Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Yes & No



Yes to the first boyfriend, the narcissistic one, who taught me that I need to stand on my own two feet.

Yes to the big family I grew up in. The loud one. You taught me to love deeply and speak quickly before I was interrupted. You taught me to share.

Yes to the healing that came after my parents' divorce.
No to divorce.
Yes to moving on.

Yes to eighth grade, to too much makeup, to Bon Jovi singing "Livin' on a Prayer." Sorry to my parents for the eye rolling. No to the bullies.

Yes to traveling to Russia and Jamaica and Italy.

Yes to learning how to budget.
Yes to being frugal. No to being cheap.

No to saying, "We can't do that because it has never been done that way."

Yes to embracing your age and wearing it well.

No to only talking about one's self and never asking others about their life.

Yes to older people who are inspiring and haven't checked out of life.

Yes to people who are inclusive.
No to people who are only inclusive because they want to change you into versions of themselves.

Yes to Dan when he asked me out for pizza in college. Sorry I said no the first time. I was scared.

Yes to reading tremendous authors in art and thought and literature. Yes to Elizabeth Gilbert and Anne Morrow Lindbergh and Dallas Willard. Yes to Calvin & Hobbes and Bloom County. More yeses.

Yes to accepting one's self. The mind, the body, the emotions.

Yes to trying new things. Always try new things.

No to telling one's self that you can't do something because of age.
No to telling one's self that you're not... artistic, athletic, intelligent.
Yes to trying.

Yes to deciding who gets a voice in your life.

Yes to friends of all ages and walks of life.

Yes to true grace, the only source of which is God.

No to people pleasing. A thousand nos.

Yes to forgiveness. True forgiveness. It ushers in new respect for self and others.

Yes to learning new words and cultures and people and phrases and foods.

Yes to parties.
No to waiting to have parties until your house is perfect. Or your body. Or your bank account.

No to victim talk. But yes to grieving and wrestling through and receiving healing.

Yes to accepting the gray in life. Compromise is necessary in all relationships.

Yes to boundaries, but only ones done in grace.
No to raw pride. It has no room for others.

Yes to cake made with 2 sticks of butter.
Yes to arugula salad.

No to gossip. It destroys one's trust and reputation.

Yes to speaking the truth in love, even when it hurts.
No to not speaking up. No to ignoring someone in hospice because you are afraid of death. No to "waiting for the funeral" to say something nice.
Yes to speaking life.

Yes to listening to your emotions.
No to letting your emotions go unbridled.

Yes to big picture thinking. No to slapping on blinders.

Yes to planting trees.

Yes to spending money on vacations.

No to "not mentioning" lost pregnancies.

Yes to purging things out of your home which you don't need.

Yes to marriage. Yes to speaking kindness to the ones under your own roof.

Yes to admitting when you're wrong. Yes to having grace on yourself when you feel awful.

Yes to traditions. No to rigid ones which don't let others have any voice.

No to constant negativity. Yes to using disgust to springboard you into redemptive action.

No to blaming management all the time. Yes to rolling up your sleeves and asking how you can help.

Yes to servant leadership.

Friday, August 19, 2016

Sixteen



It was December 1998. We were 23 years old, both of us. We attended each other's work Christmas parties as friends. That's why we were at the Baltimore Harbor in December. It was really warm, unseasonably so. We walked a long time. We came to the Maryland Science Center there at the Harbor and stood gawking at a ridiculously life-sized looking dinosaur. It had qualities of the Brontosaurus. It was enormous. Somewhere between the minutes of looking at that dinosaur, making small talk about something prehistoric, we realized that we didn't want to leave.
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I was trying to figure out my budget and having a hard time understanding why all the dollars didn't add up. We were only dating. You asked me my salary and I hesitated. I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to know how little I made. But I trusted you and I told you. You didn't hesitate. You scratched out a budget for me on paper, never being cruel or condescending, always hopeful. From that moment, I trusted you.
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You told me about how you lost your toe. The lawn mower, the scary hospital visit, the whole story. I still couldn't bring myself to look at it, afraid it might still look raw. We were talking in my parents' kitchen and the family labrador sauntered in and began licking your toe. The one toe. That stupid toe that I didn't want to look at. But I did. It wasn't that bad. Just the toenail was gone, really. You laughed.
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We were going to visit your family in Iowa. You told me about your sister and your mom and your dad. We flew out before the Fourth of July. Before we landed you showed me your family picture and I laughed. "You never told me your sister was adopted," I said, looking at a woman who was clearly asian. "I didn't? Hmmm. Well, she's my sister so I didn't think of it." I loved you even more.
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The winter we were unemployed was the roughest one ever. The winter seemed twice as long and twice as cold. There was no relief. We were tired. But I watched you with such grace and strength and perseverance. I have never respected you more. Such a man.
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I told you we were expecting and you froze. We didn't plan for this. You looked sheet white. You were installing new light switch covers in our 75 year old house. You looked up at me and said, "Well I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing." At least you knew what you were doing with those lightswitches.

I gave birth in the wee hours of an October morning. I had written you off as being an involved father. You were not involved in the pregnancy at all. You seemed scared and appalled. When Morgan was born, something clicked in you. You were instantly protective. Your voice cracked. You were elated. I was relieved. We would be a family.
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We were on our way to the fertility clinic, so weary. My heart was too heavy to pray so my prayer was this: "Spoil me, God." The procedure worked and we were expecting. I was barfing all over the place, in neighbors' lawns and in our house. Everywhere. So sick from the pregnancy. Happy, but sick. 

We had two children. One conceived in unplanning and one conceived in a petri dish. What a story. But it doesn't matter now because they are here.
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You are silvering and I am graying. Every year that passes sprouts more hairs that are light and springy. You are silvering. I am graying.
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It was December 1999. You were nervous. I was cold. We were at the Baltimore Harbor again, walking in the frigid wind. You were scanning the Harbor, looking for the dinosaur. It was bigger than a semi-truck. How could it move? The dinosaur was not there. The place where we fell in love. You looked around frantically with the ring in your pocket and seeing how cold I was, you just went with the moment. You said "Will you?" and I wept. The dinosaur was a no-show, but we found love anyway. Two friends, starting a life together.