Where are you @?

Central Park Symbol

Central Park Symbol

Recently, on a visit to my brother in New York City, I saw a silver glint beneath a tree.  So incongruous with the natural terrain, I took a photo.

Where am I at in this journey to eat less, pray more and love abundantly?  I’ve gained weight.  Pray on the fly and recently had an epic fight with the hubby.  Needless to say, I am not as far down the road as I would like.

Had a mirror moment with a dear friend today.  Mirror moments are those rare occasions when someone else shows you something about yourself you never saw before. 

Standing in my filthy kitchen she gave me a mirror moment.  No really-the floor has a trail of melty popsicle drippings resembling a Technicolor crime scene.

Where am I @ in my mothering?  When I went away for an overnight, my kids ran to the door upon my return and screamed, “You’re FINALLY home!”  I was gone less than 24 hours.  That’s love abundant.

Where am I @ in my career?  My boss, the kind of dream boss who is more mentor than bureaucrat, told me to do what I had promised to do.  My work, my word, is my integrity-in or out of the boardroom. I pray for more character building moments in the midst of the memos.

Where am I @ with eating less?  Not.at.all.  Someday, just not today. 

Where am I @ with praying more?  I couldn’t get through a day without it.

Where am I @ with loving abundantly?  I have found love in the most surprising places.  In a cuddle with a sweaty little boy while watching a movie.  In dropping off a frozen lemonade to my tired salesman hubby.  In laughing with friends until 1 a.m. while restaurant staff impatiently look on.  In a smile from my Dad in the midst of his painful battle.  

Where are you @?  I would love to hear.

Glad you are on the journey with me.

Here is a song which inspired me.  It’s about choosing the Divine in the midst of the destructive.  Had to share.

 

 

The Fault Line

“Mom,” my funny-faced five-year old began, his voice low, so I knew it was serious, “why did you not work at Hallmark anymore?”

“I do not work at Hallmark anymore,” I replied, “because I got a better job at Goodwill.”

“You could work there four days,” he says, voice still low and looking me directly in the eye.

“No, dear one, I cannot,” I answer, curious where this is going, “I work enough during the day.”

“You should not have lefted, because then Pappy wouldn’t be sick.”

I recognize in his mind, he is sorting out the reasons why.  He is fully concrete in his thinking.  If I hit brother, then I will get in trouble.  If I smile at Mommy she might give me some candy.  It’s healthy, I tell myself, for him to sort out this new normal of terminal illness in his best pal, Pappy.  Why then is it I who feel sick?

The fault could lie in any of a hundred places.  With his family for giving him bum genes and a predisposition for lung disease.  With him for smoking for 30 years.  With his doctor for never giving him a chest x-ray as part of a physical.  With my Mom for smoking with him.  With me for not keeping an immaculate house where no dust would settle in lung tissues.

The truth is-there is no fault line.  It is what it is.

Fault Line

How many times have we assigned fault to a situation and therefore exonerate ourselves from responsibility?  The kid running around the restaurant, the dropout, the obnoxious child of your friend–all the fault of the parents.  We don’t need to then smile at the child and encourage them to sit, to stay in school or give them a shoulder to cry on.

It is what it is, and I can choose to engage or detach.  I can choose to smile at my sons, encourage my dad to eat and give my friends a shoulder to cry on.  It is what it is, and I can choose to step over the fault line.

 

Prom Dress Progress

Eat Less. Pray More and Love Abundantly.  Grand themes for this blog.

As I peeked at my ever so few offerings, I notice I avoid one in particular-eat less.

It’s just food. Eat less and move more. Don’t need a trainer or expensive gym membership to understand or implement this simple truth.

Yet and still, I sit here, picking caramel popcorn kernels from my teeth and stretching my aching knees.

In my mind, I understand I have a negative body image. In my heart, I am still the gawky, brainy adolescent who was too smart, too loud and definitely too big.

Warren Jeffs called. It's time to come home. (Caption credited to M.A. Newcomer-brother)

Warren Jeffs called. It’s time to come home. (Caption credited to M.A. Newcomer-brother)

For work I was researching youth videos from a recent TEDx event. I was searching for a clip I could include in an upcoming presentation. I love when young people stand tall and proud, declaring in their unique voice truth for all who would hear. Today, I heard a truth which touched my heart and had me taking the stairs.

Watch, as I did from my desk today:

Until I can fit into a sparkly prom dress I will do two things. 1) I’ll go into that prom boutique and scowl at the lady, perhaps spilling a latte’ on her stick figure sized fashions. 2) I will remember I am beautiful on the inside and someday I will more easily see it on the outside.

Connections

This video struck me to the heart. Please click on link to see video: Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan

In this journey to eat less, pray more and love abundantly I have become more aware of relationships.  I’ve been exploring and experiencing connections to people and God in new and sometimes painful ways.

Anne Sullivan connects to Helen in a way that is intimate.  She places a hand on her teacher’s face, thus causing Anne’s identity, for the moment, to be inextricably linked with her student.  Anne seems completely at ease with this and an even deeper connection still.  Helen relies on Anne to connect to the broader world through language.  Helen is Anne’s lifeline.

Is this not a symbol for the connections we all need in life?  Between friends, lovers, parents, siblings do we not all long for at least one meaningful connection in life?  Robert Putnam, in his groundbreaking work, “Bowling Alone”, places relationships as the most powerful force to move someone from one stage of sustainability to another.

Is this not what God calls us to do? Luke 10:26-28 in the amplified puts it this way.

“26 Jesus said to him, What is written in the Law? How do you read it?

27 And he replied, You must love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.

28 And Jesus said to him, You have answered correctly; do this, and you will live [enjoy active, blessed, endless life in the kingdom of God].”

From the Message Bible it puts verse 27 this way, “27 He said, “That you love the Lord your God with all your passion and prayer and muscle and intelligence—and that you love your neighbor as well as you do yourself.”

Anne Sullivan loved Helen Keller with all her passion, prayer, muscle and intelligence.  How do I know?  The connection shows us, as demonstrated in the video.

As I stumble, worn and weary, from one crisis to baseball game to laundry pile to work, I need that same connection.  I need to connect with God in that same way.  I need to love Him with all my passion more than I merely want to survive the moment.  I must connect with Him so that He is my lifeline-so I can communicate with my challenging world the language of love, grace and strength.

We are managing to stumble our way to church this morning.  I’ll be tired, because I always am these days.  However, at some point, in some way, I will reach my hand.  I will place it on the face of the One I love and I will connect.

Will you?  If you do, please share.

Slaying the Martyr

This post contains some rough language.  Reader discretion is advised.

My mother was a professional martyr.  Her specialty? The drive-by.  As we would be leaving, herding children into the car for the long trip home, she would say, “I can’t talk to you next Thursday as I’m having surgery.  They don’t think it’s cancer.  Have a great drive!”

What-the-what?  I, of course, would feed into the emotional blackmail and demand to know what was going on.  I would pour out all my daughterly devotion until I was utterly spent.  To which she would simply reply.  “Of course I’ll take care of myself, no one else will.”

This independence.  This utter conviction of superior strength by virtue of surviving more shit than could fill the darkest Russian novel.  This complete lack of humility all define the heart of the Martyr.  I followed in my Mother’s footsteps and became the Mother of All Martyrs.

After all, death had claimed so many that I loved.  Situational poverty consumed my savings.  I was actually conned into thinking resigning was better than being fired because they would refuse my unemployment.  And my children, oh my poor dear ones, couldn’t read perfectly by age four!

The Martyrs Motto

The Martyrs Motto

This quote I proudly displayed on my FB page.  I even printed it and shared with work colleagues.  I stood tall, chest puffed out-convinced of my own, unique Martyr status.  After all, I had been through so much and was facing so much, surely, God would think I am one of the baddest of the asses.

My fiend who speaks with a prophetic edge which quite simply cuts through the bull quicker than a laser, shared something with me.  Like a dagger to the cold, cold, Martyrs heart, she reminded me of something.  Jesus wants to be the bad-ass FOR ME.

If He didn’t, then what was the point of the cross?  What was the point of having His flesh torn?  What was the point of dying to live again?  He did, so I don’t have to…as much.

I once believed Jesus was magic.  I believed if I just prayed hard enough or loud enough or often enough or decreed enough that I could appropriate my rights as a child of God.  Yep I did.   In looking back to that time, I wonder if Jesus was standing outside the prayer circle trying to get a word in edgewise.

Now I don’t believe in magic.  To be honest I don’t believe in much of anything except my own ability to handle tragedy and misfortune-to be a Martyr.

What if, in the midst of the pain so real it’s a glass sliver piercing my heart, God wants to take some of it from me?  His own Son asked the same questions I have.  “If it is possible for this cup to pass from me, please do.  Nevertheless, not my will but Yours be done.”

The Martyr would say “It’s God’s will” with a sigh and a tired look followed by, “but I will get through it, as I always have.”

If Jesus is to be my bad-ass, then I have to say, with all honesty.  “If this cup-this cancer, this pain, this loss, this brokenness as familiar as my fingerprint- will not leave then what is Your will in this situation?  Not my will but Yours be done.”

This cup hasn’t passed from me.  Cancer still eats away the future I have with my father.  Debt eats away at my bank account.  My new job will either catapult me higher or stifle me into submission.  My five year old can’t read.

I won’t even pretend the Martyr has gone off into that good night easily.  Like a zombie with good intentions she refuses to stay dead.  However, she has a new motto.

My New Motto

My New Motto

P.S.  Major points to anyone who can point out which movie inspired the above mentioned motto.

 

Oxygen Masks

On a recent business trip, I had to fly to Oklahoma City.  I sat through the requisite safety briefing.  I always pay attention as I feel sorry for flight attendants.  Next to evangelists standing on a soap box in the public square, there are few others as ignored as these.

I realized something when they got to the oxygen mask portion of the briefing.  “In the event of a loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will fall from the ceiling.  Please place your mask on before securing those of others around you.”

Oxygen Masks

Oxygen Masks

My family and father demand so much time and energy.  The needs are immediate, and often in the midst of a crisis.  By the end of each day I often feel as though I am reaching into my ankles for internal reserves. 

We’ve signed on as a family for counseling.  The counselor eyes grew wide as we shared our recent trials and tribulations.  We’ve walked in the pain so long it’s a pair of worn shoes, shaped to our feet, all sharp edges scuffed away.

My goals were simple.  Gain skills and help for my family to endure this time and come out stronger.  I wanted them to be okay.  I gave no thought to me.  None. Whatsoever.

In a future blog I’ll write about slaying my inner martyr.  I gave no thought to me because I don’t know how to think of me.  Truly, to love myself abundantly is a laughable, fluffy idea like cosmic cotton candy.

When I mentioned to my brother we were scheduled for counseling and I would be bringing my son to begin the dialogue, he interrupted in his cutting and blunt way.

“Why don’t you just go?”

Huh?

“Seriously, if you aren’t taking care of yourself then how can you be any good to the kids and Dad?”

You could hear the screeching brakes in my thinking.

There is no doubt the cabin of my life has lost all pressure and we are falling through the sky.  Cancer will do that.

There is also no doubt I have support systems I need to draw upon.  Like the oxygen masks which fall from the ceiling of the plane, there are those who will breathe new life into my lungs.  If I don’t, we all will suffocate.

I went to counseling.  I cried.  I began to learn relaxation techniques.  I felt better.  I could then put masks on my family, my own reserves somewhat enriched.

Where are the places you need to put on the mask first?  Where do you need to stop putting on others’ masks?

I’ll close with what my first choice of a safety briefing would be, the dear disco exercising Divo himself, Richard Simmons.

Sidewalk Miracles and Microwaveable Manna

It was three weeks from diagnosis when one of my worst fears came to reality.  Dad couldn’t move.

His cancer ravaged body simply could not work in harmony enough to allow his legs to hold him upright.  He couldn’t walk nor stand.  He was stuck, a 200 pound stone leaning against my legs, perched at the top of the stairs.  I was completely and utterly powerless.

Our Saint of an oncologist agreed, via text, that calling an ambulance was a good idea.  They navigated him from the chair in which he was slumped, onto the litter and into the truck.

Dad waved at my boys who ran alongside the rig as we pulled up the road.  I, clutching the official ‘medical binder’, sat in the front seat.  I dialed over and over again my friend.  Rarely does she actually answer her phone, yet I kept dialing.  For the one thing I could control, maybe, was where my sons would go in the midst of this bewildering and heart stopping turn of events.  There was no response.

As we sat at a red light, I glanced to my right.  My friend, whom I had given up calling, was walking down the street, leaving a fundraiser.  I rolled down the window and barely asked, “Can you take the boys?”  Without hesitation, she and her husband answered, “Yes.”

My friend called her teenage son to let him know two hungry little boys would suddenly be spending the night.  He said, “Good thing I bought 10 t.v. dinners!”  Our manna didn’t fall like so many yeasty flakes to the ground.  Rather it filled the shopping cart of a teenage boy and the microwave oven.

In our future there will be more ambulances and events over which I will have no control.  I am thankful there will also be more sidewalk miracles and microwaveable manna.

The Breakfast of Champions

I learned a trick which has actually worked for me.  Routine.
Once it was a dirty word for me.  Routine sounded like boredom.  Who wants to do the same thing, the same way for anything?Until I saw this cute fitness guru du jour on Dr. Oz’s show (you know the one where all the housewives learn how green tea can save their marriage)?
He said that he does the same thing for food choices everyday.  That way, he can plan ahead, save time and stay ‘on plan’.  Sounds boring, but I thought I would give it a try.

It worked.

I do the same thing for breakfast everyday at work.  Weekends are different on purpose.  Hence, I’m not bored.  I do a shake, some supplements and a coffee.
No Brainer BreakfastThe best part about this?  I don’t have to think.

With all that is going on in my life, having less to rattle around my consciousness is a very good thing.  And, when gulped fast enough, one of those weight loss shakes aren’t half bad.

What is your breakfast of champions?

New Normal

I took my sons out for a Mommy day.  I had spent the previous days in the hospital with my Father and been a Mommy ship passing them in the night.

We dropped off Uncle Michael at the airport and went shopping in the big city.  First stop was a ginormous Toys R Us where we discussed the merits of legos over skateboards, and spiderman over some anime thing I couldn’t pronounce.

We then went to one of the boys favorite restaurants, Cracker Barrel.  Peggy, the gregarious waitress, engaged my kids in a long conversation over the apple butter and fried chicken.  Upon discovering they played baseball, she asked for their autographs for when they become famous.  I wept.

The chicken was good, but not good enough for tears.  I wept because Peggy couldn’t know the hell the children were about to face.  Their grandfather was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer just the day before.  As they chatted about baseballs and doggies and grandkids (Peggy has 8 grandkids and 1 dog who helps her take off her apron) I wept because this was so normal.  They were being loved abundantly by a stranger.  Love they will need for the journey ahead.

My new normal will consist of loving my children abundantly in the midst of this slow and unfolding tragedy.  My new normal will be to pray more while I wrestle with the questions of “Why?” and “How?”.  My new normal will be to eat less while I coax him to eat anything he wants.

I’m seasoned and humble enough to choke on platitudes and easy answers.  God’s will is as foreign as the Romanian phone book.  For now let this be the picture of the new normal.bada

Now That’s a Load Off

The “Eat Less” version of this blog has been the least explored.  I needed some time to make it official.  11 pounds later it’s official.  I am eating less.

Weight is the heaviest issue in my physical life.  It’s the physical manifestation of my stress and doubt.  It’s the insulation I have unconsciously loaded around me, as if I can insulate myself in fat from the cold cruel world.

If food is my drug of choice to numb emotions and sugar my way through challenges, where did I even start?  By eating less.

I didn’t want to mention it on the blog until I was able to make it a few months.   After a routine visit to the doctors office, and the requisite weigh in, I made it.

I have a long, long way to go.

However, starting well has taken a load off.

I’ll keep you posted.