Soldiers Of The Same Name

It was the summer of 1970 when a little boy was born to a young couple in Atlanta, Georgia. His name was chosen to honor another young boy who gave his life for our country. On that day, as one boy came into the world to parents filled with hopes and dreams for his life, another young boy’s parents had already laid their little boy to rest as a Vietnam Veteran…burying their own hopes and dreams.

I captured his reflection when he found his uncle’s name.

Neither ever got to meet the other, yet that little boy grew to become one of the most patriotic men I know. His love for our country and his passion for our history make me proud to stand by his side as we instill the same passion and love for the United States of America in our own children and continue to honor the boy he was named after. In honoring his name, we honor all those who chose to fight for our freedom. In honoring his name, we honor all those who suited up before him and entered the battlefield. In honoring his name, we honor all those who walked before him, those who protect us today, and those who will choose to follow in their footsteps. Each and every one of these young men and women may not share the same name on their birth certificate or their dog tags, but they do share a name we should never fail to honor…Soldier.

May you each enjoy your Memorial Day and thank a soldier this weekend.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Escape

ESCAPE: THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE DISTURBING

Escape. A word that stirs up an endless array of meanings, both at a standard level and a deeply personal one. The mere sound of it whispered softly in one’s ear can ignite the senses of sight and sound propelling us down a road of movie credits, song lyrics, and novels – each a story all its own.

                                                      EACH A STORY ALL OUR OWN.

As I sit here eyes on my computer screen ready to share my thoughts on this week’s photo challenge: Escape, I realize for many the computer screen is a form of escape…a portal by which we connect with others through a social media peephole of photos, status updates, pins, blogs, and tweets.

The Good

For myself as a writer it is a common means of escape. The irony isn’t lost on me as my fingers fly across the keys, rushing to free the words in my head.

My own surroundings – ocean waves crashing the shore and a vision of blue waters as far as the eye can see – there are those who would consider this very setting an escape.

The runner whose escape begins the moment she ties her running shoes and heads out the door, each mile taking her across more than just a physical distance.

The Bad

Images flood my mind of prisons – the physical, the mental, and the emotional cells that hold us prisoner against our will.

A former athlete confined to a wheelchair.

An addict held hostage by the blinding need for another hit.

A young mother trapped in the vicious cycle of an abusive marriage.

A mental health patient stuck in a system of doctors, diagnoses, treatments.

A celebrity smothered in the adoration and attention of overzealous fans.

The Disturbing

And, then there are those images that need no words…themselves a disturbing depiction of the word ESCAPE.

 If I haven’t scared you off, tell me what good, bad, or disturbing comes to mind when you hear the word escape?

A Red Circle On The Calendar

This week I finally received complimentary copies of my book, Red Circle Days. I can’t begin to express what it feels like to hold my published book in my hands, see my words in print, my face on the back cover!

We all have dreams, and as we strive to make those dreams a reality the road is ever-changing. The smoothly paved stretches can be encouraging yet also deceiving at times, causing us to relax a bit and slow our pace, never anticipating the mountainous climb that awaits just around the bend. As we turn the corner and come face to face with yet another obstacle on our path, another winding twist, we take pause and wonder if we have what it takes to continue the journey.

In light of this reality, we question our very dream, the dream that at one time energized, lit a fire in us that we vowed nothing and no one would ever extinguish. It is when the climb is the steepest, that we allow the thought of quitting to enter our mind, overshadowing all the visions we spent so much time playing and replaying in our mind, like the reel on an old plastic viewfinder…each click an indicator that we’ve left one image behind for our eyes to focus on another, yet each image is part of the bigger picture we must always keep in our line of vision.

In that moment, the moment of doubt, the moment of questioning, the moment of fear, we may slow down or even come to a complete stop – weighed down with insecurity. The important thing is to take a deep breath, revisit that technicolored dream and allow ourselves to believe once more.

Those of you who have expressed an interest in a signed copy of the book, please contact me directly to place your order. Those who have already purchased a copy, I thank you for making me one of the Publisher’s Top Sellers right now, but even more for your support!

If you haven’t gotten a copy, here are a few options: Amazon, Kindle, Nook, the Apple iBookstore, and Sarah Book Publishing.

 

dOn’T gEt UpSeT wHeN yOuR FiVe-yEaR oLd aCtS LiKe A fiVe-YeAr oLd!

Sit up straight. Say thank  you. Be quiet. Keep your voice down. Say please. Sit still.

As parents we are constantly surrounded by suggestions on how to make our children behave properly. From parenting books to self-help books (because let’s face it, it’s always mom’s fault), there is an endless string of advice designed to guide us. Complete strangers are quick to share their nuggets of wisdom, based on their child rearing years. I don’t take offense, because I agree that children should be taught to have good manners, be respectful of others, and sit quietly in certain situations. At restaurants, I understand when the wait staff sees a family with small children walk through the door, and after taking a deep breath escorts them to the table at the back of the restaurant where the noise, spills, tantrums, etc. can be shielded a bit from the other paying customers. I get it.

The thing is, parents with children are also paying customers, and sometimes I think people immediately make a judgment call based on the children’s ages. I’ve witnessed many a full-blown toddler tantrum which left me paralyzed, fork hovering in the air, never making it to my mouth. Some of those tantrums by my own kids, but my husband and I always walked them outside at that point so as not to disrupt someone else’s meal. There were times we even took our food to go after not being able/willing to continue the toddler vs. parent battle back in the restaurant. Not everyone does that. Again, I get it.

However, when a child speaks a bit louder than a grownup, or lets out a belly laugh to beat all belly laughs, there’s no need for the disapproving stares as they are just being children. I’m all for instilling the proper manners in my children, but at times even I feel like I’m too hard on them. Years ago, our priest gave a sermon on just this topic and one line has stuck with me since then. It is also the title of this post. “Don’t get upset when your five-year old acts like a five-year old.”

Yes, we need to raise our children to be responsible, respectful, kind, generous, and morally conscious. I believe that we need to start these lessons at a young age, and as parents we need to consistently enforce these lessons. We also need to teach by example, but that’s another post. However, we also need to understand that our children are still children, each age a necessary developmental stage building on another developmental stage.

1. We shouldn’t be surprised when they aren’t organized at the age of five…am I at the age of forty-two?

2. We shouldn’t be surprised when they interrupt a conversation…we’re all guilty of it every now and then.

3. We shouldn’t be surprised when they get a bit loud in a restaurant or church or the library…if granny can speak that loud why not them?

4. We shouldn’t be surprised when they forget their homework, or that permission slip for us to sign…it’s not as bad as the day “the tooth fairy” forgot their only job.

5. We shouldn’t be surprised when they cry uncontrollably and can’t explain why…don’t we all need a little more love some days?

Have you ever been in a situation where you were judged based on your child’s behavior? How did you handle it?

Dear Mom, Can You Tell Me How You’ve Done It?

 Today’s Daily Prompt invites us to write a letter to mom.

I am sharing my guest post on Black Box Warnings.

A mother figure comes in many shapes and forms. Today, I celebrate all the women in my life who helped me become the mother I  am today. 

I encourage you to do the same!

Dear Mom,

I can imagine the feeling of sheer joy you felt the day he was born. I can imagine the peace that blanketed you while your arms blanketed him. I can imagine the look in your eyes as you looked into his, and thanked the Lord for another healthy child. I can imagine how proud you felt to present Dad with his first son. After having two girls, I can imagine a boy was a welcome addition. I can imagine the dreams you had for him. I can imagine all the visions of “firsts” that went through your mind as you held him for the first time.

I can imagine all of this because I too am a mother now. I too have held my children and dreamed of what their future would hold. I too have envisioned each “first” in their life and the happiness each may bring to mine. What I can’t imagine is how you have coped with all the “firsts” you never envisioned in his life.

How did you survive the first time he had to visit a psychiatrist? How did you deal with a complete stranger telling you there was something wrong with your son after having only known him for one hour, when you had known him for years? He didn’t know his favorite homemade meal. He didn’t know his passion for music. He didn’t know his compassion for others. He didn’t know these things and so many more, yet in one hour he determined there was something so wrong with your son that medication and therapy were ordered. How did you hold back the tears when you realized you were being told years of after school conversations around the kitchen table over milk and cookies were a thing of the past? What your son needed now were hour-long sessions with a stranger who promised to reach him, when his own mother couldn’t.

How did you manage to get through the phone call letting you know your son had been hospitalized because he was confused and couldn’t even tell the day of the week? Did it take you back to the days when you would circle important dates on the calendar for him to look forward to? Or, did it take you even further back to the times you repeatedly sang the days of the week song to him, so he would be ahead of the game when he entered Kindergarten?

How did you hold it together when you stood by his hospital bed time and again, and looked into his eyes much like you did in another hospital long ago? Could you still see your baby boy in those eyes even if he couldn’t see you? How did you make your words reach him when he was trapped in a world incapable of speech? Where have you found the courage mom? Where have you found the strength to pick him up each time he has fallen when his pain now is so much deeper than a scraped knee?

How have you listened to the many different labels placed on your son throughout the years? How have you helped him to accept those same labels as a positive step on a path to mental health, when the only labels you’ve ever had for him are my son, my baby boy, my world? What have you done with all those dreams you had for him? Have you given up on them in your heart of hearts or have you altered them? Have those dreams now simply become ones where he is as happy and healthy as he was when he entered this world? How have you continued to live each day, mom, when you must be dying inside?

As I look at my own son, I think of you mom. I can’t even begin to imagine what you have been through with your son. As his sister, I know what my experience has been, but as I look at my happy, healthy little boy I can’t even begin to imagine the depth of your pain. From one mother to another, I can say you have given me the best example of what it means to be a mother. It isn’t about teaching them their first words, but about being their voice when they can’t speak for themselves. It isn’t about cheering them on when they take their first steps, but about walking alongside them no matter what their journey entails. It isn’t about putting a band-aid on their knee when they fall, but about always being there to pick them back up. Most importantly, it is about never giving up on your child…no matter how many sleepless nights it may cost you.

Forever in awe of you,

Your grateful daughter

Be Brave Little Merida!

Disney’s character from the movie, Brave, is slated to become Disney’s 11th Princess.

Congratulations Merida!

photo: Disney/Pixar

Not so fast because in order for bow and arrow wielding Merida of the long, naturally curly hair and average figure to become a Disney Princess she must undergo a complete makeover. Disney geniuses are changing her beautiful, untamed, long red curls into a salon perfect wavy do of the auburn sort. They are stripping her of her signature badass archery set and replacing it with…nothing. Instead, they are thinning out her face, redoing her eyes, and giving her a smaller waist and overall curvier appearance. Gone is the image of the delightful, tomboyish, spitfire originally introduced to little girls everywhere.

Just what the world needs, another helpless Barbie/wannabe Paris Hilton with no purpose in life.

To each little Merida in the world, I look you straight in the eye and urge you to listen closely. BE BRAVE!

• When someone tries to convince you it is better to look like everyone else, rather than have your own style…BE BRAVE!
• When a salon you frequent tries to straighten your beautiful curls or change your hair color “because it’s what everyone in Hollywood is doing”…BE BRAVE!
• When those around you tell you that your body isn’t perfect and you should starve yourself or take diet pills or turn to cosmetic surgery…BE BRAVE!
• When someone tries to convince you that standing up for what you believe in is a waste of time…BE BRAVE!
• When the media suggests the only way to become someone noteworthy is to conform to moral and ethical standards that aren’t your own…BE BRAVE!
• When Disney introduces you to a strong female character who stands up for herself at any cost, is comfortable in her own skin, and won’t be silenced by anyone…BE BRAVE and applaud her.
• When Disney then takes that same brave character and strips her of the very characteristics that make her beautiful inside and out, unique, and a good role model for young girls…BE BRAVE and understand they are making a huge mistake with no consideration for their target audience – young impressionable girls like you.

To each woman who is mom to a little Merida, I look you straight in the eye and urge you to listen closely. BE BRAVE!

• Don’t teach your little Merida to dress a certain way in order to fit in with the cool kids. You are paying for her clothes…BE BRAVE!
• Don’t teach your little Merida to obsess about her image because you do. It may be too late for you, but it’s not for her…BE BRAVE!
• Don’t allow her to rush past key developmental stages in her life because other moms are letting their girls do it…BE BRAVE!
• Don’t teach her to blend in because it takes too much effort to stand out…BE BRAVE!
• Don’t let the parents she has become so familiar with on the screen do the parenting. You are her parent…BE BRAVE!
• When Disney introduces a strong female character to your little girl, a character that exemplifies strength, natural beauty, determination, and intelligence make sure you point it out to your little girl and explain why those are things to strive for in life. Discuss it at length…BE BRAVE!
• When Disney then takes that same brave character and strips her of all the things you know you want your little girl to embrace in the future, tell her it’s wrong. Tell her they are making a huge mistake, and not just with their target audience. Make sure you tell her they’re also making a huge mistake with those who make the time to take those young girls to the theatre, those who buy the movie ticket, the popcorn, the dress up clothes, and all the promotional merchandise that goes along with a Disney movie…their moms! BE BRAVE!

What’s your take? Mom or not, are you as outraged as I am?

If so visit Change.org and sign the petition below.

Disney: Say No to the Merida Makeover, Keep Our Hero Brave!

Lessons in Gardening

Summers at her house were filled with long hours in her garden. I learned many life lessons in that garden, lessons I carry close to my heart and revisit often. My grandmother taught me it was okay to get my hands dirty, to embrace the moist soil between my fingertips, to tilt my face up to the sun and let the warmth reach my soul. She showed me what the art of nurturing, of loving, and of communicating could do for the living as well as for those desperately needing a little life breathed back into them. From her, I learned that life is ever-changing, and some of us will be quicker to adapt to our new surroundings than others. I learned that some of us need to immediately plant our roots and settle down. Others need a little more time to grow, experiencing and outgrowing different spaces, eventually needing a bigger space to spread out and show the world how much beauty we are capable of. And, she taught me to embrace the rain when my soul is thirsty for it, letting it cleanse my soul as it showers me with forgiveness, because we all make mistakes. Thankfully the land is plentiful, forever providing room for us to plant again, to grow, and ultimately to flourish.

During my recent trip to Washington, DC, as amazed as I was with the historical sites, I was in awe of the nature all around me. With each click of the camera, I thought of my grandmother and the many lessons I learned through the art of gardening by her side.

Happy Birthday and Happy Mother’s Day to one amazing grandmother!

May your garden in heaven be as beautiful as you are!

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

Through the Door – The Power of Prayer

Life has a way of transporting us from one moment to the next in the blink of an eye. A certain smell, a song, a glimpse of a photograph can make our senses come alive and take flight like a mother bird from its nest in search of that elusive something that will feed our soul. As I walked toward the sound of frantic whispers, I knew who it was, and looking back I must admit I knew what he was desperately pleading for before I ever stepped through the door to my bedroom. I slowly crept closer to the door, holding my breath and carefully placing each foot down as though I might avoid the inevitable land mine I was sure awaited me through that half open door. In slow motion I crossed the threshold, and what I saw is forever ingrained in my heart.

My seven-year old son was on his knees next to my bed, tiny hands barely reaching the top of the mattress, clasped together in fervent prayer. He begged God to allow us to remain in our home in Texas, rather than have to board a plane the next morning and head back to Puerto Rico where his daddy’s job awaited. As I knelt down beside him, and placed my arm around him, my own tears fell. My heart broke to see my little boy hurting, but it also swelled with pride that in his moment of need he sought comfort in prayer. He didn’t seek out his father, his sister, or even myself. He got down on his knees and prayed. We may be miles away from the tiny church we fell in love with eight years ago, but my son has carried the power of prayer with him across an ocean and hopefully a lifetime.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

As I exited my bedroom, and gently closed the door behind me I entered a bedroom I haven’t stepped foot in since I was seventeen years old. The queen size bed with the faded brown comforter still held the small tear in the bottom right corner I tried to hide from my mom after my siblings and I repeatedly bounced on the bed in an attempt to touch the ceiling. If I look up I can see the water stains on that very ceiling, the same ones my dad and I would make up stories about when I would cuddle up beside him in bed. One day it was a ship at sea, another day a fire-breathing dragon, each a lesson in possibilities. Yet, the vision of my son on his knees has taken me back to the day I realized my dad wasn’t invincible. I was just a little older than my son is now, the house was quiet, and not one to miss a nap with my dad I walked toward my parents bedroom in search of him.

As I approached the door to the bedroom I could hear frantic whispers. I inched toward the door, not daring to enter, but needing to confirm what I knew in my heart. I saw my father on his knees on the side of the bed, tears streaming down his face, begging the Lord to save his older brother who was dying of cancer. I stood rooted in place though my legs wanted to run the other way, down the hall, out the front door, and back in time to a place where I still held the innocent impression that my father, my hero, was untouchable.

Through the years, I have held that vision of my father as he knelt in prayer and surrendered himself to a higher power. It taught me that none of us are invincible, that in our darkest hour we need to believe in something, that the power of prayer can give us hope no matter whether or not we get the answer we so desperately seek.

This post was written in response to the Weekly Challenge: Through the Door

Raising Bad Parents

A soccer field covered with teenage athletes, a game in progress, a referee’s call. A normal event until an angry teenager disagrees with the ref’s yellow card call, and punches him on the side of the head. A palpable hush, stunned spectators, a horrific event. The referee becomes dizzy, needs help sitting down and begins to vomit blood. The teenager is whisked away and hidden by his father. An ambulance is called, the ref’s brain is swollen by the time he arrives at the hospital. A father, husband, brother, and role model is dead.

Another soccer field, first and second graders scrambling to keep up with the ball, a little girl gets injured…a bloody lip. Tears stream down her sweet face. The coach searches the sidelines for her parents. They are nowhere to be found. Her greatest injury, her parents never stay for her games.

A little league baseball field, young boys suited up and keeping their eyes on the ball. Their ears bombarded with the jeers, insults, and pressure filled yells from overly competitive spectators on the sidelines. The spectators are their parents.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

The teenager becomes a father. When his wife and children don’t do as he commands, he beats them bloody.

The little girl becomes a mom. She places more importance on herself than her children, never making time for them, never showing up to their games.

The young boys on that baseball field become those spectators, yelling, jeering, insulting, pressuring their own sons because they believe in winning at all costs.

Every child may not be affected the same way by these poor examples of parenting. Some may walk away unscathed. Why take that gamble? Why choose to bring another human being into the world, then not put our best foot forward in molding them? We don’t build a house without giving it the proper foundation. We don’t let our children drive a car without driving lessons. We don’t grow a tree, by simply planting a seed, then never watering it and leaving it in darkness. We reap what we sow.

History Of The World Part 2

It was the kind of day when the weather suggests you enjoy the outdoors, warm enough to ditch the heavy coats of winter and the restrictions they provide. Yet as I walked down the streets of Washington, DC, I held tight to a light sweater as I felt a cool breeze in the air. It really was one of those perfect days to sit under a tree, blanket spread with picnic regalia in all its splendor, and a good book in hand. I, however, lost all thoughts of the outdoors and the call of nature, as I stepped through the doors to the dome-shaped building which encapsulates the yesterdays and the tomorrows of our nation’s history.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

With each step I took upon the tiled floors, tiny squares of intricate designs, I couldn’t help but think of all those whose footsteps graced these halls since 1793. How many men and women eagerly entered this meeting place of the nation’s legislature, with hopes of not only leaving their footprints on these tiles but their imprint on our country? If I listened closely, I could almost hear the intellectual and political discussions, words floating up and around the painted dome with its mythological and historical impressions, secrets being whispered among the collection of American art gracing the walls.

photo credit: littlemisswordy.com

For hundreds of years life changing decisions have been made amid the half circle of desks in the Senate gallery and throughout this building, behind closed doors and in the presence of those whose job it is to record it for our history books. The circular theme of the building a constant reminder of how history repeats itself no matter how hard we try to avoid it, coming back full circle in another attempt to teach us the lessons we didn’t grasp the first time. There is a reason buildings such as this one are preserved at all costs. They hold our history and they hold our future.

I felt honored to walk the same path as these leaders who have shaped our nation, to sit in the very seats they sat in, to admire the artistic details on walls and ceilings and look out the windows at the same panoramic views their eyes have also seen, to stand in awe of the majestic statues of American Presidents stoically keeping watch on the history they once created.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

I also couldn’t help but feel small and insignificant in this magnificent rotunda, the symbol of the American people and our government. And yet, as I looked through my camera lens at my family, positioned in the exact center of this magnanimous building something else came into focus. I saw my history and my future in their smiles. I saw my husband and I in our first home shortly after being handed the keys, slow dancing in our socks in the living room to the music in our hearts. I saw my children’s peaceful looks as I rocked them back to sleep in their nurseries night after night. I saw us teaching our children to read, to ride a bike, to tie their shoes, to love, and to live. The truth is, life changing decisions occur in our homes every day. Lessons are taught and history is written. Our homes hold our history and hold our future. Each lesson we pass down to our children, each kind word we utter to our family, each impression we make upon someone else is a step in shaping their future, our future, and ultimately our nation’s future. As I headed out past the towering statues of George Washington, Susan B. Anthony, Ronald Reagan, Abraham Lincoln, Rosa Parks, and the many others who have shaped our present, I couldn’t help but be reminded that each of their stories began at home.