you are particularly good at. One section, dealing with introspection, said to get a pen and paper, and write down 100 questions. These questions are important questions that are important to you.

This seemed like a daunting task, but I was in school at the time, and decided to work on this in class. Should I have been paying attention to class?  Sure.  But somehow I still managed to graduate, so we'll let it slide.

I started with the big questions, like "How do I know God?" and "How do I live well?"  But as the list went on, they started moving from these kind of questions, to far more personal questions, like "Why do I want to be a writer?" and "Why is pride so easy for me?"

The exercise then said to take these 100 questions and find your top 10.  Of these top 10, pick 1 and spend time thinking and writing about it; Develop it, go deep, and keep stripping away the layers.  This teaches us to not only seek questions, but also to mature those questions into meaningful thought.  

I have found this to be a very helpful exercise, and every once in a while, I take one of these questions as a prompt for my writing projects. It's not as daunting as you might think.  Just start with the big ones, and keep thinking until you have reached 100. You'll find you are more prone to think deeply about things you otherwise wouldn't have noticed.

Threads

I was blessed with three boys. Eric, Anthony (T.J.) and Ryan.

T.J. took his own life 6/4/13. It is still surreal to write or speak those words. Breathing was hard. Being was hard. Everything was hard. My life dissolved into questions. How can he be gone? Why didn't he call me or anyone? What happened to make him think it was all too much? How do I keep on breathing? Why didn't I call him that day? Why didn't I go by there and take him his favorites from Burger King as I'd done before?
DO I WANT TO BE HERE IN THIS WORLD IF HE IS NOT?

I haven't gone through the 5 stages of grief. Yes I did denial. It couldn't be. Someone had obviously made a mistake. He's not really gone.
I don't understand how I could have bargained.  He was already gone. I had nothing to bargain with.
I still  haven't dealt with anger. I'm not angry at T.J. or at God. I don't know if I'll ever go through anger.
I'm deep into depression. I believe depression will be with me a long time.
Then there is acceptance. I have no other choice. He's gone and I can't change it.

But in all of this pain there was family. Most of all there is GOD. I knew He was there and I knew He loved me. We were surrounded by love. In that love a little tiny bit of hope and healing began to emerge.
My husband and my two other boys needed me and I needed them. My grandchildren needed me and I needed them. Love poured in. I began to weave a few of the threads.

Nine months ago today my life became threads. Threads of life that are now blended with grief and sorrow, pain and longing and long days and nights. Little by little I am trying to weave them into a new life. I will never be the same tapestry I was before. I hope to keep some of the parts of me that made me who I am in this world but there will now be new threads that have to be woven in slowly. God is helping me weave. 

When Glass Explodes

Today I got a rare head start on dinner: made-from-scratch lasagna.  The sauce was looking and smelling delicious.  The lasagna dish was cleaned and ready to fill, and I put a pot of water on the stove to boil for the noodles and turned up the heat.

Confidence is usually a good thing.  It shouldn't be cocky or arrogant, but when it’s there, everything is sure.  Calm.

I had quickly checked which burner I turned on, and even resisted the urge to double-check.  I knew the glass dish was sitting on another burner, but trusted I hadn’t made a mistake.

Confidence can be a bad thing, too.  Like when it makes me feel sure about something that isn’t true.  Deceptive.

I had my back to the stove, and smelled a slight burnt odor.  Turning to look, I immediately noticed that the burner under the glass dish was quite red.  I turned off the burner and backed up, just watching the dish, anticipating something was about to happen.  Sure enough, the dish literally exploded, sending shards of glass seemingly everywhere.  Thankfully none of those shards made their way into my eyes or skin, but that delicious-smelling sauce had now been seasoned with glass.  And though I felt I had just witnessed a scene from some action movie, whatever thrill that gave me was quickly tempered by the somber and frightening realization that it happened in my kitchen, not on my TV.

Silly me - I wasn’t eating lasagna for dinner; I was eating humble pie.

My husband witnessed the entire scene and was quite wonderful about the whole incident.  He cleaned the majority of the mess I had just created, and together we lamented our ruined lasagna sauce.  He kindly reminded me that accidents happen and said it wasn’t a big deal.  Really, it was an ordeal, as we (he) had to take apart half of the kitchen, ensuring every tiny piece of glass was cleaned up and unable to harm our fourteen-month-old daughter.

After kicking myself over making such a mindless mistake for a couple of hours now, I’ve had time to think it all over.  I tend to be a confident person about most things in my life.  I try to minimize mistakes and carefully calculate words and actions beforehand.  Good goals, to be sure.  Tonight I was reminded, albeit through a small mishap, that hard as I may try, I can’t be sure of myself and my decisions.  I will fail.  This isn’t a depressing, hopeless statement, but just an observation and reminder of the fact that I will make mistakes and unwise choices, though I try my best not to.  I should not have utmost confidence in myself.

I would even venture to say that, perhaps, neither should you.

I may not have complete confidence in myself, but I do know One in whom I can have complete confidence.  Otherwise I don’t know how I would go through this life, let down by others, and even myself, at every turn.  He is my rock, and my firm foundation.  And He’s incredibly good at helping pick up the pieces and turn them into something beautiful for His glory.  Even when glass explodes.

Thoughts on objectivity

I grew up in the shadow of a hundred churches.

OK, maybe not literally, but my hometown of Keystone Heights, Fla., did used to hold the world record for most churches in a square mile.

At a young age, I was familiar with the term “the liberal media” – a radical group of people who couldn’t get anything right. It sounded like all the newspapers were out to get the conservatives, and there was no way of redeeming the situation. The media was a lost cause.

But in college, I made an important distinction that began to define not only the way I see the media, but also the way I deal with conflict and listen to others.

Opinions belong on the opinions page.

I realized the things that typically brand newspapers as liberal are columns or editorials in the opinions section. These one-sided pieces are sacred places where people can say whatever-the-heck they want. People are entitled to their opinions. You don’t have to agree, but that’s kind of the beauty of it. They still get to talk.

The opinions section is NOT to be confused with the news section, and that’s where a lot of media-consumers go amiss.

The news section is the sacred place where opinions get dropped at the threshold and we can discuss things from a nonjudgmental perspective as adults. We can let both sides talk and hear them out.

I’m not saying every news writer can check their bias at the door when they write a news story. What I am saying is that objectivity is the point and the beauty of journalism, even though a lot of reporters miss the mark.

With that said, be careful who and what you listen to. The voices you listen to will grow to define you. They can make you bitter, paranoid and resentful. Or they can make you better informed, wiser and well rounded. It all depends on how you process what you hear.

My plea to you is to ask questions. Please, before you judge a message, an article, a speech, a group, a person, ask these questions. Who is saying this? What is the source? Are they talking about a matter of fact or of opinion?

Before you close yourself off from someone whom you disagree with, please ask, “What insight can I take away from this?” Because even when you disagree with someone, you can still learn something valuable about them or about the issue from a discussion.

The liberals aren’t bad. The conservatives aren’t evil. They’re not the problem. They just have opinions and feelings and share them forcefully. It’s our job as media-consumers to listen to what they say and to respond logically before we respond emotionally.

Every now and then when I visit my hometown, I’ll run into an old family friend, and they’ll ask how life in the newspaper business is going. “Are you keeping the liberal media in check?” they’ll more-than-likely quip.

When that happens, I just smile, and I say, “I’m doing my job.” Because keeping the liberal media, or the conservative media, or anything else in check isn’t my job.

My job as a reporter is to ask the right questions about the people and information I’m presented with.

It’s not much different than your job as a media consumer.

Be mindful of the voices you’re listening to, and ask the right questions. 

Late-night grocery shopping bingo

College is a time when you won’t be judged for not having your life in order, which means you repeatedly find yourself doing routine things like, oh you know, just grocery shopping, at 2 a.m. Thankfully, Gainesville has several 24-hour joints where you can pick up those necessary items like frozen pizza and Eggo waffles (See: Sweetbay, Wal-Mart). But it’s a jungle out there, and a few character profiles seem to make repeat appearances. In true Buzzfeed fashion, here’s your I-just-needed-bread-and-milk-but-am-scared-of-that-sketchy-gas-station edition listsicle of Six people you’ll see grocery shopping after midnight.

1)   The late-night snacker: This one is a dead giveaway. They’ll be on the ice cream aisle choosing a Ben and Jerry’s pint wearing PJ pants, and maybe Uggs with said pants carelessly stuffed in the tops. (Who dresses to impress in this place anyway?)

2)   The vegan chef: Dreadlocks and bandana optional. The first thing you’ll notice is that his shopping basket is very colorful. It’s filled with ingredients you can’t pronounce and that look so gourmet you wonder how he managed to find them in a run-of-the mill chain grocery store like this.  You spend the whole time waiting behind him at the register wondering if he’s going straight home to cook and if so, why now?

3)   The eat, sleep, rave repeater: This guy’ll be buying beer. Just beer. Lots of it, and the cheap stuff. He may or may not be surrounded with a posse of haggard yet happy looking wingmen who just wanna keep the party going.

4)   The young professional who works weird hours: You’ll be able to pick this person out of the crowd because they’re always the best dressed. They may be toting a satchel or wearing an ID badge lanyard of some sort.

5)   The kid who should be in bed: It’s 1:16 a.m. Don’t you have show-and-tell at elementary school tomorrow?

6)   The flirty shelf stocker: He’s the one who takes the company policy of greeting every customer to the extreme and uses it as an excuse to strike up conversations with chicks buying cereal at 2 a.m. When he asks if you’re finding everything OK, just say yes and move on, even if you’re lost trying to find the off-brand cocoa puffs.

Maybe one day I’ll have my life together enough to do normal things at normal hours. But until then, I guess I’ll just make late-night grocery shopping a game and play bingo with this list. 

F.E.A.R.

Greetings and salutations, fellow Writer's Marchers! Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Joseph Frederick Kindelsperger; University of North Florida alumus, Dopey Challenge finisher (definitely look that up), and soon-to-be writer extraordinaire. I am a driven personality with a fascination for a wide variety of topics. I am excited to take part in the 2014 Second Annual Writer's March! So, let's get started.

To officially begin my writing career, I will discuss fear and the role it plays in our lives. Fear is a force that is highly familiar to most of us, and in many cases intangible or even imperceptible. Fear thrives in our own shadow and stalks us everywhere breathing dark whispers into our hearts and minds as we go about our daily activities. Sometimes we do not even know why we fear something or come up with reasons that are lies (i.e. applying for that job, talking to that gorgeous girl or guy, taking the trash out at night). Other times, we cannot even perceive that we make decisions based on our internalized sense of fear. It is as if, out of habit, we create our own patterns of avoidance that lead us in circles around the object of our fears, never confronting it. Things like going to the same restaurant over and over, not inviting people to join your group of friends, writing despite being good at it, etc. Fear kept me from joining the March last year, and it may be what keeps others from joining this year.

That is not to say that fear is absolutely detrimental to our success. Fear can be an angel just as often as it can be a demon. Fear is what keeps you from going out into the hazards of the unknown. Fear also saves you from the dangers that you know, but may have forgotten.

Fear has a phrase that it loves to whisper above all, especially when a challenge presents itself unexpectedly. Not even from around the corner, but out of thin air. Like a ghost with a furious vengeance. Oddly, in these moments that whisper sounds more like a shriek, "F@#* EVERYTHING AND RUN!!!"

In panic, we do just that. F.E.A.R!

In my life, F.E.A.R. has been an automatic response to so many things. Mingling at events with no one to introduce me. Signing up for running events and not participating due to injury or insufficient preparation (See the irony?), and many other things that I am not yet prepared to share. In some instances years past, I have been known to literally run away if a situation got too intense for me. Just thinking about those situations makes me shiver.

Through my experiences I have discovered that fear is not a dictator, but an adviser. All it takes to bring the Fear out of your shadow and into the light is simply two-way communication. Fear will not answer you when you ask it why you should be afraid. That is on you. However, it will obey when you whisper back its favorite acronym, F.E.A.R.

"Face Everything And Rise", you tell it. In time you may even discover that you were never telling Fear to back down, but yourself to step up.

In writing, we have a voice. This Writer's March is a grand opportunity to shed whatever fears we have, if any, and raise our voices to make them heard. I look forward to discovering what each participant here will write. As a novice I have no doubt that my growth in blog-writing this month will be substantial. Although I hope everyone enjoys this event as much as I know I will, I also hope that we will all come to identify something that we individually fear. Then face it, and rise.

...if it is to encourage, then encourage.

The only reason I’m writing today is that I'm holed up for a solid week in Tahoe, at the foot of Heavenly Ski Resort. I can actually watch the lift reach the top of the mountain from my window. This is a long story of a free trip planned with a friend who had to cancel, and a beautiful room, actually a small apartment, for an embarrassingly low bid - that would not let me cancel.  Bill might be able to join me for a few days, but there are no guarantees as his work schedule is pretty packed.

I feel a little silly being so far from Bill and Joel in a luxurious room all by myself. I also feel spoiled rotten by our son, Dan, who works for an airline and just smiles each time I send him a new reservation request. And by the Lord who has evidently given me fabulous bidding skills on 4 and 5-star rooms, and who knew this week was coming.

So, my new plan is to try to make a really delicious batch of lemonade from this lemon by forcing myself to write.  It's going to be just me, these gorgeous mountains, hot coffee and my trusty laptop.

So, here goes writing project number one.  

...if it is to encourage, then encourage.

It was about twenty years ago that I realized I had a passion for encouragement.  I’d spent most of my twenties and some of my thirties temper-tantruming my way through a series of valleys that felt very unfriendly and unjust.  I ended up angry over things I couldn’t change, and angry at myself for not being able to respond better.  I’d pray, and things got worse.  I’d pray some more, and I got worse.

I was about half-way through one of my valleys, the seventh year of thirteen living with no air-conditioning in Florida.  Yes, I know this  was a first-world valley, but when every other person in your first world has AC, and you show up to every event looking like you just played center in a very intense basketball game, it gets real.  Valleys always seem worse when you think you’re the only one in your world, first or third, going through them.  By the way, I don’t know where the second world is.

So, imagine Oz’s wicked witch of the North shrieking, “I’m meeeeelllting!” each time another bucket of swamp heat and humidity got tossed on her by the uncaring Florida weatherman and you get the picture.  It didn’t take long for a certain witch with theological leanings to look up to the heavens and ask, “Don’t you see what I’m going through?  And why don’t you help?”  But no answer came.  (Witches also sometimes shriek these questions at husbands who tend to remain silent as well.)

Thankfully for my husband, a light did appeareth unto me upon one of my upward-looking shrieks.  It actually came in the form of a verse I had memorized years before, written by someone who knew about going it alone in valleys:  And we know that God is working all things together for good to those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. 

All things?  Those two words beamed off the page for me.  All things.  Hmm.  Enter a new thought:  If Christianity was to be real in my world, I would have to substitute my personal valleys for the phrase “all things.”  I tried it.

God is working this crummy Florida heat and humidity together for good…. 

I didn’t like it.  Not at all.  Why wasn’t He interested in working that much good in any of my air-conditioned friends’ lives?  I did try to revert to my former theology that God should deliver me from all my trials.  But, I just couldn’t get delivered, no matter how much I quoted and trusted.  I ended up yielding to the light that had been given me thus far.

And thus began my gradual shift from tantruming in the valley to slogging through my darkness with a new battery in my flashlight.

All things.

God is working what, another breakdown in the van?? together for good… 

Weave it into my thinking with yet another crisis, don’t yield to camping in the why’s and why not’s, keep moving forward with this new light.  God can, actually wants to, work all things in my valley together….for good. 

So….God is working judgment from that friend, hurtful words from family, a tight budget with no room for coffee – seriously? together for….MY good? 

I didn’t like it.  But, I swallowed it like a bitter truth pill.

Okay, fine.  I surrender.  I let go of trying to fix something I can’t, and tantruming because You won’t.  Lord, please work this mess together for good.

And to my surprise and delight, the storm began to calm in my brain and my soul, even as the humidity in my kitchen rose.  The shrieking subsided.  Was that a whoosh of gratefulness for my health and family and the grace I felt?

Then, beholdeth, another light beamed-eth upon that verse.  What if the being called according to His purpose part was about how I actually lived in the valley, rather than just getting delivered from it?  Yes, I had been taught that over and over, but somehow I could never make those theoretical connections work in Florida humidity.  Yikes, the thought was risky.  What if it meant I had to settle for this valley for the rest of my days, when no one else I knew was stuck in it, and with no guarantee of getting out of it, ever.   Now, I would be expected to not just stay in it, but also be content with it.  That was a little depressing. But, it was the only light that was beaming from the Word, so I had to move forward with it.  Again to  my surprise and delight, freedom and contentment began to grow.  

Now if I’d been content to be content, that would have been enough.  But, I became wild with passion to share my path.  I wanted to shout to all the other valley dwellers, “Hey!  I found this amazing battery that works in your old flashlight!  Pop in Romans 8:28!  It’s amazing!  Your view will change.  The path gets clear.  The valley isn’t so dark!”  When the high I felt at seeing someone else find that path in their valley was way higher than my own, I knew it was the gift of encouragement. 

We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a man's gift is prophesying, let him use it in proportion to his faith. If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach; if it is encouraging, let him encourage...

Two years ago, I was plunged into the worst valley of my life when we lost our 19 year-old son, Patrick.  My heart was ripped to shreds, and I blogged for a few months solely as a form of therapy, not caring if anyone was encouraged or not.  I had no room in my heart for anyone but the Great Shepherd, so I tried to draw the curtains of my soul and just camp.  That valley is dark and horrifying and never-ending in this life, but I knew the Lord was close by, and that it was right to camp and not trudge on.  I thought of C.S. Lewis’ Aslan with a big tear in his eye as he shared in Diggory’s sorrow, and it comforted me.  Time stood still, and all I did was cry and write and cry and write and cry and write.  And cry.

After months that seemed like years, one day I just quit writing, stopped camping, stood up and got busy.  Very busy.  Doing as much good for everyone in my world as I could.  It too has felt right and therapeutic and healthy for all this time.

For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. Eph 2:10

Staying busy, especially at loving others, is an effective pain-buffer, and keeps a lot of sorrow at bay.  I still have crying meltdowns at the most unexpected times, but sorrow no longer surrounds me like a mountain.

As a matter of fact, I’ve been experiencing a few bouts of wild passion lately, passion strong enough to spring out of my wounded heart and shout, “Hey, you valley camper!  Come on, get up!  Let me tell you about an amazing battery of truth that will work for you.  Pop it in!  Your view will change!  You will change.  Come on, you can do it!”

It feels risky to slow down from my contented state of busyness to carve thoughts into word sculptures again, but I think this may be the week to start.  I know I’m going to have to reprocess some pain to start writing again.  I’ve hit some pain writing this, but I survived.  And there’s this little light beaming off a certain verse for me right now, so I think I’m going to have to go with it.

…if it  is to encourage, then encourage. 

We'll see what the rest of the week holds. 

Thank you, Stephen, for your sweet spirit, and for the inviation to join you here.  It feels very - encouraging.  

“The gift of encouragement differs from the gift of teaching in that it focuses on the practical aspects of the Bible. One with the gift of teaching focuses on the meaning and content of the Word, along with accuracy and application.  One with the gift of encouragement focuses on the practical application of the Word. He can relate to others, both in groups and individually, by understanding their needs and sympathizing with them. Those with this gift help others to move from pessimism to optimism.” www.gotquestions.org/gift-of-encouragement.html