Angels on Earth

The most amazing thing happened to me today.  No, I didn’t get engaged or win the lottery.  Something much better than that took place.  I left work at 3 pm and started to drive to the gym.  I really wasn’t feeling too well.  I had a terrible, throbbing headache that made me feel a little dizzy.  I think I was just feeling tired and overwhelmed, but, whatever the case, the headache convinced me that I probably needed to take a break.  So, instead of going directly to the gym like I normally do after work every day, I  decided to go to the local McDonalds, get a cup of tea, put my feet up, read my book, and allow myself at least a half hour of relaxation.

Fifteen minutes later, my plan had gone into effect.  I had a cool cup of iced tea on the table, my book opened in front of me, and my body slouched down in a booth at the back of the restaurant.  Thankfully, no one else was around.  It was quiet and peaceful and I was able to concentrate on my reading.  I felt my whole body relax as I started to take deep breaths.  I was beginning to feel a little better, but my head continued to pound.

I had only been hunkered down in the booth for about fifteen minutes when a group of young girls suddenly walked into my tiny private oasis   The four girls appeared to be about thirteen-years-old.  They were dressed in colorful tank tops and cotton shorts.  Each of the girls had her red or blond hair pulled back into a ponytail.  Well-worn baseball caps were perched on the top of their heads.

Of course, being young kids, they were prone to running, yelling, and laughing hysterically over nothing at all.  The girls giggled innocently whenever boys’ names were mentioned and they shrieked with excitement as they pushed and tickled each other.  It was a little difficult to tune the girls out.  They were sitting in a large booth directly across the aisle from me.  Surprisingly, though, all of the noise didn’t bother me.  I guess I was so relaxed that the clamor didn’t really disturb me.

But instead of staying focused on my book, my mind drifted back to something that had happened a few months ago.  Again, I had been relaxing with my book at McDonald’s when two young boys came into the restaurant.  The boys were loud!  They screamed and yelled and cursed each other rudely.  I had to literally bite my tongue not to respond.  I was especially irritated when one of the boys kept purposely sliding across the floor making a loud screech sound that sent my nerves jangling.  I tried to overlook it but the “tennis-shoe screeching” was impossible to ignore.  I started to pack up my books and get ready to leave even though I had only been at the restaurant for twenty minutes.  But suddenly I came to a sliding stop before I had scooched all the way off the bench of the booth.  I was brought to stunned silence as one of the  boys began to sing.  His voice was deep and rich and absolutely beautiful as he sang the words to a gospel hymn.  I don’t know what had inspired the boy to start singing out loud, but I found myself smiling and taking long deep breaths.  Then I settled back into the booth, opened my book again and completely relaxed as the boy continued to sing.  Once he finished the song, he smiled brilliantly and the two boys left the restaurant.  They  left me in peace and feeling calmer and more inspired than I had been a few minutes before.

So now, I took a deep breath as the young girls laughed and played around me.  Suddenly, one of the girls got up from the table and walked towards me.  I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she approached my booth.  I started to panic for a moment as I began to wonder how much cash I had on me.  I thought at first she was going to ask me for money or that she and her friends were selling Girl Scout cookies and wanted me to buy a box.  I couldn’t think of any other reason why this young girl would suddenly be standing directly in front of me.  I remained sitting in the booth as the girl stared down at me.  I slowly pulled my eyes away from my book and looked up at her.  Then the girl smiled brightly at me and said, “Hi.  How are you feeling today?  Are you having a good afternoon?”

“Yes,” I said, shocked by her politeness.  “I’m having a really good afternoon.

“Good,” the girl answered, “I just wanted to check.”  And then she turned and walked away.

“Thank you,” I called after her.  I was completely touched by the girl’s kind gesture.  “That was so sweet of you.”

The girl just turned and smiled at me before joining her friends at the table where the girls again behaved exactly like thirteen-year-olds normally do.  I continued though to wonder at the girl’s behavior.  Why would a young girl out with her friends even bother with an “old” woman like me?  I had just been sitting there reading my book.  I couldn’t imagine what had ever inspired the girl to talk to me.  But it didn’t really matter.  My headache was gone!  And I couldn’t stop smiling as I turned my attention back to my book and sipped my iced tea.

Twenty minutes later, I decided I was ready to go to the gym.  I got up from my table and walked over to trashcan which was next to the young girls’ table.  “Have a good afternoon,” I said to them as I threw away my cup.  “Bye!  Bye!” the girls started screaming in their excited, high-pitched voices.  I turned around and walked across the restaurant to the door.  I stepped outside and thought about those young girls as I walked to my car.  I said a silent prayer that God would bless and keep the girls safe.  I thought about what the future held for those girls who probably didn’t know yet that they were experiencing some of the best moments of their lives right now.  They were young and silly and happy…and that’s what I hoped life continued to offer to them.

I got in my car, started it up, and backed out of my parking space.  I drove towards the exit but came to a sudden stop when I saw the young girls skipping across the parking lot.  I stopped to let them safely walk to the grassy area on the other side of the lot.  Suddenly, one of the girls looked at me and smiled.  She shouted “Bye” at me as she enthusiastically waved her hand towards me.  This movement got the attention of the other girls as they all now excitedly waved to me and called out good-byes.  I waved back as tears stung my eyes.  Such beautiful young girls…I prayed once more for their protection as they walked across the grass towards the houses on the other side of the street.

So, see, something wonderful happened to me today.  Four young girls were kind to this “old” woman and it made my head and my heart feel so much better.  This is another moment in my life that I will hold on to and bury like treasure deep inside my soul.  For even though I have had so many momentous occasions in my life, it is these random acts of kindness that create my most precious memories.  And the fact that this moment was created by thirteen-year-old girls gives me great hope that the world will continue to experience kindness in the midst of so much chaos.  There are angels still on this earth…I meet four giggly, happy,  silly  ones today!

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Christmas in July!

A few years ago when I was living in California, a friend invited me over to her house.  “I should let you know,” Mary whispered to me after she extended the invitation, “I love Christmas music.  It’s my favorite.  I don’t really listen to anything else.  I play it constantly.  And I really like the classic, traditional renditions.  I just love the melodies and the lyrics, and, I don’t know, it just makes me feel all happy and excited every time I hear it.”

I told Mary that wasn’t a problem.  I didn’t mind at all if she wanted to play Christmas music while we were together.

The following afternoon, I went to Mary’s home.  We shared a wonderful afternoon of stories, laughter, iced tea, cookies, and Christmas classics on a hot July day.  Christmas was still five months away.

Well, I had to admit, Mary was right.  Listening to Andy Williams, Elvis, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Johnny Mathias singing joyous Christmas classics put me in a relaxed and happy mood.  On that hot summer day, my spirit felt all jolly and joyous.  I left my friend’s house later that evening with a happy heart.  But isn’t that the way Christmas is supposed to be…even in July.

Christmas, however, isn’t really fun or joyous anymore.  Too many people are complaining way too much about this precious holiday and ruining it for everyone.  Christmas has become a debate, a battlefield, a confrontation.  For example, people are fighting over the right to say Merry Christmas rather than the politically correct Happy Holidays.  People who enjoy Black Friday are continually criticized for being too materialistic for Christmas.  Department stores are condemned for putting out Christmas decorations even before Halloween is over.  This year, even Starbucks is under attack for the lack of design on their red and white Christmas cups!

I’m sure Jesus never meant Christmas to be a time of hate and anger.  I think he wanted us to be happy about the season.  I think he wants us to spread joy and cheer to all people instead of arguing over petty, little, inconsequential situations.

I remember how excited I used to get when I was a child and the Christmas catalogues would arrive at the beginning of November.  I remember crawling up in bed with Momma and my siblings late in the evenings.  All of us were dressed in our pajamas and cuddling beneath the blankets on cold Kansas nights.  Momma would slowly turn the pages of the JCPennys or Montgomery Wards catalogue as her children screamed out with glee at all of the different toys displayed on the pages.  We would point excitedly to the gift we wanted and Momma would write our name on that item with her red pen.  All of us would spend the rest of the evening, laughing and talking in joyous anticipation of the holidays to come.

Another tradition was to drive around the Kansas City Plaza and stare at all of the glorious Christmas lights and decorations.  We would drive around for an hour before stopping at the local Dairy Queen on the way home.  The night held Christmas magic and prepared us for a joyous holiday.

Even now, I love to see Christmas all around me regardless of the month and season.  I love driving through neighborhoods that glitter with Christmas decorations.  I smile when I see Christmas candy lining the grocery store shelves.  I love going to Black Friday at midnight.  I never buy anything.  I go out around 11 pm, get a cup of coffee, and then head to the nearest Wal-mart.  I sit and drink my coffee as I watch everyone go crazy.  I love observing all of the crazy, half-assed, silly things people do and Black Friday is absolutely the championship night of people watching.

And for me, that is Christmas.  It is magic.  It is the silliness.  It is anticipation.  It is about sharing, giving, kindness, and love.  It’s about laughter, excitement, joyfulness, and listening to Christmas music in the middle of the summer.

And it is all about Jesus.  I think Jesus loves our happy craziness over Christmas.  About a year ago, I went to Branson, Missouri, for Thanksgiving.  At the Kris Kringle shop in the Grand Village outdoor mall, I found an amazing nativity scene.  Crudely carved wooden figures of Mary, Joseph, shepherds, and angels were gathered around the tiny baby Jesus resting in a manager.  I stood there looking at the little baby Jesus and laughing hysterically.  It was so cute.  This wooden baby Jesus had the biggest grin on his small round face.  I had never seen a nativity scene before that displayed a laughing baby Jesus.  In other nativity scenes, Jesus is always so solemn, so peaceful, so silent, so calm.  I loved that tiny joyful carving of our savior.  Yes, Jesus sacrificed himself to save our souls.  But he was also a child who laughed and played and learned and loved and grew.  I could be wrong, but I think Jesus had a wonderful sense of humor, just simply because he was so in tune with the human spirit.  So I think Jesus loves us best when we are silly, and joyful, and loving because he was, too.   Jesus embraced life and all human spirits…and so should we.

So, here’s my point…

If you want to go out and shop on Black Friday, you go and have a great time and be kind to other people as Jesus has been kind to you!  If you want Starbucks, go get yourself a red and white cup of coffee and drink it in praise of God!  If you want to pick out gifts for people including yourself, enjoy it with thanks for all the blessings God has given you!  If you want to listen to Christmas music in the middle of summer, listen with your whole heart and let your voice sing out in loving praise of Christ!  Do everything every day without judgment, disapproval, or negativity.  Don’t listen to other people’s hatefulness and sarcasm and criticism.  Whenever or however you celebrate Christmas, do it with pleasure and love towards other people.  Don’t let others’ criticism and hate take away your joy.

Be that voice that sings out with song and laughter.  Be a child at Christmas again.  Be the love and glory of Christ.  Be the magic of Christmas all year round.  Celebrate in January, February, July, and September because every day should be Christmas!  Remember, Christ is with you every day!  Celebrate!

Renaissance

I love going to fairs and festivals.  I love to see places where people gather to enjoy a shared passion.  I don’t care if it’s history, art, music, sports, crafts, or baking.  I enjoy events where people are allowed to express their true spirits and share a piece of themselves and the things that make them happy.  One of my favorite festivals to attend is the Renaissance Fair in Bonner Springs, Kansas.  I became enchanted with this festival about 20 years ago when I decided to attend just on a whim.  I think that is the best way to experience new things.  I had no expectations and no personal gain.  I just attended this festival because my heart and soul led me there.  There is something about the event that just seems to resonate with my heart and soul.  The celebration of Renaissance times always seems to soothe my spirit and places me in a different realm of existence.  I feel transported back to a time and place that seems so familiar to me.

I have been totally awed and captivated by the rustic nature and splendid design of the entire event since my first visit.  I am so enchanted that I have been to the festival about 15 times since it began in 1977.  It was one of the main events I truly missed when I moved away from Kansas in 1996.  Though I have attended other Renaissance Festivals in other cities, none can compare in scope and pageantry to the festival in my hometown.

Th e Kansas City Renaissance Festival is presented every weekend during the months of September and October.  It’s the perfect time for the festival.  This year, I roamed around all of the booths and attractions with the golden leaves falling like raindrops over the acres of festival ground.  After living in the desert of Southern California for the past eleven years, I was as enchanted by the autumn presentation as much as I was intrigued the festival’s dancers, singers, actors, magicians, and musicians.  It was a magical moment in a magical setting which was so refreshing to my soul.  I believe in magic.  I believe in fairies.  I believe in angels.  I believe that the world is blessed and beautiful, so beauty is normally what I find everywhere I go.  Maybe I’m too much of a dreamer.  Maybe I need to get my mind focused on more practical things.  But festivals, fairs, angels, elves, and fairies make me so happy.  Why would I ever consider living in the “real” world?

Several months ago, I went to a friend’s home for a much overdue visit.  My friend, Jane, and I sat in her living room and sipped iced tea while we talked.  Jane was frustrated and upset.  She signed heavily as she told me, “I was called up to my daughter’s school the other day.  The teacher and principal wanted to speak to me.  They had a lot of concerns about Maria.”  Maria is Jane’s beautiful, spirited, charming 5-year-old daughter.  I couldn’t imagine what this adorable young girl had done to upset anyone.  With a roll of her eyes, Jane told me the problem.  “Last week, all of the students in the kindergarten class were asked to pick their careers.”  At my wide-eyed, surprised expression, Jane informed me that the school was encouraging their 5-year-old students to seriously consider their future occupation.  Each child had to select a career, write a paper about it, and then present the information to all of their classmates and teachers.  Five-years-old…really?  I am MUCH older than that and still don’t know what I want to do with my life.

“All of the other children picked solid careers, you know, doctor, nurse, policeman, teacher.”  Jane paused to take a long sip of her tea as if she needed some kind of liquid courage.  “Only my daughter…” she sighed dramatically and shook her head.  “Only my daughter claimed she was going to grow up to be a princess!”

“A princess!?”  I repeated as my eyes lit up and a smile spread across my face.  “Really?  Maria said she was going to be a princess!?  That’s so COOL!”  I suddenly stopped as I noticed Jane’s exhausted, horrified expression.  The expression was a mixture of confusion, anger, and annoyance.  “Oh,” I now whispered as I settled back down into my seat, “that isn’t cool?”

“Of course, it’s not cool!”  Jane answered.  “The teachers, the principal, and I tried to explain to Maria what a career is but she just kept insisting that she was going to be a princess.  I told her she needed to choose an actual profession like a teacher or a lawyer, but she refused.  I told her she couldn’t be a princess when she grew up, but she wouldn’t listen to me.  My daughter is adamant that she is going to be a princess when she grows up!”  Jane sighed heavily and shook her head before saying, “I even asked her why she wanted to be a princess?  Maria said, ‘Because I’ll get to wear pretty clothes and people will do things for me.’  Can you believe it?  I don’t know what I’m going to do with that child?”

II just nodded my head now in obedient agreement with Jane.  I didn’t say anything, but I had an answer.  I know what I would do with a child like Maria if she was my little girl.

We would go to the Renaissance Fair.  We would dress in classic full long skirts and laced corsets.  We would have tea with the Royal Court, and visit with the Queen, King, Prince, and Princess.  We would chase after the fairies and play games with the jugglers.  We would wander through the glen and marvel at the colors of autumn.  We would try to catch the golden leaves as they fell from the trees.  We would eat turkey legs and drink punch as we marveled at the parade of knights in heavy armor riding strong horses as they made their way to the jousting arena.  We would cheer on our victor as he fought in the joust to defend our honor.  We would buy small crystals to plant in our home garden and daydream as we listened to the flute and harp music.

Later, we would go to museums and art shows.  We would dye our hair purple…or pink.  We would stare at the night sky on clear evenings and watch for falling stars.  We would play in the rain and jump in puddles.  We would love and respect all people, especially those who struggled to fit into society but believed in their souls they secretly were royalty. We would daydream in endless fields of wildflowers and look for four leaf clovers.  We would believe that life is fun and should be fully enjoyed.  We would believe that the world was full of endless possibilities.  We would continually count our blessings and be grateful to God and his universe for creating such a grand design.

If my daughter was a princess, I would behave like a queen.  I would love and respect myself so my daughter would have a living example of a confident, strong woman.  I would admit my mistakes and learn from them.  I would be artistic and let my imagination create a fantasy world that does not contain the tragedies of the world we currently know.  I would make solid decisions and take on new experiences and challenges so my daughter would have an example of courage.  I wouldn’t spend a single day living in fear.  I would not want my daughter to experience a single day of anxiety or depression.  I would not want my daughter to know the agony of contemplating suicide.  I would not want my daughter to experience a single moment of shame or guilt over her body, her thoughts, or her emotions.

But maybe I would not have to be a queen…isn’t this what all good mothers already do…

I don’t know…I don’t have children…I don’t know if I could advice my child on a profession like Jane had to…How could I help my child….I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up…

…But I do know this…

I go to Renaissance Festivals and art shows.  I dye my hair and wear long skirts.  I dance in the rain and believe in angels, fairies, and elves.  I live in a world of art and magic and imagination.  I don’t fit in to society.  I am the outcast, the one on the outside, the loser…I am laughed at, mocked, teased, and ignored.

But it really doesn’t matter…because in my heart…I truly know…that deep inside myself I am a princess and destined to be queen.

Childless Parenthood

Like many people, for the majority of my life, I’ve had to fend for myself.  I’ve had to fight for my dignity, my way of life, my beliefs, and my personal philosophies.  I don’t fit into society but it doesn’t bother mer.  I have become my own person and created my own life.  I don’t go looking for trouble, but I have learned to fight for the things I need and want.  I’ve learned to stand strong in my personal thinking.  I have been proud of my strength and my convictions…

But then…

Just a few weeks ago in Las Vegas, I had the opportunity to defend someone who could not effectively defend herself…and I didn’t do anything! I am embarrassed to admit I did nothing when someone could have benefitted from my assistance.

Even now, days later…and I’m still ashamed.  I think of all the things I could have done.  I rehearse monologues in my head of the words I could have said.  I know it doesn’t do any good now.  The imagined scenarios don’t make me feel any better…I still feel cruel and mean.  My musings only make me feel more ashamed.  My thoughts only remind me that I just sat by and did nothing when someone was suffering…

This is my confession…

A few weeks ago, my friend, Sharon, and I decided to meet in Las Vegas.  We had a great morning together as we walked the strip.  Around 1 pm, hungry, thirsty, and tired, we decided to stop at one of the many fast food restaurants located on South Las Vegas Boulevard.  We were seated at an outside table, chatting happily as we enjoyed salads, hamburgers, French fries, and soft drinks.  The food was fun.  The conversation was interesting.  Sharon and I hadn’t seen each other for over a year and were enjoying a pleasant reunion.

“SHUT UP!”

A loud, deep voice caused both of us to jump as it shattered the delightfulness of the afternoon.

“SHUT UP!”

The voice shouted again and my head automatically snapped to the right as my attention focused on a large, stocky man with a bald head and full red beard.  He was dressed in a green T-shirt and denim shorts.  His face was beginning to turn as red as his beard as he continued to scream.  “What’s wrong with you?  SHUT UP!”

A second voice was screeching back at the man.  This voice was high and thin.  It was reedy and shallow.  “OWIE!” The small voice cried.  “OWIE!”

I looked at the source of the second voice.  A child was sitting in a large, blue stroller.  She was dressed in a pink sunsuit and white sandals.  Her straight blond hair hung loosely around her tear-streaked face.  She pointed to her left arm and continued to cry.  “OWIE!” The child twisted and turned in her seat.  She would lean forward and then throw herself backwards as she continued to scream.  Her small feet kicked at the bottom strap of the stroller.  The little girl couldn’t have been more than two-years-old.

After shouting “SHUT UP!” for a while and not getting any positive results, the man finally changed tactics.  He tried unsuccessfully to reason with the child.  “Oh, for God’s sake,” the man shouted, “are you going to act this way when you’re 40!?”  The argument he raised did no good.  The child had no concept of 40 and continued to cry.

Getting nowhere with this logic, the man returned to his original strategy.  “SHUT UP!”

Above all of the crying and shouting, I suddnely heard Sharon’s voice.  “Take a deep breath.  Relax,” she whispered to me.  “You are aobut to snap!”

“I’m breathing…I’m breathing…” I whispered back, not realizing until that moment that I had been holding my breath.  “I’m relaxing…but if he puts one hand on that little girl, I’m in this!”  I warned her.

“I think most people here feel the same way,” Sharon answered back.  “We are all keeping an eye on him.”

I looked around at the other diners.  A 60-ish-year-old man was sitting stiffly in his chair at the next table.  His body was pitched forward as if he was about to spring up at any moment.  A group of five middle-aged women were sitting around a table closest to the child in the stroller.  The women shifted awkwardly in their seats and glanced around uncomfortably.  An older security guard approached the red-bearded man but only engaged him in friendly conversation.  The subtle influence didn’t help though.  The father continually interrupted the conversation to scream “SHUT UP!” at the crying child.  He refused to comfort her; he refused to hold her.  The man came up with an entirely new and different method of dealing with the little girl.

As the child continued to howl and scream “OWIE!” the man grabbed her left arm, looked at the spot where the child pointed, and then dumped some of the sticky soda he was holding in a paper cup over the child’s skin.

The security guard just continued to smile and talk.  The five women cringed and looked nervously away.  The elderly gentleman at the next table sat up straighter in his seat.  Sharon grabbed my arm as I leaned forward…but not a single one of us interfered with the man’s actions.

Finally, the red-bearded man began to push the stroller with the screaming child down the sidewalk as he continued to shout “SHUT UP! What’s wrong with you?  You always do this!  YOU’RE THE PROBLEM!  Every day you create some drama!  Every day! I swear you are gonna be doing this when you’re 35.”  The child’s screams slowly faded away as the father and daughter continued down the street.

After a tense silent moment, everyone at the restaurant finally relaxed and began to breathe deeply.  Conversations began to buzz again as people turned their attention back to their pleasant lunches.  Sharon and I finished our meals and stood up from the table.  We left the restaurant and continued walking down the street, but the excitement of that morning had diminished as I thought about the little girl in the stroller.

Weeks later, and I’m still thinking about that child in Vegas.  I wonder what happened to her and where she is now.  I still feel the shame of not saying or doing anything.  I’m still confused by the whole event.  Do I have the right to interfere with someone else’s parenting, especially when I have never had children?  I don’t know how to raise children.  I’ve never been a parent.  I just know how it feels to be a child who needs love, attention, and acceptance…

Edmund Burke once said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”  How good am I really if I defend myself but let others, especially children, suffer?  People don’t always regret the things they do.  They regret the things they don’t do.  I sincerely regret the times I saw abuse occur and I did nothing.

I should have done something that day…Yeah, I really should have done something.

Tolerance and Hope

For a quiet moment, I stared anxiously at the beautiful black and white photo that was printed on the small plastic white card I held reverently in my right hand.  I couldn’t stop staring at the face of 13-year-old Helen “Potyo” Katz.  I couldn’t seem to turn away from the haunted look in her large dark eyes.

“Bring your card over here,” I suddenly heard the young museum docent say to me.  “If you place the card into one of the computers, you’ll get a print out about your child.”

I smiled and followed the young woman over to one of the computers that was lined up against the far wall.  I placed the card into the slot on the front of the computer.  A few second later, I picked up the single sheet of paper that had seeped out of a nearby printer.

Helen “Potyo” Katz

The same black and whiter photo of the young girl with the large dark eyes stared up at me from the page.  I quickly read through the text that was printed on the pure white paper.  I suddenly found myself choking back tears as I read the last two paragraphs.

“Potyo and her mother were immediately separated from her brother and sisters, and they were murdered.  Potyo was 13-years-old.”

“Potyo was one of 1.5 million Jewish children murdered by the Germans and their collaborators during the Holocaust.”

I took a deep breath and looked at the three tall card dispensers that were stationed at the front of the room. Each dispenser held stacks of white plastic cards.  Each card presented a picture and name of a child murdered during the Holocaust…

1.5 million children…

Looking at the stacks of cards I still couldn’t seem to wrap my head or my heart around that number.  I was still contemplating this fact when my friend, Allison, walked up beside me and asked if I wanted to go downstairs and attend the presentation by the guest speaker. Affirmatively shaking my head, I quickly followed Allison to the elevators and we rode in silence down to the lower level.

Allison and I had decided to tour the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles, California, because we both have a huge interest in the Holocaust, World War II and the events of the 1940s.  The exhibits at this museum were beautifully and respectfully designed to honor the people of the Holocaust.  I was pleased to see though that the museum also paid tribute to all people who were targets of hate crimes. All minorities that have suffered violence and discrimination are respectfully honored at the Museum of Tolerance.  Looking at the displays was a sobering and profound experience.

Allison and I took our seats in the large back room on the second floor that had been set aside for presentations.  As I sat comfortably in the plastic seat on the end of the third aisle and waited patiently for the presentation to begin, I glanced anxiously around the room.  I was pleased to see that the audience contained many young people.  A large majority of them were with a school group.  Others were sitting next to their parents.

A few minutes later, a short, slender man with dark hair walked up to the front of the room.  He introduced himself as Michael though he was known to his family as Miki.  For the next hour, I sat riveted to the presentation as Miki spoke of his experiences in the Auschwitz concentration camp during the Holocaust.  I found myself swept away as he talked about the separation of his family, the condition of the concentration camps, and the brutality he witnessed on a daily basis.  Listening to Miki’s words, I couldn’t keep the tears from flowing down my face.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to cry out loud at the details of Miki’s horrific life story.  I had to continually turn my head to the open space on my left and forcibly breathe out to keep myself from screeching.

I was not alone in this grief.  Miki’s story was so intensely horrific that the audience reacted in shock and despair.  I looked around the room and saw many people in tears.  I struggled to hold in my sobs as I noticed a young blond boy gripping his mother’s hand and patting her arm as tears ran down both their faces.

When his hour was over, Miki still had not completed his entire story.  As terrifying as the story was, I didn’t want Miki to stop talking.  This moment was so incredibly enriching to my soul, I didn’t want it to be over.  I have read many books about the Holocaust, but hearing a first-hand account made the events more personal and realistic.  I wanted to remain connected to the people in that room, who were joined together to honor the tragedy and awesome courage of another person’s life.

When Miki had to end his presentation, Allison and I stood in the line of people walking to the front of the room to thank Miki for telling his story.  Allison and I patiently stood by as we watched audience members move up to Miki one at a time.  Now, I didn’t fight back my tears as I watched the young blond boy and his mother approach Miki.  Miki asked the boy how old he was to which the boy responded “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen!” Miki repeated.  “Aaahhh…that’s the age I was when I was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp.”

Now the boy and the man stood staring at each other for a moment of profound silence.  Then, the boy suddenly threw his arms around Miki and held him in a long embrace.  I watched as the two generations held onto each other, trying to find some peace and understanding in life’s atrocities.  When the two separated again, I watched in awe as other young kids—13-, 15-, 17-year-olds—each took a turn to shake hands or hug Miki while thanking him for sharing his story.  I watched as one young girl with long dark hair offered her hand to Miki.  Her chin quivered violently as she tried to hold back the tears that were swimming in her eyes.  Miki took her hand looked into her eyes and said, “It’s okay to cry.”  He paused and then added, “And it’s okay to laugh.  We are all just human.”  The young girl’s tears now spilled down her cheeks as she embraced Miki quickly and then ran from the room.

Allison and I were the last in line and now we stood in front of Miki.  As Allison talked to him, I addressed the short, dark haired, elderly woman standing beside him.  Miki’s wife and I stared at each other for a second before embracing.  As we held onto each other, words just slipped out of my mouth.  I whispered to her, “You are beautiful.”

The woman pulled away and stared at me for a minute.  “Oh, no, not me,” she now said with a gentle laugh as a sweet blush eased across her cheeks.  Her suddenly rosy face and shy smile gripped my heart.  “Of course, you are,” I answered as the woman embraced me again.

I turned then to Miki and choked on my words as I said to him, “It was an absolute privilege to hear your story.”  Miki and I shared a gentle hug.

As I pulled away and turned towards Allison, I suddenly heard Miki’s wife excitedly say to him, “Did you hear what she said to me?  Did you hear what she said?!”

I turned back around to find the woman beaming joyfully at me as she stood next to her husband.  She seemed to be waiting anxiously for me to repeat the words.  “I told her she was beautiful,” I said even though my tears caused me to choke on the last word as the woman’s smile suddenly radiated out around the room.  I wanted to run back to her, take off the big white sunglasses she was wearing, stare into her eyes and ask, “Hasn’t anyone ever said that to you before?”  The woman seemed so pleased to be addressed in such a manner.  I suddenly realized that it was not ego that made her want my words repeated, but a deep aching need that we all have to be acknowledged and humanized.

I turned around then and followed Allison out the door and down the hallway to the bathroom.  I stepped into one of the stalls, leaned my head against the wall, and cried.  I don’t think I’ve wept that hard in a long time.  After a few minutes, I stepped out of my stall at the same time Allison came out of hers.  For a moment, we stood staring at each other as we noted our tears…

And then suddenly we smiled…

And then we started to laugh.

Because it really is okay to cry…

And it is okay to laugh.

Allison and I walked out of the bathroom and back into the main hallway.  We looked at a few more exhibits until the museum closed at 5 pm.  I didn’t want to leave.  I loved being at the Museum of Tolerance.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that make me the happiest.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that makes me feel the most alive.

The Museum of Tolerance, instead, is the place that makes me feel the most human…

I was always concerned that in years to come people would forget about the Holocaust, that it would simply over time just fade away into the pages of dusty old history books.  I think about the evil that people continue to do to each other.  I worry about the disrespect we, including myself, demonstrate to each other on a daily basis…

….but then I think about all of those young people who cried, and laughed, and honored a Holocaust survivor…

And I know there’s hope for the next generation.  Oh, yes, there is tremendous hope for the generations to come.

Valentine’s Day

Due to family obligations and work situations, a good friend and I had not had the opportunity to connect for a few months.  Last Wednesday, I sent her a text message.  I asked if she would be free to have lunch together soon and catch up on our lives.  My friend, Olga, answered me by texting that she was free on Saturday.  I excitedly let her know that Saturday would work for me as well.

The next day, Thursday, however, I suddenly realized that Saturday was Valentine’s Day.  I had completely forgotten about the holiday and wondered if my friend would have plans with her family.  I sent her another text message to remind her about the holiday.  Would Saturday still work for her?  Olga quickly answered back.  Yes, Saturday was still good.  She had no other plans.  Is Saturday good for me?  Yes…unfortunately….I had no other plans for Valentine’s Day either.

So I woke up early and went to the gym.  After my workout, I showered and quickly got dressed for the lunch appointment.  On the way to my friend’s house, I impulsively decided to stop by Wal-mart to grab a few small Valentine’s for her children.  I picked up small heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and sticker books for both of Olga’s little daughters, Jolie and Valkyrie.  Before I got to the register, though, I thought about the fact that Olga usually had several of her nieces and nephews staying at her home.  Since this was a holiday, I would feel awful giving to Olga’s two daughters and leaving the other little kids out.  I quickly tried to add up in my head how many nieces and nephews Olga had.  I quickly grabbed several more candy boxes, sticker books, and boxes of Transformer trading cards.  I paid for the items and then ran out to my car.  I drove over to my friend’s house.

I parked in front of Olga’s house, grabbed the Wal-mart bag, and climbed out of the car.  I walked up to the front door.  Before I could knock, though, the door opened and Olga’s sister, Lucy, stepped outside.  We shared a quick hug before I walked inside the house.  Lucy’s little daughter, Jay, was waiting inside the door.  The child suddenly threw her arms around my legs and gave me a deep hug.  I was surprised that she remembered me.  It had been several months since she had seen me.  I pulled out a candy box and a sticker book and handed it to her.  “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I told her.  Jay shrieked with excitement, grabbed the items, and ran down the hallway to the back bedroom waving the book and candy box over her head.

“Say thank you,” Lucy was screaming out to the little girl.

At the end of the hallway, Jay stopped and turned around to look at me.  “Thank you,” she squealed before turning and running through the far right door.

“Go on,” Lucy told me.  “Everyone is in the back bedroom.”

I walked down the hallway and entered the same doorway Jay had disappeared through a few seconds before.  Jay stood by a small table showing three other small children the treasures she had just received.  The children looked away from their coloring books and stared at the heart-shaped box of candy that Jay held out to them.  I didn’t want the other children to think I forgot about them, so I quickly pulled out of the bag the other boxes of candy, books, and trading cards.  I was surprised how thrilled the little kids were with these simple treasures.  They excitedly hugged the heart shaped boxes to their chests and giggled delightedly!  And they wouldn’t stop climbing on me!  They held my hands and wrapped their small arms around me for hugs and kisses.

After a few minutes, Olga was ready to leave.  I handed the Wal-mart bag to Lucy and let her know that the rest of the candy and sticker books were for the other small nieces and nephews who were not present at the time.  Olga and I left the house then and went out to a local Chinese restaurant.  We spent the next three hours sitting together, talking, crying laughing, sharing.  The whole experience was a reconnection of our friendship.  A beautiful 10-year friendship that is as fresh and clean today as it was when we had first meet in 2004.  My friend and I have been through a lot together.  Relationships, marriages, breakups, pregnancies, children, moves, job changes, emergency room visits, spiritual awakenings, deaths.  Though a few months can go by before we see each other again, I have never doubted her friendship and kindness.  After 3 hours, we left the restaurant and headed back to her house.

I walked with Olga up to the front door of her home.  The door opened and Jay pulled into the living room.  I stood in the kitchen and played with the kids.  I laughed with Olga’s children, Jolie and Val.  I held hands and teased with her nephew, Junior.  I watched Lucy’s small baby, Javin, stumble across the living room while he laughed uproariously.  I watched Jay perform endless tumbling routines around the house.

Finally, I told Olga and Lucy I needed to head back home.  Jay responded by wrapping her arms around my legs as I tried to walk to the door.  “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered as she held tightly to my legs.  She turned her head back to look at her mother.  “I don’t want her to go.  Her has to stay.  I want her to stay.”

“No,” Lucy told her.  “Jamie has to leave now.”

“I go home with her,” Jay stated.

I laughed then.  “Oh, I don’t think you want to come home with me,” I told her as I bent down to give her a hug.  “You don’t want to come home with me.  I’ll make you do the dishes and clean the bathroom.  You’ll have to do the laundry.”

“I’ll do it!  I’ll do it!”  Jay screamed as she jumped up and down excitedly.

“Oh, she will do it,” her mother laughs.  “She tries to do half the housework around here.”  Oh, so I guess that threat wasn’t going to work with Jay.  It usually keeps me away from home.

I laughed then and watched as the children continued to run and dance through the house, all of them holding the small, heart-shaped candy boxes.  After a while, I told Olga I needed to head home.  Before I was able to make it to the door, I was buried underneath a flurry of little bodies all hugging and kissing and screaming for me.  I hugged each of the children good-bye before I was finally being able to step outside of the house.  I walk over to my car, climbed in, and headed for home.  As I drove along Ramon Road, I thought of the stories, secrets, and emotions my friend and I had shared at lunch.  I thought about dancing and playing with all of the beautiful children.  I was amazed that simple heart-shaped boxes of chocolate could create so much excitement.  I suddenly realized then that I had just had one of the best Valentine’s Days of my life.

My Mother’s Dream

My mom and I would sit side by side on the small square concrete porch in the back yard on hot summer evenings in Kansas.  Our small house had no central air conditioning and there was nowhere else to go to escape the humid heat of the day.  We would just sit together and watch the day slowly disappear as we told each other our dreams.  My 10-year-old self talked about castles, princesses, movies, music, poems, and Donny Osmond. I would weave complicated future lives for myself of success and fortune.  My mother would just listen.  She never took a side.  She didn’t encourage nor discourage my dreams.  She would take a neutral position believing that would keep us both safe.

My mother was a woman of simple dreams.  She didn’t wish for large houses or fancy cars.  She didn’t want stylish clothes or expensive jewelry.  That summer, the only thing my mother dreamed of was an apple tree.

My mother sat on the porch one lazy evening.  In the glow of the setting sun, she stared out at our large fenced-in backyard.  I followed her gaze but couldn’t figure out what was so fascinating about the brown grass that was slowly decaying under the pressure of the hot summer sun.  I looked at the patches of dry, dusty, balding earth that pushed up sporadically through the grass.  My father had continually screamed at his four children to stop running, sliding, playing, and wrestling on the lawn.  But without video games, DVD players, cell phones, and stereos, there was really nothing more to do.  My siblings and I continually played outdoors.  One of our favorite games was to chase each other up the high hill that was part of our backyard.  We would tackle and then drag each other down the hill by the arm or the leg.  It was always more fun after a rainstorm.  We would pull and push each other down the hill and into the small puddles of mud that formed on the flat land that lead up to our back porch.

My mother’s eyes, however, saw something completely different as she stared into the distance.  “I want an apple tree,” my mother stated in the strongest, most determined voice I had ever heard her use.  “I want an apple tree to plant in this back yard.  Wouldn’t it be amazing, Jamie?” she asked, trying to draw me into her fantasy.  “Can you imagine just walking out our back door and pulling apples right off of our very own tree in our very own backyard?”  Her voice grew lighter as her eyes sparkled.  “I can make fresh apple pies for us.  I can make apple fritters and turnovers.  We would be cooler, too.  We could sit under the shade of the tree and get out of the heat for a while.”

I just smiled at my mother and didn’t say a word.  I was just a child and couldn’t see her vision.  I just saw a dry, dusty yard; the earth cracking apart from the heat.  My mother’s apple tree dream didn’t inspire me.

But Mom was determined.  The next day, she searched through the plants, flowers, and trees in the garden shop at our local K-mart.  This isn’t the first time Mom had browsed through the garden section.  Mom loved plants and had been successful with small gardens she had created in the back yard.  She grew roses, marigolds, tomatoes, and green beans.  Why not an apple tree, too?

Mom carefully looked through all of the trees and finally held one up triumphantly.  “Look at this one, Jamie,” she shrilled.  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I silently stared at the 3-foot stick Mom held in front of her.  That’s all it was.  It was just a long stick with the far end encased in a plastic-wrapped wad of soil.  Mom lovingly placed the apple stick in her basket and carefully pushed it over to the check-out.

I watched as Mom opened up her small wallet and warily counted out four dollars.  She hesitated for just a moment as she held the money tightly in her hands.  She looked at the stick for a moment and then down at her money.  She glanced back at the stick and then down at me.  Then she slowly handed the money over to the cashier.  Even at a young age, I knew how much my mother had to scrimp and save just to have those four dollars.  She rarely spent any money on herself.

“We’ll have fresh apples, Jamie.  The whole family will enjoy the fruit from this tree.  We’ll make all kinds of pies and tarts.  This is going to be a great investment.”  On the way home, Mom talked on as she tried hard to justify her purchase.  I think part of her felt guilty about spending the money on something she really wanted.  Thinking she could share it with her children and that the family would benefit was the only way Mom could ever spend money on herself.

When we got back home, Mom proudly carried the apple stick out to the back yard.  At the base of the hill on the right side of the yard, my mother dug a hole about two feet deep.  She carefully stuck the now-unwrapped soiled end of the stick down into the hole.  She quickly maneuvered the dirt around the base.  Mom smiled then as she slowly backed away.  Suddenly she jumped forward quickly as the apple stick began to tilt to the left.  Mom quickly righted the stick and packed the dirt a little tighter on the left side.  My mother then sat back on the ground and smiled.  She lay back on the grass just staring up at the stick for a few minutes.  I’m sure she was seeing the tree as if it were already full grown and looming over the backyard.  I’m sure she was imaging the tree blooming, the apples growing, and the shadow of the tree hiding her from the sun.

Over the next several days, my mother tended loving to her apple stick.  It wasn’t an easy task with four energetic, rambunctious children, who had nothing to do on a lonely summer day, running around.  My siblings and I continued to play in the back yard.  Mom would run out of the back door every few minutes as she saw her beloved tree tilting dangerously to one side.  “Be careful,” she would scream to us.  “Watch out for a tree!”  All four of us would stare at Mom in surprise.  A tree would be easy to see and avoid.  It proved to be a little more difficult to sidestep a stick.  My siblings and I continually and accidentally ran and stumbled over Mom’s apple tree.

My mother kept a close eye on her tree over the next few days.  She constantly shouted to her children to be carefully when we were running, playing, and dragging each other around.  Over time, we became use to the tree sticking straight up from the ground.  However, the stick was hard to see in the dark.

One hot June night, with her children and a few neighbor kids playing tag in the backyard, Mom finally allowed herself to join in the fun.  In the dark, she whooped and cheered and laughed as she chased the kids around the yard.  Mom was having so much fun being a child again, she wasn’t paying any attention to where she was going.  Suddenly, all of the kids froze as we heard a crack, snap, and then a sad anguished cry.

My brother ran into the house and flipped on the back porch lit.  Now, the yellowish glow revealed the source of the strange noises.  My mother sat sprawled on the ground.  Her beautiful apple tree was now lying across her legs.  My mother reached down and picked up the stick.  The single stick of my mother’s apple tree had cracked and split right off at the roots.  I just remember the sadness in my mother’s eyes as she looked up at me. Anguish creased her face as she struggled to hold back the tears.

“Momma…”  I said slowly.

“It’s okay,” she answered as she brushed her hands over her face.  She pulled herself slowly up from the ground, still holding her apple tree in her hands.  “It’s okay,” she said.  Then she chuckled sarcastically, “I did it myself.  I killed the tree myself.”

Mom then slowly walked toward the house as her kids followed her like little ducklings.  We were all silent as we climbed into bed and went to sleep.

My mother was in the back yard early the next morning.  I watched through the bedroom window as she slowly dug up  the ground and pulled out the last remnants of her destroyed dream.  I watched my mother refill the hole with dirty as tears rolled down her face.  My mother’s tree was gone. My mother’s dreams were gone.  I’m sure she grieved, too, over her hard-earned money.  She had felt so guilty spending on herself in the first place.  Now, it felt like such a waste when she could have used the money for her children.  I watched my mother carry the roots of the tree over to the trash.  She paused before she dumped the bundle inside the large garbage can.  I swear I saw her pray over the tree before she let the roots drop from her hands.  She looked down at her dirty palms as tears again rolled down her face.  Then, she wiped her hands in the grass, took a deep breath, and smiled as she walked in the house to awake her children for the morning.

My mother kept her dreams private after that.  She never asked for anything more.  We would sit together on the back porch on summer evenings.  We were silent as we would sit side by side and watch the sun go down.

Opinions

So one day I was at the gym and I had just gotten on the exercise bike.  I was pedaling away mindlessly as I read my paperback book.  Suddenly, a young boy sat down on the bike next to me.  He looked to be only 12 or 13-years-old.  The boy began to pedal and then I heard him say, “Hey, how do you program this thing?”  I smiled and put my book down.  As I leaned over to help him, though, I suddenly smelled this horrible, putrid, body odor.

Oh, my gosh, I thought, this poor boy.  The smell was horrendous.  I tried to compose my face into a smooth smile as I showed him how to set the controls.  As I bit my lower lip to stop my eyes from watering, my mind was reminding me, “He’s a little kid.  He’s just a kid.  Don’t say anything.  Don’t hurt his feelings.”  I set the controls for the boy and then moved away.  I sat up straight on my own bike and tried to focus on my book.

“Hey,” the boy said again, “how do I get it to go faster?”  I leaned over again and tried to stop my hands from immediately covering my nose. I sniffed helplessly a few times.  My mind started to chant, “He’s just a kid.  He’s just a kid.  Be kind.  Be kind.”  I forced a smile as I helped him set the speed level on the bike and then moved gratefully away.

Suddenly, the boy hopped off the bike.  As he was walking away, he looked back over his shoulder and stated, “Well, that smell couldn’t be me. I showered this morning.”  I stared at the boy as he walked out of the cardio area.

Wait a minute!  Did that boy just tell me I smell bad….Well, the little…

I sat on my bike pedaling in stunned silence as I thought about the boy’s words.  Even though the smell had faded away, I became a little paranoid.  That’s not me.  I’m sure it isn’t me…is it me?  I took several deep breaths but didn’t smell anything.  However, I was suddenly a little fearful.

I got off of the bike, ran back to the locker room, stripped out of my gym clothes, and immediately stood underneath the shower spray.  Of course, that smell wasn’t me…I had showered that morning, too.  And yet, I was amazed that the boy’s words could have such an effect on me.  As I squeezed soap out of the dispenser hanging on the wall and scrubbed away at my skin, my mind began to spin.  Why was I accepting the boy’s words as the truth, even though I knew that I was clean?  And yet I suddenly didn’t feel so fresh.

I sighed heavily as I reminded myself again.  “He’s just a kid.  He’s just a kid.”  His words meant nothing.  But they said everything.

Though there are times that I say awkward things, I always try hard to sidestep other people’s feelings.  Why do I feel sometimes, though, that my feelings get stomped on? But is that really true…or do I just allow other people’s opinions to affect me more than I should?  Why would I ever allow someone else’s words, especially the words of a young boy, make me feel that there was something wrong or unacceptable about me?  What does it matter if people make nasty comments at me or share cruel opinions?  Isn’t it more important how I see myself?  I knew I was clean and decent.  I know I try to be a good person.  Why would I ever let someone else’s words hurt me?  The boy had nothing to do with my response to his remarks.  That had been entirely my choice.

People are always going to say nasty things.  They will criticize my hair, so I get it cut.  Then they will criticize my weight, so I diet.  Then they will criticize my clothes….when does it stop?  It stops only when I choose not to listen or respond anymore.  That’s just how people are.  What people say to me isn’t about me; it’s about them.  It’s about their insecurities.  I realize that I really am just a reflection of how people see themselves.  People may praise me.  People may insult me.  Which words I accept, though, are completely up to me.

…And that’s when I suddenly realized something.  That poor kid.  Was he being laughed at, ridiculed for his situation?  Did he need someone to carry his shame for him for a while? I was suddenly pleased that I was there to share his burden with him for just a moment.

As I got out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, I started to laugh.  I was over the initial shock of the situation and found the whole incident hysterical.  Oh, my gosh, that funny little boy.  I finished drying myself off and slowly got dressed. I felt good.  I felt happy.

I smiled now about the boy who had taught me so much. The boy was just so insecure.  I prayed that someone was taking care of him and teaching him to take care of himself.  I hoped that he would soon learn to create his armor and protect himself from the unkind words of other people.

I finished getting dressed and then walked out of the gym.  I smiled deeply.  I was feeling happy, hopeful…and deeply cleansed.

Christmas Eve 2014

I woke up early on Wednesday, December 24, 2014, Christmas Eve.  I had no plans for today…or tomorrow, for that matter.  I am single with no children.  My sisters and brother are in Kansas while I’m in California.  My close friends are celebrating with their own families.  I don’t have a tree or lights or presents.  I wasn’t concerned, though.  Many of my Christmases have been spent this way. Though I dream of some day celebrating Christmas in all of its traditional glory, this Christmas Eve began as just an ordinary day.  I decided to start my day with my usual diet coke at the local McDonald’s.

I walked up to the counter and the clerk smiled at me.  “Large diet coke again this morning?” he says as he greets me.  They know me here.  I work at the trade school in the same commerce area.  I come here to decompress in between classes.

“Yes,” I answered, “but I think I’ll have breakfast this morning, too.  I’ll also have a Sausage McMuffin.”

“Good,” the clerk smiles as he punches a button on the register.  “That will be $1.29.”  I look at him in bewilderment for just a moment.  The man just continues to smile.  “The drink is on me this morning.  Happy Holidays!”

I smile and thank him profusely as I hand him my money.  I get my food and drink and sit at a booth in the back.  I take out my book and eat as I read.  I linger for a while even after I have finished my meal.  It’s nice to relax and read without having to hurry back to my students this morning.

Suddenly, my mind was dragged away from my book as I heard a loud booming voice.  “Not what is expected,” the strong bass voice sang out. I watch as a heavy set, bearded, dark haired man in a dirty, black t-shirt and jeans sits down a few booths away from me.  I think for a moment that he is listening to music.  I thought he was singing out to music on an iPod, and for a moment, I am jealous.  I have always wanted to sing in public places.  But I never can.  I immediately choke on the notes as soon as I hear the sound of my own singing voice.  So now, I watched the man intently as he continues to sing and suddenly I realize that he wasn’t listening to any music.  There were no devices around him providing sound.  And now he has begun to shout instead of sing.  “Not what is expected,” is no longer a tune but a deep menacing demand.  I suddenly thought that maybe I should leave now.  Being a woman alone, I feel intimidated in situations like this.  But I couldn’t stop watching this man as I wondered to myself, why do I sometimes confuse different with danger?.  I don’t get up from the table; I don’t leave.  Instead of being afraid, I am mesmerized today.  I listen to the man as he continues to sing/shout, completely oblivious to the people around him.

Suddenly the man got up from his table and walked over to my booth.  He suddenly stopped and looked at me.  “Do you have some change?” he asked.  “I need some food.”

I stared at the man for a moment, and then I opened my purse.  I kept the contents shielded from his view as I pulled out a few crumpled dollars.  “I don’t have any more than this to give you,” I told him and he was grateful. He smiled and accepted the money.  He thanked me and walked away.  I watched as he walked over to another table and asked a woman with two small kids for a few dollars.  She, too, opened her purse and handed him some money.

As the man walked away from the woman, an elderly gentleman who was sitting a table away from me suddenly called out to an employee who was cleaning tables in the dining room.  “You always let people like that in here?” the elderly gentleman demanded.

His question triggered my own.  “How would you define ‘people like that’?  What does that mean?”  I wanted to ask him.  But I didn’t confront the gentleman.  Instead, I wanted to laugh.  Here I was sitting in McDonald’s with my large bag full of books and journals.  I wore no makeup, did not fix my hair.  I was wearing my old gray sweats and a large oversized pullover.  I smiled as I thought, That guy could be talking about me!  People like that….

I felt tears burn my eyes then as I sipped my free drink.  I considered the man in the dirty, black t-shirt.  I considered this day, Christmas Eve.    Someone had given to me in my unkempt, messy, unattractive state…and I had given to someone else.  And so it goes…Christmas Eve…and I suddenly understood the meaning of Christmas better this year than I ever had before.

A few minutes later, I decided to leave.  I grabbed my bag and headed for the exit.  A small girl was leaning on the door holding it open for the customers.  I smiled at the child who couldn’t have been more than 7-years-old.  “Are you holding the door for everyone today?” I asked her and the child looked up at me as she smiled and shook her head.  “That’s very nice of you,” I said.  “Thank you so much.”  Her only response was another big smile.  I know I have been blessed today…And so it goes…on and on…the innocent giving….the glory of the Christmas season.

Muscle Bound Dreams

One of the trainers threw me out of the gym one day.  “You can’t be here every day and work out as hard as you do,” she told me.  “Your muscles need time to rest.  Go home…go now..you can’t work out today.”

Well, it is true…I am an official gym rat.  I love going to the gym.  I am at the gym at least 2 hours a day five days a week.  Not only do I like to stay toned, strong, and healthy, but the gym is my stress reliever. When I finish my workout, I always feel emotionally better and completely at peace.  Well, most of the time I do.  I admit there are days when I am at the gym and feeling grumpy.  My crankiness is the result of encountering oversized, overbearing “he-men.”

“He-men” are the insanely-muscled, large men who have biceps the size of my waist.  Their calf muscles are twice the size of one of my thighs.   They are the athletes, the sportsmen, the professional players who live by the impulses of their bodies instead of their brains.

Though I am small and somewhat uncoordinated, I’m comfortable working out in the same gym with the “he-men.”  I’m not intimidated in that way.  However, I get angry when they don’t clean up after themselves.  It makes me mad when they don’t put away their weights when they finish with a machine.  I also hate it when they are circuit training and I accidentally stumble into their path, using machines they claim they were using even though they had been on the other side of the gym.  Several of the men have chased me right off the machines.  Though it is upsetting, I don’t let it bother me and I return to the gym the next day, prime and ready for the next workout.

This morning I was at the gym again.  Sundays are usually quiet and I can exercise without any interruptions.  But this Sunday was different.  I had just sat down and adjusted the weights at the shoulder press machine when a young, heavily-muscled man walked up beside me.  I started my exercises as I watched him draw closer.  Oh, no, is he going to tell me to get off the machine?  He probably was in the middle of some circuit training and, once again, I was on a machine that was supposedly already in use.

As I finished my first set, I watched the man out of the corner of my eye.  He suddenly stopped walking and stood about 3 feet to the side of my machine.  Was he trying to intimidate me to leave?  I glanced shyly over at the man.  Oh, gosh, I thought, he is so much bigger than I am!  The man was about six feet tall with short dark hair, extremely broad shoulders and well muscled arms and legs.  I couldn’t see his face…and suddenly I realized that the man wasn’t even looking at me.  Instead, he was staring up at the TV monitor that was hanging from the ceiling beams right in front of the shoulder press machine.

I glanced up at the TV.  The Sunday edition of Good Morning, America was silently playing on the monitor.  With the sound turned off, I couldn’t exactly figure out what this segment was about, but images of Spiderman leaping off of tall buildings and fighting “baddies” was playing across the screen.  I leaned forward in my seat and then looked back at the muscle man who was still standing beside me.  I swear the man was totally mesmerized by the images on the screen.  He stood beside me with his muscled arms crossed over his large chest and a huge silly grin on his suddenly boyish face.

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.  Why do Superheroes and Star Wars turn every grown man into an 8-year-old boy?  I am not being sarcastic.  Instead, I ask the question with complete fascination.  This man’s obvious enjoyment of seeing Spiderman was honest, pure, and very touching.  I looked around the gym then at all the muscle men working out around me and suddenly smiled at the little boys they must have been.  All these grown men were once little boys who played war games and dreamed of being superheroes.  For the first time, I suddenly saw beyond the muscles and witnessed the hopes and dreams of the little boys within.  Suddenly, they weren’t “he-men,” but flesh and blood human beings with endless desires and aspirations.  As I watched them work out their muscles, I realized that some of their goals will be realized and others, like becoming Spiderman, will be locked somewhere in the imaginary “what if” section of their minds.

I was so grateful that this beautiful young man, and all the men at the gym today, reminded me how important it is to unlock that “what if” section and let the child within out to play.  I watched the men around me working out and realized how important it was to hold on to childhood dreams.   I thought about the reality of crushed dreams when things don’t always work out the way we planned.  These men are never going to be Spiderman, and I will never become Barbie.  But in the comprehension of childhood dreams, we find our humanity.  I watched these young men around me and witnessed their dreams with every grunt, breath, and lift of the weights.  They were setting goals and displaying enormous discipline….and who’s to say which dreams will come true.

I looked up at the man beside me as the segment ended.  He turned and shyly smiled at me before walking away.  I finished working out with the heavy weights.  My muscles felt tight and strong, but my heart had grown incredibly light.