The Late Arrival

The powder blue rental bikes are soldiers lined up in formation under a clear, spring sky waiting for twenty-something singles, newlyweds, families with kids who have long ago ditched training wheels, empty-nesters, and those with broken marriages, broken homes and broken dreams. They wait to be used for a slowed down exploration of the life that, up until now, had been under the grips of a long, dormant, cold season. They seem to understand that the cycle of sun, warmth and rain has brought to fruition blooming and reawakening. For a minute, I think I hear them say: Push one pedal, push another and feel your knees do what they were created to do with each revolution. No one is behind you honking and in a hurry to pass on to the next thing. Go ahead, squeeze the brakes. Stop. Now look – and actually see – what you’ve been missing while driving. This season is shorter than you think. For many years, my car was being wife, mother, clocking in, clocking out and trying to c...

It started with the bananas. It always does. They had been receptive to bananas for a while, my daughter and husband. Me too, if I was being honest. But our romance with the bananas began to fade as did the fruit's once creamy yellow skin. Eat these bananas soon! announced my husband as if someone in the house must surely still love them. These bananas are going bad! Someone needs to eat them before they do! As if he wasn’t a ‘someone' who could eat them. I lied and said it was my full intention to make banana bread out of what now looked like October leaves. They were beyond dead; and I trashed them with a wince, thinking of how my mother loathed waste. A giggle barged into my wince as I thought of a dear friend who often said he was so old, he didn’t even buy green bananas. The thing they don’t tell you about October leaves-bananas is that they attract fruit flies. And after you toss the bananas, the fruit flies stay…I don’t know why, maybe they’re hopi...

File this one under Understanding Stuff a Week After it Happens. At first glance, last Sunday’s sermon about the story of Jesus healing a blind man in an unconventional way (as if there’s a conventional way to restore sight) was about a miracle...and mud. But I think there’s more to this miraculous story that speaks to everyone, regardless of belief in the story or faith, or no faith at all. If you’re unfamiliar, here it is: Blind Guy is poor, looked down upon by everyone. The Bible doesn’t even say his name – he’s just BLIND GUY. Anyway, Blind Guy is disenfranchised because somehow, someway society back then believed his blindness was probably deserved for something his parents did or something he did. (Some things never change: how are the poor, refugee, immigrant and ‘other’ viewed today?) Enough editorializing. I’ll go on. Anyway, Blind Guy is so desperate and without dignity, he’ll ask anyone for help – including Jesus, Who in turn spits on the ground, mix...

I’m on the sidewalk in front of our post-World War II salt box, stretching for the three-times-a-week nightly run. The steep slope to the east makes it easier to jog the two blocks toward the busy street, despite the neighbor kids’ toys habitually left in the middle of block two’s sidewalk. I take off at a fast-walk, cross the street and begin a quick jog. Despite the custom playlist beating in my head, I hear each foot fall on the pavement in rhythm. My shoulders open, I feel taller, healthier…and free. Fatigue is a phantom and I may as well be flying the 3.75 mile route instead of running it. A voice-over murmurs There’s no way you can get back into rhythm without an asthma attack or cardiac arrest. It’s been four years and forty-five pounds ago since you last ran. The voice-over isn’t lying: I am heavier – way heavier – than the long ago running days But I persist: one foot, then the other. Slow, growing faster and faster with each step. It feels natural. I begin ...

Funny how we hang onto relationships, habits, things…one-sided conversations when words spoken tumble through the air and waft like a feather into un-hearing. That’s how I feel about you. I’m hanging onto you. I throw stray thoughts – some spoken, some unspoken – in your direction. You know what I’m talking about: the thoughts and mumblings that pop up on birthdays, holidays and the in between spaces. And you respond with annoying silence and a comforting steadiness. I imagine the stories you could tell about the nervous first-time mother who picked you – you specifically – just because you were you. Nearly sixty years ago, that first-time mother picked you because you didn’t have sharp corners. She’d later say you were perfect because you were just the right height to support little people who’d be liable to fall at any moment and gentle enough to break the inevitable falls without damage. Three babies followed the first and I wonder what conversations you heard that m...

The clock’s minute hand in the doctor’s office echoes as I wait clad in those flimsy paper gowns hastily designed for privacy. My feet swing back and forth nervously off the examination table's side. Soon enough there is a courtesy knock, a Hello and the doctor emerges. Just a few family history questions, says the doctor glancing at my chart. I see here you have a daughter. I nod and smile. What I’m about to ask isn’t just for our records, but for your daughter too – there may be hereditary conditions of which she should be aware. That hits me hard, and I volunteer information in rapid succession: Well, my mom, grandmother and great aunt died of cancer. I’m also realizing my mom dealt with depression, sometimes I struggle too. I make sure to watch what I eat – kind of – because people are overweight in my… STOP. STOP NOW the doctor interrupts. My feet haven’t stopped their nervous swing, and I shrink into a ball of bewilderment and irritation. The doctor continues, T...

Dear Citizens of the World: The past couple weeks have been a lot. Really. I’m not here to shake a finger in your face and tsk-tsk you, but geez, folks, I need air. AIR. Can we please have seven straight days of no mass shootings, no public executions, no drone strikes and no conversations dominated by deafness and shouting? Please. It’s just. Seven. Days. We don’t have to hold hands and sing Kum-ba-yah. We don’t have to like the same music or even pray to the same God. Really we don’t. But can we please see each other as human beings? If we can do that, just think of the possibilities: Maybe the hungry might not be so hungry for a week because we’ll feed them; and we'll feed them because we’ll see them as starving human beings instead of The Hungry . Maybe we’ll rally around the homeless, give them shelter, and help them reclaim their God-given dignity because we'll see them as human beings who are homeless instead of seeing them as The Homeless . ...

From shoulder to floor, he stands a little less than two feet tall. He is small, cuddly and a bit insecure. He is our fur-baby, Charley. Charley is no fan of fireworks, so Fourth of July weekend was traumatic for him, as it always is. I do what I can to ease the anxiety from periodically checking on him during our backyard cookouts, to letting him use our basement as a bunker, to closing all windows and doors, to just holding him when he naps. Because I'm THAT person. The weeks following official fireworks are somewhat easier on the poor little guy, but not completely. Neighborhood kids and adults occasionally let off bottle rockets, firecrackers and fireworks that briefly light up the night sky. Charley tattles on the pyrotechnic amateurs with a strange, guttural growl and a quick bark. I then repeat the shuttering, closing and holding until peace reigns again. Lately my fur-baby, however, actually meanders into the very rooms where I've left windows open. It's as...

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free, 'tis the gift to come down where we ought to be, and when we find ourselves in the place just right, 'twill be in the valley of love and delight. When true simplicity is gained to bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed, to turn, turn, will be our delight till by turning, turning we come round right. -Elder Joseph Brackett The television is off and tragic reports continue without my attention or eyes. Twitter is still tweeting assorted fact-checkers, trolls and encouragers alike and continues to do so without me scrolling. Facebook is buzzing about lives mattering, hashtags, apologies, defending and continues to do so whether I check notifications or not. Right now, for my sanity and hope, I'll relish in the simple things and pray Elder Joseph Brackett was right. Simple is the road that leads home Simple is the color purple. Simple is a good meal and good conversation. ...

I pretend to be a tourist and poke around in one of the mall’s tourist kiosks. The tri-level display turnstile is adorned with them – postcards. Postcards tourists will send back home or save as keepsakes. The scenes vary, but all highlight landmarks and historical markers. The messages vary, but the common sentiment woven throughout is We’re having fun in and we’re kinda proud of it. Seems we’ve been sending postcards for darn near an eternity. Even when scenes and messages were dark. Men, women and children posed around mangled human beings. How cold does one’s blood have to had run to purchase these picture postcards, buy postage and mail them to friends and family? To say We’re having fun and we’re proud of it? To willingly be captured in these scenes, to willingly be closely associated with the inhumanity and hate mustered to create these scene in the first place. I’d like to think we are better and more sophisticated than that now , ...

My gut is all I have. This doesn’t discount my family, friends or my faith, because my gut instinct is tied inextricably to all of the above. It’s the second voice that whispers a welcome or a warning in the interest of keeping family, friends and faith intact. Teaching my daughter to trust her own gut is critical. I won’t always be here to give her the answers she needs. It’s gut-wrenching because I want to give her the right answers, but I know if I do that, she’ll never learn to trust her gut, or make decisions that grow into convictions. Most of the time, I end up sprawling myself strategically along the sidelines, allowing a toe or a foot or a half-shin to cross over into her decision-making territory while I pray she hears her gut and God’s voice and listens to them both. You’d think I was an expert at gut-listening-gut-heeding. You’d be wrong. Let the record reflect that I turned a blind eye, deaf ear and mute tongue during the relationship that was anything but ...

I’m not taking the easy way out today. Easy would be ranting about how my post from last year at this time was about a mass murder and this year, this week is only a week after another mass murder, and today is the day that legislation controlling firearms was voted down even as funerals are being held for people killed in the latest mass murder. At this point, Easy would force me into a corner, curled up in the fetal position while sucking my thumb. Instead, I’ll tackle more palatable topics because there's just too much insanity right now and I'm just unable to can with Easy . Thank you, Awesomely Luvvie for creating the mug we all need at one time or another. What's Easier than Easy? Things like... Where Did My Eyebrows Go and When Did They Leave? No really. I used to have eyebrows. Like, on each side of my face. Sometimes they’d convene in the middle, conversating and strategizing ways for them to be the best, most efficient unibrow they...

Some people are born on third base and go through life thinking they hit a triple. - Barry Switzer Whether that quote evokes thoughts of privileged heirs claiming they worked for every penny they've earned, or if it calls to mind superior attitudes of a people or nation that have forgotten rough-edged forebears who laid their foundation, it smacks of an embarrassing truth. No one is immune to adopting this selective remembrance or air of superiority. Including me. Fifteen years ago, God saw I needed a life partner and in His time, He gave me one -- a guy who happens to be white. Together we made the most beautiful, talented, kind-hearted baby who is now a teen. While color wasn't an issue between us, or in my or my husband's family, the world outside our familial bubble did have issues here and there, but we handled it. We'd talk about our collective history and reconcile the past against the present. We'd talk about how even though our daughter's A...

Now look right here, I said, touching the space between my brows. Picking up the t-shaped millimeter ruler, I looked directly into the eyes of my patient and measured. The t-shaped millimeter ruler had a name, but I still don't know the technical name for it even twenty-some-odd years later. It was a tool used by opticians like me way back in the day who worked at optical stores. The place I worked was a franchised shop in the neighborhood mall. Optician training was trial by fire, but within three years, I learned the difference between progressive lenses and bi-focals; the difference between base curves and diameters; I knew how to UV coat an unfinished lens, set it into the chuck, run the edger and rotate the lenses into the frame according to an axis dependent upon the patient's astigmatism. Impressed yet? Of course, there were other things I learned too, unrelated to the fine art of Opticianing. (And no, that is not a technical term. I ju...

It's Mother's Day, an appropriate time to not only give a nod Heavenward to moms who have gone on before us, but to also acknowledge how we got here as moms. And by we, I mean women, men, adoptive moms, aunties, uncles, grandpas, grandmas and a whole host of people whose path brought them to motherhood. It's in this spirit I share a story I had the pleasure of telling at Milwaukee's fourth annual Listen To Your Mother Show . Because it's all about the journey; and sometimes, despite all the preparation we think we've done, we find out that getting to the destination we call Motherhood is half the fun...depending on your definition of fun. Expecting A Baby 13 years ago, my husband and I found out we were going to have a baby. Actually, we were expecting a baby . I was going to have the baby . I’d be a first time mom; and my body - this baby’s first home. When the doctor gave us the news, I thought to myself: There’s a tiny human inside of me . ...