Last night, I was writing my weekly blog post when I realized how sad I was feeling. I was writing about solemn topics, which is perfectly acceptable, but as the midnight hour approached, the blog post was starting to weigh on me and obnubilated my mood. I decided to switch gears and started to write about something entirely different. By the time I finished the new blog post, I had awakened my funny bone. In one way this was a positive thing; on the other hand, I was a bit annoyed that I was wide awake in the wee hours of the morning. đ
What inspired the complete turnaround was that earlier in the day, I had read something I had no awareness of: laughter is a way of being mindful; you can even say that itâs a form of meditation. I hadn’t thought of laughter as a form of meditation before, but it makes sense. I mean, if we examine mindfulness: it is the practice of paying attention to the present moment without judgment. When we laugh, we are fully present to the moment. We are not thinking about the past or the future. We are simply enjoying the moment.
Of course, who doesnât know that laughter is a powerful thing? When we laugh, our bodies release endorphins, which have mood-boosting and pain-relieving effects. Medical studies show that laughter can also help to improve our immune system and cardiovascular health.
The âfunnyâ thing was, the same day that I read about laughter was when an appliance repair person was scheduled to fix our washer. And, of all people, at all times, he turned out to be a pop-in comedian. Oh, thatâs right, he wasnât a comedian, he had âa PhD from Vermont: a Paper Hanging Degree.â đ
As he was fixing the washing machine, he painted a hysterical picture, sprinkled with a whimsical accent, that conveyed his recent trip to Italy where he drove over 1,500 miles from the southern to northern part of the country. How vividly I saw him sitting cross legged, with a tall, lanky Al Pacino stature, sipping wine in the same chair that he sat in while playing the starring role of The Godfather.
I mean, man, did I have a lot of afternoon mindfulness. I even recalled Tuscany, one of my bucket list places on a list I had nearly forgotten. Suddenly, I was inspired and as if ready to climb the Apennine Mountains, I could taste its fresh legumes, pasta and cheese (I no longer eat meat). I felt the beaming smiles of its friendly people. Inhaling its burst of sweet oxygen made me feel hopeful and optimistic. I realized that I could live with the limp of PTSD, and a number of other limitations, but still inch my way forward â or if need be, press the ârestartâ button.
Through all my thoughts and feelings, toppling over with humor, I even learned how to load the washing machine properly so it (hopefully) wouldn’t break down again.
Anyway, I started to think more and more about laughter and our comedian-appliance guy, and realized how we connected through the funny side of life. (Although I wouldnât want his mom in Portugal to hear how he described her as having a big, square wine barrel body, a heavy mustache crowning her lips and nylon stockings that she tied in knots at her knees! đ)
I started thinking that if laughter could connect people, then it could be a way to connect to something much bigger â bigger than ourselves. Whether we call it a higher power, God, or “All There Is,” there is something bigger than ourselves, such as the Apennine Mountains, that we are all connected to. And when we laugh, I believe we are acknowledging that connection. We begin to open up to the joy and wonder of life while expressing our gratitude for all that we have.
Anyway, not to sound too esoteric, leave it to the appliance guy to reinforce that the best medicine â and meditation â really is laughter. After a roller coaster of a weekend, it took his humor to level me. Switch things around and jump start a blog I had not planned on writing.
There is no doubt that laughter can help us find hope in the midst of despair. In this way, laughter can act like a tip-top washing machine, cleansing our saddened hearts and minds with its healing power.
Last week in my blog post, I elaborated on my momâs wise words of wisdom: âYou never know how someoneâs end will be.â
Sometimes my mom also reminded me, âWe never know how our end will be.â
In other words, it is easy to get carried away by the trappings of success in life. Whether it is a successful career, a good job, or material things like a new car or house, how fast we can grow complacent and think that we have achieved all that we need to. However, staying humble and never getting too comfortable with our current situation is essential for continued success in life. I strive to stay grounded and remember that nothing in this world lasts forever. In this way, I am able to appreciate the good times while also being mindful of the bad times and knowing how quickly things can change.
For me, it all begins with my EGO. At the heart, EGO can often be the source of both our strength for self-improvement and our downfall. Whenever I find myself getting too caught up in my own ego, I take a step back and reflect on how my actions are affecting others and myself. Typically, the first step of the process is reminding myself that EGO is an acronym for Edging God Out or Edging Goodness Out (depending on the preference), and it calls to mind the concept of the importance of being humble and kind.
Despite spending nearly four decades honing my skills and training in the âego gym,â it’s still easy for me to get caught up in the pursuit of recognition and validation. Iâve discovered that ego-driven behavior does not lead to true success or fulfillment. It’s important to recognize that I, as well as everyone else, have something valuable to offer, regardless of how âbeautifulâ things appear and how much recognition we get from others.
The ego is an ever-present force, and it can be difficult to resist its pull. It is easy to often fall into societyâs trap and be consumed by the need for more â more money, more power, more success. In the process, we lose our focus on what truly matters. The Buddhist principle of non-attachment, âThe root of suffering is attachment,â has been valuable to me and helps me break free from the grip of ego and lead a life of contentment.
For nearly four years, Iâve experienced a crash course in detachment from everything that I thought defined me; one big ego deflation that has left me shrunk and depleted. The challenge for me is using this experience to bring something positive into life, even if it just boils down to being more open and listening to others without judgment. You see, for many years I thought my faith and beliefs were the fix for me and everyone else. By not recognizing the importance of understanding others and their beliefs, I was blind to the real solutions and made some wrong decisions that brought me to a series of tragic consequences. It was only after this experience that I realized how important it is for me to look beyond my own ego.
Everyone has their own unique set of circumstances and insecurities, so it is important to respect their autonomy and not question how they choose to live their life.
For many people, mental health issues can be an invisible burden that they have to bear alone. This was certainly the case for my friend Brian. After struggling with depression and self-harm for most of his life, he finally found a way out â the practice of Buddhism. For the last six years, he has been using Buddhist principles to manage his mental health and live a happier life.
It is important for me to remember that everyone has different needs and preferences when it comes to self-care. What works for one person may not work for another. It is mandatory for me to focus on myself. When I do this, it is much more possible for me to find faith even in the midst of uncertainty, because, no, I donât know what MY end will bring, but as I sail through life, I donât want my EGO to be the captain of my boat. In order to reach my final destination, I am learning how to have a humble attitude and open heart, and allow the wind to guide me, trusting that one day, without any luggage weighing me down, I will reach paradise.
Another one of the things that my mentor, Kelly, whom I wrote about two weeks ago in a blog post, taught me is that tragedy transforms people into one of two personality types:
1.) Bitter and resentful. These are the people who have a need to be right and view the world as a place of injustice, where they are unfairly treated.
OR,
2.) Faithful and grateful. These folks need to feel connected to something bigger than themselves, whether it be God or nature.
Few people, if any, who survive tragedies, Kelly emphasized, end up with a lukewarm or neutral attitude towards life.
I agree that tragedy typically shakes you up in one direction â or another. Bernice is a woman who is a example of this belief. In fact, she exhibits the polar opposite traits of Kellyâs.
Berniceâs then 21-year-old daughter was diagnosed with a brain tumor in the 1980s. Eleven months after her diagnosis she died, leaving Bernice and her husband to grieve for their only child.
The loss of a child is one of the most heart-wrenching tragedies that can occur in a person’s life. Whereas few, if any, parents can âmove onâ from this type of grief they can âmove with itâ and, typically, learn to find a place for it inside themselves, as if it is a massive piece of permanent furniture. In the process, they can fall into one of the two aforementioned categories.
In Berniceâs case, while grieving her daughter, she ended up fitting category #1. Not to minimize her horrible set of circumstances, but, to this day, itâs easy to spot Bernice anywhere she goes; sheâs the one with the sour, lemon-face expression. Sheâs also quick to lash out and blame others when something, anything, goes askew.
Actually, after her daughter died, she blamed the doctors and medical staff as well as her then husband. Needless to say, her marriage dissolved and she and her husband divorced within a yearâs time. Luckily for her, the divorcee met another divorcee, Ernie, a few years later. He was calm, patient and understanding of Bernice’s struggles. Bernice felt he understood her better than anyone else, and she felt calmer around him.
The problem, though, stemmed from her being a bossy, nasty stepmother to his three daughters, who were adolescents at the time. Opposite of their own birth mother, who was understanding and balanced in her parental approach, Bernice was strict and demanded perfection. She forbid them from dating boys or going out with friends, because she felt the only way they would succeed in life was to be focused on school. Ernie did not interfere with his second wifeâs method of running the household. In this way, he could focus on his high-profile copywriter position for a large marketing agency.
On the other hand, Berniceâs ability to find a work-personal life balance was easier since she worked full-time in a far-less stressful environment then he did. Plus, Ernie willingly accepted his wifeâs âparenting skillsâ of always telling his daughters what to do and how to do it, because he felt her motive aligned with his: helping his children grow up into good, responsible adults.
The sisters started to rebel against the rules of their stepmother, which led to a chaotic and difficult situation for Ernie. His daughters likely sensed what Ernie did not. Bernice had no control over herself and her tragic past. Unable to find peace in herself, she was an egotistical, unruly stepmother who created her own personal war in her husbandâs family. The tactic was a great distraction for what mattered the most â sitting in her pain and taking responsibility for herself.
Basically, Berniceâs approach was the EXACT opposite of Kellyâs step-mother approach. I wrote about the positive building blocks that Kelly achieved in her relationship with her step kids in my previous blog post, but what do you think happened to Berniceâs stepfamily? Yep. It fell apart. It got to the point where Bernice gave Ernie an ultimatum: âItâs either me or your daughters!â Needless to say, although his daughters were heartbroken, Ernie abandoned them and instead, choose to be with Bernice. From there, for decades, the couple fell off the radar of family and friends.
Fast-forward to over thirty years later. The revelation of losing his own daughters caused Ernie to experience feelings of guilt and loss and he wondered if this was his wifeâs desired intent. It made sense since, in this way, he could feel sad and grief-stricken in the same way she did. The more he thought about it, the clearer things became. He escaped his resentments and own guilty feelings by having extramarital affairs. Bernice, on the other hand, coped with the turbulent marriage by numbing her feelings with alcohol. Not long after, their marriage ended in a bitter, costly, miserable divorce.
Bernice has always been angry, but now she has reached her limit. She lives in her own small apartment rental and, apart from her kind-hearted brother who checks in on her every so often, she is left to fend for herself. Her only friend, at least as far as she is concerned, is alcohol.
Ernie is still playing the field, but slowly, very slowly trying to mend bridges with his daughters who carry their own load of anger, resentment and hurt toward their father.
Bernice and Ernie remind us that we all want to believe that there are things we can count on to make us happy, but life is not like that and neither is love.
Loss can be devastating and leave people feeling helpless in its wake. It can feel like a tornado has swept away everything familiar and left nothing intact. The question is:
1.) Do we shut ourselves off from all love if we fear the cruel twister of loss? In some cases, yes. (In the manner that Bernice did and, in a different way, how Ernie did.)
OR,
2.) Do we dare travel the open road with courage and an accepting heart while navigating uncertainty? (In the manner Kelly did.)
Do you choose, #1 or #2?
Donât let anyone kid you, love is always a choice. All it takes is a little faith â or none at all. Itâs in your pocket. Dig deep within you to release the strength you will need to walk your unique path and keep your eyes forward to meet the twists, turns and obstacles head on; remembering always, the best lesson in courage is not a lesson. It’s how you take life in stride.
because you take your life in stride
because you take your life in stride Because you take your life in stride (instead of scheming how to beat the noblest game a man can proudly lose, or playing dead and hoping death himself will do the same)
because you arenât afraid to kiss the dirt (and consequently dare to climb the sky) because a mind no other mind should try to fool has always failed to fool your heart
but most (without the smallest doubt) because no best is quite so good you donât conceive a better, and because no evil is so worse than worst you fall in hate with love -human one mortally immortal i can turn immense all timeâs because to why
Despite my reservations, I decided to attend âThe Judds: The Final Tourâ concert last Saturday. I had a variety of concerns about the event that were causing me to hesitate, none of which Iâll elaborate on, but in the end, I decided to take the plunge and go with my dear friend, Camille, who secured the tickets. As it turned out, my worries were unfounded.
Wynonna Judd has been a household name since the early 90s when she rose to fame as a country music star. Her success was meteoric, and she quickly became one of the most popular country singers of all time. However, despite her fame and success, although I liked and sang along to her hits on the radio, I was never a huge fan. Since Lucille Ball died in 1989, I did not conform with the masses and follow any other entertainers, singers or celebrities.
Before our family tragedy, I had been an avid fan of country/western music. Now, I no longer feel the same connection to this genre. I was curious, however, to see how Wynonna would bring her style of music to life on the stage. I wasn’t sure what to expect. After all, I had never seen her perform before. But when she took the stage and started playing her country music, I was blown away by her talent and energy that had me â and the rest of the audience â captivated from start to finish.
The Judd family has been in the public eye for many years, and during that time, many rumors and conflicts have come to light. It is no secret that the Judds have also faced a great deal of mental health challenges, ranging from depression to addiction. The matriarch, Naomi, died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound on April 30, 2022, the day before she and Wynonna were scheduled to be inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. The concert we went to was initially intended to be part of Naomi and Wynonna’s tour, the first one in nearly a decade that the singers announced on April 11, nine days before the tragedy happened.
Strongly influenced by her husband, Cactus, after her momâs death, Wynonna decided to perform the tour solo. Her decision has led her to be a symbol of hope and faith for many people, myself among them. The singerâs strength lies in her ability to perform while grieving her recent loss, especially when you consider the scope of the monster. Labeling grief as an emotion or feeling is only looking at it in a very limited way. Grief is more like a giant sponge that absorbs and affects us on all levels â physical, mental, emotional and spiritual. For Wynonna, there is no running away from the pain. Instead, she takes it head-on with her fearless attitude.
Grief is also a universal emotion, yet it is often associated with shame and taboo. On stage, one woman has chosen to counter this stigma by sharing her story of loss and grief in an open and honest way. Through Wynonnaâs tears, she communicates to others that it is okay to cry, to feel pain, and freely express emotions and, thereby, encourages others to confront their own uncomfortable feelings. Furthermore, she demonstrates resilience by continuing to live a different version of life after griefâs transformative effect.
As I looked around the room during the concert, I was taken aback by the sight of numerous rows of empty seats. It was a stark contrast to the energy and enthusiasm that Wynonna spread throughout the arena. Instead of ignoring the empty seats, she addressed them directly, revealing her difficulty in coming to terms with empty seats when she was a young performer. She told the audience that she now at 58 years old understands that quality is more important than quantity. She has experienced the highs and lows of life and decided that living meaningfully is what truly matters. On the night of the concert, it was definitely quality and not quantity that counted. The atmosphere was electric. As Wyonna put it, it felt as if there were 10,000 people in the audience cheering and singing along to every song. She confided that, as it turned out, we had been her BEST audience during that particular week.
The performer shared during an interview that the goal of her performances on this tour was to heal. The stage, in fact, was filled with love, a powerful emotion that has the ability to bring people together and heal broken hearts. It was a sight to behold, as people of all ages and backgrounds were united in love. Last week, I wrote about the topic of love and actually planned to write about it this week with a totally different story angle until I attended the concert.
Interestingly, when I watched Wynonna and Cactus, an amazing drummer, singing and gazing into each other’s eyes, I, too, was moved by their deep connection, a positive element of their relationship that she has also publicly discussed. It was a reminder that true love is not always about grand gestures, but more about being present to the moment and appreciating what you have.
Wynonnaâs performance became further enhanced by her nostalgic mix of photos and videos that served as a reminder of the many impactful memories Wynonnaâs mom created in her lifetime. At the end of the concert, it was particularly heartwarming to hear Wynonna singing along with a synced video image of her mom singing too.
The music of a vulnerable human being is something that goes beyond just sound. It is an expression of deep emotion and experience that can touch the heart and soul of listeners. When such a person sings, it is as if they are presenting themselves in a poignant song, inviting us to feel their pain and joy in every note. I was drawn to Wynonnaâs music and able to reflect and introspect in a way in which I connected with the artist on a deeper level than I could ever have imagined. Her music moved me emotionally, helped me process my own grief I was feeling at the time. Even though country/western music is no longer the genre that defines me as it once did, Wynonna helped me understand that it still holds a special place in my heart. I cannot erase the part it played, along with my memories, in my own unique narrative and journey. Who would have dreamed that in about an hour and a half of her performance, though I knew the power of love could heal a broken heart, what I didnât fully grasp was the importance of understanding how the bridge of love had already been built inside me over a long course of time. I can look at both sides, inward and outward, and find solace despite the pain and hurt, see a broken heart and take comfort in the fact that its quality as a vessel of love remains.
The tip of my head to the bottom of my toenails hurt and every part in between. Last Wednesday, January 18th, on what would have been my son’s 30th birthday, I needed a lot of love. More than usual. The stillness of the day exemplified how the world has moved on, and Iâm still stuck in the quicksand of November 2019.
The people I thought would at very least âcheck inâ must have âchecked out,â because I did not hear a word from any of them, and I found myself focusing on the disappointment rather than on the joy I felt from those who DID show up with kind-hearted words, text messages and emails.
My dear friend, Camille, in fact, surprised me with a lovely sunflower bouquet and beautiful greeting card.
In addition, during the last year, Iâve been honored to assist in writing a widowâs grief memoir. The relatively young widow, Michelle, happens to be a dear friend of mine. The book is partly composed of letters she writes to her deceased husband who passed away tragically three months prior to our family’s tragic loss. Last Wednesday, feeling weighed down with grief, I happened to reread one of her letters in which she elaborates on her mother-in-lawâs grief of losing a son.
âI know she is as grief-stricken, but she is stronger than I am and loves more because she doesnât want any of us to be sad for her. She knows we all have our own grief, and she doesnât want to add to it.â
Miraculously, through the day I channeled this incredible woman, Rita, whom I know only through writing about her, and found myself feeding on her reservoir of love.
“I donât want anyone to be sad for me.â I repeated, breaking the pronounced silence of the day.
A repeated lesson that I seem to have to relearn constantly is that love is the most powerful emotion in this world. It can change everything ALWAYS. Itâs like a ray of sun beaming through the grayest of days. It is a life force; an energy; a mega dose of Vitamin C.
The day ended on a bittersweet note. I hadnât heard from my 28-year-old daughter all day on Wednesday. I thought she needed the space and privacy, and the solitude to put one foot in front of the other and inch forward.
At around six p.m. that evening, she called, out of breath. I could barely understand her words. âThe cemetery is so dark.â
âWhat?â You got in your car directly after work, jumped into the height of traffic, and you sat on the highway for an hour, just so you could visit your brother in the dark cemetery, even though I do believe it’s supposed to close at sunset? That all sounds kind of risky to me.
I refrained from saying how crazy I felt her actions were, especially since her character is usually driven by pure logic. Though I will say that they were incredibly similar to what I would have done at her age in her situation, working purely from an emotional realm.
Our conversation was filled with love and honesty, and it reaffirmed my faith in the power of love. This is what love looks like when it’s real â when there are tears and laughter and sadness all mixed together in one moment in time. In the end, all that matters is not a perfect public facade that masks our private despair, but the intimate moments of our imperfect hearts.
I’m learning that grief is my price to pay for love. Paradoxically, living through grief has helped me to push, stretch until it feels unbearable, love in an insurmountable way.
Camille’s sunflower bouquet: nearly a week later, but still beautiful
A few seconds after I heard that Lisa Marie Presley, the only child of singer and actor Elvis Presley and actress Priscilla Presley, died at a California hospital last Thursday from a cardiac arrest, I intrinsically knew she died from a broken heart. Ms. Presley lost her only son, Benjamin Keough, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound at the age of 27 on July 12, 2020, at his house in Calabasas, California.
After hearing the news about Lisa Marie, my sadness seemed unrelenting, because I had followed every segment of her grief story. Each time she shared a bloody slice of her grief to the world, I grew short of breath. All that came to my mind was the figure of Atlas in Greek mythology. He was a Titan condemned to hold up the world for eternity.
Man, when I visualize Atlas, I canât stand his back-breaking pose; and, alas, I imagined Lisa Marieâs face instead of his. It was like looking into a metaphorical mirror and seeing my own reflection.
Five months prior to her death, in honor of National Grief Awareness Day, âLisa Marie Presley penned an emotional essayâ about her journey and the lessons she learned after her son died.
In the essay, she writes: âDeath is part of life whether we like it or not â and so is grieving. There is so much to learn and understand on the subject, but here’s what I know so far: One is that grief does not stop or go away in any sense, a year, or years after the loss. Grief is something you will have to carry with you for the rest of your life, in spite of what certain people or our culture wants us to believe. You do not “get over it,” you do not “move on,” period.”
Coincidentally, my niece sent my daughter and me a text, âThis made me think of you bothâŠâ and a copy of the same essay that appeared in People magazine with the headline, âLisa Marie Presley Said She Was ‘Destroyed’ by Son Benjamin’s Death.â
At the time my niece sent it to me, I couldn’t bear to look at it until days later.
In the same essay she wrote the excerpt below:
” … grief is incredibly lonely. Despite people coming in the heat of the moment to be there for you right after the loss takes place, they soon disappear and go on with their own lives and they kind of expect for you to do the same, especially after some time has passed. This includes “family” as well. If you’re incredibly lucky, less than a handful will remain in contact with you after the first month or so. Unfortunately, that is a cold hard truth for most. So, if you know someone who lost a loved one, regardless of how long it’s been, please call them to see how they are doing. Go visit them. They will really really appreciate it, more than you know âŠ.”
Lisa Marie was on point. Loss can feel like a whirlwind, leaving nothing behind but destruction. It can be difficult to pick up the pieces and start rebuilding, especially when you are doing it alone, ditched by the rest of the world.
Her final, personal lesson is below.
” … particularly if the loss was premature, unnatural, or tragic, you will become a pariah in a sense. You can feel stigmatized and perhaps judged in some way as to why the tragic loss took place. This becomes magnetized by a million if you are the parent of a child who passed. No matter how old they were. No matter the circumstances.â
Again, everything she concludes is absolutely true and not an understatement. Frankly, while processing the news of her demise from a âbroken heart,â I also felt relief for Lisa Marie. Atlasâ weight was, at last, removed. I shared with my niece how completely saddened I was by her loss.
In response, she wrote,âNothing wrong with finding a kindred spirit, no matter how it manifests.â
Marshall’s 27th on January 18, 2020 that I, my daughter and the children’s Godmother “celebrated”
Today, I regret not contacting Lisa Marie back in 2020 after she had lost her son by suicide. I simply did not make the time. (Saying, âI didnât have the time,â is incorrect since I am one hundred percent responsible for ME and MY actions.)
During last week, I spent a good deal of time reflecting on her death, pacing around my office where I have two calendars, one on the wall and one on the desk. Both of them have stick-it notes on them, smack center, covering up the January 17th block, the day I was so freaking sure my son would be born and covering up the 18th block, his actual birthday. Sometimes, with the world on your back, doing everything you possibly can to press forward, “blackouts” are the best weapon to tackle the challenge.
For this weekâs blog post, every single piece of me is on fire with guilt, regret, pain and remorse, and my son’s voice from long-ago, stating, “I won’t make it to 30.” I really didnât want to sit my inflamed body down to hurt it more and think of the unthinkable, but I was so moved by what Lisa Maria and her family endured.
Now, my heart goes out to the survivors of Lisa Marie, and I honor and acknowledge the grief of her family. In return, I am afforded the strength to honor and acknowledge my own grief.
The way I look at it is if we take a leap of faith and open ourselves up to love, we open ourselves up to the risk of experiencing grief. It begins with love and ends with love. If life surpasses death, then love is what will guide us through the infinite journey.
For Lisa Marie, Benjamin, and Marshall, I hope they are now liberated from their back-breaking duties on Earth. Whether it involves physical burdens or mental obstacles, I also hope they are no longer crushed by the weight of life and, instead, free to catapult and soar to new heights.
June; deaf but doesn’t know it! Rescued from Alabama
Gemini “Gemi”; the first rescue who “rescued us“
Since our family tragedy, my mind has a tendency to race when I drive. Letâs put it this way, the average person has about 12,000 to 60,000 thoughts a day, but when Iâm driving, 15 minutes or more down the road, probably a dayâs worth of thoughts burst into my brain that amount to something likened to a hefty slice of the milky way.
I am beyond grateful that my daughter moved closer to home last August. So is she, because at the beginning of the month, as the world heralded in 2023, my daughter and her friends went on a long weekend escape, and I drove over 40-minute stretches one way for four days in a row to spend the day with her two fur baby rescue cats.
In my mind, the coming new year simply reinforced how the world continues to move on. In the revelersâ mental âcrystal ballsâ they foresaw job promotions, reunions, trips, graduations and so many bright future possibilities. Over three years ago, I was part of this group. Now, I lack a crystal ball and determination. All I know is that it amounts to another lost year without my son. Another year in which I will strain a little bit harder to recall his deep voice, his silly smile, the way he glowed and his thick eyelashes fluttered when I assured him of his impending millionaire status by the time he turned 40.
Another year ⊠another year ⊠was my highway song this past New Yearâs weekend.
âDid you stay up until midnight?â My daughter asked me in a text on the morning of January 1st.
I didnât have the heart to inform her that, no, I was unloading laundry from the dryer at around midnight, trying to erase killer thoughts and staying to myself because I didnât want to hinder anyoneâs festive mood.
New Yearâs Day evening rolled around, and I came home from the fur babies after a particularly disturbing exchange of âhighway talk.â I sulked, sad and silent until I picked up my phone and saw an IM from my cousin in Ukraine, wishing me Happy New Year.
At first, I thought she contacted me for the sole reason of informing me of the arrival of the package. In actuality, she simply sent a wish: Happy New Year, my dear family.
No strings attached to her greeting. She didn’t receive the package, but she still cared enough to take the time out of her war-savaged world to wish me a happy New Year.
Now, I found something else to worry about. The package. Was it lost? Stolen? I mean, there is a war going on after all.
On January 2, I received the following IM:
I received your package today. I can’t express the joy of my children!!! I am very grateful to you for so many things!!! Everything is very good. one jacket was small for my son, and the boots were small for my daughter, everything else fit!!! I sincerely thank you, your friends. this is a very big help for me
Suddenly, 2023 came into full view by examining one sugar cube out of the big, bad bowl of unknowns.
Was I feeling better? Yes and no. I do best when I donât judge ANY of my feelings, because my feelings remind me that I am a human being, a work in progress. Off or on the highway, itâs important for me to recognize the gravity of a situation and work through my feelings in order to move forward. NOTE: âMove forwardâ in this case does not mean âlet goâ of the grief because, as others have noted: we grieve because we love. (How lucky is that? LOL!) Moving forward, in this case, means to step through each day and be true to myself by allowing my feelings â whatever they are and for however long they exist. I consciously worked on this process for nearly 40 years, and what I’ve most definitely learned is that no one feeling will last forever (at least in my case). In addition, each and every time I sit with whatever feeling I am experiencing, I am stronger and more confident. The more I build myself up in this way, the less I have to tear others down. I am at peace in the world.
Feeling good all the time, FOR ME, is toxic positivity. It doesnât work. I tried it in my early 20s and failed miserably. I remember when at 25 years old, I was out of control and a mess of emotions, because I always stuffed them behind a happy face. I couldn’t differentiate one emotion from another. How could I when I erased all my so-called negative feelings? My first newfound emotion was utter rage. (It makes sense to me now, because how else was I going to feel after having my identity robbed?) The day arrived when a mentor advised, âEmbrace it. Embrace the rage.â
At first, I thought she was crazy. Then I decided I would try it. Day after day, I locked myself in the safety of my car and just hollered and screamed. That was my way to embrace the unwelcomed turbulence in my mind and before I knew it, it diminished in size and lost its demonic proportions. In other ways, over many years, I proceeded to deal and integrate other feelings and emotions. I embraced the pain. Embraced the sadness. Embraced the sorrow. Embraced everything else.
Before long, I could breathe normally again, and even learned to embrace the joy and the laughter, which I had felt guilty over. Suddenly I realized I could embrace the newness of a situation. Embrace the familiarity of old sheets, newly washed and calling for my tired body.
Mind you, embracing all this messy stuff wasnât accomplished in a chronological or logical sense. I remember a lot of laughter while experiencing some of the most challenging, pent up feelings.
I consider myself fortunate in so many ways. Since I was 25, I learned how to embrace my messiness, because âmy healersâ embraced me during the process. I was never too messy to not be loved.
Maybe during the 1980s, folks were more in tune with their emotions. These days it seems no one wants to hear a sour puss or a sad puss or someone who isn’t happy and a great success through and through. Maybe it started with the inception of Fakebook when we lost our personal intimacy and human humility. Anyway, I’ve lost most of my early “healers” who loved every single bit of “the messy” I presented. I am grateful for their legacy, because it carries me and keeps me in balance.
“It’s okay,” I tell myself as I embrace what feels like but really isn’t the lowest of lowly emotions.
“It’s okay,” I tell myself when I feel I “shouldn’t” feel joy at a given moment, like when my grand fur babies are purring alongside me. “It’s okay,” I tell June, the deaf fur baby who chewed up my slippers. I can empathize with her anxiety. (Later, I found out it was Gemi who did it!)
“It’s okay,” I reiterate. (Before the tragedy I wouldn’t have been so understanding.)
I donât need a crystal ball to see if itâs going to be another year of trials and tribulations, haunting memories and sorrow. Itâs going to be up and down and all around, and with each passing day, I grow a day closer to the raw truth of my death. Even if I could have a crystal ball, Iâd resist. Through it all, those wise owls that were once in my life gifted me with the priceless notion of faith. Itâs made me into a big, bad mama, and Iâll take the ride flying solo, âcause I CAN, damn it. This is what I have learned. It is my proud culture pumping in my blood. In essence, Iâm a born coward, yet biting the bullet, closing my eyes, taking baby steps into the landmine of life. I can do it, I can do it.Here I go, watch me.
One of my blogger buddies shared that self-motivation is tough and, obviously, thatâs what it takes to blog on a regular basis. Itâs even harder when there appears to be a lack of interest in the blog your write and, as a result, no or sparse comments. I can relate to why she feels that way. It can be scary to reveal your thoughts with the world. In return, itâs discouraging to feel like youâre not heard and people donât listen to what you have to say.
Occasionally, I look at other blogs and marvel (with green eyes) over the thousands of followers and dozens of comments that each post attracts.
This concept is along the same lines as when my son, an adolescent at the time, cried out in defeat, âIâll never be famous.â
No, he wouldnât be famous. Not in the same vein as Justin Bieber or the Jonas Brothers. The reality is most of us are not famous or achieve an influencer status. Most of us just are. A close friend of mine, Father Francis Canavan from Fordham University, who passed in 2000, always taught me that being content with our mundane lives is a tough call for our ego to reconcile with. In our world of constant social media distractions, it is easy to feel we are missing out on the great life that everyone else is âFakebookingâ at the given moment.
We live in a society that celebrates beauty and success and encourages us to chase after it at all costs. Couple this phenomenon with an innate desire to be better, do better, and have more. It makes sense that when you tune into almost any news outlet for five minutes or less, it seems everything publicized is a punch fueled with greed, power and a lot of plastic surgery thrown in.
Donât get me wrong, if these superficial things are floating someoneâs boat, Iâm all for it, but if outside impressions affect the silent majority, the âarmchair onlooker,â to suffer in an unhealthy âIâm-a-nothing-compared-to-themâ way, then the reaction can turn into toxicity and hurt them or, in its extreme, motivate them to turn against others or to resort to self-harm.
Of course, the antidote for ego deflation is to âlive in the spiritual.â How? Who knows really what floats someoneâs boat?
What provided me with some insight was watching a documentary on Mother Teresa this past Christmas Eve. I learned many things about this incredible woman, but the one that resonates with me is that she lived for 50 years, 50 YEARSÂ feeling abandoned by God.
This state of abandonment is called “The Dark Night of the Soul,” and in Mother Teresa’s case, “The” night stayed with her for a total of 18,250 nights to be exact.
How did she forever change the world in such a profoundly positive way when she herself lived in despair? Certainly she did NOT allow herself to be guided by her dark feelings. She was, however, candid and wrote down her dark feelings and shared them to her own personal God and to a priest, who was also her mentor. Service, of course, was the glue in her life and later exulted her to a sainthood status.
Who, of course, would come close to exemplifying Mother Teresa? Certainly NOT me. After watching that wonderful documentary, I must say, my walk is lighter in my heavy-paired shoes. My faith is stronger and my hope is greater. In essence, I have a deeper understanding of how we really do matter in our own little ways.
Photo by Marshall D. Maxwell, Indian Well State Park, Shelton, CT
And to that end, my son mattered to me. He mattered to Whitney, whom I spoke to on Christmas night. He mattered to a handful of incredible people who really loved him not only for his âworldlyâ facade (which was incredible!), but for the riches he left in all our hearts: his bright, inquisitive mind; compassionate heart and courage to go on for at least 16 years more than he could bear.
And, the same goes for my little, mundane life that I like so much in its own little way, because what elevates it to greatness is not my recent writing awards (although I am proud of them!), but of the special few people in my life who really, really love me. Who really, really matter to me.
A few of my friends, actually all of us, are aging faster than lightening. There is no other holier, loving gesture to me than looping my arm into a friendâs arm. Recently, for instance, my friend Camille and I were going into a Polish deli and, literally, strolled in arm and arm as if we were children, carefree; FREE AGAIN to just be the way we ARE.
âNot all of us can do great things, but we can do small things with great love.â â Mother Teresa
Camille did not need pierogies and, actually, doesnât like them, but insisted that we go to a Polish deli she found on the internet a few days before the holiday, so I could get pierogies for Christmas Eve dinner, because the ones I hold dear to my heart âhave to have pierogies for Christmas Eve,â and the Ukrainian church was too busy to make them this year due to the war. Pierogie is a type of food that originated in Eastern Europe and is now popular in the United States. It consists of a dough shell with a mixture of mashed potatoes, cheese, onions, and sometimes meat inside.
A few days after my deli visit, on Christmas Eve after church, the next one I strolled arm-in-arm-arm with was my friend Anna from childhood, who is having knee problems these days. She has been struggling with medical issues. It was hard to see her like this, and it felt good to be by her side during this tough time. It was good for both of us. Just for a moment, we were kids again in the same church where we were raised; laughing as we once did, standing on the same floor that has anchored us through these many years.
Now, in this rather fragmented blog post that will probably not attract many comments đ€Ł, what Iâm trying to convey is that, in my opinion, it isnât the NUMBERS and FAME of my blog so much that counts as it is those few special blog buddies that Iâve developed relationships with â from Preema and Anand in India to Judy in California and Alec in England and Ana and L. Hale and Cindy and Kathy and ⊠wow ⊠with such a tribe, I can go on and on, but I hope you know who you are. You, members of my blogging community, are the ones who truly matter, not thousands of nameless people who deep down really donât care and wouldnât go out of their way to buy pierogies for me, if given the chance on Christmas.
And, you see, thatâs love. Itâs the meaning BEHIND the words and thoughts. The people who love me this year, really, really were there on Christmas (symbolic of Christmases past). First and foremost, I name my daughter who goes to church for me most of all. (And I go mostly to honor my parents and to see Anna, my childhood friend.) The love also spun through the gifts I received: from Anne in New Mexico with her woolly socks that she probably went on a long, pain-in-the-butt peirogi kind of hunt to find, and my friend Michelle with her thoughtful âpain-in-the-butt pierogi kind of huntâ gifts and the same goes for my friend Hope, my daughter and the kidâs godmother and my fiance, who even took the time to wrap his gifts this year, and others who took the time because I matter in their lives. And, they, of course, matter to me and thatâs why instead of scoping out something I like to eat, Iâd rather go on my pain-in-the-butt pierogi kind of hunts for them.
So, at the end of the pierogi trail, as it turns out, the pierogies from the Polish deli that Camille and I found were not nearly as good as the pierogies from the Ukrainian church, but itâs the thought that counts.
And thatâs what I want every single buddy blogger in the community to know: YOU MATTER TO ME. YOUR THOUGHTS COUNT! You fuel my steps throughout each year and get me out of my all mighty, egotistical self so I can manage to think of YOU and some of the things that surround your lives that I see as quite monumental and not at all mundane.
I wish all of you, dear blogger buddies, a wonderful New Year, filled with people who love you enough to take the time to find and buy you pierogies (even if they arenât the best-tasting ones!) because the love behind the pain-in-the-butt pierogi hunt without fail brings home the prize. The batch may not be the best food you’ve ever tasted, but I promise, the meal will last a lifetime in your memory.
Last week, I promised to share another story this week about “Hope” and faith. My friend Hope, as I previously mentioned, also tops my angel list. She lives in the town next to ours and is a full-time working mother, dedicated wife and mom to three children ranging in ages from five to thirteen, or somewhere in that range. Since they grow up so fast it’s difficult to keep track!
Sheâs a professional social worker. Her dedication to service goes beyond the bounds of her profession and into her personal life as well. Her name âHopeâ suits her. She is one person I know I can count on. Over three years ago, for instance, she, along with her husband and three children, were among a handful of people who participated in the walk my daughter and I organized to raise money for charity in honor of my son. Then at the end of the walk, we were a few hundred dollars short of our goal, and Hope donated the amount that pushed us forward to reach our goal. She showed me how joy could share a seat in a roomful of sorrow.
Anyway, about six weeks ago, I received an IM from my cousin Olya in Ukrainie, which, if you haven’t heard, is fighting a war against Russia, âhello dear Stacey…how are you? sorry for reaching out, but I want to ask if you can help me. I need clothes for the children and for myself. shoes, jackets, something. maybe someone can give some of their children’s clothes, maybe there is any help for Ukrainians in America. I don’t know if it’s expensive for you to send the parcel to Ukraine. but I’m just asking, I’m sorry if something is wrong. it’s very difficult now, it’s all very expensive for me.â
â.⊠there is not enough money for everything. if it is expensive to send me a parcel. then I will understand .. sorry for bothering you. thank you for the answer, hugs)â
Over these last three years, for no particular reason other than I am a fervent reader and love history, Iâve read a number of books pertaining to World War II. When Olya contacted me, I was reading the award-winning novel The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. The novel, which has been made into a movie, takes place first in 1939 when the Nazis invaded France. Below are a few highlights of the book’s description:
â In love we find out who we want to be. In war we find out who we are.“
“… The Nightingale tells the stories of two sisters, separated by years and experience, by ideals, passion and circumstance, each embarking on her own dangerous path toward survival, love, and freedom in German-occupied, war-torn France â a heartbreakingly beautiful novel that celebrates the resilience of the human spirit and the durability of women. It is a novel for everyone, a novel for a lifetime.â
At times I found the novel to be utterly intense (especially when it started to hit one oâclock in the morning!), and I forced myself to detach, albeit temporarily, and gave the novel a rest. Of course, the characters kept me company throughout the day, because I couldnât stop thinking about them and how they were forced to face the atrocities of war.
Even if I wasnât reading a war-related novel that made me more empathetic than I am, Iâve adhered to a set of practices and principles in my life and one of them states that I am responsible â when ANYONE, ANYWHERE reaches out for help.
Why? Because for well over three decades, Iâve been given examples to follow by some of the most incredible people, all ages and from all walks of life. They do not preach (please spare me!) but teach by example. Like Buddha (meaning awakened one or enlightened one), they are people of honor who are conscious of their actions. I always felt that my Big, Bad THANK YOU to these Big, Bad Buddhas was to fill their unmeasurable shoes and match their qualities as best as I possibly could.
SO, the goal formed, Mission: Pack and Ship Parcel to Ukraine to Sweet Cousin. The first challenge was to find out WHERE do I go to ship a package to Ukraine? It was brought to my attention that the senior center in my town was shipping packages to Ukraine. So that took care of that.
Next step was to figure out sizing, EUR versus U.S. At this point, the kidâs Godmother, Pat, my daughter and fiance were involved and we each turned up contradictory sizing research. Then things started to look clearer when Godmother Pat went to the shoe store and found (how simple!) that the boxes all have both EUR and U.S. sizes printed on them. She also bought a few pairs of shoes while she was there to add to a snowsuit and pants I ordered. How exciting finally to view the makings of a parcel, although we sure had a long way to go! And, I still had different clothes size charts to contend with.
Hope entered the picture when during a fierce rainstorm, she sent me a text message informing me that her electricity went out. I texted her back, âHope electricity âĄïž goes on soon. My poor cousin in Ukraine loses a lot too due to warâŠ.â
After a text message exchange, I told her about the parcel in the works and she replied,âIâd be happy to buy warm gear for the kids and adults if u have sizes.â
SIZES! Oh, boy! The clothes size dilemma restarted! In addition, I reiterated that she did not have to purchase new clothes because used clothes were perfectly acceptable and, actually, my cousin’s initial request.
Hope wrote, âOf course we want to help! U donât think sheâd want new clothes? I know sheâs concerned about cost but we want them to have what they need âŠ.â
In the interim, back to the drawing board, I tried to figure out the correct sizes. I contacted my cousin again, trying to convert sizes with her ⊠we were getting closer to figuring out the right sizes for her family: My cousin; her husband who is working in Poland; her teenage son and her three and a half year old daughter.
Finally, it seemed we deduced the correct sizes, and I felt as if we hit the jackpot!
Hope shot me a text, âBoxes are on the way to ur house ⊠hopefully both within the week.â
I thanked her and she said, âHappy to contribute! I canât imagine not being able to keep my kids warm and well!â
While I was waiting for Hope’s deliveries, I ordered a few other things on our end, and the parcel was looking good.
Then Hopeâs packages arrived and it resembled an early Christmas! I couldnât believe the quality of the down jackets she ordered; plus, jars of vitamins and socks, socks, socks, not to mention a few toddler toys thrown in.
When I saw all the items, I couldnât help but hear Whitney and Bradleyâs faith-filled voices of affirmation and faith ⊠âWeâre already here.â That was the message through and through. I barely had to ask Hope for help and there she was already there, as was her track record.
I ended up packing THREE different packages (I admire people who work in mail rooms) and delivered them to our town’s senior center only to discover that they werenât sending packages to individual homes. Instead, they send donations to Ukraine as a common relief effort.
From there, I went to the post office, which was conveniently located near the senior center. I could ask, right? Mary, at the post office, weighed one of my three boxes just for the heck of it, and it turned out shipping charges totaled $150. Wow. By the time everything was calculated, I was looking at about $500 â if not more.
Fortunately, come to find out, the Ukrainian church where Iâm a parishioner, ships packages every week. I didnât know this information because I havenât been actively attending services. Anyway, the people involved are a husband-wife team who volunteer to send packages to anyone residing in Ukraine. The priest gave me the contact information. I called the man, and he instructed me to come to the rectory at noon on the upcoming Sunday, and I followed his instructions.
After I arrived, the man and I decided that in order to save money, he would break up the contents of my three boxes and load them into one huge box that happened to be available in the small room that doubled as a mail room. I watched the man work diligently. He had huge hands, cracked fingernails and rough skin that only a man who works hard labor can claim. He said very little and reminded me so much of my father who passed away in 2000. In fact, he shares the same first name as my dad, Myron.
When the process was completed, the entire package cost what one package would have cost if I had sent it via the U.S. mail. In addition, the package’s expected delivery to my cousin is approximately two weeks.
When I returned home, I informed my cousin that her package was on its way. She responded, âI am sincerely grateful to you, and to everyone who helped you âŠ. I am happy that I have a family, even though it is so far away. Thank you for your support in such a difficult time for us. Peace be with you and God’s blessings.â
I replied, âWe are SO HAPPY to have all of you! Love you very much!!!â
In this case, expounding on what I wrote in my last blog post, “Family IS DNA (but still not necessarily just DNA)!”
We can all be a part of one Big, Bag Buddha Bunch, not divided by distance or culture, only united in the small time we have on earth.
As the year draws to a close, it is important to remember that there are only so many Christmases* on the calendar of life. This year, let’s shine forth our best Buddha.
Merry Christmas to all!
ŃĐ°ŃлОĐČĐŸĐłĐŸ Đ ŃĐ·ĐŽĐČĐ° (Happy Holidays!) as we say in Ukrainian! Or, Đ„ŃĐžŃŃĐŸŃ ĐœĐ°ŃĐŸĐŽĐžĐČŃŃ! â Christ is born! In which we respond, ХлаĐČŃĐŒĐŸ ĐčĐŸĐłĐŸ! (Let us Glorify Him!)
*Hanukkah; Kwanzaa ⊠and whatever holiday you celebrate!
Probably the worst A-hole (excuse my expletive) topping my endless list, is Aunt, Iâll call her, âJody.â âAunt Jodyâ is my ex-husbandâs motherâs sister who is semi-retired in Tennessee. Over three years ago around this time of year, my grief-stricken daughter and I discovered that Aunt Jody lived within the vicinity of my son’s last home in Kentucky.
Our plan was to fly into Nashville, sort through my deceased son’s belongings, attend his memorial service and drive his car back to my home in Connecticut. In light of the circumstances and to express solidarity, my ex-husband willingly offered us her contact information.
I sent Aunt Jody a text inviting her to my deceased sonâs memorial service that was slated to be held at his place of employment during the week we were in Kentucky. I informed her that we understood if she was unable to attend and, in this case, would be grateful to meet her for a quick cup of coffee in order to connect.
The sole reason I contacted Aunt Jody was that I wanted to affirm to my daughter that she had roots. I have always maintained that strong roots bore healthy growth. From day one, thatâs all I wanted for both my children: roots, family, a sense of belonging. However, as it transpired, both my children had minimal contact with their extended families. Ironically, one of the attractions that drew me to my then husband was his big, boisterous family that spanned the northeast and the midwest of the United States. I couldnât wait to experience how it felt to be part of something so large. When my ex-husbandâs grandparents, then in their eighties, and since long deceased, traveled from Michigan to Connecticut to attend our wedding in 1991, it reinforced everything I had ever dreamed of: unconditional love. After all, I was the one who wanted no less than six kids. To me the more family, the more love ⊠and you can never have enough love, can you?
Anyway, over the years, my own family mostly died off and those who lived remained generally uninvolved. On the other hand, my ex-husband, as well as his family, totally abandoned my children at the end of 2010. In my ex’s case, he had suffered a mental breakdown. As far as the rest of his family, although there was no particular reason or a dramatic blow up, I inferred that they did not want an added burden or any drama in their lives. I get it â at least I tried to understand. (Over the years as I grew to know them, I thought up names that described them perfectly, Ice Queens and Ice Kings.)
There I was â my usual naive self â emailing invitations, calling, sending a note via U.S. mail to Aunt Jody. No response. So I kept at it. Finally, about a week prior to our dreaded trip to KY, I was in the car with my daughter and my phone lit up with her text message and I read it out loud.
â.⊠I thought the whole thing over and I donât feel we really ever had any contact with each other before and I donât see a reason for us to start that now âŠ. â
âWhat else would you expect?â My daughter immediately responded. My daughter is a mental health professional, but the pain that sliced through her voice also tore through me.
What else would I expect? Iâd expect her to sound as if she shared the same DNA as my daughterâs. Iâd expect her to extend herself during the worst, most excruciating time of our lives. Iâd expect her to empathize and to act on her so-called Christian principles and meet up with us to give us a hug in our sorrow. It is in sorrow we find strength. I’d expect her to represent the deeper meaning of Christmas. I did not even have the heart to reveal the outcome of his aunt’s response to my ex-husband; he never asked, because we, generally, do not communicate.
It may sound like it, but division is NOT the end of this story. Shortly after receiving the rejection in the text message from Aunt Jody, my daughter and I arrived in Nashville. While the world awaited Christmas, less than a week away, we held onto each other tight, painful and alone, separated by the incommunicable language of grief.
At the airport we rented a car and drove to our hotel in Bowling Green, Kentucky. The following day, we, out-of-town strangers, parked and exited our car on an empty road less than a block away from the sheriffâs department in a small town located about an hour outside of Nashville. We were early, and we defeated our unwillingness by dragging our feet toward the main entrance to begin the process of collecting my son’s remaining tangibles.
âI hope Whitney and Bradley get here,â I said to my daughter, my voice trembling, a sharp, bitter wind making me feel as if my tear-filled eyes would freeze. They were my son’s friends and co-workers who found my 26-year-old son dying in the closet and unsuccessfully tried to resuscitate him. The same young age as my son, they learned firsthand how trauma could fold into a day that started out as an ordinary Tuesday in which your thoughts already paint inside the lines the fun colors of the upcoming weekend. They were the couple whom we spoke to since the traumatic day unfolded, a month before. They had promised to meet us at the sheriff’s office.
What happened next was something really out of a movie. Two figures intercepted our route. âWeâre already here.â
Weâre already here. And there they stood before us: Whitney and Bradley; bringing us warmth like two hot mugs of cocoa on an unforgivingly frigid December day would. We embraced in a manner only family could.
Fast forward to today. Iâve been to the icy and snow covered barren place where no human being should roam and, especially when Iâm feeling vulnerable, itâs always easy to take a mind trip and be sucked into a destination that freezes my heart and soul.
Instead, Iâve consciously trained myself to choose a detour. It is signaled by remembering Whitney and Bradleyâs angelic, booming voices, âWeâre already here.â
From there, I may still have the weight of the black hole over me, but I see my big feet making little strides to shuffle forward to the next right thing on the list.
Three Christmases ago, Whitney and Bradley gifted us with a Christmas miracle: From the time they said âWeâre already here,â to the time we left, they never abandoned us and, instead, met every single one of our requests.
Now, let me say, I have an Angel list that counters my A-hole list. At the top of the list, of course, is Whitney and Bradley. I have others on the “A list.” Some of them are reading this blog post right at this minute! Every year at this time, I work hard to focus on my list, teeming with Angels that give me the faith to carry on.
Next week, I will share another story that I hope gives you hope in a world that sometimes can seem as if it’s being overrun by A-holes. It is the story of hope, and the main characterâs real name IS Hope, and she also instills a faith in me that reminds me of the Christmas miracle that Whitney and Bradley bestowed on us, teaching us the significance of family and being fully present and available â as my daughter said when she was around seven years old and already understanding the environment around her, “Family isn’t just DNA.”
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 