Unbroken

One of my favorite pastimes is sitting on the porch watching the horses run.  About eight years ago, we got an unbroken horse for Katie.  We named the horse Jersey Girl. I thought I could break her.  It’s rather sad when you think about it - breaking a horse literally means, “breaking the spirit”.  When you break a horse, you bend it to your will.  It’s really hard to break a horse’s spirit.  I worked for months trying to break Jersey Girl.   I think it would be more fitting to say that Jersey Girl broke us with her “Jersey Girl” attitude!  Katie was probably not at the best age for horse breaking with her mother.  I’ve learned that teenage girls tend to butt heads frequently with their mothers.  When teenage girl attitude is teamed up with “Jersey Girl” attitude - Let’s just say that I don’t want to be in the horse breaking business anymore!

I don’t want to be in the people breaking business either, although I think that we all do some people breaking from time to time if we are honest.  Then there are the times when we break our own spirit. 

In thinking about this phenomena of breaking one’s spirit, I believe that each person must be acutely aware of what their own spirit needs to thrive.  I know that my spirit needs to be free.  It cannot be lassoed or penned in.  My natural reaction to being penned in is to run.  In this way, my spirit is akin to the horse’s spirit. 

When I tried to break Katie’s 1200 lb. horse, I had it haltered and I used a long rope to give it lots of room.  The horse would feel the tug of the rope and respond not knowing that it was only being controlled by a five foot tall, 125 lb. weakling.  The more I reigned in the horse, however, the harder it was to control her because she sensed the shifting power.  The minute she thought that I was dominating her, she bucked, kicked and fought for her freedom.  She only let me control her from a distance and, even then, she really never gave up her independence. 

That’s me.  I’m just like Jersey Girl.  I am a Jersey Girl, after all.  If I’m not given lots of rope, I’ll start to buck and kick and do just about anything to break free.  There’s a part of me that thinks this is not good.  I must always think and act outside the box.  Yet, maybe I’m just looking at this wrong.  It’s the way God made me, after all.  It’s my spirit.  I believe it is part of why I am so drawn to the spirit of a horse. 

There are many things that free my spirit.  Perhaps the most freeing is writing.  It’s something that I love and yet I’ve strayed away from it for a long time.  I’ve reigned in my passion for writing - lassoed it with negative self-talk: “You're not a good writer.  No one wants to read your stories.  Give up.” 

So, over time, a part of me has given up on writing.  I’ve locked the creative door of my brain and thrown away the key.  I’ve allowed myself to break my own spirit.  Well, no more!  I’m going back to writing and I may or may not post the stories on my blog.  After all, my writing is for my soul and it really doesn’t matter if anyone reads it or likes it.  I’m going to promise my spirit that I will allow it to be free in as many areas of my life as I can.  As of today, I will vow to keep my spirit unbroken!

Jeremy

Jeremy grabbed my hand and motioned for me to bow my head.  I obediently held his hand and the hand of the person to my right.  We bowed our heads and Jeremy began saying the morning prayer.  As Jeremy spoke his prayer, the tears began to well up in my eyes.  I tried to stop them but I was unable to control the raw emotion that his fervent prayer stirred in my soul.  His prayer was as passionate as any Baptist minister I’d ever heard but it carried with it a sweetness that only someone as innocent as Jeremy could muster. 

When he finished his prayer, he ended it with a hardy “humph” and we all clapped.  It   was the first time that Jeremy volunteered to lead the group in prayer.  Normally, he sits quietly watching me intently for cues.  He knows prayers are done when I squeeze his hand and give him his thumbs up sign signaling it’s time to go to the painting station. 

Jeremy is a great painter.  He is skilled at his craft and takes his job very seriously.  He works diligently from the minute he sits at his station until he proudly signs his creation.  Often, I have to coax him to take his lunch break which he usually shortens by at least ten minutes.  He doesn’t stop until his bus driver arrives and insists it’s time to go.

These are all the traits an employer would want to see in a great employee.  They’d want someone with the kind of passion Jeremy displays.  They’d look for someone who exhibits the kind of work ethic that goes above and beyond to do a great job.  I’m certain that Jeremy’s willingness to learn and his ability to get along with all his coworkers is something that employers would honor.  Yet, at the age of thirty-six, Jeremy has never been employed before.

Prior to working with me, Jeremy sat at home alone and lonely with nothing to fill his days.  It wasn’t because Jeremy didn’t want to work.  It wasn’t because Jeremy was unable to do a job.  It was simply because Jeremy has Down Syndrome and is deaf.  Jeremy’s mother was unable to find anywhere for Jeremy to go during the days when she worked, so he sat at home with little to fill his days. 

Now, Jeremy is a part of our family at Exceptional Entrepreneurs.  His amazing spirit fills our workplace with a delightful joy. Jeremy not only has a joyful spirit, but he is a true gentleman; opening doors for all the ladies and helping everyone with any needed task.   We are so blessed to have him with us.  I thank God everyday for sending people like Jeremy into my life as a reminder that the most beautiful people are the ones we often overlook. 

Jeremy’s prayer may have just been a series of grunts, yet no one doubted that his prayer was heartfelt and spirit filled because it was so pure and simple. I bet that he thanked God for finally having a job, friends, coworkers and bus to get him to and from work.  Jeremy’s prayer may not have been understood by us in the natural world but I believe that God smiled because He heard Jeremy loud and clear.

Village Idiots

My much older sister, Lorraine, recently moved to The Villages in Ocala, Fl. The Villages is a retirement community for seniors that don't act their age. The residents of the Villages drive around in $40,000 souped-up golf carts, play golf, pickleball, swim, do aerobics by day, and party by night. I have yet to see one senior with a walker or wheelchair. I have never seen a cemetery anywhere in the Villages. The occupants of this Stepford-like community could have been actors in the movie Cocoon where the elderly residents of the Sunny Shores retirement home are suddenly rejuvenated by swimming in an alien "life force" pool. The "life force" rejuvenation must be in the piped-in music played in the village square or the drinking water. I'm just saying...

Anyway, whenever my much older sister and I get together, we always end up in a laughing fit - often somewhere very public. One would expect in a place like The Villages, there would be a Depend factory or something. I mean, the place has three zip codes and only seniors! However, nothing in The Villages screams, "Old people live here!" There isn't the slightest hint that women with weak bladders exist in The Villages. But, I know this is a falsehood as Lorraine does, in fact, live in The Villages, and I could also live there despite being much younger than my sister. 

I have visited Lorraine several times now since her move to FL. I was sure I would be banned from visiting after the last time. I kept expecting a certified letter from the village police stating that I had been unfit for retirement to The Villages due to weak bladder syndrome and other minor problems accompanying "normal" aging. I couldn't help the puking in the middle of the street incident (and no, I wasn't drinking). And it wasn't my fault that I didn't know the golf cart tunnel had a speed limit of 5mph, and you're supposed to use your horn and lights, but that's another story!

Since it didn't appear that I had been banned from The Villages, my whole family decided to go to my sister's for Easter. Thirteen people arrived at Lorraine's house, and we were all spending the night. After dinner, Lorraine asked me to help her get the blow-up mattress into her tiny office and put the sheet on it. 

"Sure," I said innocently as I gathered the sheets and blankets. I brought the bedding to the office while Lorraine blew up the mattress in the living room. 

I exited the office to the living room, where my sister had the mattress almost entirely inflated. "Good God! Is Godzilla going to sleep on that thing?" I asked as I watched the blow-up bed take on a life of its own.

"How are we supposed to move that into your little office?" 

"Oh, you're being melodramatic," Lorraine said, "It'll fit just fine."

"Okay," I said as I attempted to grab one end of the mattress, "let's do this."

The mattress was at least a foot thick and appeared to be king-size. Grabbing the enormous thing proved to be more of a challenge than I anticipated. 

"Why didn't you blow this up in the room?" I asked as we struggled to twist and turn the mattress so it would fit down the hall and through the door.

"I didn't want to wake the baby." My sister whispered as the mattress scraped along the wall outside the baby's room. 

When we got through the door, I was dripping in sweat, and my sister's hair was matted to her forehead. I couldn't help it; I started laughing hysterically and had to wrap my legs in knots. I quickly let go of the mattress and ducked into the nearby bathroom before the inevitable happened. I'm sure my sister could hear me still laughing in the bathroom. 

"What's so funny?" Lorraine asked as I returned.

"You should see yourself!" I laughed. "Your hair is matted to your forehead, and you're sweating profusely, and we haven't even gotten the stupid mattress on the floor yet!" 

"Well, you don't look too hot yourself!" she retorted. "Let's just make this bed before we wake the baby!"

After pushing the furniture aside, we could barely fit the monstrosity in the room. I grabbed the fitted sheet and made a heroic attempt to put one end on the corner of the mattress where I was wedged in the space. I couldn't get any leverage, so I lay on the bed and attempted to start at the far corner first. While I was reaching for the far corner, Lorraine got the bright idea to lay across her end of the mattress and attempt to put the sheet on the corner diagonal to mine. Unfortunately, when Lorraine put weight on the end of the bed, she launched me off the bed - like a mattress bounce house. I landed under the desk in a laughing fit. Lorraine was still lying across the bottom of the bed, panting like she had just run a marathon, trying desperately to get the sheet to stay. 

As I crawled out from under the desk, I had to climb onto the mattress because there was nowhere else to go. My weight on the bed caused Lorraine to roll off her end, popping the sheet off the corner. At this point, Lorraine dashed out of the room in a mad rush, presumably for the bathroom. She left me lying on the bed, laughing my head off with the sheet in a heap next to me. 

When she returned, she joined me on the mattress for another feeble attempt at sheet control. Indeed, two college graduates should be able to figure out a way to put a fitted sheet on an oversized blow-up mattress! Instead, we were behaving like two village idiots! After much contemplation, we devised a foolproof plan where each of us, holding one corner of the sheet, would roll from the middle to the ends of the bed. The key was moving in tandem so that neither of us reached the edge of the bed before the other, causing a roll-off. Sadly, our plan failed miserably, and we each rolled off either end of the bed. 

It had been at least 30 minutes by the time the commotion drew the attention of my two daughters. When they entered the office, they found their aunt and mother lying on the floor, out of breath and laughing uncontrollably. My daughters could have helped. They could have each grabbed a sheet corner. But, no! Instead, they got out their handy dandy cell phones and hit the record button. They even dared to suggest that we had been drinking. As God was my witness, I had nothing to drink that night! 

I could continue with this sad story of two desperate women trying to provide a restful place for their ungrateful children. I could tell you how the ungrateful children stood there recording the scene, never lifting so much as a finger to hook in a sheet corner. I could tell you how the baby never stirred, nor did any of the sleeping men in the house! I could go on telling how two brave women continued to wrestle the cunning sheet, but, as the saying goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. I intended to post a picture of me and my sister, but my daughters cannot find the images or the videos on their phones! I'm expecting my certified letter from The Villages any day now.

This is Dedicated to the Ones I Love

Before paper, the art of storytelling was an oral tradition passed on from generation to generation.  I never thought much about it until the tale of Matthew Marshmallow recently reemerged at a family reunion. 

“Aunt Betty, I think we should have a retelling of Matthew Marshmallow.” My nephew implored.  Soon, the entire gang of thirty-something nieces and nephews chimed in.  “Please, Aunt Betty.”  Chrissy (mother of three) begged.  "We want to hear the story again.  Didn’t you ever write it down?" 

Soon the room buzzed around me: “I remember a big storm...”  “Ice cream floats...”  “Who remembers King Marsh?”  “Don’t you remember Matthew Marshmallow had to travel to see Mother Rain at the top of Hershey Mountain?”  “No, the space ship door was left open!”

I thought about it for a moment and realized that the beauty of the “story” is that it was never written.  It was a story told time and time again by me to countless nieces, nephews, and their friends.  Even my younger sisters, who now joined the conversation, added their own memories of Matthew Marshmallow and his spaceship journey to visit the planet Marsh where King Marsh ruled and candy cane flowers grew. 

The cool thing about this story is that each person had their own special version of the tale.  I know this to be true because each time I told the story to one niece or nephew or sister it would change slightly to make him or her an integral part of the story.  Matthew would find a friend with the same name as said niece, nephew or sister behind a lollypop flower and they’d set out on their own adventure exploring Marsh. 

In one version of the story there would be a great storm.  In another version, they would meet a Hershey Kiss.  Every version had a lesson and, of course, every version ended with...”and that is how we got marshmallows.”

When I sat down at my keyboard today, my intention was to finally write the story of Matthew Marshmallow for my family.  However, I discovered something as my fingers began to type; “Once upon a time...”,  I don’t want to write the story down.  Putting it on paper would cause it to lose it’s charm.  It would become stagnant. 

The beauty of this story is that it’s still so vivid in so many imaginations simply because, like all good stories, it touched a deep part of each person’s soul.  If I wrote it down, I would be leaving out the soul of the story.  I’d be leaving out the parts that made it extra special to each and every listener over the many many years it was told. 

So, my dear loved ones, this story will never be written because it wasn’t meant to be.  It was meant to be the story of the crazy aunt, sister, mother who loved to tell stories to you.  Your crazy aunt told you your own personal story in hopes that you would carry it in your heart forever.  She told you your story so that you could take that story and mold it and shape it and tell it to your own children someday.  Timeless.  It is the timeless story about love.  In fact, it’s not really about a marshmallow at all.

Speak to the Storm

Storms are always a part of our lives.  Sometimes we see them coming in the distance, and sometimes they shatter our world rolling in on thunder out of nowhere.  No matter how the storms come, it's how we face them that matters. 

Do we speak to our life's storms, or do we allow them to speak to us? 

I'm no stranger to storms.  In science class, I learned how to create my tornados in a plastic soda bottle.  I was really good at creating plastic tornados but even better at creating them in my non-plastic world.  In high school, my tornados were always treacherous because everyone's tornados are treacherous in high school.  Not having the right clothes to wear or the right hairstyle or the right boyfriend could bring on a monster tornado that could last for a week or longer.  My high school age daughter brings tornados into our house on a daily, if not hourly, basis.  I could allow her tornados to become my tornados.  I could allow them to wreak havoc in the family.  God knows, there were days when I did allow those tornados to spin wickedly out of control.  On those days, I was like a mad scientist adding my debris to the whirling mess to see how big the storm could get.  It got big.  Fast. 

Here's the thing, a wickedly spinning out of control tornado can do a lot of damage in a very short period of time.  Damage control isn't easy.  Storm control isn't always easy either.  Sometimes we cannot control the storm because it is not of our own making. That's okay.  God doesn't expect us to control the storm.  He does expect us to ride it out with Him in control. 

Isn't it true that our life's storms are what make us stronger? 

I can only speak from my own life's history of my storms.  I have had a few.  My first storm came when I was not yet two when my mother died suddenly.  When I was five, a new storm entered my life as I left my aunt, the only mother I knew, to go live with a new mother.  My childhood path was riddled with storms; some so wicked that they are unspeakable; Yet, I survived them and emerged from them stronger. 

My young adult years ushered in raging storms of anger and defiance.  Sometimes, I look back on those years and wonder how I'm even still alive.  I know now that I am alive only because of God's grace.  In those days, I did not speak to my storms. Instead, I allowed my storms to speak to me.  I let them tell me I was worthless and unlovable as they storm-tossed me in a hapless black sea of turmoil. 

I cannot point to a day or time when my storms stopped.  They didn't. I want to say that I learned to stop allowing the storms to control me, but that would not be true.  As the pilot of my life, I experienced constant turbulence. I always kept my seatbelt fastened because I knew the next doozy of a storm was right around the corner.  Sure enough, every new storm assured me that there would be bigger and far worse storms to come. 

The truth is, there will always be storms.  The question is; How will you handle your storms?  Will you allow your storms to speak to you?  Will you let them toss and turn your life?  Will you throw more debris into the spinning tornado?  Will you throw more garbage into other people's tornados? 

These are questions that I had to ask myself just the other day when my fourteen-year-old tornado whirled into the house with wild fury.  Before I reacted, I asked myself these questions: Am I going to add to this storm?  Am I going to allow this storm to become my storm?  Am I going to let this storm steal my peace?  I didn't allow it.  It took some time, but the turmoil subsided.

Some storms are mighty.  They threaten to throw us overboard without a life vest.  The storms of loss, sadness, doubt, and despair are awful and heart wrenching. Don't let them control you.  Reach for the life vest.  Reach for God.  Often, we'll find out down the road that God allowed that very storm into your life to make you who you are today.  It might be because of that storm that you can help someone else through their storm. 

I know we'd all be better off if we spoke to our storms. 

Next time, I'm going to scream to my storm: "Hey storm, God's got me covered!  You cannot control me because I am controlled by a higher power!  You cannot and will not steal my joy, my peace, or my soul!"

When my next storm blows in, I'll remember the words of Matthew 8:26

He said to them, "Why are you afraid, you men of little faith?" Then He got up and rebuked the winds and the sea, and it became perfectly calm.

A Spoiled Rotten Child Who Wants a Bed!

It's no secret that a while ago, my family made the difficult decision to move out of our four-bedroom farmhouse.  We decided to leave the 2 1/2 bath, 2400 Sq. Ft. home for a more affordable option.  We moved into a two-bedroom, one-bath, 300 Sq. Ft. RV situated in the pasture of the farm. We rented the farmhouse to a lady who keeps her horse on the farm.  So, we can see our old home from the RV, and we get the added bonus of sharing the pasture with horses, chickens, and roosters.

The move has gone swimmingly. We have learned to maneuver our small quarters so much so that we're considering downsizing again.  

I am just kidding. Since our move, our daughter, Paola, has grown a foot a week. Well, maybe not that much, but she went from a 12-year-old little girl with pigtails and braces to a 14-year-old young lady with long black flowing hair and braces. I think she doubled in size. In any case, she no longer fits in any of the four bunk beds in her small, but quaint, bedroom.  

It's quite sad that all the child is asking for is a comfortable bed. I told her she is spoiled rotten. I mean there are children somewhere I'm sure who don't have a bed. She has a pull-out couch after all!  

Today, my husband came in with the groceries while Paola was still asleep on the pull-out couch. There's a problem with this because the pull-out couch reaches the refrigerator, and there is no way to open the refrigerator door when the sofa is in the sleeping position. Who am I kidding? Most of the groceries wouldn't fit in the refrigerator anyway! I told him to take the groceries out to the other fridge that we keep in the barn. The only problem with that refrigerator is the door falls off of it. Honestly! Such issues are so minor in the scheme of things.

Okay, so here we are on year two in the cramped living space. It was supposed to be a maximum of one year. However, circumstances have prevented us from moving back into the farmhouse just yet.  

There are things I have learned about living in an RV. My friend used to RV a lot, and she always joked, "If the trailer is rocking, don't come knocking!" That's true. I'll leave it at that.  

Our shower-head mysteriously decided to only allow water out of two holes. Have you ever taken a two-hole shower? That water pressure is brutal! It felt like a thousand little stinging bees pelting you into the teeny tiny corner. Luckily, I watched a commercial about the miracle product, CLR. Wouldn't you know it, it does work! We now have a shower that no longer leaves lesions, but you have to be a midget to use it. I'm the only one who fits under the shower in our family. It's a source of great pride for me.  

Speaking of the bathroom, I cannot even go here - no pun intended. There was the time when the toilet kept backing up, and we couldn't use it for weeks on end. Unfortunately, the toilet backed up after the port-a-potty was taken out of the pasture. Luckily, we had McDonald's right down the street. 

The toilet cannot be plunged because it is not that kind of toilet. We resorted to buying a shop vac and vacuuming it out. Now, if that doesn't make you want to puke, I don't know what will! Not only was I missing a pot to piss in, but I didn't even have a toilet to puke in!  I'm happy to report that we solved the problem, though, and can now sit on the throne with the door shut if you're short. If you're tall, you have to close the bedroom door, leave the bathroom door open and hang your feet out.

Why don't sheets stay on the bed in the master bedrooms of RVs - just wondering? Oh, and don't ever forget about the overhead storage in the master bedroom - especially when the trailer is rocking! I'll just leave it at that.

Climbing into bed at night takes on a whole new meaning in an RV. You literally have to "climb" into bed. I think Paola has it easier. All she has to do is move the couch cushions and pull out the bed, and she's there. Her dad and I, on the other hand, have to move the computer chair away from the bathroom sink and fold it up in the corner. Then, I have to enter the bed from the foot of the bed before Bill. My climbing onto the bed first is essential because our master bedroom TV takes up half of the foot of the bed. Otherwise, I cannot get to "my side" of the bed - although I believe "side" is an oxymoron. There is a minuscule space on either side of the bed that is supposed to serve as a path. Unfortunately, that path is no longer available because our computer printer and my guitar are on my side, and a bookshelf is on Bill's side. 

As I was saying, I have to climb into bed first from the foot of the bed on Bill's side and move diagonally to my side. Try doing this after knee surgery when one knee is entirely out of commission! It's hell when I have to go to the bathroom at night - especially if the stupid fold-up chair has unfolded.  

I looked up "RV" in Wikipedia just for the heck of it. Here's their definition: "a recreational vehicle equipped for camping out while traveling." We're traveling, alright. We're going from here to there. Here is where we are because of our choices. I made a choice, and my family agreed to sacrifice by downsizing. We sacrificed so that I could leave my salaried teaching job to follow a dream. My dream was to run a program for special needs adults so that they could experience empowerment through employment.  

I am so blessed to have a family that supported this decision, and I'm so lucky to be running such a program, Exceptional Entrepreneurs. I know that here in this RV is not where we want to be forever. I know that my spoiled rotten child deserves a better bed. I frequently have to remind Paola that this experience is building character. Then, I tell her that it is the road less traveled that will give us all stories to tell, laughs, and perhaps some tears along the way.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

                              Robert Frost