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

Crank Up The Radio And Hear Little Miss Wordy!

Judyth Piazza, talk show host and journalist, interviewed me on The American Perspective.

What did we talk about? Red Circle Days of course!

I’m on a field trip in Washington, DC (perks of homeschooling), and will get back to my

“regularly scheduled blogging” next week.

Indulge me a little longer while I celebrate a very special Red Circle Day in my life!

There are moments in our lives that are imprinted into our very soul. Moments that don’t require a photo album or memory book for us to revisit them time and time again. Some may bring to life the very feelings of sheer happiness they brought the day we experienced them. Others bring the heart wrenching sorrow we spend years trying to erase. These are moments that don’t need a reminder or a red circle on a calendar date, our hearts wrapping around them much like the tiny box on a calendar, keeping them contained only to bring them to the surface each year. Red Circle Days is a collection of those moments that I will forever carry with me, thought-provoking moments and stories which have left an indelible imprint on my very soul.

Red Circle Days  is available on Amazon, Kindle, Nook, the Apple iBookstore, and Sarah Book Publishing.

 

It’s Like Giving Birth On Christmas Day And Having The Easter Bunny Stop By! Red Circle Days Is Out!

There are moments in our lives that are imprinted into our very soul. Moments that don’t require a photo album or memory book for us to revisit them time and time again. Some may bring to life the very feelings of sheer happiness they brought the day we experienced them. Others bring the heart wrenching sorrow we spend years trying to erase. These are moments that don’t need a reminder or a red circle on a calendar date, our hearts wrapping around them much like the tiny box on a calendar, keeping them contained only to bring them to the surface each year. Red Circle Days is a collection of those moments that I will forever carry with me, thought-provoking moments and stories which have left an indelible imprint on my very soul.

Red Circle Days has been released, and is available on Amazon, Kindle, Nook, the Apple iBookstore, and Sarah Book Publishing.

Book signing dates and locations will be announced shortly!

A huge thank you to all, from WordPress for the user-friendly platform to showcase and challenge my writing, to friends and family for the endless support, to the many followers who have liked, commented, and cheered me on from a distance. You have ALL encouraged me on this journey. It truly is a dream come true and a red circle day for me!

To The Woman In 14B…Thank You And I’m Sorry

I’m sorry I almost killed you.

It was never my intent.

Photo Credit: Peter Walton

As I sat watching passengers parading up the aisle, and worrying over who would occupy the seat between myself and the man in 14A, you stopped just short of our row and ever so politely asked me if I would mind letting you get to your seat. I practically jumped with joy out of 14C feeling like I had won the travel jackpot to rival all jackpots. You were of average weight and height, had impeccable manners, minimal perfume on, weren’t carrying a bag of Fritos, corn nuts, a tuna sandwich, or a screaming toddler to sit in your lap.

It’s not that I don’t like Fritos or Tuna though I’ve never had the two together. I do hate corn nuts, but I am a mother of two so I get the screaming toddler traveller…been there done that. It’s just while my husband sat in a different row with our two children, I planned on pulling out my brand new MacBook Air and pretending I was some important business woman traveling to a conference on the latest in smart phone technology or an experienced journalist on her way to catch the big story. What I wasn’t pretending to be was a doctor and keynote speaker at a Doctors Without Borders Conference. I had spent enough years playing doctor so to speak, though not with the boy next door so no worries mom.

Since the age of four, I walked around fashioning my plastic stethoscope around my neck. Fisher Price medical bag in hand, I told anyone and everyone that I wanted to be a doctor someday. It is all I ever spoke of, and all I ever imagined becoming when I grew up. It was my third year in college when my dad died. His death opened my eyes to the fact that I was on a path I didn’t really want to be on but stayed true to because I had never considered anything else. I had no Plan B. Kids, always have a Plan B. My dad’s death made me realize that life is too short to do something simply because it is expected of you, so I changed my career path and have never looked back.

That is until you Ma’am. When you started to complain of a headache, and asked if I had any Tylenol (I didn’t) we were still good. When you started to complain you were feeling dizzy, I was happy to ring the button for the flight attendant to bring you some water. I was even okay holding a wet cloth to your forehead when you said you were feeling faint. The problem started when you started to shake, closed your eyes, and became unresponsive.

As I stood in the aisle, amid the flurry of flight attendants and those who had answered the call for a doctor on board and ultimately in life, I knew without a doubt that my playing doctor all those years ago was just that. I suddenly had no need to pretend to be anything other than what I am today…a homeschooling mom of two, wife of one, blogger, and soon to be published author.

I am so glad you were feeling better by the time we landed. I meant you no harm, and if I could I would take back the thought that popped into my head as the plane lifted off…

“Man, do I need something exciting to happen so I have something to write about.”

From the bottom of my heart, thank you and I’m sorry.

Like A Well-Worn Pair Of Jeans

Photo credit: http://www.theharteofmarketing.com

They came to this country with only the clothes on their back and a light of hope in their hearts that the strongest gust of wind couldn’t extinguish. They walked away from all they knew for the promise of freedom. They left it all behind for visions of a better future for themselves, but more importantly for their children. Those brave souls made huge sacrifices for myself and my siblings, and I wouldn’t be who I am today if not for them…my parents. As with anything or anyone we leave behind, no longer accessible to us, we don’t fully bid farewell. We still carry with us a little something that will remind us of times we will never again experience.

My parents may have bid farewell to their homes, their families and friends, and the island they called home, but they held on to their language, clothing themselves in it like a well-worn pair of jeans, slipping into it and feeling the comfort of the fabric as it wrapped them in the many memories of their history and home. While my parents learned the English language of their new country, in our home, we were encouraged to speak our native language. Around the dinner table, we slipped into it easily without even realizing it. At family gatherings, children and grown ups alike easily conversed in the Spanish sounds of a faraway land.

I may not have understood my parents adamant rules on embracing our native language, but nowadays I see things clearly. Being fully bilingual has opened doors for me in many areas of my life from career opportunities to lifelong friendships. I can easily slip from English to Spanish and back again in the blink of an eye, often amazing those around me with the ease in which I do so and begging the question, “Do you think in the language you speak or do you think in one language and translate in your mind before speaking?”  To answer the question, I think in Spanish when I speak in Spanish. I think in English when I speak in English. There’s no rhyme or reason to my language of choice. I prefer to read in English rather than Spanish. I more often dream in English than I do in Spanish. However, when I pray I find I slip easily into a Spanish conversation with God…possibly because I was taught to pray in Spanish. My conversations with my mom are conducted in Spanish more often than English.

An article titled, How Speaking Two Languages Can Improve Your Brain, at About.com discusses this in further detail. According to a growing body of research, not only does speaking two languages not confuse people or slow their learning in other areas, it may actually improve your brain—carrying benefits that go far beyond communication. According to Ellen Bialystok, an internationally known psychologist and distinguished research professor at York University in Toronto, there is overwhelming evidence that being truly bilingual—speaking two languages and using them regularly—will improve your brain. For bilingual people, both languages are “always on,” always active in their brains, no matter which language they are speaking at the moment.

All scientific research aside, I am grateful my parents encouraged me to embrace our native language. I have personally witnessed those who believe everyone should speak English as it is the universal language, and frown upon those who don’t. I have personally experienced people being offended when they do not understand a conversation being conducted near them, in a language they do not understand. Thanks to my parents, when I am around someone speaking their native language, I keep in mind that those words may be the only familiar thing they still carry with them. It may be the only remnant of their homeland, helping them keep their history alive while they make a new home and create a new history in a foreign land. And, I remember what it feels like to slip into my favorite pair of well-worn jeans, the comfort they provide, each tear a memory that no amount of fading can completely erase.

If you are bilingual, do you think in one language and translate to another or do you think in the language you speak?

 

Island Boy Finds His Once Upon A Time

The sound of the waves, the sand beneath his feet, the warm ocean breeze were all a part of him, ingrained into his very soul. He was a true island boy, climbing palm trees in the blink of an eye to retrieve a coconut, catching fish with his homemade spear in the most primitive manner. It was the only manner he had ever learned…not from his father, as he had never met the man who had given him life. His mother never spoke of him. He carried his questions in his little heart, the one place they couldn’t cause the fleeting glimpse of pain he sometimes saw in her eyes…the pain she thought she hid so well.

He studied the only photo of his father he possessed, memorizing every detail. Even when he closed his eyes he could still see the way his father looked in his uniform, the way he slightly leaned into his military jeep as though someone had caught him on his way somewhere. Where was he going? Who held the camera that provided the only piece of the puzzle that was his life, his story? He held the tiny black and white photo, yet held not a single memory of this man…a stranger to him.

It came as no surprise when the little island boy grew to be a soldier as well. He and his mother moved to the United States so he could join the army at the age of eighteen. It wasn’t long before the island boy fell in love, married and had a family of his own. His young bride, wanting to know everything about him would ask him to tell her about his father. She wanted to know if he ever thought of him, if he ever wondered what became of him, if he was ever curious to meet him. His response never wavered. He had a good life, a loving family, and no need for anything or anyone else. After years of seeing the hint of pain in his eyes, she stopped asking him. Many years would come and go before she would tentatively broach the subject once more.

It was the age of computers now, when the internet was becoming all the rage and she had embraced the technology. She loved being able to communicate with all the friends she made during their numerous military relocations. And, she had become interested in a genealogy website where she could build a family tree. Once again, she asked her husband about his father. This time, he handed her the tiny black and white photo his own mother had placed in his small hand a lifetime ago. She scanned it, placed it on the site and listed her husband’s name as someone looking for his father. Neither one of them thought anything would really come of it. Yet, life has a funny way of making connections so intricately weaved, they leave us mere mortals astounded.

Across the ocean, a secretary at a military base happened on that very website. She gasped when she saw the photo and immediately printed it. Her boss arrived shortly after, and headed straight to his office. The first thing his eyes landed upon was a printout of a tiny black and white photo of a man in military uniform. There was no mistaking it was his father. He immediately took the contact information his secretary provided, and made the call that would forever change the life of a little island boy. He never doubted for a moment this man was his brother. Their father had shared a story with him, and the time had finally come to share it with his brother.

Their father had been stationed on a small island and had fallen in love with a young girl. He had returned home at the end of his assignment, but headed back to the island during the first military leave he had only to find that young girl gone. He questioned friends, family, neighbors to no avail. In the end, he found one person willing to talk. The news he was given was heartbreaking. The young girl died giving birth to a baby boy who also didn’t live.

Their father had refused to believe it. In the following years, he made several more attempts to find what his heart believed to be true, but all attempts ended the same. With a heavy heart, he returned home, went on with his life, married and had children, never returning to that island.

Somehow his heart knew what no one was willing to tell him when he sought answers so many years ago. His son lived, and one day he would know their story. He had hoped to look in his son’s eyes, and share this history with him, hug him and let him know he had gone back for them. While on his death-bed, coming to terms with the fact he would never get that opportunity, he shared this story with his youngest son. Their father requested when the brothers finally found each other, the story be shared with the son he never met.

There was silence on the other end of the phone line as a lifetime of questions were finally answered. The island boy, whom my husband calls Dad and my children call Pappa, found a family he never knew he had and a story he never believed could be his own.

Identify Your “Training Wheels” And Smile!

We’ve all met at least one person who treads a little lighter than the rest of us, who grabs life with both hands, experiences it to the fullest. It’s not that they are irresponsible adults. It’s just that their approach to life in general is different from most grown ups. They don’t allow themselves to get caught up in the details. They don’t over think. They just breathe in life’s moments, filling their lungs with each experience, and letting every inch of their body feel the joy life offers. Is it a personality trait inherited from some gene passed down to them from a life loving parent? Or, is it something they learned along the way?

As a kid, I remember being fearless. Yet, now I over think riding a Roller Coaster as I imagine endless frightening scenarios all of which leave my two children motherless in the end. As I climb aboard, buckle my seat belt, then check and double-check it, I’m silently berating myself for being so careless as to agree to this irresponsible joy ride. I am a mother for goodness sake, not some free wheeling teenager doing pop-a-wheelies on her mountain bike (ah those were the days). Nevertheless, I settle in and after a quick plea bargain prayerful talk with the man upstairs, I make a conscious decision to enjoy the ride. It isn’t long before the cars pick up speed, I feel the wind in my hair, and the sheer exhilaration of feeling free! In that moment, nothing can stop me and I feel like I can take on the world!

My kids: cooling off and smiling from the inside out, after a long bike ride.
photo credit: littlemisswordy

Do you remember the first time you learned to ride a bike? It’s that same feeling I’m referring to here. No matter how we approached that bike for the first time, the end result was the same. Once we got going and felt the wind in our hair, we could take on the world. There was no hiding our smile as it traveled from our mind to our face, until it took over every fiber of our being and shone like a Fourth of July sparkler beckoning the world to smile with us! Why do we reserve that full body joy as something to be experienced only by a carefree child?

When I taught my oldest how to ride a bike, her little brother was her biggest cheerleader as she fearfully gave up her training wheels. Olivia approached this challenge in her usual fashion. With much detail, she proceeded to delineate each and every way she could fall off her bike, and each and every injury that was possible. I gave her some space, addressed her concerns accordingly, and eventually she faced the latest challenge in the life of a six-year-old — with determination and a few meltdowns. On the other hand, Evan watched Olivia the first day as he circled her on his Spiderman bike WITH training wheels, and like a good brother and little knight, cheered her on at the appropriate moments. However, on day two he adamantly demanded I take his training wheels off.

Evan’s approach to learning to ride a bike was much different from his sister’s approach. Fearless and with complete faith in his abilities, he not only wanted to go fast but didn’t want me to hold him back. Not a single thought to consequences, injuries, etc. he quickly progressed to riding without assistance in a mere thirty minutes. Their approaches were different, but their end result was the same. They both experienced the same sense of freedom, wind blowing in their face, head tilted back, smiling with their entire body.

This left me thinking about how we approach life. What are our “training wheels” and how much do we depend on them? Training wheels aren’t a negative thing, but definitely aren’t meant to permanently carry our weight. Do the training wheels in our life show up in the form of our friends, our family, our career, our doubts, or the dreams we’ve put on hold? Why do some of us hang on to our training wheels longer than others? Is it because they’ve become so much a part of us that we don’t even realize we’re leaning on them? Are we too afraid to remove them even for a moment for fear of failure? Are we allowing our training wheels to hold us back from that sense of freedom?

Wouldn’t it be great to experience that smile from the inside out…the kind that makes you literally jump for joy just like when you were a kid? Whether it’s a roller coaster, a bike, or life, inevitably the moment arrives when we have to ride all on our own, feel the exhilaration as we pick up speed and confidence, tilt our heads up to the sky, and welcome that cool breeze on our face.

 Weekly Writing Challenge: Truth is Stranger than Fiction

The Littlest Knight With The Biggest Heart

Photo Credit: littlemisswordy

He may not be tall, dark, and handsome. He may not come riding in on his white horse to save the day, and the sword he holds to protect his princess from all things evil may be a plastic one. Nonetheless, he is her knight in shining armor. She towers over him, but in her eyes he is bigger than the darkness she fears when she needs to retrieve something upstairs, and can’t bear to face the second floor alone. He is bigger than the sounds of night when she asks him to accompany her to take the trash outside. She begs him to sleep with her every night, as if the sheer warmth of his tiny body pressed up against hers is enough to protect her even in her nightmares.

Her little knight takes his job seriously. He discusses movie options with her, and together they choose one they can both lose themselves in for a couple of hours, popcorn in hand, both occupying one half of the couch. The chosen flick must be one of adventure, but can not include anything too scary. His knightly duties are many, and he carries them proudly on his tiny little shoulders. He is the littlest knight with the biggest heart.

I recall one day when I walked up to the school, and he was standing next to his Pre-school teacher. It was the week of Halloween, and all the children had their faces painted at school that day. As I approached him, about to share the appropriate level of excitement over his face art, I slowed my pace. I could only see black smudges across both cheeks. Amateur face painting or the 88 degree temperature? I didn’t have time to ask before his teacher offered an explanation that has stayed with me ever since.

You see, the little knight stood in line as excited as his little friends anxiously awaiting his turn for face painting. One by one, his peers walked off with smiling faces, and admired the masterpieces bestowed upon their sweet little cheeks in a handheld mirror the teacher held up to them. When it came to be Evan’s turn, he made sure to stand perfectly still, a difficult task for a four-year old knight accustomed to being in constant motion. Once the piece was complete, he walked off to the mirror and took in his reflection. He looked at his teacher, looked at the artist, and kindly asked for the face paint to be removed. They convinced him to keep it on for a bit, I imagine in hopes he would get used to it. Tears ensued as well as much face rubbing. Hence, the black smudges I came upon that afternoon. After much prompting, he explained to his teacher that while he really liked the artwork, there was no way he could go home with it on his face. You see, my sister is afraid of spiders, said the littlest knight with the biggest heart.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Forward

It was a hot, blustery day and his penetrating gaze was making me even more uncomfortable. I saw him eyeing me the moment I arrived, but dismissed it as curiosity to see someone not of his kind around these parts. He dared to make eye contact with me, and I took that moment to take him in as well from his large eyes not seeming to miss a single detail to his leathery skin and slow manner. I spent the morning slowly wandering the neighborhood, his neighborhood, taking in every detail of his environment. I felt the heat scorch my skin with every calculated step I took as I tried to place a comfortable distance between us. I was definitely a foreigner in these parts, and not accustomed to his forward ways. No matter which path I took it wasn’t long before I felt a presence, and turned to find him mere steps behind me once again. Did his kind not understand the concept of personal space?  Every step forward took me down another path of beautiful scenery and a newfound appreciation for my strange follower’s home. There was a calm and beauty all around me, one only experienced when nature surrounds me. I got caught up in the scenery, only realizing he had closed the gap between us once it was too late. I panicked and dropped my purse. A true gentleman would have picked it up for me, but this was no gentleman. I reached for the bag, and as I rose I realized I couldn’t move. He had me caught in an animalistic embrace common to his kind. I was taken aback until I realized he meant no harm. His actions might have been quite forward of him, but he only meant to welcome me to his home…the zoo.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Forward

It Was Just A Matter of Time

For the year and a half we lived with an ocean between us, we sent this image back and forth to each other. Sea otters hold hands when they sleep so they never drift apart.

Do you remember? I was a Resident Advisor in the girls dorm and you in the boys. We were from different worlds, living in separate towers, but it was just a matter of time before our paths crossed. No matter that you had spent your life traveling the world as the son of an Army soldier. No matter that I had remained in the same town I was born for the first seventeen years of my life, with never an illusion of going elsewhere. It was just a matter of time. You spoke up during a weekly meeting, and our eyes met across the room. I would later learn just how outspoken you could be when you believe in something. You’re always up for a good debate, and passionate about your beliefs. I love that about you.

Do you remember? We danced the nights away, every two-step taking our friendship to a deeper level on a path to a future we never imagined. Well, you did from the start didn’t you? It was I that needed convincing. It was I that was too fearful of losing my best friend by wading into uncharted territory of romance and stolen kisses. Yet, I was chest deep from the beginning without even knowing it. It was just a matter of time.

Do you remember? You worked the night shift at the front desk, and rushed up to your room for a little sleep. Most mornings you woke to the phone ringing and my voice asking you to come down for breakfast with me. I would wait in the Commons Area sometimes ten minutes, sometimes longer. Then, you would exit the elevator, sleepy-eyed and ruffled hair, missing your warm bed I’m sure…but you would always come. It was just a matter of time.

Do you remember? We planned a road trip to visit my family, but the day before we were scheduled to leave my car broke down. We booked two tickets on the Greyhound bus. Two poor college students, with a bag full of change we hit the vending machines at every stop while the rest of the passengers enjoyed a warm restaurant meal. The bus stopped at every tiny, out-of-the-way town. It took us twice as long to reach our destination, but for us it was the ride of a lifetime. It was just a matter of time.

Do you remember? Early on in our marriage, we would walk the store aisles creating a wish list of items with which we would one day furnish our first family home. We dreamed of the day we could afford it all, sit back, and take immense pleasure in watching our children enjoy it. We had big dreams, and spent years making them a reality. It was just a matter of time.

Do you remember? My dad was diagnosed with cancer, his battle lasting only four months. I moved back home to help my mom sort things out emotionally, physically, and financially. The morning of my departure, I rushed around aimlessly trying to get packed while I was completely out of sorts. You made me stop, played our favorite song as we slow danced in the living room, savoring each moment, not knowing how long we would be apart. Six months later, you picked me up at the airport with flowers in hand and I ran into your loving arms. It was just a matter of time.

Do you remember? You asked for my dad’s permission to marry me, when you realized his days on earth were numbered. You said you wanted him to rest peacefully knowing his daughter was loved and cared for…you weren’t yet a father, but you knew what it would mean to him. Some thought we were rushing things, but we knew we would eventually marry. It was just a matter of time.

Do you remember? I remember all these moments and so many more that have left an indelible imprint on my heart and my soul. Our love is made up of these memories, these moments, telling a love story like no other…our story. “For better or for worse.” “In sickness and in health.” “For richer or for poorer.” Marriage vows one speaks without truly understanding the meaning of them at that moment. Ceremonial words shared easily at a time when we can only imagine a bright and carefree future. Eighteen years later, we have lived these words and gained a deeper and first hand understanding of them. It has made our bond stronger, our life fuller, and our love richer. It was just a matter of time.

Happy Valentine’s Day My Love!

Here are a few more Valentine’s Related Posts:

Sixteen and Never Been Kissed

Adam and Becca’s Virtual Valentine’s Date

A Letter To My Curly Headed Valentine

The Politics Of Giving Valentines

Valentine’s Candy Messages For The Cynical Single Person

Daily Prompt: Cupid’s Arrow

Butt…Butt It’s Valentine’s