One Teacher: Game Changer

My Kindergarten through 5^th grade years were spent at a super strict Baptist private school. When I say “super strict,” whatever image comes to mind pales in comparison to our reality. It was not plaid skirts and memory verses. I have very few memories, if any, of my teachers being nurturing. My kindergarten teacher was along the lines of one of the nuns in The Sound of Music – well, except she was Baptist, and the Catholics were going to hell. Teachers were one step down from God, and God was not loving or kind. He was watching your every movement, knowing your every intent, and reading your every evil thought. To even think about sinning was a sin. As a child I tried very hard not to think thoughts that I was not supposed to think, but it seemed the harder I tried not to think them, the harder and faster and more sinful they became. My thoughts mocked me, and I often despaired for my soul.

We ended up leaving the Christian school because my middle trouble brother got kicked out. He was in sixth and I was in fifth, which meant we shared a classroom. I remember I sat in the middle front, and he sat in the back-left corner. The teacher started ridiculing him, and then teasing him when she was able to make him cry – telling the entire class to turn around and look at the big baby in the back. He turned redder than red, stood up, balled his fists, and screamed “Fuck you!” at the lady. In that moment, I was proud of him. She deserved it. And he said what many others had mumbled quietly for years.

In sixth grade I went to public school for the first time. I was certain my eternal fate was hopeless – they taught about sex ed, science, and PE. Boys tried to snap a bra I didn’t have. I begged my mother to send me back, but they couldn’t. I’m sure it broke her heart too, but the private school was behind us, and the public school was before us. I floated in the hallways, feeling invisible, backwards, and small.

My homeroom teacher was Mr. Peleck. I had never had a male teacher ever, so in and of itself, that was pretty strange. He was also my reading teacher, and he seemed really nice. I tried to become a flower on the wall, do my work, get good grades, and mind my own business. I remember in reading class I sat pretty much right in the middle of the classroom of probably 30 or so.

Every day during reading we would have 30 minutes of quiet time to read. I know this is the class where I fell head over heels in love with the book Bridge to Terabithia. One day during the silent reading time, I had the hiccups. I learned how to hold in sneezes and make them silent during elementary to avoid getting into trouble, and I was doing a fairly good job with the hiccups, but the classroom was so quiet, it was impossible. I peacefully kept reading, hiccupping softly every now and then.

Suddenly, Mr. Peleck slammed his own reading material down onto his desk, to which we all jumped and turned and looked. He was staring right at me, and he was mad. “That’s it Feller! Go to the office!”

I turned 100 shades of red as only blondes and red-heads can, as 30 eyes turned on me. I was mortified. I tried to explain. “But, Mr….”

“You heard me. Get your things and go to the office.”

“But-“

“No buts. I am tired of you interrupting my class.”

I knew I could not argue and I picked up my things and headed for the door, filled with shame. I had never, ever been sent to the principal's office (I made up for that in my later years). As I reached the door, he said, “Wait, Amy.”

I turned around and his eyes were merry and bright and dancing with joy - he had this big smile on his face. “Do you have the hiccups anymore?”

I was so relieved. And I did not have the hiccups anymore. I stared at him for what seemed like an eternity where thoughts and emotions were crashing around my brain, but it was likely only five seconds, and I laughed. I laughed. He laughed. The entire class laughed. It was funny. Something funny happened in school! My teacher was funny!

Mr. Peleck taught me that learning can be fun – not just in this scenario, but over a year. I have never, ever forgotten him. This weekend I attended a retreat and a speaker asked us to think of our favorite teacher ever. Instantly, it is Mr. Peleck. The speaker then asked us to think of why that teacher made a difference – what did they do to reach you? What did they change in your world? How did they communicate with you specifically? How did they tailor a life lesson for you?

Mr. Peleck taught me about joy.

I think it’s a good reminder for me even now. I am quick from my younger years to introduce guilt and shame into my thought process immediately when something goes askew. It is my go-to - it is my demon I battle. I would like to say I always will battle it, but recently I’ve seen that maybe I might be able to slay that monster. A friend told me I could skip from the problem straight to the solution and skip the shame – that idea blows my ever-loving mind. I stared at him like he had a chicken on his head when he said it. Yet remembering this scenario of Mr. Peleck gives me a renewed sense of purpose. It would do me good to remember that life is fun – that learning is fun.

…that somehow shame can be morphed into joy. 

A Memoir on Urine

My day started at about 2 am. It started with dreams – I’ve been having dreams lately that are getting more and more realistic – they seem like reality – and so when I wake up I am very confused about what is real and what is not real. This reality was a simple one. Picture Day was today, and Edith’s jeans were still in the washer and needed to be moved into the dryer. So I awoke, transferred the laundry, put the dog outside because she was whining, turned off a couple of lights (always a thing here), and then went back to sleep. Only to awaken to have to pee moments later. As I begrudgingly awoke I was proud of myself that the clothes were already transferred, and then slowly I started to doubt if that was true or not true. I made my way to the laundry room, noting the dog was in her cage. I transferred the clothes. Hoping this time it was for real, and fell back into bed. Oddly discombobulated.

At 3 am Edith woke up. Edith never wakes up. She told me she had woken up at 2 am and had been awake ever since, which I knew was not true. I told her to go back to sleep. She had to pee. I said then pee and go back to sleep. I fell back asleep. Time danced in and out of consciousness, me trying to sleep, and Edith seemingly peeing every 15 to 30 minutes, and singing in between. At 4:28 am I told her to get out of there and just go watch TV and leave me alone. I knew she had a UTI. I could not miss work the next day, but what else was I to do? My appointment setter was going to be completely distraught – we are slammed. I tried to sleep, but it was rough, with the TV blaring, the dog whining, and my thoughts swirling.

6 am came. 6:10 am came. 6:20 am came. Edith is singing at this point, happy as a lark. I mention she’s sick, but that it is also Picture Day. She made it clear she had no intention of missing Picture Day. We had a follow up appointment today anyway from her UTI two weeks ago, so I had assurance that she’d be medically taken care of. We showered, packed for the day, and got on it. I told her I’d pick her up at 10:30 from school. I had 3 appointments to run before then so I hit the road running.

My first appointment, I met the couple, connected with them on a personal level, gave them a sales folder, got on the roof, measured it, assessed the damage, climbed back down, and then proceeded to give them my analysis and part of my presentation. All the while with my right foot firmly imbedded in a fire ant pile. The climbed all up my leg and in my shoe before blowing the universal whistle that fire ants have to “CHOMP! NOW” I peeled off my sock and my shoe and threw them in the driveway and finished my presentation like My Little Dumpling My Son John. Fortunately, it’s Texas, and everyone here knows about fire ants, and my customers were completely nonplussed. And I’m also not overly allergic to fire ants, after the initial sting.

After my second appointment, I forgot to tie my ladder in. I’ve been in the roofing industry for 10+ years and I have never, ever, ever forgotten to tie my ladder in.  As I was confidently driving down San Antonio Street, I heard a loud crash, looked in my rear view, and noticed my ladder wasn’t there. My heart sank. But fortunately for me, there was hardly anyone out. One truck gently drove around my ladder in the middle of the street. Two construction guys in hard hats kind of smirked. And me? I didn’t even blush. Just picked it up like this was everyday business, strapped it back in, and drove off with a wave, but shaken that I’d forgotten.

Fortunately, my third appointment went pretty quickly, even though it was a double pull (I had to use two ladders to get to the top of the house – you carry a second ladder up the first ladder, plant it, pray to Jesus, and climb to the second story). I got to Edith’s school at 10:20, a full 40 minutes before her doctor’s appointment, which was 20-25 away. Plenty of time.

They cannot find my kid. I’m not kidding. And this is the 2^nd time I’ve had this happen in a week, but this time, we had a deadline. I’m in the lobby for 5 minutes. She must be in Music. 10 minutes. I think she’s outside. 15 minutes. At this point I say out loud to no one in particular (meaning the other lady working in the office that is not trying to find my kid), “We have a doctor’s appointment at 11:00 in San Marcos.” Do you know what she says to me????? “Wow, you are cutting it close!” Sometimes it is good that I get so dumbfounded that I can only hear my reaction in my own brain and it doesn’t completely spill out of my mouth. But I did say, “Well, I wasn’t cutting it close when I came in here, but we are now.” Apparently, I didn’t say it loud enough, because she didn’t hear me, apparently. 20 minutes later – they found my kid. Now it’s 10:40; we’re late.

When I’m late, my armpits start stinging.  My forehead starts sweating. My heart starts pounding out of my chest. I cannot handle it. I am not OCD, but I might be OCD in this circumstance. Very European in this regard. I call the doctor’s office, tell them the school lost my child, and we are on our way. The inform me if we are more than 15 minutes late we have to reschedule. We cannot reschedule. It’s Friday, and my child has a UTI. I tell Edith to start slamming water, because she is going to have to pee in a cup. She’s been peeing all day though, so I’m not overly sweating it.

We get there, we make it, we check in. They take us back and we go through everything, and then finally they bring us The Cup.  We did this just two weeks ago with this UTI, so we know what we are doing. My job is to catch. As Edith is sitting on the toilet, and I have the cup, and my job function is to catch her urine because she’s not sure she can, I have a great moment of humility. I own a company, I am an expert in my field, I am smart and capable and pretty even, and here I am, hovering over a toilet, catching urine. And while she pees often, she pees also little because of the infection. She got out 12 drops and I caught maybe 4. I could obviously improve in this department of my new-found humility.

But the nurse says it’s enough! I feel elated for a bit. But come to find out, it’s only enough to tell that she yes, has a UTI. It’s not enough for a culture to send to the lab. So we need more. And the girl that’s been peeing for 9 hours straight amazingly dries up, despite drinking Dixie Cup after Dixie Cup of water. We go through one more Session of Humiliation that yields 4 drops out of 12.

We are there two hours. I’ve missed two more appointments. At one point I lay on the tile floor in the bathroom, staring up to Heaven, despairing over my day. This is Friday. Friday is supposed to be great. Edith asks if I’m mad at her, because she can see I’m stressed to the max. No, I’m not mad at you. This isn’t your fault. “Is it my fault I got a UTI?” No, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry I’m so stressed out. It’s nothing you can control.

I tell her about the time I accidentally dropped the collection cup into the toilet and failed the test and had to hang out for two hours until I could pee again or I would not get the job I was interviewing for.

Finally, they come in and say, sorry, this is over. It’s our lunch time. It was my lunchtime two hours ago!!!!! I beg Edith to please pee in the cup, but she very assuredly assures all of us that the reservoir is dry. The doctor proceeds to tell me I’m going to have to collect a sample and return it their office within 10-15 minutes of taking it, but mind you, they are closed for the next hour for lunch, and we live 20-25 minutes away. My day is over. I agree. I have no choice. I have instructions to immediately refrigerate the sample, and then when I am ready or whomever is ready to drive it to San Marcos, to pack it in ice.

I often feel like I overstep my bounds with my employees between business and my personal life (like picking her up from school when I’m stuck somewhere). Driving a urine sample packed on ice to the next town really seems way further across the line than something like picking up my dry cleaning, which I have never ever done. But we are just skipping dry cleaning and going straight to urine samples!

We leave, and go through the drive through at Chick Fil A. I’m dying starving. I probably have not had a soda in 6 weeks, but when I realize they have fountain Cherry Coke, I decide I deserve it. I also tell Edith she can have ANYTHING to drink so long as she drinks it. And for the first time ever, I pushed her to fill up on her drink before eating her food. I need this girl to pee! While in the drive-thru the doctor calls and says we can take the specimen directly to the lab in our own hometown and thus skip the drip back to San Marcos. I’m skeptical about the lab accepting the sample, but she assures me she’ll call ahead and it will be okay.

We get on the interstate, I’m trying to drive and eat. There’s sweat tea, honey mustard sauce and cherry coke sliding all over the place. I-35 runs all the way from northern Minnesota to Mexico, and I swear, there are only 6 miles on that entire interstate that have no bathrooms - it’s between exit 199 and 193 in Texas. We hit exit 197 and Edith announces, “I have to pee!” I state there’s no bathroom for at least 3 miles. Can she make it, or shall we pee in the woods? She claims she can make it the bathroom, quickly followed 20 seconds later by, I HAVE TO PEE RIGHT NOW. I don’t know if you have ever had a UTI, but urgency is a big thing. I’m yelling at her not to pee. I don’t really care about it being all over the truck and her clothes, but I need it to be in this stupid cup I have. So, she’s yelling she has to, I’m screaming not to, honey mustard sauce is all over my hand, cherry coke sloshing between my legs, I pull off onto the shoulder, still screaming not to pee, grab the cup, race around the truck, and meet her on the other side, with a wonderful, full front view of Interstate Highway I-35 traffic. I have the cup. “Ignore the traffic. Pee.” Normally she would have never, ever, but she had no choice, and I actually caught it – a beautiful 4 ounces instead of drops. Mid-process she says, “Mom, is this illegal?” And I acquiesced that it kind of was.

I never saw myself on the side of an interstate highway catching urine. #humility

And my truck isn’t exactly incognito if you’ve ever seen it.

We got back in the truck. Edith had the biggest look of relief on her face. I was explaining that if a police man did pull us over and we explained the circumstances, while it was technically illegal, we’d probably get a high five. But also explained that if they caught a drunk person doing the same thing, it would not turn out so well. And while I’m explaining I’m panicking, because I’m supposed to refrigerate this sample. I’m on the side of the highway in the first day of fall in Texas, which means it’s 95 degrees, instead of the 96 it was yesterday. I want to cry. I find a red solo cup, make sure the lid is firmly attached to the specimen, drop it in there, and scoop all my beautiful soft crushed ice out of my hard-earned fountain Cherry Coke into the cup. Defeated.

I called the lab and got directions and we drove in. At least my nightmare was finally over. We found the lab, walked in with the solo cup, and I told the lady, I’m here, I’m the one that called. I hold up the cup. I have the sample. I felt a triumphant. She looked at me like I was crazy. “I can’t take that.”

“What do you mean, you can’t take it? Her doctor said you’d take it.” She repeats, looking at me like I’m insane, “I can’t take that.” And I break – she sees it – I know she sees it. “Her doctor PROMISED me that you would take this. Do you know how long it took us to get this? Do you know what I went through to get this? And you won’t take it???” I was tottering between bawling and collapsing and insanity and killing her in front of my only born. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’ll take it.” But she said it in such a way that I knew as soon as we walked out the door she was going to dump it down the sink and she was only appeasing me because I was obviously insane. I did all I could do, took a deep breath, realized my defeat, and agreed to her false scheme, or else I would lose my shit and my pride.

“Okay.”

She handed me a specimen cup and said she needed me to pour it into that. When I said it was already in a specimen cup, her eyes lit up like Christmas! She thought I was bringing her pee in a Solo Cup. The skies parted. I laughed. She laughed. I proceeded to explain it was buried in Cherry Coke Ice, but that I sealed it real well first. She laughed more, gave me gloves, and had me clean it all and pour it from my cup into her cup.

I took Edith back to school. She made one class, and I made one appointment. Anyway. There’s that.

I picked her up then we went to the airport with one of her best friends and one of mine, and someone amazing took us both up into the sky, far, far away from all of that and everywhere. We were up in the sky with the wind in our hair and the entire earth below us. The best best ending to the worst worst day.

It wasn't the literal end - we were 40 minutes late to the first play practice we were told we should never, ever be late to. I  also accidentally left the dog in the car alone with the Taco Bell because we missed dinner. But somehow having wind beneath your wings makes it so all that doesn't really even matter. Being up in the air, above all of it, ended the chaos and reminded me to laugh, love, live, and let go.

Breathe.

A Project In Process

Today I got a call from Edith’s school nurse – this is never a good thing and my heart sank. She has said she did not feel well last night. I thought she was just tired. I had a day packed with appointments, and I was actually training her old youth pastor from a few years back. The school nurse said, “She says it hurts when she pees and there is blood in her urine. Do you want me to send her back to class?”

Uh. No. (Do parents really say yes?)

I point my truck toward the school and call the doctor office all in one fluid motion. They can get us in in 30 minutes – it’s close, but I think it’s doable. I message my office to cancel my next appointment and put the next one on standby, turn to Kerry and say, “Guess what your training involves today? We’re going to see the pediatrician. I have no time to drop you off, so you’re going.”

I run into the school and get Edith. She hops into the back seat, greets Kerry (who she may or may not remember, but likely does remember to some extent), and then starts to poor out her physical ailment woes in detail. The pain, the blood, the pee, the urgent need to go to the bathroom. We openly discuss peeing in a cup and if we need to drink water or not drink water.

We get to the doctor’s office and there is a lot more talk about all these same things, plus introducing the horrible requirement of having to pee in a 3 oz cup. This is a feat she has never done before, and she is clearly intimidated. I will not get into details, but I helped, and we got through it, in a fashion. I explained to the nurse in the open office with probably 10 other witnesses, holding up The Cup, that the specimen collection did not go as planned; but there was pee in the cup, and the whole room seemed pleased with the course of events, including Edith.

It hit me somewhere between Reverend Kerry and the semi-successful urine sample that Edith is not ashamed of her body or of what it does. To her, a urinary tract infection is about as interesting and as private as the solar eclipse we had 3 weeks ago.  And even more bizarre, a man of God bears no more weight in her reaction and words than her mother or the nurse or a complete stranger or the bubblegum machine in the corner.

My world felt severely tilted. I almost felt like I’d been hit, by a safe foam object, but really whacked pretty hard. Yet I was also holding the urine sample, I had more appointments to run, and Kerry was sitting in the waiting room reading Highlights for Children earning $15/hour.

I could not process it completely until later. I put one step in front of the other and tabled it. Later, it flooded me. It started slowly - I had to actually ask myself, what happened today that buried me emotionally? At first it was a blank – just the recollection of a terrible feeling. Then I grabbed a straw – it was about Edith and being sick. I carefully excavated the afternoon and pulled everything aside slowly that I knew that was not it. It was like trying to remember a dream two hours after you wake up, or 30 years into the past at 3 Am. As I worked out today, I really focused on remembering instead of watching the treadmill time clock, and then I remembered.

Remembering just 4 hours in the past required deep resources.

I don’t ever remember not being ashamed of my body. I have always been ashamed of what it looks like and what it does. I have been ashamed of every fluid or solid that comes out of it, where it comes out of it, why it comes out of it, how it comes out of it, when it comes out of it, and what it looks like. I have been ashamed of any feeling or emotion it evoked – either good or bad. I have held all of these things a hostage in my mind attic, locked the door, and turned off the lights.

If this same scenario that happened to Edith had happened to me at 9, I would have been mortified. I actually had moments where I was mortified. I had moments where I had no idea what was happening to me, or knowing it was happening to me and being ashamed of it. I buried it.

I rejoice that Edith is not ashamed. And it makes my heart cry out for Lucy. It makes Lucy twist grotesquely in the wind of the past.

Six Times Seven, Seventy Times Seven, Whilst Other Contemplations

Some years come and some years go, and life trods on, and it’s almost monotonous. And then other years, everything shifts entirely. I am closing in on a year where it seems like everything in its entirety was the top layer of sand on a beach that gets completely skimmed off, stirred up, and parts of it resettled, but the landscape itself shifted entirely. It’s a time of reflection, in which I don’t really have a great epiphany to share necessarily, but yet I find it’s a milestone that is of enough significance in itself that it is worth stopping for and examining.

My life has changed. A very huge part of my soul wants to sob and grieve and maybe even entirely stop, whilst another part is like a small child discovering a magical land they never knew existed right in their own back yard. Afraid to breath. Afraid to speak. Afraid to acknowledge.

I find I do not know what to say. I am afraid of the power of my own words. I am cognizant of the fact that my words have the ability to hurt others. I realize that while I feel I am just speaking my own truth, that truth is sharp like a razor blade. I am afraid of my own voice.

I am a warrior. I am a warrior because I carry on – because when defeat stares me in the eyes, I cry and I grieve – but yet I also battle. I am not a warrior merely because I take others in my wake – that is not what makes me a warrior. I have a heart that is full of compassion and understanding – but I am also strong and refuse to be defeated. It’s a balance that wobbles precariously.

A year ago I was a different person. I just was. I really think if that Ami met this Ami, we’d be fast friends assuredly, but one could learn from the other. Many of the relationships that were the most precious to me in this life have faded, others became stronger like I layered them in epoxy on both sides many times over maybe just to make sure they would stay, and still others sprang from the dust at my feet and rooted like a magical bean stalk that I could climb and even rest in.

The sense of loss is overwhelming sometimes. I grieve people that are still very much alive. It shreds me many a day, many a moment within a day; if I let my mind wander, deep tears of loss are ever below my surface. I can touch it, I can dip my hand in those waters on demand at any moment, and trail my fingers and my heart in it. I do not understand. Yes, I know I have a role in it, do not let me say that I do not. But it is beyond my ability to resolve or to heal. I can only give it over to the Great Physician.

I have to learn to set boundaries. That sounds like a great therapy 101 session – but in reality it is a never ending struggle to a person who never had them.  One day I have the most beautiful boundary you ever saw – made out of strong medieval timbers stained a deep walnut color reinforced with 20 gauge nickel brackets and bolts – and then the next day I convince myself I am indeed an asshole, and the boundaries are being used for firewood and swing sets and whatever someone feigns they need on Single Mom of New Braunfels.

I am learning to forgive. Forgiving is not an easy feat. I am learning.

I have learned what victory is – I have learned what it feels like to shout from what I thought was the ashes and realize it’s actually developed into a mountain. I have looked down upon what I’m standing on, and wondered if it is not imaginary. I expected it to vanish at any moment – or still yet expect myself to make a gross mistake – like a life defeating move in the game of Pick Up Sticks. I am learning to accept that mountain and to stand on it – and to plant my territorial flag 4 feet deep into it. Even plant daffodils and spaghetti squash in it.

The friendships I have cultivated defy my sense of reason. I have hired a rank stranger and known that that person would lie down in front of a tank army for me. The same for others, who a year ago were only mere acquaintances, if that. It is humbling. I have personally experienced a friend who was pretty much literally willing to lay down her life for me – and did; I have seen Christ in a human who does not frequent church. I do not know if you have ever had anyone do that – I think it must be extremely rare in this world – but I learned way more from experiencing receiving that than any Bible study I ever attended. I have learned that people are indeed God’s feet and hands.

I have learned that mothers and fathers are the best marrow of life, and also that being a mother means being a human. I have learned this past year to show my child my hurts and my struggles and my victories. I have learned to cry in front of her, and that that does not make me weak or wrong or treacherous.

I have learned that love means praying you don’t hurt the other person – it means at communion asking Jesus to remove yourself from that person if that’s His Will, before you hurt that person. Love means putting another person before yourself. How precious that I am allowed to pray that prayer and feel that feeling. I am learning to love selflessly. And it’s scary as shit.

I have learned I am strong. I have learned I have integrity. I have learned I am a good friend. I have always known these things about myself, and then I doubted them because others questioned them; this season of walking through fire shows me more so than ever that I am the person I am and who God made me to be all along. I have learned my transparency is not a weakness and my pain is not something to be ashamed of or hidden – and nor is my victory. I have learned that He provides – He is My Provider.

I have my voice. And my voice was created with a purpose. It is powerful. It commands respect, like any firearm. But like a firearm, it should not be taken from me.

I have also learned how to cook green beans and kale. With butter and bacon, of course. And it was actually pretty damn good.

Mi Mama

My mom is 72. I know this because I'm 42 and she is always my +30. I noticed this weekend that her skin doesn't heal anymore like it should. I asked her about it and she says it's collagen. She could pay $10,000 per arm and have it "fixed." But time is time. And collagen cannot unwind time.

I've been asked a lot in my lifetime who I admire - who I aspire to be. My mind goes blank - no one has that status for me - no one is that amazing. Humans are humans. Even the best humans are just humans. And honestly, they all kinda suck, no matter who they are. No one is on a pedestal.

Except my mom. My mom is my hero. 

She sees herself as a no one, funny enough. A woman who stayed home with her kids and never finished college. A woman who never had the courage to step out or up, to tell her husband she's had enough of his shit. She sees a mouse. 

I see a warrior. 

I see a woman who fought all odds to survive. Every pen stroke on her story is one of survival. People ask me how I'm so strong - a single mom - a business owner.  I am not a victim of my circumstances, because my mama told me NO. My mama told me there's no victimization in our lineage. We fight. We stand up. 

Don't you *dare* feel sorry for me.

You might not know this, but my mama caught on fire when she was six, and they said she would never survive it. They gave her up for dead. 

And then she rared up and kicked death's ass.

This woman with age spots now used to birth pigs at 3 am, kick cows off the porch, knock the wind out of her 14 year old son, sew my clothes, and braid my hair. As a teenager she made my life miserable - I laugh now that she made her full time job knowing where I was at all times. She was a champion for my virginity. I was not thrilled about that at the time.

Now my friend's ADHD son makes her have to catch her breath just watching him.

And that will happen to me, too. I hate it. People continuously tell you when you have a child that it passes so quickly and to enjoy every minute of it. I don't think they know that I suck the very marrow of every single snapshot in my time. Every day. Every laugh. Every kiss.

I hate time.

I hate time. I hate time. And it's ever-marching.

I think the very best part of heaven shall be the lack of it. 

II Timothy 2:15

I'm sitting here in the First Baptist Church for the fourth time in a 2-3 week period. I do not attend church here. But like my own church, I've now memorized the ceiling. It's far more symmetrical than ours. The beams are spaced 20' apart and filled with 6" lap boards (38 between each 12" beam). Except the very rear section is only 15'. So the sanctuary is 135' deep, I think. It may be 130' - I was analyzing the very front section to see if it too was less than 20' and people started staring at me, like I'm weird or something. Anyway, the sanctuary is beautiful. And symmetrical. Soul soothing.

I've attended four funerals in this span of time, three of which were here. Two of the four I felt I knew the people pretty well; two of the four not as well, but I knew them. I do not think I cried at the two funerals of the people I knew better; I cried at both funerals where I knew them casually. Emotions are strange things sometimes.

When I was younger I used to pride myself on not attending funerals ever - I puffed up my chest and said funerals are just too sad, and I wanted to remember them alive, not dead. I was proud of my stance. Now, I liken it to people who don't go to church because it's full of hypocrites. I was a selfish sort sighted idiot. Now, I regret some funerals I failed to attend - my great grandmother's especially.

***Break***

***Funeral***

***Put the Phone Down***

***Grocery Shopping***

***Drive Home***

At some point I came to the realization that funerals are not about me. It is not about me. Nor is it really about the person who passed. This came as a huge sweeping revelation to me sometime in my late twenties. Funerals are for the people who WERE close to the person who passed. They need to see a sea of faces, some familiar and some not - they need to know that this person they are grieving - the hole left in their soul - had an impact. They mattered. They were loved. It is an outpouring of support, often for people you do not even know. And it trumps pretty much everything else in life in that moment – there is nowhere more important or sacred to be.

I started making funerals a priority. I'm not trying to be pretentious or self-righteous or holy - I think in some ways I'm trying to atone for the ones I missed.

That being said, I really deliberated about attending today. I deliberated about if I belonged there. See, last Sunday I was across the street from their home at a referral who came from them. I had dropped in the week before to speak my condolences to the family, specifically the widow wife Dianne who was left behind. I knew the referral had come from them, before the tragedy occurred that cost her husband Murray’s life. Sunday I was meeting the referral's insurance agent. It was the day after the funeral. I debated about dropping in, but my truck is bright red and smeared with my company logo - you cannot miss it even if you tried. It seemed wrong to just drive off without saying anything.

I got confused. I was off balance. I was not myself. I felt like an intruder once we got in there. I remember now that I told her that I loved the flag ceremony. See, Murray was a Marine. I had never seen a flag presentation in person and it was …. I have no words. I was telling her I was sitting in the very back row and so I could not really see, but I saw one Marine’s little white hat if I looked just right. During the ceremony I cried – I cried for her and I cried for them, but I also cried because I was awed by the idea that this man had served his country selflessly and years and years later these men arrived who did not ever even meet him, and they honored him because they came from the same tradition. I’m not sure I’m putting the right words to this – but I compared it to being a Girl Scout. No Girl Scout is going to come to my funeral and present a patch to my family. No random student from Iowa State University Marching Band. But the Marines do. My soul ached to be a part of something with that rich of a tradition and history. I was proud of this Marine – of all Marines.

Overall though, I left her house feeling like I should not have stopped. I was filled with shame. I can’t explain it all, nor do I want to even if I could, but that’s how I felt. I could not shake the feeling – it hung over me like a storm cloud on an August day, and the feeling would not go away.

In our roofing conference that immediately followed during one of the sessions they asked us to list three people that we could take actions this week to protect – and I listed Dianne. I vowed I was going to write her a letter, just to tell her that no, I did not know her well, but that yes, I authentically cared. And then on Wednesday as we were leaving the conference, I was speaking with the referral across the street, and he told me that Dianne was gone. It knocked the wind out of me.

There was no letter to write. There were no words to say.

A friend told me this morning that the day after her mom’s funeral she didn’t want any visitors. She also gently wondered out loud why we always remember our short comings when it comes to death – how we failed that person. What we could have done different or better. If we could have stopped it. If we maybe even caused it. And that would not be what they would want. It’s a disservice to them.

I decided to go. I went. Walking in I was telling my parents on the phone about the Marine presentation and my dad told me that during high school he used to play “Taps” at such presentations. I never knew that about my dad. I laughed and told him the Marines don’t do Taps – the Marines do silence, except one little baby that was babbling away during the whole thing.

Dianne was in the air force for 20 years. I got goose bumps as I realized there was going to be another flag presentation. My second ever. Before the presentation their pastor, Pastor Brad, asked that everyone remain seated during the presentation and not rise until the first notes in “Taps.” It was then the conversation in the kitchen flooded over me – how I could not see. In this presentation I got to see everything - it was like the curtain was drawn back, just for me. It was in that moment that I knew I was supposed to be there.

I was supposed to be there. And I am not to feel ashamed.

The front portion must only be 15'. It must be, because if it were not, it would not be symmetrical. So it's 130' deep. I'm sticking to it.

1038 Segovia Circle

I’m not sure that I can remember the first time I came here. I am pretty sure it was 2004. We had moved to New Braunfels in 2003 and about the 2^nd person we met in town that stuck was Kevin Christesson – this eclectic soul combined with nuclear engineer nerd that cooked at the Tavern in the Gruene on Sundays and did not charge people to eat. The first night we met him he’d brought gumbo, and we never stopped coming after that.

Months later we met his sister Mona, playing games on the “crack machine.” She was a bit of the introverted sort, but once you dug around for a bit you found a heart of gold. We would all mash in – about 15 people gathered about the crack machine – and shout trivia answers or where the hidden picture was.

Time passed. Chuck and I got married there. We bought a house near Kevin’s house. We started having weekly poker games. It was Kevin and Mona, Mark, Sean, Chuck and I, Katy – others I’m sure I don’t remember. Katy had the cutest little girls – Sadie and Kylie – they were like 6 and 7 and came out to say good night in their darling nighties. And then a few years later Katy was pregnant again.

The cops showed up one time and everyone was petrified – while we were stuffing cash down our pants, they told us we had to move the cars because we were illegally parked, never mind the gambling.

I remember the first time I met Rhonda Allen – Mona brought her to play poker. She was about the most hilarious person I had ever met ever. And sad too – she’d lost the love of her life I think close to that time. But she always saw the humor in everything. And shared it with us, just in case we missed it.

I think the hardest I ever cried in laughter was when Rhonda told me about trying to take care of her first dead patient in hospice. I cannot retell this story. You just had to hear her tell it.

I remember during poker I had this horrible demanding job and my husband was impatient, so I missed hands. I also remember my “tell” – if I ever had a good hand I shook from head to toe like a vibrator. All my friends would fold, much to my chagrin, and all the new people would stay, and shakily, I crushed their souls.

And then I was pregnant. And life shifted a bit. Kevin fell in love and got married. There were too many hens in the hen house and Mona moved in with us. We needed help getting the baby to day care because we both had early morning jobs. Mona was our roommate.

Then the wheels came off the truck. Mona left town and I knew there were no witnesses. I remember calling Mona while I was in hiding and begging her not to leave me – I was so scared and so alone and I knew that my drama was insurmountable. I knew she would leave and should leave. I knew it was too much.

But she stayed. She was my only friend that stayed. She didn’t just stay – she picked me up when I was collapsing. She came along beside me. My world was caving in and she held it up. She took my daughter to daycare every morning. She never left my side.

I remember going up to Kevin’s house. I was so lost, I was in such turmoil. I went out on a motorcycle ride with an old friend, and Kevin’s new wife’s daughter made the best YouTube video ever of my daughter saying she likes chips and bread.

Link to the Cutest Video Ever

Mona stayed with me. We were very close friends. It hurt Rhonda, I won’t lie. I do not know what I would have done at that point in time without Mona, and Rhonda let me feel her wrath. It hurt my feelings. A lot.

I remember January 2^nd. My friend and neighbor’s husband Bill passed away after a long bout of illness and Mona got the phone call that her son, Josh, had unexpectedly passed in his care home. I remember the phone call. I remember the loud wailing, and holding her while she cried. I remember Katy calling and jumping in the car and driving down. January 2^nd felt like the entire world fell out from under everything. Too much on one day. Too much on one life.

Six days later it was Josh’s birthday, and also my daughter’s – they share a birthday. It felt like a betrayal, but I had to honor her birthday. Elvis’s birthday too, mind you.

Mona held fast.

After carrying me through what I had to get through, Mona had to move out. She had to move out because her Aunt and Dad were in failing health, and Kevin sold the house at 1038 Segovia Circle to his dad. This move was years and years in the making, and it finally happened.

It hurt my soul, but I understood, and I was also at the time that I had my own wings, albeit small ones. Her dad and her aunt came here. She worked, she provided, and their health deteriorated. We expected that from her Aunt Betty, but not her dad.

Time passed. The time came. I took Hannah up to the house and we sang hymns, even though I was a new fresh guitar student and I was probably completely awful, but we sang hymns to a dying man fully deserving of all honor. Hannah was brave. He tapped his fingers - he heard us. It was holy ground.

We went to visit Kevin in Alaska. We made memories at Denali and in Anchorage. We grew apart. But yet you always stay together.

Things happened in this past week that hurt my soul so badly I can’t even talk about it. I do not want to talk about it. My heart hurts. It’s national news, so everyone in the country knows about it, but I’m left with the chilling fact that I was mad at Rhonda because she thought I stole her best friend. Time closed the wound, but it was still there. I’m left knowing when I saw her at Little Women and sat by her, not knowing that it was the last time I’d see her, that I’m not sure I was even super cordial. I think I was cordial, but my mind goes in rewind and I plague myself with what happened. We were 4 seats down.

I think, if every time you saw someone or spoke to someone and knew it was the last time, you’d do things differently. But if you lived every parting like it was the last parting, they’d put you in an asylum.

Lauren is coming home from her race. My dad doesn’t even know Lauren, and it made him cry. My dad does not cry easily.

I didn’t even know why Lauren’s dad was at First Baptist, but he comforted Hannah while I comforted Mona. I should have comforted him. Now I know. We had it all ass backwards.

I stopped by Murray’s house on Friday because I was across the street and I just knew it was a referral from him. I saw the flag at half-mast and I died a bit inside. Now he is gone. My soul shook as I rung the bell and lamely made the excuse that I’m the neighborhood roofer and I just care for their souls. And then I hugged his wife and cried with her, and remembered the last time I spoke to him he said he needed Christmas lights hung and I said I couldn’t really help him with that.

Do you always remember in the aftermath that you were a failure?

Everything in life is such a spin. My heart hurts so badly. I went up to 1038 Segovia Circle tonight, and I sat with my friend. My friend lost her best friend, but I know that I’m a good friend, and I come along aside my good friend. She sobbed, and she felt like she could have done it better. I held her and assured her she did it the best she could.

I don’t really know what else there is for me at 1038 Segovia Circle. But I know there is more.

I realized looking around that it’s just another chapter, at the same place, in a different time. Another generation. I’m part of a family I have no blood investment in. We laughed and we cried and we barricaded the fence so the new puppy won’t get out.  There is more to come, and we cannot do it better – we live every day and we live it well and we have to know that we do it the best we can.

Our Precious Tapestry

I have friends who say, “I can’t believe you enjoy scrap-booking. I hate it. You’re a better mom than I am!”

I hate it, too. I mean, what a waste of time. Who is really ever even going to look at them?

I let the pictures build up on my phone, and then on my computer, and then in the back of my closet. The task sort of hangs over me – it is something I am never caught up on – I am always behind – an ever present cloud. I wish sometimes I had never started. There are so many times I have thought of stopping – I mean, all the pictures are on an external hard drive. Isn’t that enough? Won’t Edith treasure the hard drive? Or FaceBook? Or Instagram?

This time, I’d almost convinced myself to stop. Surely 8 years of scrap-booking is enough! But last night I was reading a completely fictional novel, and they told how a police officer could tell this boy had been so loved – there was a scrap book for every year up to when he was 13. I thought, we are not so far from 13. I can do this.

Today I dug out the photographs and the glue, the paper cutter, the colorful papers and the fun wavy scalloped scissors I’ve used for now this my 9^th scrapbook. I cut and I pasted, and my heart went through an intense work out, trying to keep up with my aching shoulder blades.

Just this week Edith’s daddy sent me a video of her playing Rock Band, and I was able to go immediately to 2008 and find pictures of my baby child sitting on her daddy’s lap playing that same game. Later, Edith found the album open and started flipping through it, laughing in delight. “Look, mom! Look how silly I was!” Her face is mashed up against the playpen mesh with her tongue sticking out. It's hilarious. I can still feel now how hard it made us laugh then. I remember the smell of the rain and the comradery. 

I remember that was when I had a new friendship in my life. I remember just a few months later when Tom admitted to me that he was emotionally in love with that friend. The hard, mean look in his eye waiting for me to challenge it - and my cowardice eyes looking away. I can still feel the air being sucked out of my chest.

It's funny to me, the things that no one else can see between all those pages. Things no one but me will ever see, but every time I look, I see them.

I’ve lost friends this year – I was able to go back and open up old scrap books and photo albums and find them twisted inside the pages. I put my fingertips lightly on my now gone friend’s lips, and whisper to him, “There you are. Right there.” And I can hear him through his eyes, laughing back at me from the page, I hum again, “Come Monday.” He leaps out at me from the pages, very much alive. I found another friend and memories I’d all but forgotten – and again, in his eyes, now in this lifetime faded, I saw such joy and laughter. What was once just a random picture is now priceless beyond measure.

Today, I reminisced 2016. I saw my daughter blow out her 8^th birthday candle, with her face painted like a bandit. I saw her baptism again – my pastor and her with their heads bent in serious conversation – I can see the love pouring out of his eyes. I am so grateful for his unswerving devotion in our lives. I can remember things that are not even on the pages – him telling me that day, like a father, that he was concerned about the choices I was making. I can still feel my hurt feelings, but also that beautiful ache of knowing that he was right and that he loved me enough to tell me. And me making those poor choices anyway.

There are pictures at the beach in July. Everyone is laughing – playing poker. Beautiful night pictures of my nephew and my kindred friend and I, walking along the beach in the moonlight. It was a moment in time where I felt like my entire world was crashing down around me – these are the people that stood alongside of me in my darkest hour. My heart ached with rejection and fear of the unknown. I had a panic attack the morning we left. But all those details, you cannot see them – only I can see them.

I flip through the holidays and see so many efforts being made toward reconciliation of broken relationships. I can mourn the friendships, see that efforts were made, and know the relationships are still unmended. I see my niece and nephew, coming alongside me, even when it was not easy. The pictures are full of laughter and joy, but the stitches of the quilt are sometimes sewn in sorrow.

I looked at Halloween pictures – two beautiful girls I thought would be mine, but are not. My heart still swells with love when I see these laughing faces. And I also cry inside, because they cannot be friends anymore. I feel I cost my daughter a friendship. I feel guilty about it. I wish I could unwind time.

Thanksgiving Day, I see pictures of my dad and I shooting at the gun range. I see my father’s hands – I love taking pictures of his hands. In this picture it’s next to a case of shiny brass bullets. It reminds me of another picture I took the year before of his hands when he was helping Edith make her pinewood derby car on the drill press. And that reminds me of when I was seven and his hands brought forth a stuffed Sylvester cat from under the covers on my birthday.

What you don’t see is the person who took the picture – I see the sadness in my eyes in the pictures. We were coming unwoven that day. I can still hear the hurtful words ricocheting in the wind – still feel the pain – the confusion – the realization. Even though I cut him out of most of the pictures, I still see him in almost every single one.

I see my parent’s laughing so hard they are crying. It makes my heart sing. Ironically, on that very same day.

I see more pictures of my niece and my nephew. They are five years apart, like my brother and I. I see the adoration in her eyes - and his. I hope he never breaks her heart. I think if he breaks her heart, I’ll tell him to stop it. He probably wouldn’t listen. I never listen and we are a lot alike. But I do remember.

I see my daughter and my father toasting with whiskey and milk in wine glasses as they work at cracking open geodes. It reminds me of a story from before I can remember of when my middle brother went and got my dad and his friends a beer while they were working, then came out later with his own cup of water and sat with them on their break. Even though that brother is nowhere in this 2016 chapter, he’s still there, ever present even when not present, breathing out of other stories.

I force myself to paste in other pictures that I’d rather throw away, because this book is really not for me – it’s for Edith. I try to put in all the pictures of her family that I can - ALL the pictures of her family that I can. Time is time, the quilt is the quilt, and this is not the end of the story. It will weave into many more stories and times – changes in relationships and emotions.

There are still piles of pictures on the kitchen table, the task is not yet done. My shoulders ache and tears run down my cheeks.

Yeah, I hate it.

Freedom: Getting Off My Own Hook

I have a perception of who I am. Everyone does. I have a perception of how I was originally designed and then a perception of who I would like to become, and I fall somewhere in the middle. I don’t want to be who my original self-perception was.  Sometimes I turn my own selfie camera around and look at who I am, and I’m amazed. I am NOT who I was.

I was shy. I was introverted. I was weak. I was unwilling to stand up or to speak out. I was afraid. I was plain. I was untalented and clumsy and awkward. I was a minion, a follower. A victim. Someone to be trampled over.

Today, I was telling my daughter stories and it all crashed over me in a tsunami effect that my self-perception is completely false. It actually could not be more false.

In sixth grade we switched from tiny private Bible school to public school. It was a very tough transition for me in many ways. I broke my mom’s heart as I sobbed in her arms to send me back to private school, but it was no longer an option. In 7^th grade I joined band because my BFF was God’s Gift to Music and All Other Things I Ever Aspired To Be. I was awful – no rhythm, no talent, no beat - no nothing. All the public school kids had started in 5^th grade and actually had some smidgeon of talent. Even my band directors shook their head and thought I should give it up. I can’t even tell you how it feels to have the director stop mid-song, repeatedly, to let you know you are ruining it, and have everyone start all over.

I could have quit. I should have quit. I had no business there. Every week you had to pass so many “exercises” to get an A, B or C. I was at an F level, but I did double what it took to get an A. My band teacher, Mr. B., was blown away by my tenacity. He would fail me on one, I would come back the next day ready to present four more. He would fail me on three, I was ready the next day with six.

By the time I got to high school, I earned 2^nd and 3^rd chair, out of about 15-20 flutists.

The problem now was, my high school band director, Mr. E., was the biggest jerk on the face of the planet. I knew it, and I was not about to let it slide by. We butted heads for four long years. You think ha, ha, ha that’s cute, they butted heads – but this was on a whole other level. This was not cute! This was the school should have hired an interventionist or attorney, but no one ever did.

He called all the girls “Toots” and refused to call them by name. So during marching band practice, I knew he was yelling at me, but I refused to answer to “Toots” and just kept on doing what I was doing. And he, at the same time, refused to call me by my name. It was a continual destructive dance. I was obstinate, and so was he. I refused to memorize my music, I refused to even carry my flute (I took it apart and put it in my overall pockets), I refused to wear shoes. I refused to stop when he said stop. I refused to go when he said go. And he refused to call me by my name. Neither one of us ever gave in. Ever!

He would see me sitting in my 2^nd or 3^rd chair and say, “You! Move!” And he would knock me down to 6^th or 8^th chair. To move back up, you had to challenge the next person and the next person and the next person, with my old band director (Mr. B. who was now promoted to high school) deciding who won the challenge. I’d creep back up to 2^nd or 3^rd chair and Mr. E would look out and see me and say “You! Toots! Move! 8^th chair!” And I’d do it all over again.

He was huge – 6’8” tall or so. A giant. Bigger than my brothers, even. But I was not afraid. I remember I skipped band for about two weeks straight on purpose because he was so mean to me anyway, and he threw me out of the performance. If you missed the performance, no matter what else, you failed band. So I came anyway, and hid in a bathroom in the gymnasium below the auditorium and jumped in line at the last minute. He tried to grab me before I got on stage but I dodged him (literally, side swiped my torso section). Once I was on stage, what was he to do in front of 200 parents? We performed. I got my A.

At one point we were hanging out in the band room before class, and I made him extremely agitated somehow. He grabbed me by my long blonde hair. There was no side-stepping this time. He bent me over frontwards, and hit me on my back. I don’t remember how, but I am 100% certain I antagonized him. I felt I had it coming, but at the same time, it scared me to death.

In reality I was a child. (That is a huge statement for me).

In reality, I was a child. I was a child. I was a child.

I skipped the next class hour and went down to the gym and hid under the bleachers and cried and cried and cried and wondered what to do. At the end of that hour I went to the principal’s office and told him what happened, and Mr. E. got suspended for 3 days with no pay. I think he got a vasectomy in that time.

Waste not want not!

Mr. E. and I must have landed in the principal’s office at least three times in my high school career, and the principal always supported me. In fact, he openly laughed at my audacity.

I refused to follow Mr. E.’s system. Little 16 year old Ami Feller versus the Best Marching Band Director in the Entire State of Iowa. I ran into him last year in the Dominican Republic and we hugged and acted like best friends. Edith said, why did you hug him? I told her at some point, you just have to let things go. It was 20 years ago. Let the past be the past. She said it seemed like he did, but that I didn’t.

That might be true.

Maybe I never let myself off my own hook. My self-perception of my 11 and 16 year old self are complete crap. I was never weak or complying or worn down. I was willing to face a 6’8” giant twice my age with a title and a position, and I was not afraid. I had my middle finger up to this guy, and I won.

I was really David facing Goliath. And for a very good reason.

Crap Self Perception.

There is no need to be in awe of who I am.

I am who I was always meant to be. And who I always was.