The Sadie Lecture Series continues . . . from under the lampshade of doom . . .

Sadie speaks to me.  Well, not in so many words.  Well, not in any words, but she is constantly teaching.  I like it when I remember to learn.  

One morning last week was much like most mornings - pretty great, actually.  We had dropped off the kids at school and were running errands.  Sadie was overjoyed to be riding along, resting with the hum of the engine and feeling the warm sun beat down on her head.  Often she shows 'overjoyed' with a good nap.  (She's easy to read.)

We stopped off before home at the enchanted forest near our house.  That's what I call it, because it is way too beautiful to be called a vacant lot and because it is very fun to know (even if no one else knows) that I visit an enchanted forest every day with my dog.  There are flowers and signs of long ago life there for me and there are smells and grasses and space for Sadie.  We really like it.

You get the picture.  It was a great morning.  

We got home and began the rituals of the early day - the trash, the mess, the laundry, the usual.  As I was gathering the trash to take to the street, Sadie was cut by something (I've never been able to find) right under my nose.  She yelped once and then ran along as usual.  When we got inside, though, I realized she was very different.  She was nervous and hurting.  A further glance found the blood along her leg, and I knew we had to go to the vet.  

Bother.  Expense.  Pain.  Distraction.  We both thought our thoughts about the inconvenience of this whole escapade and we both remembered how awesome our little morning had been just minutes before.  Bummer.

We went to see the nice vet.  They took care of sweet Sadie.  They stapled the cut on her leg; and even though stapling doesn't sound like a nice thing to do, I rested assured that she was in good hands.  The vet went over the drill.  She explained what I'd need to do, when we would come back, what medicine to take.  We had it.  Sadie stopped shaking for the first time in a couple of hours when she got safely back in my arms and we headed home.  

That's when Sadie started teaching.

She glanced at me from the back seat and assured me that everything was all right.  She showed me she wasn't shaking anymore and she got comfortable.  I learned.

She hurt a bit, but she got back to her main activity at home - sleep.  Sadie is a perfect, world champion sleeper.  It is a marvel to behold.  She does it well.  

I learned as I watched her reevaluate her situation and figure out a way to do what needed doing. 

Then came the really hard part for me.  After twenty four hours, I had to remove the bandage and put on the awful, cruel lampshade.  Uggghhhhhh.  This implement of misery that I had laughed at when I saw it on other dogs wasn't funny at all when I had to be the one to snap it into place around her neck.  

She was scared to death.  She ran into walls constantly.  She thought she was being threatened from both sides.  She looked hard into my eyes and willed me to explain why I had done what I'd done.   She was miserable.  I was miserable.  

She taught me more, though, when she quickly forgot I did it to her.  She doesn't hold onto bitterness long.  She doesn't keep score.  She went on with her life.  

It was hard and uncomfortable and strange, but she did what she needed to do.  She bumped into every wall she passed for at least three days.  She had trouble eating.  She constantly thought something was after her.  It was hard to watch, but I kept learning.  

Sadie was long past wondering and worrying about why it happened or who did it to her.  She was well into living the life she lives.  She had to work hard, but she made it all work.  All of her usual routines had to be adapted a bit.  She did that.  I learned.  

She is a good teacher.  She keeps on showing.  

We are a week into this thing.  Some call it a 'lampshade.'  Some call it the 'dome of doom.'  And others laugh and call her Queen Elizabeth or Laura Ingalls Wilder.  She's fine with all that.  She doesn't like it, but she has made it work.  She didn't ask for it, but she is dealing with it.  

I know when the dome of doom gets removed.  I know that she only has three more days.  That's not information she is privy to, but she's all right anyway.  She makes it work.  She teaches.  

She does more 'walking the walk' than 'talking the talk.'  She's a great teacher.  I'm sure I miss a lot of lessons out there for the taking, but I'm mighty thankful when I recognize them. 

         Sadie leads on from inside the dome of doom . . . 

teaching us about things that we know but forget to remember.  

I'm thankful.  

Missing Sweet Jean

Today is the birthday of my amazing mother-in-law.  We haven't been able to hear her infectious laugh or have long talks with her in her den in over four years, but we think about her every day.  I doubt many people are as lucky as I was when it comes to in-laws.  I hit the jackpot, to be sure!

Tim's mom, Jean, (mostly referred to as Nanny in our house) quit suffering right before Christmas in 2008, but there are little pieces of her everywhere.  I couldn't have loved her more if she were my own Mom, and I thank God for allowing us to be family.

I wrote this just after she died, and it seemed a fitting tribute for her birthday.

My Tribute to Nanny

In December the world changed.  We lost our “Nanny”, and everything seems different now.  There is a welcoming smile and a fun laugh and two twinkling eyes that are no longer present here, and so the world is missing something special. 

It is hard for me to believe that I have only known Tim’s mother for eleven years, for it seems that she has been part of my life always.  I remember the day I met her, but I don’t ever remember a time that I did not feel close to her.  Somehow, upon meeting Jean Graham, you knew that you were known, that you were welcomed and that you were loved.  I am forever changed by that knowledge, and I thank God that my children knew that, too. 

While we begin to figure out life without Nanny, I have spent hours and hours remembering my favorite things about her, my funniest recollections, and my favorite memories.  I remember exact moments – like the sound of her voice when we called to say that we were engaged or her entrance into the hospital room when Molly was born, coming out of her heavy sweater, handing over her purse, running to the bed and saying, “Give me that baby!”  But I remember predictable moments, too, that happened again and again.  I know the wide-eyed look, as she peered  over the back of her chair when we entered the back door, and I hear her saying, “Come in the house.”  I remember the look in her eyes and the feel of her hands as she settled herself, and told me just where to put the baby in her lap.  I remember the laugh, again and again, and I remember so many fun times around the table playing whichever game we happened to be playing at the time.  I remember her patience with my children – that she had as much time as needed to wait for them to figure out a card game or to trample dirt through the living room or to take half of the kitchen ware into the yard to make “pies” and “cakes.”  I will forever remember that everyone in town, it seems, called to check in with her daily, and I hope I can always hear in my mind the way she said, “MmmmmHello” as she answered the phone. 

What I will miss most, though, is harder to describe, and I suspect that many others will miss the same. What I will miss most is the unspoken understanding that I shared with her.  It is not easy to explain, but it was very easy to feel.  From the moment we met, I felt that we shared some special secret, some special way of knowing what the other was thinking.  I treasure the talks we shared, the looks we exchanged and the times we could not stop laughing about things that probably were not even that funny.  So often, I had the sense and the assurance that she knew what was going on with me, what I was thinking, what I was wishing.  I treasure the simple moments we shared in the living room – I was always on the couch and she was always in her  chair – and it was always easy. 

So that, I guess, was one of her greatest gifts to us all.  She made things easy.  It was easy to be known by her, it was easy to be loved by her, it was easy to be comforted by her, and it was easy to feel happy with her.  I am forever changed by her and by the love and the life that she and Granddaddy built together.  It has been easy to be their daughter-in-law and one of the great blessings of my life. There will never be a time that I don’t miss Nanny, but I am thankful for all of the pieces of her that I see in my children and for the times that Tim sounds just like her.   And every now and then I smile, hoping that she is laughing in the middle of the best game of “Hand and Foot” ever.  I love you, Nan

Bird by Bird . . .

I told you last week (Friday's post) that I was having a hard time putting words to my Nicaraguan experience.  I've really been stumped!  As I've shared, I assumed that I would return from my trip and wordy descriptions would be falling from my mouth.  Normally, telling stories is not hard for me, but that hasn't been the case.

I've found myself scared to begin sharing, in fear that I won't do it all justice.  As is often the case, Tim has come to the rescue.  (He is good at starting things, and I am not.  I can usually come in and finish up, but I often need his help to bump me out of a paralysis that sets in when I need to do something.)  And so, last night he said, "Why don't you just pick one moment or one person or one memory and tell us about that.  Don't feel like you have to sum it all up at one time."  And then again this morning, he texted me from work with a "just start small - you can do it."  Ahhhh, thanks.

With Tim's nudging, I was reminded of the same tip from one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott.  She is an eccentric nugget of humor and reality and religion, and I've enjoyed so much of what she has written.  A while back, she wrote a book called Bird by Bird, and I love the story that was the inspiration for the title.  Lamott recalls that once her brother had a big, big report due and he was way behind.  The report was due the next morning, and he was making the whole family miserable.  He was to have spent weeks and weeks researching many different types of birds, and he had done nothing.  Lamott tells about her memory of her father calmly sitting down at the kitchen table, gathering her brother and his supplies and quietly saying, "we'll just get it done . . . bird by bird."  I love that.  Baby steps.

And so, that's how I'll do it.  I'll do it bird by bird - or maybe moment by moment.

I assumed I'd start at the beginning, but that's not really how my brain works . . . and so, I'll start mid-way through the trip.  One day a group of us traveled (in the back of a Toyota truck - yeah!) a couple of hours from Padre Ramos.  Those of us visiting, along with our friends who run the youth camp where we were staying and some awesome young men who live in the village, loaded up bags of beans and rice and fresh oranges to give to the people who live in the dump.

Yes, they really live in the dump.  Apparently, their village was destroyed a few years back by a natural disaster and the 'dump' area was a gift of the government - a new place to put down roots.

I want you to meet three beautiful friends I met there.  Look into these precious eyes.  This seems a good place to start.

Their beauty, their giggles, and their universal kid-like appeal was unforgettable.  Walking through the dump, coughing from the dry dust and watching where we stepped, these three sets of eyes were captivating, almost magical.  Our fun began when they pretended to be hiding from me, using the palm branches that they were moving (chores, I guess).  We laughed and taunted and enjoyed each other for a while then, and their sweet faces will always be with me.

This morning, as I looked back over these faces, I wondered the all-familiar thing, "Why were they born to this and others born to something so much easier?  Why?"

We've all wondered the same before, and I assume we'll be wondering about it for as long as we are able to wonder.  I stared at those bright eyes and found myself imagining them in a different reality.  Just imagine with me, if you will.  Imagine the scenery is different.  Imagine their sweet faces are smudged with the sugary mess from cotton candy; not the sludgy dirt of the dump.  Imagine their chores are to make their canopy beds in their pink and purple bedrooms; not the dusty work of maintaining a home made of found trash.  Just imagine.  Look at their faces.  They look just like the ones we all know so well.  Imagine . . .

See the red spot near the back of this image?  That's just a little girl, giggling as she plays hide-n-seek with her neighborhood friends.

She could be carrying her soccer stuff in from the car after practice.

She's smiling, as she watches her best friend sneak up from next door.

 This little one?  She's just about to tell her Daddy that she made a one hundred on her spelling test.

 She just told her mother a secret about her crush at school.

 They're laughing about having their photo taken again for the yearbook!

She just finished opening the birthday presents all of her friends brought.

Guess what she just found under her pillow from the Tooth Fairy?

 They're on a really cool field trip.

She just found out she made the honor roll.

Their swim team just won the city championship!

 The class clown just cracked them up again in Math!

She's daydreaming about her family's trip to the beach this summer.

"Come on, you go first!"

"She always makes me go first!"

She just loves her choir teacher!

They always love the first day at camp.

 Her cheerleading coach always makes her smile.

 They're waiting on their grandparents to arrive for a visit.

They're always messing around at volleyball practice.

No, those things aren't really their reality.  I don't know why.  You don't know why. 

Even more, I don't know why they're smiling.  Would I smile?  Could I smile?  

That's what I'm thinking as I search the souls in these images.  I look into these twinkling eyes, and I have questions and more questions.  I do know one thing, though.  I was there, and they were giggling. They were smiling.  They were playing.  The sun sparkled in their eyes, and I saw it.  

Thanks be to God.

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 2 We'll start at the Fox . . .

Don't think I haven't driven my brain crazy trying to decide where to start with The Wednesday Pop.  I have.  There is much to tell, as I told you last week in The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 1 .  Where to begin, I pondered a million times since last week.  A couple of nights ago, though, I found my answer on the tv, of all places.  

We found a show on PBS devoted to the the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.  It was wonderful; part history, part legends, part documentary.  I enjoyed it, and it served as a trip down memory lane through so many awesome adventures in my childhood.  About twenty minutes into the show, I realized I would start my Pop stories at the Fox.  It makes good sense.  

I'll explain.  My Dad (often known as Pop, his grandfather name) is grand with grand celebrations.  (I realize I just used the same word twice - it was intentional.)  He can magically turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, the mundane into something special, the occasion into an event.  And so many times, he did that while he introduced my sister and I to a great, big, interesting world - often at a performance.  Many times, as you might imagine, the Fox came into play.  If you don't live in the Atlanta area, please click on the link above and investigate this fine theatre.  If you live near here, and you've never been there - you must remedy that immediately.  That is your homework.  Period.

As a child, I had no idea that every kid I knew didn't make frequent trips to the Fox.  I assumed that everyone went to see Rudolph Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov, whether or not they were into ballet.  I thought all kids saw The Royal Ballet of Everyplace, and for a while, I took it for granted.  When the Fox was in danger of being demolished, I figured all children were kept abreast of all that was happening and that most other kids had their own "Save the Fox" t-shirt, like I did.  

Didn't most families go to see Chinese Acrobats and the Atlanta Symphony?  Surely other kids knew the story about the Russian ballet couple who had been held captive in one room when they tried to defect, but practiced their ballet in the small space they had.  Surely others, like me, got to see them at the Fox, on their first tour in America.  Surely other parents told their children about this couple's story, shared the tales of their determination and cried alongside their daughters when the couple took to the stage.  Surely, they did.

I assumed most folks saw the first running of A Chorus Line and Phantom of the Opera.  I figured that most folks took their kids to see Gospel singers bring down the house on a regular basis.  (As a side note . . . if you are a singer who is female, a bit past middle-age, African American and a tad on the puffy side, my father will find you and hear you sing.)  I just knew that other kids heard boys' choirs from everywhere, rarely missed the Alvin Ailey Dancers and sometimes sat through plays and performances whose names they could barely pronounce.  I thought that was the way everybody did it.  

Eventually, I got a clearer picture.  I noticed that other kids my age didn't talk about their experiences at the Fox, or any one of Atlanta's other performance venues.  I began to see that my parents were different, that we did things that lots of other folks weren't doing.  And though I'll never know all that went into planning these events and pulling them off without the finances to provide for such, I did start to see that my Dad was different.  My eyes opened up a bit more, and I realized that he was consistently affording Jodi and me chances to see tiny glimpses of all that awaited us on this interesting place called Earth.  

When we were learning about Martin Luther King, Jr. at school, our family went to his church for a service and saw his home and roamed around his neighborhood.  When we reveled in the successes of the U.S. figure skaters, we were there at the Omni to see them in person.  When Jodi started taking gymnastics, we started seeing the famous gymnasts live.  I took note . . . my parents weren't steering us in the direction of their own lives, exactly, they were providing for us a summary of the many things the world has to offer.  We heard authors, listened to choirs, saw circuses, went to concerts, ballets, folk performances, plays and comedies.  We went to football games and swim meets and saw the visiting tours of anyone and anything that came through Athens, Ga.

I don't list these things to brag.  I list them now, as a thankful daughter and a learning parent.  I marvel at the experiences that my folks gave me on a limited budget and on the many ways that they put aside their particular interests to introduce us to the gifts of the world.  It's amazing to me, still.

In March, I wrote about the many ways that my mother touched this world, but I write this to begin to tell you the myriad ways that my Dad is changing this place.

Luckily, I wasn't grown when I began to notice all that he did to stretch our minds, our experiences or views of the world.   Thankfully, I realized at least some of what he did while I was still young and under his full time tutelage.  I remember when I first wondered about 'where Dad came from.'  How did a man who grew up poor in Griffin and Forest Park, Georgia learn about all of this?  How did he know that all of these things went on in the world, when the adventures weren't part of his daily life?  

He grew up with two amazing and loving parents, who adored their three sons.  They were poor; and though they brought themselves out of poverty and achieved so much, the majority of my Dad's childhood was filled with hardships.  It was filled with love, too.  And humor, and appreciation and church and singing and laughing and family.  I guess it was filled with enough of all of that good stuff, that he was instilled with a deep appreciation for the individual.  He learned about the many parts that make up a whole person.  I guess he came to know, maybe earlier than most, how important it was to know folks' stories.  I am thankful that he continues to pass that down.

I remember once trying to come up with a way to ask Dad how he came to know about the great, big, wide, interesting world.  I was frustrated, thinking I might not have the words to explain exactly what I was asking.  He got it, though, and he told me straight out.  I hope I remember his words correctly.  . .

He said everything opened up for him on a school field trip.  He said he remembers being brought on a bus from Forest Park to Atlanta to Symphony Hall with his classmates.  He remembers looking around.  He remembers noticing the building's architecture, the careful ways the space was created to carry sound and he remembers seeing the people of all sorts who were there to hear the musicians.  He recalls marveling at the talent of all of the orchestra members and the conductor and the people in the audience who seemed to understand it all.  He explained that he made a choice, right there - he decided that he would know that world, those things.  He decided that he would learn what they knew and visit that building again.  He would check out this big, wide world.

And he is doing just that, and taking the rest of us along on the journey.  Thanks be to God, that he is my Dad, that he dreamt up all that he did and that he introduced me to all that I saw.  I KNOW NOW that what I had wasn't the norm.  I know now that I was part of something extraordinary.  Today, I marvel at how he pulled it off.  I wonder how he made it happen, where he got the energy, came up with the money, had the tenacity to keep it going.  How could one person introduce that many different things to two little kids from Georgia?

I just hope I remember to take advantage of the 'Save the Fox' t-shirt moments with my own kids.  I hope I remember to stay awake enough to see all that happens in this bright, beautiful world and share it with them.

I am learning from the master, maestro, conductor, tour guide, choreographer, artistic director, coach, and mentor that is my Dad.   I am learning from the best.

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. I

Seventy four years ago today the world changed.  It really did.  You may not know the significance, so I'll explain.  When I first explain, you may think I'm exaggerating, but I plan to spend the next year explaining how the world changed for the better for all of us.

On this day in December in 1938, a little baby was born at home to the beautiful young Lorena Butler Murphy.  He was named Donald Clarence Murphy.  He would do great things, but they didn't know that then.  They just knew he was a blessing and he was precious and he was healthy.

Last spring when I wrote about my amazing mother, I made a promise (mostly to myself) that I would write about my father and I would do it while he was here to read it.  I intend to make good on that promise.

I've been thinking for a while about how I'd like to tell you about little Donnie who grew up to be Donald C. Murphy, Ph.D.  I've been wondering about the best format, the clearest way to tell you about him.  I think I've got my plan.

I have a lot to say, to write and to remember about this man.  It's hard to sum him up without some time.  I intend to give it just that.  I've decided that I'll spread out my memories and stories about him over this next year, on the blog, in a segment called The Wednesday Pop - Wednesdays because that's the day and Pop because it's his grandfather name and because it sounds really cool.

Prepare to be moved.  Prepare to learn and to listen and to join me as I recount just some of why I am so fortunate.  I cannot imagine how the stars aligned and Jodi and I got picked to be Dad's daughters, but I thank God every single day.  It has been a journey that continues now.  The rest of you seem to be making it, but I'm not sure how you're doing without a Dad like mine.

I have many things to tell you, so it will  take some time.  I'll tell you things he taught me about people, God, the world and feelings.  I'll tell you about my memories of growing up with a Dad like Dad.  I'll tell you about quiet times and times full of laughter.  I'll tell you touching things that you won't believe. As a parent, sometimes I look back on my father during my childhood and use it as a guidebook and other times I look back and just feel amazed.  My childhood wasn't perfect.  I won't say that.  No one's is, and that would be a dishonest waste of time.  My childhood was real and wonderful and hard and exciting and frustrating and scary and loving, just like most.  But I went through it with someone I want you to know better and I can't wait to tell the stories.

I hope you'll enjoy them with me.  I hope you'll think back on your own memories, remember the dear ones who make your journey worthwhile.  I'll love this romp through the past and this closer look at the present.  I hope you will, too.

I love you, Dad.

Joy . . .

That was the word that kept popping in my head as I shot photos of this precious trio.  JOY.  This little fellow emanated joy.  He couldn't stop smiling, and ran from shot to shot with a happiness that I loved!  

It was freezing cold the morning we met, but you would never have known.  The smiles were rampant, and this awesome family was up to anything.  Such fun!

When I emailed to let them know that the images were up on the site to view, I told Jen that I kept thinking 'joy' as I photographed them and again as I edited the photos.   I loved hearing the surprise in her answer, when she let me know that 'joy' had been in the forefront of her mind on her wedding day and the idea for each day in their home.  I think it's working!

joy * joy * joy

I'm quite sure that I could watch this little guy happily run all day!

And, yes, I could look into these eyes all day, as well.

Here's to joy and to another family that makes me know I've found the perfect (a)vocation.

Thanks, friends!