What Not to Wear

I know that I sometimes don't really consider what I have on before I leave the house. One morning, when I had a respectable job that required me to do interviews, I inadvertently put on two right shoes (one black and one dark blue). It wasn't until I crossed my legs during an interview that I realized my folly.  It appeared that I had two right feet, and the color difference in the light was quite noticeable. My colleague, who was doing the interviews with me, noticed my shoes at the same time, and we both burst out laughing. I can't imagine what went through the mind of the poor candidate we were interviewing. We had to explain to her my propensity to be clothing challenged. The interview deteriorated from there, and we ended up taking the interviewee to lunch (and hiring her).   

Fast forward a few years: I not only live on a farm, but I work at a worm farm, so why would I dress up to go outside to feed the livestock or go to work? A ratty pair of jeans or shorts with an old tee shirt suit me just fine. Bill, a PE teacher, doesn't dress up much either.  Little did we know how much embarrassment we must have brought our children because they entered us in a contest to win a $5,000 wardrobe - each!

Had we known we'd been entered in the worst dressed couples contest, we may have made a more conscious effort to adorn ourselves in the sneakers with the most holes in them.  Maybe we would have worn matching armpit stained tee shirts. I have to say, I was wondering why our children suddenly took such a great interest in photography.  Often they would snap pictures of the two of us while we were out herding goats.  Sometimes, I'd hear the shutter click when Bill and I were on our way to estate sales. For at least a week, it wasn't unusual to find one of the children hiding behind a wall trying to sneak a picture of us in our casual attire. I had no idea what they were up to, but I was too busy to really give it much thought. I had goats to deliver and worms to feed, after all.

The photo sessions ended as abruptly as they started, and I completely forgot about my children's strange behavior until the day the letter arrived.  The message came from the TV show, "What Not to Wear." It said something like this: Congratulations, you have made it to the ten finalists in the "What Not to Wear" worst dressed couples contest.  

I was devastated! How could my own children be so insensitive! No wonder they were intent on snapping covert pictures - the insolent guttersnipes (it took me a long time to find that word). After calming down, I took an inventory of what I was wearing as I stood by my mailbox.   No shoes, an oversized nightshirt with "Merry Christmas" on the front (it was July) and no undergarments. At that moment, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe my children had a point. 

As I made my way into the house, I read the rest of the letter: Should the two of you make it into the top three finalists, you and your wardrobe will be flown to New York City where our What Not to Wear staff will make the final decision on which couple will be given a $10,000 shopping spree and a complete makeover.  

Did I call my children guttersnipes? I was mistaken - after all, they were only trying to assist their poor clothing-challenged parents. As soon as I got into the house, I immediately did a google search of What Not to Wear's worst-dressed couples. From what I could find, we had some stiff competition; a leather-clad duster duo with purple hair, a pair of hippie throwbacks in camo, and two punk rockers. I was not concerned, though. After all, thanks to our little cherubs, I was photographed barefoot in my daisy duke shorts and their dad in his ripped shorts with his ever-present white crew socks. Admittedly, we had a good shot at making it to the final three.  

Sadly, we didn't make it. I don't even know who won the contest - although my vote was for the hippies in camo. To this day, I wonder what would have happened had we won. Would I be leaving the house in Avalon tee-shirts to tend to the worms? Would Bill be braving middle school PE in Milo designer shorts? Would I long for my University of Kentucky nightshirt and pink polka dot undies? Would I never see my husband's farmer's tan again?  

I guess these questions will haunt me forever...

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.