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

Imperfect lenses and seeing clearly . . .

* A note to regular readers . . . I'm suspending The Wednesday Pop until next week, so I can tell the Nicaragua stories in consecutive posts.  Pop will return!


So, you know I just returned from this amazing trip meeting friends in another land.  Everything is different after you do that - thoughts, the way you 'take in' a regular ole' day, the things you appreciate. Nicaragua was wonderful, from the vivid colors of her landscape to the big open hearts of her people.  I can't wait to go back.

I went to Nicaragua in a confusion that I rarely feel.  I decided, after advice from friends who had been before, that taking my 'real' camera wasn't the thing to do.  I vacillated with that decision from its inception until moments before I boarded the plane.

On the one side of my brain, I heard, I always take my camera!  How will I make it, not recording what I see to the best of my ability?  Will I miss something?  Will I be able to retell the story when I return without crisp, sharp photos?  How will I make it without my 'friend'?  

On the other side, I'll really BE there and live in the moment.  I won't have that albatross around my neck.  There will be no worry at the chance of destroying my investment.  My big camera won't be between me and the wonderful souls I'll meet.  

I went back and forth, back and forth.  I do that too much anyway, and this was serious see-sawing!  It drove me crazy!  I researched meaningful photography with an iphone, I threw the question out and tried to hear what God had to say, and I looked into 'making it work' without a DSLR.  I put myself through the ringer, trying to decide.  I tried to remind myself what I tell people all of the time . . . it's not the camera that makes a great photo.

Okay, you get the point.  I was befuddled.  Folks felt like the dusty conditions weren't the right thing for my camera and some wondered if maybe it would be a good exercise for me to see things through a different lens.   What to do, what to do?

So, I went and boarded the plane, loaded down with small cameras and equipment.  I spent the day of travel convinced that I was forgetting something, as I was so accustomed to carrying my heavy camera bag.  I had a borrowed camera, a new small camera to leave with friends in Nicaragua and my iphone, accompanied with my array of extra little lenses for it.  I was armed and ready.  I would leave my Canon at home and I would head off into a new world and see it with my own eyes.  I wouldn't carry a great big instrument around my neck.  I wouldn't worry about which lens was best for each situation.  I would see what I was seeing, instead of composing it through the viewfinder of my comfort zone.  I would retrain myself to use different equipment, and I would enjoy it.

Want to know how I did?  I'm still not sure!  I did enjoy the freedom my camera choices allowed me.  I often felt closer to what I was living than I sometimes feel behind my usual mechanical friend.  I was lighter.  I was quicker.  I didn't worry about water or dust or sand or where to set things down or whether something was safe.  That was good.  I focused with my own two eyes.  Maybe I was more of a participator instead of the director.  I snapped and snapped and snapped.

I guess I could say it was a success.  I missed things, though.  I missed the artistic part of what I do.  I missed the familiar feel of camera in hand, imagining what stories I could tell with what images.  I missed the work that goes into the choices about light and focus and speed, etc.  I was out of my element, a bit.  And, when I returned home, I really missed the crisp photos I like to see.  I was disappointed with the fuzzy images of the people and place I now love so much.  I missed the art.  I missed the bokeh behind my new friends' faces.  I missed the focus on just a small section of the photo of something special.  I missed the clarity I look to find.

But the trial wasn't a blowout.  It worked.  It really did.  My camera stayed safe at home, ready to get back to work when I returned.  I moved effortlessly around a new home in a new land.  I was with my subjects.  I was there.  Nothing was between me and the people I loved.  I snapped and snapped and snapped like I always do.  All was all right.  I learned.  I learned a lot.

I'll admit that when I look at the photos, I often find myself wishing I could 'do it again' with clearer machinery.  I do.  But, in the end, I made the right decision.  I spent my first trip to a new favorite place with less baggage, and that is always a good thing.  I'll go back.  I'll probably go back with a familiar friend around my neck.  But, nevertheless, I did it right the first time.  This time it was about getting to know this place and her amazing people.  I did that.  Thank God.

As I've edited the photos, I've had to re-assure myself of this epiphany over and over again.  I've had to tell myself, again and again, that the images I returned with are just fine.  And, as usual, I did come back with a few thousand photos too many and I can look at them and immediately bring back the moments that meant so much.  They work.  They help to tell a story.  I'm thankful.

The little cameras were just fine to remind me of what I saw.  Wish you could have seen it, too, friend.

 I wish you could have watched this quiet time between my dear friend and this precious little girl, living in the dump just outside of Chinandega, Nicaragua.

I wish you could know the magic of watching one with nothing tenderly helped by one with plenty.  I wish you could have witnessed the gentleness of this speck of time; this moment with no language.

I long to make you see what this child's face looked like when she looked back at Marta with no words and with a thousand words.  A child who is used to nothing walks by with her gift of oranges from us and works to carry them safely back to her shack to her waiting family to share in the magic.

   She and Marta work together, with a few failed attempts, until they got it right, and this little love looks back with thanks.  It was tender.  It was loving.  It was sad and happy and beautiful at the same time.  I snapped and snapped and snapped.

And I didn't need a fancy camera to see the look in the eyes of this little girl from the same area, as she spotted the familiar face of a friend from far away.  I wouldn't have had time to decide on the right settings on my usual camera, but I was able to grab the little one and click, click, click.  I can't tell you how wonderful it was to watch this sweet girl see the face of my friend and lunge into the air to get to her!  What a moment.  These photos don't follow any rules of composition; but for me, they capture that magic moment - a moment when two people who share no language, no realities, no familiarity, come together in love and understanding.  Snap, snap, snap.

And on the day before I left this new place I love, I was able to jump out of the back of the truck when I saw the looks on the faces of my dear friend and this sweet mother in the village.  They didn't know each other.  They share no commonalities.  But, what I saw convinced me that their eyes screamed out in understanding.  They looked at each other in a way that said, from one to another, "We know that feeding our babies, physically and emotionally, is what we are here to do."  They loved each other without words or shared stories.  I was there.  I grabbed my trusty phone and witnessed the magic.  Snap, snap, snap.

So, I'll get over the fact that the photos aren't perfect.  I'll move past it and remember that they can still tell the story.  These fuzzy photos can still tell the story of folks who came together in ways more meaningful than I could ever imagine.  Thanks be to God.

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.

List 40 - A few of the things I want to tell you about Nicaragua . . .

So, friends, hopefully you have noticed that I haven’t had a post in a while.  I’ve been on another ‘trip of a lifetime’ (to Padre Ramos, Nicaragua) and returned earlier this week.  Before I left, I assumed that I would be racing back to put words to the experience; that hasn’t been the case.  Life is always a surprise, huh?

I’ve been remembering all that I saw last week, to be sure; and the faces of those sweet and gentle people have played like a movie in my head.  I just have not yet known what to do with all that I saw and experienced.  As one friend put it, I’m letting things marinate.  

I saw beautiful things and sad things and lived remarkable moments.  I shot hundreds of photos, though I fear they won’t capture what I witnessed.  So . . .  I guess I just need a bit of time to figure out what to do with the experience.  Just like editing photos, I am requiring some time and space to put things into the right light and figure out just how to tell the stories.  What do I leave in?  What do I leave out?  So, I'm thinking. 

I know some things that I want to tell you, for sure, so I believe they will be this Friday’s list.  Here are a few of the things I want to share with you about my trip to Nicaragua (in coming posts) - a bit of a ‘sneak peek’!

I want to tell you about:

1. Working with friends who have little, serving friends who have nothing.
2. Hammocks and ‘Nica’ time.
3. The colors.
4. The challenges and gifts of not carrying along my ‘real’ camera.
5. Learning that humor needs no language.
6. What I learned about trust from those who don’t ‘hold on.’
7. Why I’ve spent a good portion of this week ‘unsubscribing’ from all that I can.
8. Zip-lining and Hannah Montana helmets.
9. The magic of seeing a country from the back of a Toyota truck.
10. The ‘Bread Lady’ and the funny dollar store glasses.
11. How children who live in a dump reaching for an orange have better manners than American children in a fast food restaurant fighting over french fries.
12. That even toddlers can have a servant’s heart.
13. The benefits of being somewhere where the stars have no lights to compete with for stage time.
14. The things that make our world seem so small.
15. Folks who think nothing of a farm animal walking through their conversation.

Thanks for your patience, folks.  I look forward to sharing with you.  I thank you for your prayers, support and questions.  I loved being a traveler again and I can’t wait to tell you about it!

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 5 . . . you've got to laugh

Most of you know that I'm devoting Wednesdays this year to telling stories about my Dad.  I came to the conclusion that this was a good idea when I started realizing how very much I had to say about him.  Hope you're enjoying The Wednesday Pop.  I guess I shouldn't claim to have the best Dad ever, but . . . well, I do.

I'm enjoying this regular place to recollect and give him some overdue thanks and think about ways that my parenting (and maybe yours) could be enriched by looking at how my Dad parents.  Needless to say, I've been thinking back a bunch lately, remembering old times and recalling facts from days gone by.  I keep being reminding that my Dad has always been quick to laugh, and I'm thankful for that.  He isn't a silly guy when it's time to be serious, but he has always taught us how to laugh.  Dad doesn't teach in lectures, but he shows his lessons over time by the way he lives.  As time goes by, I grow more and more thankful for every occasion to laugh - don't you?

Finding the joy in moments is such a gift, and I realize now that Dad has been showing us how to do that for years.  We did a lot of laughing as kids, and we do a lot of it now.  There were certainly plenty of serious times when laughing wasn't appropriate, but I'm thinking back about the many ways that Dad creates opportunities to laugh, both at life and at ourselves.  I'm thankful.

So, today I give you these tips on parenting from the 'how my Dad does it' playbook:

• Laugh at yourself whenever you can.  It's good for kids to see that parents goof up and it's awesome when they see us being okay with it.
• Make up a ridiculous language with nothing at all decipherable and speak it with your children often.  The crazier, the better, so go for it.  If you can also do strange things with your eyebrows, it's even better.  As you speak this malarky, your child learns about the magic of imagination and sees, too, that having fun with him or her is always more fun than just about everything else!
• Make up silly stories and crazy words and far-fetched tall tales.  It's fun,  makes everyone giggle and creates learning and trust out of fun moments.
• Take winning and losing with lightness and ease.  Laughing about doing absolutely horrible in a card game is an invaluable lesson for your child.
• Be willing to hear, revel in and laugh at your children's stories again and again and again.  It tells them over and over how very important they are and teaches them about speaking their mind and getting their point across.  
• Call your children by the silliest names, even if it's only the two of you that get it.  Having a pet name says I love you and I love laughing with you.

I'm thankful for laughing in this crazy, mixed-up world, and I'm thankful for a Dad who is still laughing with me!

The Wednesday Pop - Vol.4 . . . Leaving on a Jet Plane

I've been thinking a lot lately about traveling.

Travelers are headed here to us, and I'm soon to leave on a trip myself.  All of that has got me thinking about the yearning so many of us have, way deep inside, to find out a bit about how the other guy lives.  Our dear Irish family, the Quinlivans, are en route here, as I write this post.  (You can read more about them in The First Day of a Trip that Started in 1985 .)  I'm eternally grateful for that yearning I have, and I owe a good deal of it to my family.

I have travelers in my blood on both sides, and I've always reveled in the tales of far away places (or even the stories of places close by).  I've always appreciated the call to see new horizons, to hear other voices and to get a glimpse at how another life-liver lives his life.  Both of my grandmothers modeled this - they both traveled whenever they could, and I can recall that long ago I decided that retirement (if it meant I got to go all of those places) sounded mighty good!  In my mind I carry separate pictures of  each grandmother boarding buses and planes and trains and giggling all the way with fellow travelers.  I like those pictures.

My mother was a seeker, too, and spent her final days living out her questions in her beloved England.  (If you are new to the blog, you can read about her here:  A Few More Things about Mary George .)

I've always thought my maternal grandfather, Papa, was one of the smartest men I've ever known, but we differed greatly on our ideas about travel.  He believed he could find out what he needed to know in books, and I debated that one had to see it, feel it, live it.  We finally agreed to disagree (but I always sort of felt that he understood my point more than he let on.)

And so, it seems, I came by this travel bug honestly.  I'm thankful for that.  I thank my Dad, though, for so many of the ways that he showed me how important it was to know how another lived.  He showed me countless times that it was vital to search for answers, meet the other person, and see with new eyes.  I've always been thankful for his passing that down; but, as a parent, I've begun to see something more that I appreciate.

Buying plane tickets, signing up for a trip, and packing bags for one's own trip is awesome - it's exciting, it's full of great moments of anticipation and it's relatively easy.  I've come to see that what's much harder is watching, even encouraging, another to take bold steps.  That is HARD . . . especially when the other is your child!

So today, I look back with thanks and admiration on the many times and various ways that Pop encouraged, empowered, financially backed, pushed and allowed me to take the trips I needed to take, both large and small.  I thank him for having the wisdom to show me how big the world is, both in the excitement of big travels and the small amazements of hiking through the gardens down the street.  He opened my eyes, continuously, and he models still a life of learning.  All of that is amazing.

I'm more amazed now, though, in the strength that it must have taken to allow some of the trips, near and far, that I needed to take.  How hard it must have been to hold back words of worry and offer a voice of encouragement.  I realize now that it's sometimes scary enough to let your child go to the bathroom alone, much less board a plane to another country!  I fear the thought of watching my own children back out of the driveway, and I shudder to imagine how it must have felt as Jodi and I traveled through the teenage years.

The point is . . . he was bigger than his fear.  I appreciate that, and I hope I can live to emulate it.  I hope I'll remember the gifts on the way for my children when I see them drive off, giggling on the way to a football game across town or embarking on a trip that looks downright useless to me.  I hope I'll remember the many ways that Dad has seen me off, with confidence and good wishes and excitement.  It's a tall order!

So, thanks, Dad, for these traveling moments (just to name a few):

• when you loaned me your Easter Egg blue Volvo to drive to Florida with a car full of giggling girls.
• when you dropped me off in the middle of the Pocono Mountains to be a counselor at a Jewish Summer Camp, when neither one of us was even sure we could understand the accents!
• when you walked from one end of Manhattan to the other, allowing me questions and observations and dawdling, as we looked at things you had seen tons of times.
• when you planned countless weekend trips to see little pieces of other places, other ways of doing things and bountiful nature.
• when you somehow mustered a confident smile to see me off to Bonaire, by myself, to learn to SCUBA after the hardest year of my life.
• when you watched in what must have been complete shock as I explained to you why it made perfect sense for adult me to go to Africa for six weeks by myself, in what was the trip of a lifetime.  
• when you walked beside me through new places, in our own town or new ones, and explored with me.

I see now a speck of how hard it must be to watch your child go into unchartered waters, to excel or fail, to explore and learn.  I see now what I put you through!  Thank you, thank you, thank you, though, that you allowed me the chances and gave me the practice.  

Lord, please help me do the same for my children.  Help me to love them enough to give them wings - and not just allow them to fly, but encourage them, even in my fear.  Here's hoping I can muster the strength you have shown and show now.  Help me to instill in them the desire to see how others live, to imagine how others may see things and to wonder.  

Thank you, Dad, for the sense of wonder.

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.

1,379 pieces of good news . . .

I'm tired of doom and gloom.  Are you?

I'm tired of hearing everyone's rants.  Are you?

I'm ready to hear people being positive, trying harder, getting along and all of that other good stuff.  How about you?

I want to tell you about something I found a few months ago.  I want you to know about a treasure trove of good attitudes, amazing brains, encouraging ideas and hope for us all.  If you don't yet know about TED, it's high time you found out.

Technology, Entertainment, Design - that's TED.  It's more than you might think, though, read on.

TED is a nonprofit devoted to Ideas Worth Spreading. It started out (in 1984) as a conference bringing together people from three worlds: Technology, Entertainment, Design. Since then its scope has become ever broader.  I've only just begun to scratch the surface of what TED has to share, and I've fallen in love with TEDtalks.  I hope you'll look into a talk or two, too.

If you ever find yourself with a bit of extra time or if you ever realize that you need a dose of good hope for our future, choose a talk and have a listen.  You won't be disappointed.  You'll hear about everything and you'll hear about things you've never heard of.  You'll laugh and you'll cry and you'll want to call a friend and talk.  You'll be energized and excited and your brain will start twirling about all sorts of subjects and you'll notice you feel a little better about things.  You'll be reminded that this world has many, many corners and that folks from all of them are thinking up wonderful things and stretching us all to be better.

To date, there are 1,379 TEDtalks and I've only heard a few.  I want to hear them all.  I want to know little bits of what all of those awesome brains can share.  I can't wait!  Please give a listen.   The talks must be less than 18 minutes, and many of them are less than five minutes.  You won't believe what folks can pack into that short smidgeon of time!  You'll be amazed.

In talking about what she has learned from her autistic brothers, Faith Jegede says, "The chance for greatness, for progress and for change dies the moment we try to be like someone else."  Amen, sister.  Let us remember that.  I spend a great deal of time each day attempting to convince my children of that - perhaps they could benefit from a TEDtalk or two.  We all could, to be sure.

Whitwell TN, paperclips and a plea from an 8 year old . . .

If you're not sure how these three things relate, please read on.  You may call me Oprah if you'd like, because I'm about to tell you about one of my favorite things.  My son reminded me of it Sunday night when he pleaded with everyone in our house (we had a Pop, a Baba and a Gigi visiting) that we stop what we were doing, sit down together and watch the movie, Paper Clips.

Usually an eight year old's plea to parents and grandparents doesn't involve a serious documentary film, but this one is different.  This film, this project, worked its way into Harry's heart when he first saw it and he can't let it go.  I admire him for it, and I thank him for the tenacity with which he hung on to get the family assembled to see it together.  

We were busy.  Folks were coming, folks were going, showers were starting, Sunday night was ending and the whole gang was tired from a wonderful weekend.  Harry got it in his mind, though, that we were long overdue at showing the movie to his grandparents.  He wasn't letting it go.  I watched as we all ran through the laundry list of reasons that late Sunday night wasn't the time to start something new. I heard my own voice reminding me that I was tired, that my children were exhausted, that we had put the grandparents through enough for one weekend.  No one was excited about the movie.  No one had it in them.  Harry wouldn't stop.  I saw the determination in his eyes.  I heard the urgency in his voice.  He took a shower with no nudging to ready himself for the cinema experience.  I began to realize that this was a time that the young shall lead us.  I began to know that we had to listen.   

A few years ago, my dear friend Dan, introduced me to the movie.  I'm glad he did.  We showed to a group of young folks and they were mesmerized.  One of them just brought it up to me recently and told me that she had never forgotten it.  Eight year old Harry has been the same.  He was curious about it, but we dragged our feet on letting him watch it.  I was afraid its subject matter was too hard.  I feared he wasn't ready to hear about the atrocities of the holocaust.  I didn't want him to hear how bad it had been - didn't want him to know that humans could be so horrible.  

We have our own copy now.  Sadly, I found it for a dollar at the bottom of a beat up bargain bin at an ailing video store.  Harry noticed it right away and continued to be curious about it.  He begged to see it, to know what it was about.  

It finally dawned on me that I couldn't keep my young son from evil any more than I could erase it from history.  My children will know about it, they will read about it in all its forms and they will be eye witnesses to things I cannot imagine.  I can't keep evil from creeping into their lives.  They can turn on the tv or log onto instagram and see things I hoped they'd never witness.  It's out there.  Maybe showing them what happens when people don't think for themselves is an important enough lesson to teach.

Perhaps, I thought, Harry should see it so we could all talk about it together.  I can't erase evil but I can tell my children what I think of it, I can tell them about how their ancestors felt and I can brainstorm with them ways to make things better.  My kids saw the movie; and I'm not exaggerating to say that they were transformed.  I watched their faces and I saw as they moved to another place in life.  I witnessed them graduating to a place of awareness.  Hopefully, they won't ever forget what they learned about what one person, or a small group of determined individuals can do.  Hopefully, they will remember.  

If you haven't been fortunate enough to see the movie, Paper Clips, I hope you will make it happen.  I hope you will learn about Whitwell, TN and the unlikely individuals that marked their little corner of the world forever.  I don't think you'll ever forget it.  The story of what happened in this little forgotten town will make you think.  Aside from being a beautiful example of incredible film-making, it will change you forever.  Grab a friend or a child, rent the movie and be astounded at courage and thinking outside the box and transformation.  I dare you.

Thanks, Harry, for making us slow down.  Thank you for demanding that we remember together how important it always is to practice thinking for ourselves and how lucky we are to live in a place where we can do just that.