A blog intensifying the flavor of life and toasting those who share in the feast, rather than settling for a dry, plain, melba toast existence.

Widowhood 101: my first trip

Traveling has always been one of my favorite things. I remember at about the age of 10 being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up and saying, “I want to be a writer and go to London, England, and Paris, France.” I don’t know why I thought writing and traveling went together, but they do. Though I have yet to take that European trip, I have managed to make it to 43 of the 50 states, even if that meant just driving through, with a trip to Seattle, Washington possibly next since that is where my oldest son lives with his wife and son. The Deep South has never been a draw primarily because of how warm I imagine it to be. I haven’t wanted to go to Hawaii since a woman who traveled there came back and told my young impressionable self that “they have spiders the size of dinner plates!” No, thank you. I’ve heard Alaskan cruises are fun though I am not one drawn to cruises. I’ve also been to Canada numerous times which is nothing spectacular for someone who grew up in Michigan, which doesn’t mean that Canada is not a great place to visit because it definitely is. As far as visiting any other countries is concerned, the list is short: Istanbul, Turkey, where we had to spend the night after missing our flight on our way to Benin, West Africa when we visited our oldest son in the Peace Corps. At the time, I was hoping it would be the first of many trips to foreign lands. It turned out to be the first and last trip of this kind.

Sitting at the gate in Raleigh awaiting a flight to Denver to celebrate Mother’s Day with two of my three sons, I could not help but notice the passengers that required extra time for boarding, especially those in wheelchairs. The last flight I had taken with my husband was several years ago to NYC and was one of the places we knew for sure would have Uber lift vans. We were there for our son’s graduate recital and were so excited to be able to actually fly somewhere. The airline treated us with respect and made the entire trip memorable, in a good way. (It would not be until the ALS guy came to pick up the equipment that he noticed the manual wheelchair was indeed broken, with the airline tag still attached.) It was our last flight as we dared not try to do anything with a motorized wheelchair that was probably more expensive than any vehicle we have ever owned. But those days are behind me and the opportunity to travel again awaits.

I first went to Denver in the early 1980s, stayed a couple of years, returned for a summer, and then came back in the late 1980s. By the time we left in the early 1990s, I was a wife and a mother. What better place to celebrate motherhood than the place where it all began?

Just to pause briefly, considering my new identity and all, I really only considered being alone while making reservations for parking at the airport and chose the parking garage so I wouldn’t be wandering around a giant parking lot late at night when returning. As I looked around me while waiting to board the plane, there were quite a few passengers traveling by themselves, especially women my age and older. If you want to even call lining us all up and getting us all seated together on a plane “traveling alone.” In fact, as I think about it, it seems I am never really alone as there are always people everywhere I go, except sometimes on the path through the woods when there is only my dog. Even then, I don’t feel lonely as the deer run across the path and the squirrels run up the trees.

Back to flying. Because I didn’t want to pay extra to choose a seat, I was seated in the middle of a row toward the back of the plane with a woman on one side trying to feed her baby son his bottle as he smiled at me, and a young woman who made it clear from the start that she really enjoys talking while flying, on the other. The conversation became focused on motherhood as I said I was going to celebrate Mother’s Day with two of my sons and she said she was contemplating becoming a mother. Then, assuming I was married as I mentioned children, and I am still wearing my wedding ring because I don’t feel ready to take it off, this total stranger asked me the question: what does your husband do? And here I was, taken aback slightly, though I really don’t know why. “He died,” I said.

What I’m finding is there seem to be a variety of responses to this answer. As I have been mainly dealing with organizations that need the death certificate to verify his death, most of the responses I get are something to the effect of “our condolences.” This woman, however, used some colorful language and suggested we get something to drink. I explained that airplane food and drinks are ridiculously expensive and I really did not need anything. She whipped out a credit card, said it was her company card and the drinks were on her! I figured a little red wine couldn’t hurt as I knew we would be talking for hours. The mother passed her baby to the father a few rows up so both she and the baby could take a nap. The baby across the aisle who was also smiling at me fell asleep. Babies are my people, which is why we have this rapport, I explained. And, by the way, becoming a mother is the absolute best thing you can ever do.

When I got off the plane, I was greeted by my son who had flown in from NYC, standing there with a cup of coffee for me. Boys who know what pleases their mothers are a blessing from God. We waited outside briefly for the Boulderite of the family to pick us up and drive us to his apartment. I could tell before we even arrived what he loved about living there as runners and cyclists were everywhere! And people in vehicles were actually stopping for them beside signs instructing that it is the law to do so!

Walking down the Pearl Street Mall was even better than I remembered it years ago when I would take a bus on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon just to walk around and see the shops. I used to go to an arts and crafts cooperative to be inspired by unique clothing and works of art. What exists now did not disappoint. Art abounds there! Shops and restaurants, outdoor musicians, children playing while their parents socialized, people walking their dogs. It is a beautiful place to be. The nachos we split, along with the burrito were absolutely excellent. The weekend feasting had begun!

Saturday morning we would discover the Farmers’ Market which is always a great thing to do, but an outdoor market with an entire section of food ready for lunch was even better! We sat in a park looking at the Flatirons while eating our lunch, (mine was sweet coconut curry!), and planning our trip further West. For the adventure was only beginning.

Until you are in a vehicle traveling up close and personal to mountains can you even begin to assess their size and grandeur. It also gets more and more challenging for us flatlanders to breathe. Before one is acclimated to high altitude living, it is common to feel tired, out of breath, and possibly even have nose bleeds, like I did when I first moved out to Colorado many years ago. I think it took about six months for me to finally regain my energy. This was right after graduating from college so I was undoubtedly already exhausted. But in time I was able to walk to work without any issues which was a good thing since I didn’t own a car. Fortunately a bus pass was affordable and I could always jump on one of those.

When we stopped for a beer and a snack in Frisco, it actually snowed for a few minutes! The true Colorado experience. The hazy IPA named The Goat was exceptional, along with what was called a “bird bowl” which was crispy chicken over rice with this amazingly spicy sauce. Flavor is always welcome!

My youngest son doesn’t like selfies so he became our photographer.

Turquoise Lake was low and the water was cold.

Leadville, the two-mile high city, was our destination.

My NYC son contemplating the distance to his home from the hostel.

Walking the streets of a city about the size of the one I grew up near in Michigan was a fun experience. Leadville actually reminded me more of the village near Lake Michigan I liked to frequent in the summer. In the off-season months there is not a lot of competition to get into the clothing store one must have an appointment for, or the old saloon that has been a watering hole since back in the days when the mines were operational and the miners needed a place to have a beer after work.

We went there just to say we had been there.

We would then get our “mountain pie,” otherwise known as a pizza, and head back to the hostel. Before heading up to the room for the night, I thought spending a few minutes in the massage chair would be just what I needed.

I was wrong. Plastic “fists” are not human hands! Ouch!

Lying down for the night (the boys let me sleep in the bed while they took the bunks)I felt like my heart was beating out of my chest. Like I had just gone running or something crazy like that! It took some time of focusing on breathing deeply to calm down my body enough to sleep. I had been warned of this happening and was in no way surprised though it is kind of hard not to panic as it feels like I would imagine the beginning of a heart attack may feel.

The next morning I enjoyed coffee with my NYC son while the Boulderite, a member of the ultramarathon community, met up with a fellow runner to do what he loves to do: run. He not only runs in the mountains but has competed and placed in several mountain races. The objective to the Leadville 100 (miles) is to finish, which he has also done. He obviously acclimated quite a while ago. This has also been in his favor when he has come back to North Carolina to compete in local races. “The guy from Boulder” as he was referred to at one of the races actually won that race. I assured the race organizers he was actually from Greensboro, but it no longer mattered because since he runs at altitude, even coming back to hang out with us flatlanders means he will always have an advantage.

Because this was Mother’s Day, my surprise would soon be revealed. I had been asked to bring along my swimsuit and having forgotten that crucial piece of clothing, we stopped at a sporting goods store so I could purchase one. It truly is one of the cutest suits I have ever owned. We would then go to . . . (drum roll please) the hot springs! I was hoping that was going to be the surprise. Unfamiliar with this particular area, I had been to hot springs in another part of Colorado and knew it would be great. We wanted to go to the rock beds and sit, where many already were and could not find water that was warm enough to do so. One had to really get into the water since the air was quite cool. But there were two pools where we were: one warmer than a regular swimming pool, and the other like a hot tub. So we went from one to the other and back again. It was far more relaxing than that massage chair!

My son loves the mountains so much he could not bear for me to crop this photo. The only one of all three of us.

We stopped at a sandwich shop on the way down the mountain and the owner asked us where we were from. He said he loved to visit Nags Head on the Outer Banks because it reminded him of Lake Michigan. He was from Wisconsin. I understood his perspective quite well even though he was from the “wrong” side of the Lake. (Michigander joke. Sorry!) We made our way into Golden where we would walk around and wait for our reservation to my youngest son’s favorite restaurant.

Sitting outside as the prayer flags were blowing in the cool breeze and lights hung from the trees, we enjoyed some of the best food ever! Curries with lamb and yak (!) and some with vegetables, items with vindaloo and masala in their names, plain naan bread and some crispy with garlic, sauces that made everything taste even better, and sweet rice pudding filled the ramekins on the platter before us. A feast to behold! My Mother’s Day dinner.

The next day we would attempt a short hike. I didn’t see a problem as I walk all the time and sometimes even as much as a 3 to 4-mile loop. But I’m not one who is used to the elevated path and at one point I was so dizzy I had to sit down. Not great but real. I certainly was not the only one struggling, and I’m not referring to my sons. Once we made it down, a cold lemonade helped me recover.

We then dipped our feet into the creek that runs to the west of the city. The water was extremely cold yet I could understand an ultramarathoner making good use of it after a long run.

Our last meal of the trip was at an English pub that seemed a bit more Irish to me as my NYC son and I enjoyed the Guinness, bangers and mash, and fish and chips while the Boulderite had a hamburger. There was even some very Irish sounding live music that one could dance a jig to, if that person were not already exhausted from trying to breathe!

It was around this time I became aware that my flight has been cancelled. (!) Yet there was another flight offered immediately. And it was way better than the first one. It would also solve the problem of how I would get to the airport because my other son flying out would need to go to the airport at a similar time. Though it seemed in many ways like we had just arrived, it was time to pack up our backpacks and head to our respective homes.

Getting up at 4:30 a.m. for those who are still on eastern time zone is not that bad. In fact, for us to travel West is not nearly as taxing as the westerners traveling East. We made it to the airport in great time and said good-bye to my youngest son who would then have to drive an hour back to his apartment and get ready for his remote day of work. I would only get to go through TSA with my other son as we would then head off to our designated concourses.

This is what 6 a.m. at an airport looks like.

And then I was on my own again, with who knows how many hundreds of other passengers heading off in as many directions as is imaginable. I had a wonderful latte while reading my magazine and then decided I had better get the fruit cup and small pastry since I would have a long day ahead of me. Again, I noticed women my age or older sitting by themselves waiting to board the plane. Had they traveled to see their children on Mother’s Day? Maybe because there are so many retired Boomers, this is just what we do. In any case, I never felt alone or lonely, or even sad. In fact, I’m pretty sure my husband would have been thrilled that I got to take this trip. I know he felt guilty that I was tied to taking care of him even though he knew I loved him. I knew he loved me, too, which is why it isn’t as sad for us as for people who struggle to love each other and then are forced to say good-bye without ever resolving the tension or receiving the apology so reconciliation can be extended. In the end, all we could say to each other was, “I love you” and that was enough.

This time I was in the very last row on the plane which was a first for me. On one side was a woman who slept almost the entire time and on the other was a young woman who read her Kindle the entire time. This gave me a chance to rest until the coffee and cookie were served. I only had one baby smile at me, but it meant a lot. It always does. The landing was smooth and the sun was shining as I made my way home. I would then unload my backpack and go to my friends’ home to see my dog “smiling” at me and “kissing” my hand. We would go home to sit on the deck for “happy hour.”

My first trip has left me with wonderful memories. My three sons have all cared for me and loved me. The two who could make the trip made sure I had one of the best Mother’s Days ever. It was filled with delicious meals, beautiful scenery, hot springs excitement, and the cool vibe the West, particularly Boulder, has to offer. I was blessed to be up for the adventure and look forward to whatever comes next. Of course, I hope it will be another trip!

Widowhood 101: perception is NOT reality

Wooden chair with plaid blanket by window showing sunset outside

I still remember the time when someone said to me, “You know, perception IS reality.” And though I can’t remember to what she was referring, I knew with absolute certainty the opposite is true. I was not going to argue with this individual as she held a respected position in the business world while I was working part-time teaching preschool so I could take care of our kids, but not speaking up has pretty much defined me. And because I do not speak up, the perception of others has been allowed to run wild.

Though it seems that widows are categorized as being sad, lonely, and perhaps overwhelmed with grief, as a widow I am beginning to see how flawed basic assumptions and perceptions can be. I also wonder what we have learned to accept about the stages of grief.

Being Sad. Sadness is extremely specific to each person experiencing it. As someone who is far more realistic than optimistic, I’ve had way too many disappointments in life to allow sadness to take much of a foothold. There are also ways to combat sadness, like a walk on a trail through the woods, if there is no beach nearby, or even a really good cup of coffee. Sometimes I like to counteract the sadness with intentional sadness and though it does not seem that this would work, for me it absolutely does. For example, I will always cry at the scene when the Irish woman is reading to her two young children who she has tucked into bed as the Titanic is sinking. I watch that movie when I need a release from sadness and know that a good cry will do me good. I recently watched the entire Touched by an Angel series knowing that when it comes time for the angel to say, “I am an angel, sent by God” that the tears will come. Cleansing, healing tears.

Being Lonely. I don’t know how many times I’ve said that being lonely is not the same as being alone. And if I am living into the faith I claim to have, I am never truly alone. I’m not alone when I’m reading, praying, watching something online or on television, or just hanging out with my dog. As a child I spent quite a bit of time alone, because I wanted to. I was also usually reading a book which one has to do–alone. I remember sitting in a certain tree writing in my journal, sitting on a large rock at the top of the hill contemplating life, and walking through the woods to Grandma’s house. Literally. I don’t know why I didn’t feel lonely. I just didn’t. I couldn’t wait to get my own dorm room in college even if it was more expensive. It was wonderful! And then living in an apartment by myself, well, I would listen to Prairie Home Companion on a Saturday night and feel completely happy and not at all alone. I would look forward to going to my apartment after a day of being with people. Some things about me have remained the same.

A widow I met a few years ago whose husband had just died of ALS told me that her saddest, loneliest day was when the people came to pick up the equipment her husband had been using. After these items were gone, she sat down and cried. It was really over and she would have to face it. I braced myself for this, but when the guy from the ALS organization came to pick up the manual wheelchair, motorized wheelchair, Hoyer lift, and transfer chair, I felt relieved that the house could eventually be rearranged and put back in order. I was happy reassembling the sectional sofa that had been in pieces throughout the room for years. I had asked the hospice guy to pick up the bed, oxygen tank, and ventilators my husband never even got around to using after he became an in-patient. It felt kind of weird that I had not waited for my husband to transition to his eternal home before the equipment was picked up, but I knew he would not be coming back to this one. Maybe I was tired or stressed or who knows what. All I felt was relief that the medical equipment did not take up any more space here–physically, mentally, or emotionally.

Overwhelmed with Grief. To be honest, I no longer even know what that means. I’m a woman of a certain age who needs to make sure she eats right, gets enough sleep, exercises, and takes her vitamins and supplements. I simply cannot exist in a state of being overwhelmed. And live to tell about it, that is. But I fully realize that I have had far more time to prepare for the eventuality of my husband’s death than other widows I know. Had it been accidental or sudden I may have found myself in the fetal position on the rug by the couch trying to make it through the day. And I don’t blame anyone for going through times so dark it seems a light is never going to shine again. We each have our own path and sometimes the journey is long.

For me, the grief took hold at the time of the diagnosis. In the year preceding that day there were a series of falls while my husband ran, training for another marathon, and on his bicycle that he had finally managed to bring out of the shed where it had been stored for many years. The diagnosis of a fatal disease seems unreal, especially when it is given to the healthiest person I ever knew. How could this be happening? Maybe that is the denial stage of grief. It doesn’t make sense, so why believe it? Why? Because it is reality.

Was there anger? Yes! But not necessarily at anything or anyone in particular. I remember my anger at God looking like a toddler shaking her fist at a loving Father. The toddler has no idea what she is doing. The Father only loves in return. It is ok to get angry with God. He doesn’t get angry back. Was there anger at the loss? I’m sure there was plenty of anger to go around, as one loss led to the next and picked up speed as time went by. I would lose my husband, the love of my life. We would lose our plans for travel and anything we had ever hoped to do in retirement. We had raised our kids and lived our lives full speed ahead right up to the point in which this roadblock, or as my husband named it, “the Monster” came to live with us. I think it was healthy for us to direct our anger toward the Monster of ALS. We couldn’t direct it at anything or anyone else. It is a fatal disease without a cure. There is only one ending to this story.

The bargaining part of the stages of grief always makes me laugh. As if I could bargain with God! Ok, God, cure my husband and I will . . . what?! Become a better person? Try to sin less? Tithe more? What do you want, God? Just show me what to do?! And again, as a loving Father I can see Him smiling at His totally imperfect child who is no more able to keep these promises than any other ones I could come up with. Who do I think I am?! I am not in charge! He is, and healing is always a possibility.

If there was a period of depression, it was when I realized I had to be my husband’s caregiver. I could not make plans or set goals. I needed to be as available to him as I had been to our three sons when they were babies. In fact, I was really glad I experienced those early days of motherhood because that kind of selflessness is required in caring for someone who is slowly losing his ability to do absolutely everything. It is also somewhat depressing to watch your marriage of equals slowly become the friendship it started out as, except this time it is as patient and caregiver. When we were “married” he did a ton of stuff, all of the time. We shared everything. We didn’t always agree. Opposites attract. But we loved each other enough to learn how to compromise. We learned how to apologize in a meaningful way. We got to know more about each other than anyone else on the planet knew about either one of us. So when he was being cheered on for taking longer walks with his walker, or going to the local pool while he could still swim laps, I was trying to not let him see my depression or my grief. To everyone else he was an inspiration. To me he was slowly transforming into someone else. He would often say a marathon was two races: 20 miles, and the final 6. Our marriage was becoming the same way: 30 years, and then the final 7.

The final stage of grief is said to be acceptance. Accepting the transition into a wheelchair. Accepting the dents and scratches on the walls and doorways made by a wheelchair. Accepting a new bathroom that I really do not care for but had to have. Accepting that accessibility has a wide definition, which means that some things that are said to be accessible are indeed not. Accepting that air travel is limited since airlines are known to destroy wheelchairs. Accepting that he would have to take retirement, fortunately at the right time. Accepting that I would have to take retirement early.

So after accepting each new thing the Monster threw at us, I would then have to accept one day that my husband was permanently gone. This reality regarding his absence actually gives me a degree of comfort, knowing that he is no longer suffering. As I’ve told many, I lost my husband a long time ago. What I mean is that the man I married became a different version of himself due to no choice of his own. He made the best of a horrible situation for which he should be praised. But, nevertheless, I lost him. And in enduring that grief, I have found a certain amount of strength. I got used to being in charge of everything and doing as much as I could. I also got used to eating alone after I put him to bed, and watching whatever I wanted on television, usually Netflix, all by myself. Getting used to something does not mean a preference for it.

My husband’s motto was to be grateful for everything. This is easier said than done. And yet the number of people who have reached out to me online, through texts, calls, and cards and letters has numbered in the hundreds. How can one not be grateful when everywhere I turn someone is sending me their well-wishes and love? It has, in fact, been so overwhelming that I have neglected to send thank you notes, much to my mother’s dissatisfaction. In my mother’s defense, she is not online and doesn’t understand how online posts responded to with emojis or even a brief comment are more or less a modern day thank you note. I did read an article that took me off the hook since it is widely perceived that a widow’s grief undoubtedly makes writing thank you notes an impossible task. Maybe this is a correct perception. Maybe not. Whatever the case, the tiny box of 30 notes handed to me by the funeral director was never going to be enough to fully express the thankfulness I feel to all those in my world. And maybe that is where the healing is found, in exchanging the grief for gratitude whenever and wherever possible. For every sorrow, being willing to look a little harder for something good.

To end these thoughts on widowhood, at least for today, this metal object in the shape of a flower was on a vase a woman had brought to the house when she came to visit my husband in his final days. She brought the vase of flowers and an inspirational card for me, in particular. She was hoping I would feel strengthened. Cards lined the piano, the table, and shelves. First, cards for him; later, cards for me. And I didn’t pay any more attention than I could to them at the time. (I have since reread many of them and cried.)

On the day I needed to empty the vase, I noticed for the first time that this metal object was actually a daisy. My favorite flower! I had not even seen this until the other flowers had already withered. It is sometimes something this small that makes a difference in one’s day. It is in knowing that there will always be something to be grateful for, even in the midst of grief.

Widowhood 101: a pressing question

Before you get your exercise jumping to the conclusion that I am intending to begin a series on being a widow, my unfortunate new identity, I have only been one for about a month and because I am only starting on this journey, it could be argued that I barely even know what I’m talking about. And yet after the “How are you?” question asked by those who I have not yet trained to say instead, “It is good to see you,” the very next question lately has been, “So are you going to sell your house and move?” Some tack on after “move,” “to be near your sons.” Let’s think through this for a minute.

When my oldest son started dating the Seattle nursing student, I figured if they ever got to the marriage stage chances were good they would move to Seattle, especially since she found the North Carolina summers to be way too warm. After they lived in the D. C. area for a while, they did move to Seattle when they were ready to start their family, to be closer to her family. This all made sense and we cheered them on, knowing we may only get to know a grandchild through FaceTime calls. We met our grandson when he was two months old. He will be one in a few months. And yet, Seattle–is this a place where I want to live? I have never even been there!

Our middle son stayed in NYC after his graduate program and now that his girlfriend is finishing up hers, I sometimes wonder if they will continue to live in Manhattan. I was there in the 80s for New Year’s Eve and wanted to go to Times Square. I was told it was not worth it and I would probably be mugged. When I visited the city many years ago for a job interview I remember thinking that my favorite part of the city was actually Central Park, where the trees lived. At that point I was unaware of rats the size of cats and how noisy and crowded everything is. I was reminded during a visit a few years ago. The museums were the absolute best and we had some extraordinary food, but returning home to the quiet, I knew I would never survive the city.

And then there is Boulder, Colorado, the dream home of our youngest son who is a part of the ultramarathoner community and lives within a short distance of a trail leading straight into the mountains. Colorado is the place where my husband and I met, married, and had our first son. I moved into my husband’s house when we returned from the honeymoon and though it was only a 950-foot two bedroom, one bath, it was absolutely perfect for us. We would invite in a very large part-Irish Wolfhound dog and lived happily there, welcoming in our first son a few years later. Colorado suited our cycling, hiking, and camping lifestyle. And though I absolutely loved it, in the back of my mind I always wondered how long we would get to live there.

Like those asking now if I want to move near my sons to be near family, we wondered if we should move closer to my parents and left Colorado for Michigan before our baby was even one. But a really cold winter had us moving to North Carolina, to be near my husband’s family. (Though it was a really cold winter, it was far more difficult for my husband to deal with since he was not used to that amount of snow and lack of sunlight.)

Thinking back to when I went from Michigan to Colorado, it was a fairly seamless transition as far as adjusting to a new place is concerned. In fact, I fit in so well some Coloradans thought I was one of their own. I felt that way too, but as my hair got straighter and my skin got dryer I would long to be next to a body of water and maybe even the slightest bit of humidity. At that time it was Lake Michigan I missed since I would go there every chance I had to find peace and rest. Walking in the sand, watching the sun set over the water, even my never-ending struggle against sunburn, and I still loved it and missed it.

I would have a brief excursion to West Virginia for graduate school which had its own challenges. When a student found out I was “from” Denver that person immediately did not like me. I tried to explain that I was not a city girl. I grew up on a farm six miles from a town of 2,000. We had hills and woods and referred to it as “the sticks.” They had the places in-between the mountains and would refer to it as a “hollar.” It was different and yet not really that different! Country is country whether anyone wants to agree or not!

Moving from Michigan to North Carolina years later had a few hiccups as well. I think it may have had more to do with Greensboro than North Carolina itself. My husband’s family had relocated to Greensboro when he was in college and he lived here several years before heading West. When I met him, I recognized the slightest Southern accent and knew he was not from Colorado. Of course when we moved to North Carolina, everyone knew I was not from here! I don’t know if I sounded more like a Michigander or a Coloradan by that point but since those accents are pretty closely aligned, it was impossible to tell. Bottom line: I was not a native North Carolinian and I had not attended one of the high schools where the majority of the people I met had gone. I had not gone to college here either. I did not say “y’all” and when someone once told me that the people we go to church with, near where we have lived for the past 26 years, are all related and “I wouldn’t understand,” I knew with absolute certainty that this person had no idea who I was!!!

Moving on to my other family–my parents are still among the “snowbird” group which is what people from Michigan who spend the winters in Florida are called. They have enjoyed the Michigan summer and the Florida winter for over a couple of decades and cannot decide which one they want to stay in, as travel is becoming more challenging. I have a sister and brother-in-law in Florida. She looks forward to retirement in another year and would probably consider a move to a cooler climate. He grew up there and cannot imagine leaving.

I have another sister and brother-in-law who live in northern Michigan. Their oldest son lives in Michigan and loves to travel. The younger son is not sure where his next home will be having spent the winter in Montana. They all love the snow, are great skiers, enjoy Lake Michigan which is quite close to their home, and do not enjoy the heat of anywhere to the south of where they live.

Having grown up in Michigan, I still have many relatives (we are all related!) and high school friends who are lifetime Michiganders. Visiting Michigan in August is one of my favorite things! So technically I would know more people near the small town where I grew up than anywhere else, except for here of course, and yet how do I go back to a town where there is one grocery store, a pretty good Mexican restaurant, a great pizza place, wonderful produce at the fruit/vegetable stands in the warmer months, and, well, that is a lot of it right there?! There are more touristy places in the lake towns that are fun but only opened seasonally. I’m sure Amazon delivers. Just not sure how long it takes!

So back to the pressing question. Do I want to sell my house and move? First a bit about my house. We bought what we considered a starter home when our sons were 1, 4, and 7. It was an incredibly difficult move and I knew we would be here a long time. I also knew it would be all we could do just to raise our kids, let alone do any renovations–needed or not. By the time my husband was confined to a wheelchair we did necessary renovations to make the house as accessible as possible. We even had a deck built, which is the best decision we ever made as it makes the house seem bigger. How we raised three very active boys in a relatively small house is anyone’s guess. My husband used to say the house bounced on its foundation and I’m pretty sure he is right about that. We also had a big backyard, the woods behind that and the creek on the side. We lived on the street that wasn’t the through street of the subdivision so the boys played there as well.

When a house is built in 1972 and the original carpet still exists, it is a goal to get it removed room by room. I am still in that process. I want to convert the accessible bathroom back into the type of bathroom it was before, and renovate the other one to make it better. But more than anything else, I want a new kitchen. I’m not a fancy person and I don’t have expensive taste. In fact, I really like IKEA and the way they have storage furniture for small spaces. I don’t need top of the line anything. But when the dishwasher finally gives out I already know there is not one made that size because we already did the research. The countertop is just too low. Period. And harvest gold–come on. I’m sure someone thought it was lovely. It really is not that bad, and having grown up in the 60s and 70s, I used to see it all the time. And then I didn’t. Because people remodeled. And I want that next person to be me.

I also know that a house needs a certain amount of remodeling before it can be sold for a decent price. We had some work done to our Denver house and then sold it before we could ever really enjoy it. I would love to think that I could have the new kitchen and actually get to cook in it. There could be shelves and a countertop and flooring that isn’t 1972 vinyl. 1972 was a great year for music, however, and I could listen to it while I enjoy the new stuff!

So do I want to sell my house and move? No. I want to upgrade my house and even though I may live more peacefully if the neighbor’s “doggie alarm” did not go off quite so often, I have some wonderful neighbors who I see while walking my dog. Though I don’t live far from a highway and there is a certain amount of traffic noise, I am often distracted by the bird songs I listen to while sitting on the deck. I am often amazed at how quiet it actually is here. I love quiet!

And North Carolina–let’s face it, it is a pretty great place to live. Two hours to Boone, three to the coast, five to my favorite place on the Outer Banks. There are mountains and beaches. Trails and parks. So many wonderful places to visit and enjoy. I never knew water could be warm until I came here! And though it does get a bit too warm for me in the summer, that is when I could take a trip up to Michigan! And maybe even get my sons to meet me there!

Yes. It would be too wild, but I would probably say yes.

Many years ago, Lee coached me to ride a bicycle and together we rode 100 miles in a day, aka a century, which is how long it felt. For me, at least.

After a long ride, we cleaned up pretty well.

On Wednesday, March 25, 2026, I turned on the coffee and took out Hoka, our flat-coated retriever. Barely awake, I suddenly was remembering the scene in The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King in which war has broken out and Pippin, one of the hobbits, is afraid he is going to die. He says he didn’t think it would end this way. Gandalf, the wizard, who had already experienced death and yet somehow returned to life says the following:

“End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The gray rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it.”

“See what?” Pippin asks.

“White shores. And beyond, the far green country, under a swift sunrise,” says Gandalf.

The Lord of the Rings trilogy is among our very favorite books.

It was then that I turned around and saw the most majestic sunrise I have ever seen! The entire sky was filled with red, orange, and pink as my heart filled with more joy than I had felt in a very long time. All I could think of was that this was my husband, Lee’s, grand finale, his exit after so many years of suffering thanks to the Monster who had come to live with us seven years ago, aka ALS. I actually spoke out loud, “Wow, Lee!”

I went in the house, fed Hoka, poured myself a cup of coffee and shortly after sitting down at my computer, my phone rang. It was the hospice nurse saying, “This is the call.” I was in no way surprised as Lee had already said good-bye to me on his way out of this world.

Lee’s slow progression of ALS started in his feet, gradually forcing him into a wheelchair, a cruel reality for a man who loved to cycle, ski, swim, run, hike, and take many walks with his wife, three sons, and usually a dog. His arms would be next to weaken, eventually making it impossible for him to even lift a book, the activity he loved the most after all of the rest were taken. Fortunately he did not lose his voice until the very end and we were able to make the most of what we had left for as long as we could: happy hour each day when we would talk about our kids and have a beer or glass of wine out on the deck. When he contracted pneumonia, the progression of the disease picked up speed. A wound emerged that could not be healed and it was at this point we only had to say the word, “hospice,” for all medical intervention to end. A fatal disease combined with an incurable wound would only allow for so much. He would spend his final three weeks as an in-patient in the loving care of hospice.

There are many stories I could tell about our last seven years together, many better ones about the first 30, and perhaps some thought I would touch on those when I stood up to speak at his funeral. But I knew I would not be able to do so. There was only one story I trusted myself to be able to get through without completely falling apart and that is the story of how we met. It goes like this.

It was 1984 and I was in the second year of my two-week vacation to Denver, Colorado after graduating from Michigan State University. I was attending a large nondenominational church when one day a guy asked if I would join others to pray for a man who had been in a head-on collision and had two broken wrists. I said sure. What’s the worst thing that can happen?! That man was Lee Shores.

Lee would say afterward that as soon as he saw me, he knew I was “the one.” I was, however, oblivious to this idea. So oblivious that when I was sitting in church and my friend, Paulette, elbowed me and said, “Look, there’s Lee Shores. Isn’t he cute?” that I said, “Sure, he’s cute enough. But let me tell you something about Lee Shores, Paulette. He is the PERFECT example of the kind of guy who will NEVER give me the time of day.” OF course, if you knew Lee, you would understand that he didn’t want to give anyone the time of day because he was far more interested in how the clock works!

I think he called me once though I couldn’t figure out why. And shortly afterward I left that church for a much smaller church. A church so small they did not even have their own building. They rented space from other churches. And then it wasn’t too long after that I realized I had worked far too hard in school to continue to be a temp, or a waitress which I was terrible at. I needed to find a school that would offer me a graduate assistantship since as usual I had no money, and I found one in Marshall University in West Virginia. So I left Colorado expecting never to return.

But because I was still studying journalism since I couldn’t figure out what else to study, I needed to find an internship for the summer and happened to find one at a magazine in Denver, Colorado. I found a different apartment in the same house where I had lived before, caught up with my little church, which was now meeting in a different place, and had a lovely summer.

I then went back to Marshall, graduated, and took a job in Maryland. After three weeks I came to my senses and realized: I didn’t want to live in Maryland, and I didn’t like that job! So I went to California, because why not?!

I soon became aware that California was not where I wanted to be either and just longed to return to Denver where I found an apartment in the house next to where I used to live until one became available in the original house (the house wasn’t that great; it was just where I lived) and tracked down my little church now meeting in a different location and you’ll never guess who practically met me at the door. Yes. That would be Lee Shores. Welcoming me to HIS church! He was the center of all activity. It was someone’s birthday; he had made the cake. Everyone knew him. They were already beginning to forget my name, if you can even imagine! Life went on from there.

One day Lee called to ask whether I was going on the church retreat. The church was so small that the whole church joined other small churches on an annual retreat in Glorieta, New Mexico. I wanted to go but as usual had no money. Lee asked if he could pay my way. I was excited that I would be eating that weekend! Then Lee said that I could ride with him which made sense since I didn’t have a car, but then I thought, “Oh no. This is bad. Everyone is going to think we are together and we aren’t.” Like the pastor smiling and waving as we drove into the center’s parking lot, and then the people I ran into from another church who wondered when I had gotten married since here was this man at the counter paying for my room. I assured them that we were not together and I did my best to try to distance myself from Lee.

At lunch in the cafeteria, I was sitting with some friends who invited me to join them for an afternoon in Santa Fe. I said I wasn’t interested. They left and I immediately knew I had made a mistake. I really did want to spend the afternoon with someone. I looked up and all the way across the cafeteria, yet directly in front of where I was sitting, was, you guessed it–Lee Shores. I said to myself, “Fine” and walked over as every person at his table got up and left, smiling and waving. He asked if I wanted to join him for an afternoon of window shopping the galleries in Santa Fe and I said, “Ok.” We had a wonderful afternoon and when we were returning to the retreat center he asked if I would sit by him during chapel that evening. By this time, I was like, “Of course.” (hair toss)

When I walked into the chapel an entire row of people got up and moved behind us, smiling and whispering, so that Lee and I could sit together. The pastor got up to deliver his message and all I remember him saying was that he was going to talk about God’s provision for our lives. It was as if the ceiling had opened and a light from heaven was shining down on Lee. In that moment I knew he was going to be my husband! I was going to get married! Then I did what some girls do when they are proposed to and I started crying, which was really confusing to the whisperers sitting behind us. Lee put his arm around me and was getting me Kleenex. I do not remember what happened after this.

On the drive back to Denver the next day we told each other our life stories. I was only 26 but I had some stories to tell. He had quite a few himself. By the time he was dropping me off at my apartment, I decided to say something. What did I have to lose? I said, “I feel like we are more than just friends.” He said, “I feel exactly the same way.” I couldn’t believe it! This was really happening! And then . . . NOTHING happened! We didn’t go out on dates. He didn’t call. We may have taken some walks with other people. But really nothing happened. I convinced myself after several weeks that I had made the whole thing up. I do have a vivid imagination.

After almost a month, Lee called one day and invited me to his house for dinner. I thought, “Oh my goodness, he is going to ask me to marry him!” (I had totally lost my mind by this point, apparently.) I made a pie and walked over to his house to be greeted by his friend, Eric, who was there, for lack of a better word, to interrogate me! So I came up with the most outrageous answers I could think of, just in case. But I must have passed the test because Eric went home, and Lee and I were sitting on the couch when he leaned over and say, “Would it be too wild if I asked you to marry me?” To which I said, “Yes. It would be too wild, but I would probably say yes.”

Lee: “Will you marry me?”

Me: “Yes.” (pause) “Wait a minute. This is ridiculous! Outrageous! Time out!”

Lee: “What seems to be the problem?”

Me: “We don’t even know each other!”

Lee: “Well, what would you like to know?”

Me: “Ok. For starters, when would you like to have this glorious event?

Lee: “I would like to be married before I turn 35.”

Me: “Wow! Good plan! Me too! So . . . how old are you now?”

Lee: “I’m 34.”

Me: “Really! Ok. So . . . when’s your birthday?”

I had pledged my undying love forever to a total stranger.

In summary, I have made some questionable decisions in my life. But there are three decisions that stand out as being absolutely correct.

Number one: Following God. I never know what this is going to look like or where He will lead me, but it is always going to be the right decision.

Number two: Marrying Lee. Who knew?! It was one wild ride, but it was the right one. Lee was God’s provision for my life.

He used to say, “Come with me if you want; don’t tell me I can’t go.” Always the adventurer.

The way I will always remember Lee, a couple of years before ALS.

Number three: That night when Lee and I sat on the couch planning our future together we decided we wanted to have two and possibly even three kids. And that has been one of the best decisions we ever made as we ended up with three of the finest sons we could have ever hoped for. (I then introduced our three sons and they came forward to share.)

Though it may seem like the Monster had the final say in dragging Lee out of this world, the Monster merely went off the cliff only to reemerge in someone’s else body when that person least expects it. I am glad to be rid of the Monster even if he did take Lee’s body. Lee’s spirit is now in eternity with his Maker where he has no more pain or suffering, and the memories of our beautiful life together will live on with me forever. I pray that someday a cure for ALS will be found so no one has to make room for that hideous Monster ever again. Amen.

Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhone exhibit would be as close to the Rhone as we would ever get to go together.

WE WENT TO THE BEACH!!!

friends, music, and beagles

Sometime in 1992 I became part of a diverse group of people hired to work for what was considered a long-term temporary assignment at Denver’s largest law firm. Joining me was a high school principal who was between jobs and always got us laughing at his stories, a theatre actor who could not help but be dramatic pretty much all of the time, a couple of younger women who may or may not have been truly qualified to do this sort of work (trying not to judge), another woman who had studied journalism, and a paralegal named Vicki. I believe there were a few others but these are the ones who stand out the most in my memory. We were just below the paralegal supervising the project in the hierarchy of the firm. In other words, at the bottom. Paralegal research assistants are what we were called, or more specifically, database editors. Before the assignment ended I was promoted to co-manage the project since being the other person who had studied journalism, editing was something for which I had trained.

I had worked an earlier long-term temp job at the same firm in 1988 when we jumped up and down with joy the day we figured out how to get all of our computers to “ding” at the same time! It was called email. The main thing I remember about that job was the day that one of the women called me into her office to tell me she had actually taken her “name” from an obituary and had assumed the identity of a dead woman since she was running from the law . . . in a law firm! The last time I saw her she was running down the sidewalk after discovering the “Denver boot” on one of the wheels of her car parked on the street outside the office.

The only other thing I remember is that we could see the entirety of a tornado from the huge windows on the upper floor where we worked as we looked to the south of downtown as it approached, and I hoped it was not in the process of destroying the Pizza Hut my husband was managing. I would not know until after work that it had touched down right next to the restaurant, but would find out later I was not a widow. Life before a cell phone consisted of praying and hoping for the best.

But this 1992 version of a long-term temp assignment was my favorite temp job. Instead of answering the phone at the front desk of an oil company and reorganizing the file room in their land department, (which I had also done for a period of time for a paycheck while I was building my portfolio writing feature articles for a newspaper) I was part of an interesting group who really tried to enjoy whatever we could, tucked away in a nondescript room of this enormous building downtown. At some point the theatre guy said we should take turns playing music according to each of our unique tastes. This would broaden our horizons as we would patiently listen to country western, jazz, possibly even rap (may have blocked that one out–no offense), contemporary Christian, and top 40, to name a few. His choice was show tunes, no doubt, which I love, by the way. I’m not sure if I requested classical, or better yet, silence, so I could work more effectively, but I remember this activity being a bonding experience for the total strangers that we were.

I remember talking to Vicki and though she was somewhat older, I felt like we had some things in common. She was from Chicago originally so we had that midwestern-cold-wind-blowing-over-Lake-Michigan experience. The sadness of her divorce seemed to be always with her and I wondered if she would ever really be ok. Her ex-husband was an attorney so I’m sure the alimony came in handy, but her loneliness showed.

The other thing that was beginning to show was the fact that I was pregnant. Not sure I wanted to share something so intimate with this group of strangers I spent every working day with for the better part of a year, I would nibble on my Saltines secretively in the hope that no one would catch on to what fortunately never turned into morning sickness and remained just a little queasiness from time to time in the first trimester. Because this was my first pregnancy, it would take quite awhile for me to need to move into my new maternity wardrobe. But once I did I became the center of attention, whether I wanted to be or not. The theatre guy organized a baby shower of sorts offering a giant chocolate chip cookie and tiny blue booties. He then invited me to one of his theatre parties giving me a name tag that had “Mary, mother of the angel Gabriel” on it. Though his knowledge of theology may have been questionable, his kindness was genuine and I remember hoping that AIDS would not take him out as it had so many.

As the case we were working on began to resolve, fewer of us were needed for this project and our group diminished in size. When the case was settled, documents needed to be shredded as we would all find ourselves unemployed. Again. I was the last one to close the door to an office where we had adapted to early technology, celebrated anything we could think of with music, and provided whatever we could as a team of temps. By this time I was eight months pregnant, wondering if I should become a paralegal since I was drawn to this type of work, or if I would ever work again once I gave birth to Gabriel.

I don’t remember exchanging addresses with Vicki but we undoubtedly did. My husband and I would leave Colorado a year later to experience one of the coldest winters on record in Michigan before moving to North Carolina where my mother-in-law was in need of our assistance and where our son would turn two. The main writing I was doing at that time was my annual Christmas letter and Vicki would always send a Christmas card, often with photos of her beloved beagles. She never had children, apparently, or ever remarried, but she loved her dogs.

As we moved from the first rental house to the second one right next door with the birth of our second son, I would keep Vicki on the Christmas list. The arrival of a third son would find us at another rental property further from Greensboro but right next to the railroad tracks. Because of my husband’s teacher salary, and my stay-at-home mom status, we qualified for a government loan as a low-income family and were finally able to purchase our own home. Our youngest son took his first steps here and 24 years later we still talk about renovating our 1972 kitchen even though the wall oven still works.

Last year I did not receive a Christmas card from Vicki. Instead I received a letter from her friend stating that she recovered my Christmas letter in a pile of letters Vicki had set aside in the “things to keep” pile as she was moved from her home to assisted living. I was touched that after all of these years of only communicating via Christmas cards that she would even care, but her friend gave me the new address so I continued the tradition.

Yesterday another letter from Vicki’s friend was in my mailbox and I knew what she was going to tell me before I opened it. I’m pretty sure Vicki did not receive this year’s Christmas letter before she went to her heavenly home, but this friend of hers wanted to thank me for my friendship with Vicki over all of these years. Friendship seemed to be an odd word to describe the type of relationship we actually had shared. We had merely talked during work breaks while editing documents for several months. We had taken the time to greet each other and acknowledge a kindred spirit once in awhile. We really had not done that much in establishing a friendship considering all of this happened over 30 years ago, and has existed through only one piece of mail per year.

But it doesn’t really take that much to let someone know that you care, does it.

I hope Vicki is getting to listen to the beautiful choral music that she loves that one may hear at St. John’s Cathedral which was where her memorial service took place–two blocks from where I had lived before getting married, having a baby, and moving away. If we get to have pets in heaven I would like to think there are a couple of beagles following Vicki around barking in the way that only beagles can, as her joy has now been made full.

Rest in peace, friend.

therapy = dog

Therapy can mean a lot of different things: talking to a counselor who after many sessions will say empathetically, “You need to learn to let things go,” trying to do online yoga in the privacy of my own home using a chair because I can’t really stand on one leg very well, or eating a warm scone with lemon curd I made from scratch. Add to that a cup of really great coffee and I’m good to go until happy hour.

Sometimes, however, when bad things have happened and I am having a difficult time letting them go (still learning, I guess), and the yoga is not giving me enough exercise to really change anything (even though I’m getting better at it), and food therapy will never help me reach my weight-loss goals (truth), a different therapy is needed. Dog therapy.

Choosing a dog, or more accurately, letting a dog choose you is a process. My oldest son’s fiancé recommended a dog rescue where the dogs are allowed to roam around free at this beautiful farm as opposed to those who are caged at the pound. I told the woman who was guiding us through the menagerie of dogs that I was interested in a young, large-breed male. After a couple of hours, she looked me in the eye and kindly mentioned that a smaller, slightly older dog may be a better choice for me. I realized she and I were probably similar in age as she shared her stories of handling dogs. And she was right. I didn’t need a dog who would pull me over or run away from me. It may also be helpful if I had a dog I could lift, if necessary. But we were not exactly finding a dog who sparked joy.

She paused, and said hesitantly, “Well, there is one other dog I can show you . . . she was just brought back.” You’ve got to be kidding me!, I thought. Why did the people who adopted this dog bring her back to the rescue, and more importantly, what is WRONG with this dog?!!

Into the fenced area she walked with a medium-sized female dog who was looking straight ahead as though we were not there. I don’t know what made me do it, but I whistled. Let me qualify that: I whistled the way I whistle, which isn’t really much of a whistle at all but two airy sounds that if you have a good imagination may sound sort of like a whistle. Immediately this dog turned and walked directly to me! I figured it was probably a fluke and once she lost interest and walked away I whistled again and she returned to me as though I had trained her to do exactly that. She also seemed not to mind at all that my husband was sitting there in his wheelchair and unlike some of the other dogs who felt the need to bark at him and avoid the chair, this dog seemed to want to get to know him. The woman begged us not to return her and assured us she was a great dog. What else was she going to say? We decided to give this dog another chance, so we took her home.

Another chance. This idea aligns so precisely with my belief system, that there was no way I could not adopt this dog. Another chance is also what I am usually not given by bad humans, causing me to seek therapy in the companionship of a really good dog.

Fortunately, I have had the pleasure of getting to know a couple of other really good dogs before we adopted this one.

Our first dog, Campagnolo Nuovo Record (we used to ride bicycles when we lived in Colorado), Campy for short, was brought to us by a woman we went to church with who lived in the foothills west of Denver. A dog had been spotted on a sandbar in the Platte River by a guy driving over a bridge. The dog’s back was broken but when the man took the dog to the vet to have him put down, he could not afford the cost and decided to give the dog to our friend who had horses and could nurse him back to health. Broken bones in a dog’s back can apparently fuse together without surgery. Though he was skin and bones, ribs protruding and unable to walk, we allowed her to leave him with us on a dog bed in our laundry room. He would not eat until I crawled to him slowly and then would only eat from my hand. Eventually he would manage to get up and walk out to our postage stamp-sized yard, until he was strong enough for a walk to the park. In time he would be jumping the six-foot fence and taking himself for a walk to the park with the neighbor, and then jumping back into the yard before we returned home at the end of the day. The vet told us excitedly that he was an Irish Wolfhound mix, but he would only be half the size at 65 pounds, as if that was a good thing for a couple living in an inner city neighborhood in a house that was around 950 square feet. Little did we know that wolfhounds do not require a great deal of space for their size and he spent hours living under our “half-acre” coffee table. We wanted to have the responsibility of raising a dog before we tried to raise a child, so Campy became our first son. A couple of years later we decided it was time to have human children.

Though we had to make it clear to Campy that he was not the alpha male, or female, he seemed to understand that he was a valued member of our family. He had a tendency to chew up cords, and totally destroyed our blinds, but once we figured it out, he really did not do that much damage. I would find my slipper on his bed when I returned from work and realized he didn’t want to eat it but just needed a little comfort when he was home alone. Our first son learned to walk by grabbing onto his fur as he growled ever so quietly, walking him around the house, learning that this little human was his to protect as would be the next two little guys who would come along.

We moved briefly to Michigan which was nice and cold for a large, long-haired dog. One day while I was waiting in our car when our oldest was still a baby, Campy sacrificed himself by lunging toward a larger dog, a vicious Rottweiler who had gotten loose and jumped into the hatchback that was open, heading straight toward the baby car seat. The dog’s owner intervened and thankfully all was well. That was the day, however, that Campy made it known that he was willing to do whatever it took to protect us.

When we moved to North Carolina the heat was a difficult adjustment for the dog and for me. He continued to do whatever he could to care for us to the best of his ability. One of my favorite things Campy would do was to sit on my feet, between me and any other person, just to make a point that no one was going to get near me without his approval. He would growl quietly whenever that landlady would show up. He was a great judge of character!

We were told that dogs his size didn’t live long and 10 years would be the limit. But after all of the years of running around the backyard, hiking, camping, and hanging out with our active family, he made it to almost 16. The night before he died he actually tried to walk away from me, which, as I would find out later, is what dogs do because they do not want their family to experience the pain of their death. He would collapse on the kitchen floor, not getting up. I called the vet the next day and we paraded into the vet’s office: two sad parents, three sad little boys, and a very large dying dog in the red wagon. Campy locked eyes with me as he was being given his final shot and died knowing he was loved. We would bury him out back and I would swear that I could hear him barking out in the woods from time to time.

The loss of our dog was so rough that we would end up waiting five years before feeling ready for another dog. I was past ready after two or three years but we were so busy with life and had so little funds left over, we kept putting it off. Finally one birthday I said, a dog is what I wanted so we went to the pound. I had never been to one before and had no idea how bad of shape many of the dogs were in. We took one dog out in the yard and he immediately tried to dig a hole and escape through the fence. The next dog looked like he was in shock and barely moved. I started to feel like this was all a bad idea when a dog who was being jumped on by a puppy (the puppy was literally jumping on his head!) kept staring quietly at me from his cage until we asked if we could take him out. He immediately went on his back, looking up at us as if to ask if we could go home now. He had run away from his home apparently, which in time would make perfect sense to us, and had only been at the pound a week so he was not yet too crazy. He seemed like a keeper, so we named him Keeper, also representing all the soccer that was going on with all three of our sons. We were not sure of his breeding since about half the dogs at the pound seemed to be identified as some kind of shepherd mix. Someone told us he looked exactly like a Catahoula Leopard Dog but we are not from Louisiana and have no idea.

We also called him Keeper of secrets because he didn’t bark.

Keeper would accompany us pretty much everywhere. He was a rowdy little boy like the rest of the rowdy boys in the household so he fit in perfectly. He tore the zipper out of every “indestructible” dog bed invented, so we eventually gave him a $10 thrift store chair to sleep in. He ran many miles, hiked many more, and would try to get away with running into the woods behind our home, hoping we wouldn’t see him. I would send the boys to go find him and would sometimes see my oldest son carrying him down the road to make sure he actually returned home. The last time I went looking for him I ended up in the hospital for three days with a severe allergic reaction to the poison ivy out there. He became blind, and deaf, and started walking so slowly I knew he was heading toward the rainbow bridge. Fifteen years suddenly seemed too short of a time to be with this faithful, loving animal. What seemed like a seizure or a stroke alerted me to the fact that he was done with this life and we had a man we knew from church go with me to the vet. There we were taken to a room dedicated to the final moments of a dog’s life with a fountain, background music, dim lighting and a jar of chocolates with a note that said, “Don’t let your dog leave this world without the taste of chocolate.” Keeper was already unresponsive when I unwrapped the Hersey kiss and put it under his nose. Surprisingly, he rallied and lifted his head as I placed it in his mouth. Looking pleased yet confused, since we would never give a dog chocolate because it is not good for them, he enjoyed his last morsel and went into eternal rest as the shot was given. The man was kind enough to bury Keeper next to Campy as we all cried. Being loved by a dog is one of life’s greatest gifts.

Seven months after the departure of Keeper, I would find myself longing for a dog again and with the “freedom” I was now given since I no longer had a job, even though it would take me months to actually feel free, I knew it was time to move forward. My mental and physical health were in need of the therapy only a dog can give.

We tried to come up with a name that represented us like our other dogs. Campy meant cycling; Keeper, soccer. The boys have become men and the one thing they all do is run. Hoka is their shoe of choice, so Hoka became her name. The word, Hoka, means to fly which is kind of what it looks like when Hoka sees a squirrel and leaps over our make-shift piece of plywood gate on our deck. Not sure what she would actually do if she ever caught a squirrel, but stalking them seems to be one of her favorite past-times. Unlike our other pups, she has not headed toward the woods but instead comes back home where the treats are kept.

We also have a routine down in which we go out first thing in the morning while the coffee is being made, I feed her, and then she “flies” onto the bed where my husband is waiting to get up and greet the day. She gives him his own therapy by snuggling with him a few minutes and then waits for us in the front room where she brings him her buffalo. She patiently waits to walk with me either around the block or at the park. She seems to be as attentive to our needs as we try to be to hers. A caregiver for a caregiver.

Hoka was born at the beginning of Covid in 2020 so we have wondered if someone wanted a dog while working at home but then had to go back to work thus abandoning the puppy to the pound. Whatever the reason, she was rescued from the pound which may have meant that she was about to be euthanized, and given a second chance for life at the dog rescue. At some point she broke her hip which required surgery, but dogs can form a new muscle and not need a hip replacement like people do, according to the vet. After she recovered, she was adopted. At some point she was brought back. And then we met her, I whistled, and she is now a part of our family. We estimate she has probably had at least four names before we named her but she is learning to come when we call. Not only has she recovered completely but can walk up to five miles, two or three on most days, which is increasing her strength as well as my own. And we are both losing weight (not sure about her, but I definitely am!) and becoming healthier!

She is a flat-coated retriever mix and actually retrieves things, a skill our other dogs were not that interested in. Though she doesn’t bark, she has barked a couple of times at the dog across the street so she CAN bark but apparently chooses not to. She actually has growled, too, mainly at our son’s puppy when the pup was being particularly puppy-like. She may have just been wanting to assert her dominance as the big sister. They spent the rest of the time stealing each other’s toys.

As she grows in the confidence that we have no plans of ever taking her back, she twirls when it is time for her to eat and jumps up and down excitedly, and sometimes runs around the house to demonstrate her joy when she sees me wearing my boots and hat which I only wear on the longer walks, usually on the paths through the woods at the park. Though we never allowed our other dogs on the furniture, because they would have eaten them, we are now permissive parents (more like grandparents, really), letting her on pretty much everything and she has not clawed or chewed anything, except her favorite little buffalo that my son bought her. She quietly maneuvers her way around the house waiting for the next chance to go outside. She greets everyone by sitting patiently while they pet her, except for one of our neighbors who she is particularly fond of and allows him to rub her belly.

If she even walks down the hallway at night, I never hear her. I find her on one of the couches or her dog bed in the morning, eager to start another day with more eating and walking, two of my favorite things as well. I found out that dogs her breed are actually trained to be therapy dogs and I was in no way surprised. She was exactly the dog I needed and she chose me!

I went to the seashore

I went to the seashore to be with the Lord.

I knew I would find him there.

I wanted to hear his voice.

I heard him in the rhythm of the crashing waves, foaming and splashing onto the warm sand, leaving behind a multitude of shells. His voice was carried on the sea breeze that guides the birds in formation, as they take turns diving for food along the shore, their graceful flight pattern flowing on the tails of the wispy clouds, in the bright blue sky of a sunny day.

Diving down, being lifted up, plunging into the refreshing water, setting sun, rising moon

Splashing, roaring and foaming waves, bringing the tide in and washing it back out

I went to the seashore to be with the Lord.

I knew I would find him there.

I wanted to find rest from the cares of the world.

Instead, I heard the whispering of friends and the hushed giggles of children, the storytelling of a mother and instructions from a father. I heard dishes clattering and pots boiling, fish sizzling in the pan. Car horns honking, radios blaring, repairs being made, neighbors calling out as their dogs barked, laughter and crying adding dimension to this vast crescendo of noise.

Hammering and honking, sizzling and boiling–dinner is almost ready

Giggling and yelling, blaring an intoxicating beat . . . as the music of life plays on

I went to the seashore to be with the Lord.

I knew I would find him there.

I wanted to know how to glorify him.

I sing songs of sweetest praise, but he keeps playing a more dissonant tune. I wonder what to wear, and he clothes me with righteousness. I wait on the Spirit, looking at life through stained glass. He gives me a vision and leads me out of the pew into his less than perfect world, stained with the tears of his broken-hearted, beloved children, all trying to hear his voice while discovering their own.

Amazing grace, hungry and thirsty, walking through the valley of the shadow, softly and tenderly

Shining this little light, on my knees, crying out with hands upraised, seeking the hope of a savior

The cacophony of sound startling my sensibilities is exactly the rhythm he intends to make—a rhythm that harmonizes with all of life. I am swept into a musical composition that is not of my choosing. How can I sing along when I do not know the words? This is not a song of solitude and quiet—a retreat from the loudness and busyness of the world. This is not my song!

But it is mine, says the Lord. My song of creation: deafening, discordant, beautiful, chaotic, hypnotic music creatively performed by all who will join in. Like a free-form improvisation that ebbs and flows without boundaries, this song of God emerges—its continuing melody perceived by those who have ears to hear. A tune so primal we know it in our hearts when we yield to its resonance and begin to understand that it is not a solo. It is an orchestral arrangement, an opera, a musical, a sing-along; a throw down jam session, masterfully written with a part for each one of us.

I went to the seashore to be with the Lord.

I knew I would find him there.

(Ears to Hear, @maryellenshores, August 5, 2013)

I did not grow up at the beach, and certainly not the beach I have visited in the last 20+ years where the Atlantic Ocean washes up onto the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I grew up fifteen miles from Lake Michigan where I would go every chance I could, in all kinds of weather. The sand there is lighter in color and the crystals are finer than the coarse sand at the ocean beaches. There are no shells and no salt, though sometimes there are stones on the beaches further north. The water is clear and cold, except for a few weeks in August when I would swim out to the buoys marking the swimming area at my favorite beach with my sisters and father, and I would hope that my legs would not cramp before I could swim back and enjoy the picnic my mother had prepared.

Though the wind I grew up with on a dairy farm was fresh, except for the days when the barn was being cleaned and the smell of manure permeated the air, the wind at the Lake always seemed fresher. Maybe because it was colder or there were no trees to filter through. It was not just the wind, but also the sound of the wind with the waves. The breeze that gave my soul comfort when I went to the lakeshore seeking healing after my aunt died. The wind that roared against my ears to remind me there were things more powerful than whatever problem I faced. The quiet at sunset when the breeze died down, the bonfire was lit, and silence spoke the words we needed to hear.

When I left my home in Michigan and eventually relocated to Colorado, I found peace in the wind coming off the mountains, especially while walking along a creek bed or near water rushing to lower elevations. Water and wind have always been together in my best experiences. I could add to that the sounds that accompany each for a natural trinity that has breathed upon me throughout my life, allowing me to sense God alongside me wherever I have gone. I have never been alone.

Later when I moved to North Carolina with my husband and our first son, I missed my windy lakeshore, and even the mountain winds I had grown to love in Colorado, until I found myself on the Outer Banks breathing in and out the glory of God at a much warmer temperature. I discovered sand crabs, sea birds and sea turtles, and tiny creatures that burrow in the sand as the tide goes out. I would fall asleep and actually dream under a beach tarp while my sons built sand castles after my husband read books out loud to them on our camping vacations, when we set our tents as far up into the campsite as we could, so we could see the water and feel the breeze. At dark we would move our chairs to the top of the bluffs so we could take in the vastness of the stars, a random satellite, and even the Milky Way.

The same wind that brought joy could turn destructive during a storm. Tents were ripped; supplies became water-logged. The beauty and danger of nature, life and death; so many things would allow for reflection at the beach. When I wrote Ears to Hear about ten years ago, I remember wanting to find only peace and rest, and then realizing that all of life somehow followed me to the seashore. We always end up together–God’s children–all seeking Him in our own ways, and not forsaking the fellowship. I breathe in God’s grace and mercy and breathe out my deepest fears and sorrows. All is made right. At least for a little while.

Four or so years ago we would camp for the final time at our favorite campground in the bluffs by the ocean. We would struggle to set up our campsite, and knew this part of our lives was coming to an end. Friends would give us the keys to their beach homes on occasion and we would happily make the trip to the coast of North Carolina, but I longed to visit the Banks again. A couple of years ago, we did so briefly when our youngest son did a 62-mile run down that narrow strip of land, but I longed to experience life on the barrier islands once again.

There have been times when I wonder if I could just bring my pain and sorrow as an offering at the seashore, and the Spirit of God would breathe upon us the strength we need to deal with the adversity of my husband’s ALS, as he has now outlived the estimated life span. I would like to think the wind and waves could carry out to sea all of the sadness and loss that has come to us in the last five years, in exchange for peace that surpasses understanding. I am, however, grateful for each momentary reprieve.

Bare feet in warm sand, sun shining down, birds diving for fish, dolphins, clouds, waves and wind, the tide coming in and going out–the Banks were beckoning. Search for a wheelchair accessible house, finding dates that would work for us and all of our out-of-state grown sons, locating a beach wheelchair, and all of the rest of the details eventually worked themselves out. Two planes, one car, and a lift van traveled east.

Then, three weeks ago, we found ourselves together on the Outer Banks once more!

Though there may have been a discrepancy in who the winner was, I assure you it was not me.

Our youngest son apparently lived out a boyhood fantasy of digging a really deep hole.

We will never really understand anything fully, except that breathing in God’s grace and mercy and breathing out everything else is what we will do until we are with Him on what I hope is our own eternal beach. A place where we will feel the wind on our new bodies without disability or sunburn. And take naps on the sand.

high heels or Birkenstocks

SPOILER ALERT: I will be referencing the Barbie movie in this blog. If you want to see it first, it is showing everywhere. I’ll be here when you get back.

I never had a Barbie doll. I’m not sure I ever wanted one. I don’t think I cared that much for baby dolls either. I had two younger sisters to play with and that was enough. I did end up with a Dawn doll though, a 6 and a half inch beauty with her own carrying case filled with tiny clothing for all occasions on tiny hangers, and her own blue convertible to drive around the kitchen and down the hallway. I don’t think it was her clothing that enticed me as much as its miniature quality. I would be inspired to create tiny shoebox dollhouses out of found objects like match boxes for beds and sew scraps of cloth into tiny curtains, bedspreads, and pillows, but I don’t remember having dolls tiny enough to inhabit them. I was more interested in books than in dolls though I really did like paper dolls.

As a child of the ’60s and ’70s, I was becoming aware that girls were being given more options than my mother had been offered. She said she could become a nurse, a teacher, or a mommy. At the age of 10, I decided I wanted to be a writer and travel the world. In eighth grade I co-edited the class newsletter and in high school co-edited the student newspaper, unaware that in the real world editorial positions were mostly held by men. I chose to major in journalism in college. It was there that I would begin to experience what it was like to be a female entering into this profession.

Broadcast journalism was not the direction in which I wanted to go, even though Barbara Walters was one of my primary role models, but I was required to take it for my major. We were going to do radio journalism and be sports reporters that day. The professor needed a couple of students to do this report. He chose me. A male student immediately raised his hand and protested this travesty saying, “A girl can’t do the sports report!” The professor told me I had a good voice for broadcast, maybe because it was lower and more like a male voice, and he said it was ok for me to take that part. Women as sports reporters. Who knew such a thing was possible?

As I grew up, Barbie became a reference for a girl who was not all that smart. “Don’t be a Barbie!” was the same as saying, “Don’t be so stupid!” Young women who seemed to care more about their mascara than their grades could be referred to as Barbies. Of course when I was first allowed to wear make-up, probably not until I was 16, which was also the age I got my ears pierced, I was excited, too. And it is ok to be excited about the way one looks but if that is all you are excited about, well, Barbie.

Maybe deep down I wanted to possess some of Barbie’s glamour, but being a redhead often made me feel like I never would. I was the only redhead in my family so there were all of the is-the-mailman-your-daddy jokes. No, the mailman was my uncle. Really. Then there were all of those not very imaginative names given to those with red hair: carrot top, rooster, fire head, brick head. Other attributes were assigned that described a redhead as having a fiery temper and generally difficult to get along with, but if you are being called names all of the time, why wouldn’t you want to fight back? Along with the names and ridicule came the pale white skin and freckles. Coppertone came out with a sunscreen for fair skin that went all the way up to 8 SPF. I could get seriously sunburned in minutes. By age 12, I was also wearing glasses and became “four eyes” and then “four-eyed carrot top,”–you get the idea. Maybe if the original Barbie was a redhead I would have liked her better. I think she ended up with a friend named Midge who had red hair. I would have to wait years for the red-haired Disney princesses. When I had chicken pox as a child, before there was a vaccine, I was given an ugly troll doll because it had red hair, I was told. Is it any wonder I did not care much for dolls?

Going off to college gave me new opportunities to figure out who I was. I had gotten contact lenses that I could not wear when I was reading, so I barely wore them at all. Pretty much only when I went out on dates. Of course I was not considering going out on a lot of them since I only had one boyfriend in high school and his glasses were thicker than mine. But much to my amazement, suddenly guys were lining up to take me out. Once. And then we all realized that though my hair was red, it did not mean what they thought it meant. I was a nice girl who just happened to have red hair. A smart girl who has every recessive trait known to mankind.

Entering the work world had its own challenges. It would take years for me to realize what was happening, at times, could now be considered sexual harassment, though in the ’80s it was just the way men treated women. A woman had to make sure her blouse was not cut too low or her skirt up too high. She wanted to be attractive without leading some poor guy astray. Though she put thought into what she was wearing, she did not want to be a Barbie. She wanted to be taken seriously but she knew she had to smile. But not too much of a smile so as to give the wrong idea.

All of these thoughts came to my mind when the Barbie movie was introduced. At first I thought perhaps it was like Toy Story and would be fun, but then I couldn’t remember there ever being anything Barbie was known for except her tiny high heeled shoes, painted on make-up and blonde hair. There would be other Barbies, many Barbies, that I didn’t know anything about because they came into existence later, after I had entered adulthood. And once I actually became a mommy, I did not have any daughters. I had three sons and I don’t remember any dolls, except for the tiny army men and the Buzz Lightyear my middle son greeted with great joy one Christmas. (Toy Story had done such a number on me that when I discovered Buzz years later sitting on a shelf, I could not bear to pack him into a box. He may still be sitting on that shelf.)

I became aware that even women my age were wearing pink and going to see the Barbie movie. I was not allowed to wear pink as a young girl as my mother thought that red and pink and probably orange would all clash terribly with my natural hair color. Red is now my favorite color and I do wear pink on occasion, and even orange rarely, but I could not bring myself to do so for this movie. I was not sure I was celebrating Barbie. I could just be going to mock her.

I cannot remember the last time I went to see a movie by myself, in the middle of the day, with the hope of not seeing anyone I knew, but I wanted to comment on my own experiences growing up with and without Barbie and decided I could not do so without doing my own research. As an aside, I became more interested in seeing the movie when I realized that Greta Gerwig was the screenwriter and director. I had only known about her in some independent movies in which she was featured and though I can’t completely put my finger on it, I am attracted to her unique presence. I also like the way she talks. I wondered if there could be more to this movie than I had thought.

Getting a cup of coffee at a Starbucks so I could use a gift card, I anticipated a nearly empty theatre, as I ended up spilling coffee on my light blue top and walked in hoping no one would notice. I was wearing the worn olive green pants I used to hike in and my favorite pair of sandals. I realized the only resemblance to a Barbie would be my lipstick which I always wear because it keeps my lips from getting chapped and even as a woman of a certain age, I still want to be presentable. (I find it interesting that women are always described in part by what they are wearing just because they are women, and I just did that same thing to myself!)

There were about five women in the theatre when I entered: grandmas and granddaughters, and about 25 by the time the movie started. I prepared myself to watch something really dumb: Barbie and Ken. I have never thought much about Ken. I didn’t know of any little boys who even had a Ken doll. If a boy had a doll it was G. I. Joe, who always seemed to be a better match for Barbie anyway. Opposites attract. Ken at best seemed more like a girlfriend and at worst, an accessory. I could not really speak to any of it since I never had the dream house or any of what comprised Barbieland, the perfect pink, plastic place.

I knew there would be references to the beginning of Barbie’s creation so I came prepared. I had watched the documentary, “Tiny Shoulders: Rethinking Barbie” which came out in 2018, screenplay by Andrea Blaugrund Nevins, and is streaming on Hulu. If you have any interest in the history of this doll, I highly recommend watching this. It actually brings slightly more clarity to the movie, especially when Barbie meets an old woman in a back room and you know immediately it is the inventor who named the doll after her daughter, Barbara.

By the time Barbie was leaving Barbieland for the real world, I started to see what I believe was Greta’s vision. There was Barbieland, a world ruled by women, and the real world which inspired Ken’s short-lived patriarchy, a place in which women still have to work hard to achieve their goals. But we’ve come so far. Right?

For the last couple of years or so I had been leading an organization. In the last year, a man on the board of directors said he needed to “tweak” how I was doing my job, referring specifically to the way in which I communicated, offering to give me form letters to use to better express myself. I was dumbfounded! Which is a word I’m sure he would never recommend that I use. He actually had the nerve to say, “You should smile more.” Smile and look pretty. Would anyone ever say this to a man?!! May as well comment on what he is wearing, too! I could not believe I had lived all of this time through the ’70s in which women were just starting to make their way into their chosen professions, and through the ’80s in which standards for proper conduct had yet to be established, to hear something like this spoken to me again. Though I had redirected my attention from my career (though I did become a features reporter for a newspaper that died many years ago) to helping my husband raise our sons who were all born in the ’90s, and motherhood had me choosing part-time positions for years that worked best for our family, had I not earned the right to be who I am? Was I not already smiling enough even when I didn’t feel like it just because I knew it was the right thing to do?

Then in the midst of “Stereotypic Barbie” and Ken’s masculine awakening, sort of, there came a monologue that is pure gold:

“It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.

You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman, but also always be looking out for other people. You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining. You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be a part of the sisterhood. But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.

I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all of that is also true for a doll just representing women, then I don’t even know.”

~ America Ferrera as Gloria in “Barbie,” written by Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach

When Barbie was given the choice between the high heeled shoe and the Birkenstock sandal, I sensed a collective sigh, as if everyone were hoping she would not pick the “ugly shoe.” Whatever choices Barbie needed to make, I knew I had made the right ones. And I smiled.

note to self

In the beginning there is a question. And the question becomes an idea to be tacked up on the wall like a paint sample so you can stand back and decide whether it is the right color for your decor. And the idea becomes an invitation that dares you to consider the what ifs, slyly convincing you to ignore what is probably true and enticing you to take the flying leap against your better judgement.

On day one of your new job you know you should not have done this. What is the worst that can happen? you ask yourself. This. No orientation, no welcome, not even a computer has yet been secured for your desk. You fear you may have been set up for failure. You have wandered into a place you have been warned to never come by other well-meaning people who have survived, but just. You put that all aside. It is a pandemic, and this is why it is rough, you tell yourself. Once we take off our masks, all will be made right. And some things do seem to level off a bit. You learn as much as you can from a book that is three inches thick citing references to regulations, and you carry on. Some never take off their masks. Every day is another day to get used to not being seen as the one in charge, but the one who has the title. Six months in you realize it is too late to turn back. You are on a journey with meager rations and not sure when more resources will appear. You feel alone most of the time. Not having another path to walk you just keep marching.

You are told in your first review that you may keep this position as long as you wish. This seems to indicate you are doing something right. And yet, you daydream you are anywhere but here. You miss the academic schedule to which you had grown accustomed and long for the time you used to have that was reserved for rest. This is a service industry, you are told, and therefore must stay open no matter what. Vacation days accumulate because you can’t take them. Weariness surrounds you like a warm sweater lulling you to sleep, so you drink more coffee. Sleeping is something you used to do before stress becomes your constant companion and keeps you from ever really going there. As soon as you turn on your phone each morning the notifications from all those calling out wake you. Whatever the schedule had been, it will be changed by the hour. In spite of being told off, handling more call outs throughout the day, and whatever else is thrown at you, the eight hours wear on as you long for them to end. But they never really do end. They just transform into conversation at home, as you attempt to unload a burden that is too heavy for you to carry.

The first time you are interrogated because of an accusation made about one of your employees you feel like a criminal. You watch a video over and over pointing out how the alleged crime did not happen and listen to an investigator give a play-by-play of how it did. Unannounced visits occur more frequently and you begin to feel like a prisoner awaiting parole. What must I do to be saved? you wonder.

Yet you do what you can. You get workdays approved so meetings and training can occur for the improvement of all. You want to create an atmosphere of openness, a team spirit in which all work for common goals that may reduce the 100 percent turnover rate. You work to create the kind of place where the needs of children and parents are met, a home away from home that is safe and filled with kindness and love. Policies are updated, technology is implemented, hope for the future is right around the corner.

And then there is that night with a phone call that you never got, an emergency medical plan that wasn’t followed, and an incident report that was never written. And the floodgates open wide to release the pent-up rage from those you were trying to lead but knew in your heart they were willing to give you up. You find out a protest is being planned for that specific purpose. You hold meetings and try to get to the bottom of rumors, lies, and innuendos but ultimately to no avail. New employees are immediately recruited to join the group who are smiling to your face and stabbing you in the back.

Then one day as you are not quite altogether healed from a bout of pink eye, you find yourself being given a choice, that is really no choice at all. You knew in your heart you were never really safe there, which is why you were so vigilant each day, waiting for the other shoe to drop. A narrative would be told about you without giving you a chance to defend yourself, and people who you thought knew you would be convinced that the stories told by someone who wanted you out must be true. And then you are cast into outer darkness without a word or even a look. It doesn’t feel like the way you imagined freedom; it is a different sort of imprisonment. You’ve moved from your office cell to an ankle bracelet in your home.

Time does not heal all wounds. Time passes; wounds remain. Healing begins to raise itself up from the depths when truth is revealed. It is then and only then that you start to find your breath. And for the very first time in two and a half years, you begin to look around and are able to see the world as it is and not as it was presenting itself in the midst of eternal chaos. You try to identify lessons learned but they are yet elusive. You know you should have fired some people but this decision was always weighed against the short-staffed condition and the need to remain open. You were lied to so frequently your discernment went on hold. You had been walking around with tread marks across your face from being thrown under the bus so many times you had grown used to it and only noticed more gray hair when you saw your reflection in the mirror. Your fears had come true. You have become invisible; your voice has grown silent. You want to sleep and awaken all at the same time. You no longer know who you are.

You will go on. You will not want to trust again but in time you will. You always do. You will be tempted to be vindictive, but you will instead be kind. You are more than what has been said about you. You will overcome. You are not alone. You are protected and the lies cannot penetrate that which surrounds you and is in you. You are fragile yet your strength surprises even you.

You are told, “I’m sorry it happened the way that it did,” but what you need to hear is, “I’m sorry it happened.”

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