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

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.

Raised in a Cuban Starbucks

photo credit: littlemisswordy

Through the years, she has slowly begun each morning with a cup of coffee to start her day. She holds the warm cup with both hands for some time, never rushing the first sip…the sip that promises a stream of memories only the actual scent in the air can rival. She closes her eyes, the cup warming her hands, and lets the memories warm her heart. Back in her childhood home, standing in the doorway of her galley kitchen, she sees her mom before the stove waiting on the familiar appliance that is iconic of a Cuban kitchen. It is the cafetera, and it does so much more than make coffee. She recalls many days when not long after the coffee started to brew, the sound of the doorbell would announce a family member or neighbor drawn by the familiar aroma. As always, they were welcomed into the kitchen for a dainty vessel of strong, black, liquid that never lasted as long as the laughs and conversation around the kitchen table. They always came. They always gathered in the kitchen. They told stories of the tiny island that seemed an insurmountable distance from them, of local parks where men played dominoes while smoking cigars, their cup of Cuban coffee never far from reach. And, they always covered a range of topics from parenting, to current events, to politics both American and Cuban of course. Some stopped in on their way to work, while others arrived after a long day. No matter when they came, no matter what troubled them, nothing seemed out of reach when discussed over some Cuban coffee.

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She was just a child, usually observing from a distance, nose in a book, only taking in the newest arrival with a quick upward glance between pages. She could brew a pot at the age of eight before she was even old enough to drink the stuff. Her parents sometimes allowed a tiny bit at the bottom of a tall mug of milk. It was those times when she felt grown up and worldly, like the very sipping of the coffee would give her the wisdom the grownups possessed. This wisdom they shared as they counseled each other through job changes, financial crises, and even marital troubles. Tiny cups atop matching saucers were witness to their hopes and their dreams, as they stirred in sugar with tiny spoons that would later come to rest just so on the edge of the saucer. She was raised to welcome a guest in their home with joy, and to offer coffee even before offering a comfy seat. A smile would play at the corner of her mouth as they entered the kitchen. They may have come for the coffee but they would leave with a sense of purpose and a warm heart.

Back in her grown up kitchen as she faces her day each morning, cup of Cuban coffee in hand, she inhales the sweet aroma and reflects on the many generations of family that through the years have started their day in similar fashion. She takes her first sip, and as the warm liquid slides down her throat she knows nothing is out of her reach.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Iconic

Do you have a family tradition that immediately takes you back to another place and time?

Daily Prompt: Menagerie

Photo taken on Samsung Galaxy Note II by littlemisswordy

Daily Prompt: Menagerie 

Do you have animals in your life? If yes, what do they mean to you? If no, why have you opted not to?

(Bonus points for adorable animal photos, and double bonus if they’re taken with your phone!)

According to Wikipedia: In Chinese philosophy, the concept of yin-yang (simplified Chinese: 阴阳; traditional Chinese: 陰陽; pinyin: yīnyáng), which is often called “yin and yang”, is used to describe how seemingly opposite or contrary forces are interconnected and interdependent in the natural world; and, how they give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another. Many natural dualities (such as female and male, dark and light, low and high, cold and hot, water and fire, life and death, and so on) are thought of as physical manifestations of the yin-yang concept. The concept lies at the origins of many branches of classical Chinese science and philosophy, as well as being a primary guideline of traditional Chinese medicine,^[1] and a central principle of different forms of Chinese martial arts and exercise, such as baguazhang,taijiquan (t’ai chi), and qigong (Chi Kung) and of I Ching.

Yin and yang are actually complementary, not opposing, forces, interacting to form a whole greater than either separate part; in effect, a dynamic system.

Max and Coco, doing their impression of  yin and yang above, have made our family complete. We are in effect, a dynamic system because of these two…a whole greater than any of our separate parts and we wouldn’t have it any other way!

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.

Words I Have Never Spoken Aloud

“I am a runner.” “I am a writer.” Words I have never spoken aloud. Why? I guess because I don’t truly believe them. Yet. I’m working on it, but it is still a work in progress. I am still a work in progress. What words have you never spoken aloud because you don’t truly believe them?

Running - I don’t run fast. I don’t run far. I don’t win medals. Yet, I do compete. With every step I take and every mile I run, I compete against myself. Every night I set my alarm to get up and run in the morning, giving myself a little pep talk that I can/will do it. Every morning, when the alarm goes off I give myself another pep talk that I can/will do it. It is hard to get out of bed. However, I face the terrain, push myself mile after mile, uphill, downhill, and back home. I run because I love the sense of accomplishment I feel when I’m done, not because I feel like a runner. I try to lose myself in my music, headphones on, drowning out the voices in my head and my heart that tell me I’m not a runner. Recently, I’ve acquired a new running partner. He doesn’t accompany me on every run, but when he does I find I run better. I still wear my headphones, but solely for the music. This little person beside me doesn’t allow me to believe I’m not a runner…even for a minute. When I run beside him, I am a runner.

Why? He is my inspiration. I want my son to believe he can do anything as well. I want the voices in his head and his heart to always tell him he can/he will. I want to be his inspiration.

Writing - I’m not a famous author. I haven’t been writing long. I started this blog only five months ago. I don’t have books sitting on bookstore shelves waiting to be purchased. Writing isn’t effortless to me. I have to carve out time to sit and let my thoughts find life on my computer screen. Even with interruptions, as my fingers hover over the keys I work to translate thoughts to keystrokes to full-blown ideas on the screen. I write because I love to write. I write because when I do I lose myself in my thoughts and my words. When I write, I drown out the voices in my head and my heart that tell me I am not a writer. I write because I love the sense of accomplishment I feel when I’m done, not because I feel like a writer. Recently, my daughter has decided she would like to write a book. She says she wants to be a writer like her mom. I watch her sit with her laptop, a faraway look on her sweet face, her fingers traveling over the keys bringing her own thoughts to life. This little person beside me doesn’t allow me to believe I’m not a writer…even for a minute. When I see myself through her eyes, I am a writer.

Why? She is my inspiration. I want her to believe she can do anything as well. I want the voices in her head and her heart to always tell her she can/she will. I want to be her inspiration.

An (unedited) excerpt from Olivia’s book:

It was an ordinary day. Taylor was in her room texting her friend, Hannah. “Want to come to my party tonight?” said Hannah. “Definitely, but I’ll have to ask my parents!” replied Taylor, so off she went down the stairs. She went into the kitchen to see if her mom was there. Sure enough there she was making tuna casserole. “Um mom?” said Taylor “Can I go to a party tonight?”  “Absolutely not!” replied her mom “we are going to have a nice family dinner!”  “But mom please?” said Taylor. “No and that is final!” said her mom. Taylor stormed off outside to think. “If I’m not at that party I’ll be a total loser!” thought Taylor. Just then a portal-like thing appeared right in front of her! Before she knew it she was inside of the portal! She screamed, cried, and whined for help! “Mom!” she cried, but no one could hear her! Just then, she fell onto a bed of grass and flowers, but she wasn’t alone.

Tons of villagers had heard some commotion, and wanted to see what was going on. The villagers were angry! They were holding pitch forks and torches. Taylor immediately got up and ran ( even though she had no idea where she was going ). She ran into the woods and cried for help. “Help! Mom! Save me!” she screamed, but no one came. She kept on running, but she tripped over the root of a rather large tree. She fell to the ground, but immediately got up and kept running even though she was hurt. She soon realized the villagers stopped at the beginning of the woods because those were the woods that belonged to “The Destructor”. Taylor stopped and sat down. Her leg was throbbing in pain. When she took a look at her leg it was bleeding heavily. She grabbed a leaf and wrapped it around her leg. She looked at the size of the leaf and wondered ” Where am I?” Taylor didn’t know what to think. As far as she knows she was just sucked into a portal, and ended up in a weird placed where there were angry villagers. She was very tired, so she decided to leave the thinking for tomorrow and go to sleep. She curled up right then and there and went to sleep, but little did she know that The Destructor was on his way towards her.

Taylor woke up and saw a little creature sitting by her leg. It was about as big as a puppy. It was very fluffy and looked like a very small mammoth! It had purple ears and legs with an aquamarine colored fur. Taylor stared at the little guy with curiosity. “Ok now this is just weird!” she wondered aloud. She thought for a moment. Then she realized “If I follow him I’m sure to find water and food!”  Taylor had a little backpack that she always carried with her no matter where she was. She pulled out a little note pad and drew a sketch of the little animal. “Are you ok?” Taylor heard someone say. “Did you just say that?” Taylor asked the little creature. She looked up and saw someone, but it was no Destructor it was just a little boy. The little boy was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and some sandals. He looked about six or seven. “Yes I’m fine, and who are you?” said Taylor. “I’m Peter, but the animals call me Pete!” Said the boy. “The animals?” said Taylor ( who thought the boy was insane and should just go home). ” I know what your thinking Taylor” said Peter.  “You what?” said Taylor. “I’m not insane.” said Peter. ” I can read people’s and animal’s minds, and that is why I said the animals call me Pete” said Peter. ” Oh I’m so sorry Peter” said Taylor. ” Follow me!” said Peter. So Taylor packed up her things and followed Peter through the woods.

As Taylor followed Peter through the woods she saw old abandon houses, broken down factories that looked like they had never been opened, she even thought that she saw a sparkle behind a tree or two. In other words, these were not the woods you would want to be in when you are alone. “Are we almost there?” asked Taylor. ” I think so…” Peter trailed off. “what’s wrong?” asked Taylor. “I’m not sure we are safe here, I-I can feel it” said Peter. Just then something jumped out of the bushes and took Peter. Taylor screamed, “Peter!!! Don’t leave me here!” Peter didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer because he was so scared it was like the whole world froze itself. Taylor knew she didn’t have to save him. It wasn’t her responsibility anyway, but Peter reminded her of someone who she couldn’t quite remember the name of. Taylor didn’t have all day! She decided to run after that beast that took her friend. Was Peter her friend? He never really seemed like one, but in a way he did. As she ran she heard a scream, a scream so loud it could make you completely deaf. Taylor stopped. It was the sound of a screaming boy.

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.

How Big Do You Love Me?

Like many families, the kids and I have a game we’ve played for years. It’s called “How Big Do You Love Me?” and the way it’s played is we try to outdo one another with descriptions of how big our love is for each other. For example I would say, “I love you as big as a rainbow” and one of the kids would say, “I love you as big as a mountain” and so on and so forth. I think the most creative example of Olivia’s love for me at the age of two was when she responded, “I love you as big as the tallest tree with the biggest elephant sitting on top of it.”

www.etsy.com

Through the years, a similar game has presented itself in my life. This one I call, “How Big Is My Faith?” I’ve encountered this game many a time and have found it more challenging than the one I just described. This game has pushed me to the next level during my dad’s illness and ultimately his painful death, during the trials and tribulations of relationships, when close friends have chosen a path separate from the one we were so blissfully traveling on hand in hand, and even when life has presented me with the difficult choice of stepping back and allowing a loved one to find his way without my constant guidance. It has also presented itself for my family and I when we’ve had to take a leap of faith in a move to what is undoubtedly the equivalent of a foreign country with unfamiliar customs.

However, the real test of “How Big Is My Faith?” came in the form of “The Ultimate Challenge” round. Maintain your faith while giving up everything familiar to you, including a church you called home not only on Sundays, a rector whose sermons stayed with you from week to week, and a family who might not have been related by blood but who came together in happiness, sorrow and everything in between. Your assignment should you choose to accept it is to walk away from that and enter a realm of the unknown, find a new church, a new inspiration, a new way of spiritual satisfaction. Not easy, but that’s why they call it “The Ultimate Challenge” and why if you complete it the satisfaction is greater than anything you could ever imagine. I set out to finish the game, beat the boss, complete the challenge and found many an obstacle in my way.

What I learned through it all is that my faith is bigger than a church and bigger than a sermon, but not bigger than God. I have had more time for reflection and have found inspiration within myself and in places I never dreamed of looking when I was sitting back and letting others feed my soul. I finally embraced my passion for writing and it has become an outlet for me in so many ways. It has fed my soul in ways I could never imagine when I was comfortably contained within my comfort zone. I am walking through life with my eyes more open than they have ever been, and allowing life’s smallest of details to inspire me. When I sit down in front of my computer, and let my fingers travel over my keyboard taking on a life of their own I know I’m feeding my soul and possibly others in the process. I know God is smiling down on me. And, as for “How Big Is My Faith?” well let’s just say it’s definitely as big as “the tallest tree with the biggest elephant sitting on top of it.”

For my friends whose life circumstances have left you feeling tired, like life has beat you down. For those of you who feel like your faith is not as strong as it once was and may question it and even God. We’ve all been there, but don’t be afraid to look around you, to dig down deep. Be open to new churches, new friends, new ways to inspire yourself and feed your soul. And know that as long as God is present in your heart, he will always be present in your soul.

One of my favorite Christian songs is by an artist named Nicole Nordeman. She wrote it for a close friend of hers who was in a place in his life where his faith was lacking or maybe even nonexistent. I leave you with her lyrics and video.

What if you’re right?
And he was just another nice guy
What if you’re right?
What if it’s true?
They say the cross will only make a fool of you
And what if it’s true?

What if he takes his place in history
With all the prophets and the kings
Who taught us love and came in peace
But then the story ends
What then?

But what if you’re wrong?
What if there’s more?
What if there’s hope you never dreamed of hoping for?
What if you jump?
And just close your eyes?
What if the arms that catch you, catch you by surprise?
What if He’s more than enough?
What if it’s love?

What if you dig
Way down deeper than your simple-minded friends
What if you dig?
What if you find
A thousand more unanswered questions down inside
That’s all you find?

What if you pick apart the logic
And begin to poke the holes
What if the crown of thorns is no more
Than folklore that must be told and retold?

You’ve been running as fast as you can
You’ve been looking for a place you can land for so long

But what if you’re wrong?

What if there’s more?

What if there’s hope you never dreamed of hoping for?

What if you jump?

And just close your eyes?

What if the arms that catch you, catch you by surprise?

What if He’s more than enough?

What if it’s love?

If you’re interested in spreading A TON OF HOPE, here’s what you need to do:

1. Write about something that makes you feel optimistic.
2. Post MONDAYS. Start the week off with a positive outlook.
3. Grab a badge by going to your dashboard and clicking the IMAGE widget. Adjust pic size 200h x 200w. The image URL: (http://keepingitrealmom.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/project-optimism.jpg)
4. Link over here and invite blogger friends to join in.
5. Encourage the person who linked up before you. Kindness is contagious!

Weekly Writing Challenge: 1,000 Words Take Two

Photo Courtesy of Cheri Lucas

I cling to him, feeling the slippery slope of time catching up to me as the ticks on my watch drum in my ears like a tribal rain dance circling round my brain. If only I could freeze time and force it to turn around and head back in the opposite direction, even if it is against oncoming traffic. I know this is a route he is all too familiar with as he has spent his life on a similar road, always heading in the wrong direction, dodging incoming obstacles. It wasn’t always like this for us. There was a time when we traveled a different road, one smoothly paved with stones of hopes and promises. The uphill challenges on that road seem like small bumps compared to the mountainous climb that is his life now. I hold on tight savoring the hug, not knowing when I will have the opportunity to experience it again. My only thought being that it is the kind of lasting hug I will revisit time and again in the future, when he is out of my reach once more. It is the kind of hug that also makes me revisit the day I officially lost him.

I found him in his room. The youngest of three, he was the only one left with a room at home. As I approached, trying to connect words of comfort I didn’t believe existed, I realized he was putting on a shield of armor I would find impossible to break through. As he tied his green apron strings and adjusted his name tag, the look in his eyes showed turmoil more akin to a battle weary soldier than a nineteen year old stock boy. As my sister and I carried on with our distant lives in other states, my brother had lived the daily nightmare of slowly losing the man we all thought invincible, our father. He said he wished he could just go to work like normal…like none of this was happening. My heart understood his wish more than he would ever know. Still, I couldn’t let him leave as panic swelled within me and the minute hand ticked on the black cat clock on the wall, left over from our younger years and more innocent times.

I did what I thought was right at the time. I somehow convinced my little brother to stay and face our nightmare with the rest of us, and within a couple of hours of being home our father looked around him and took in each and every face in that room including my brother’s. He asked our mother if all his loved ones were there and when she reassured him they were, he took a deep breath and finally went home. I hugged my brother, grateful he had stayed by our side.

I would like to say that was the end of our nightmare, but for my brother it was the beginning of something much worse. For the next eighteen years he has lived behind bars with visitation rights that are never long enough, and in a cell that doesn’t often see the light. He is trapped in darkness. Of his own making or mine?

You see, the day my brother stayed and witnessed our father’s death he died along with him. Gone was the nineteen year old stock boy who played basketball with his headphones on because to choose between the two things that gave him the most joy wasn’t possible. Gone was the son who took pride in handing over the earnings of a grocery store employee to help with the bills at home. Gone was the light in his eyes. When I look into his eyes now I still see the turmoil of that fateful day and no medication has ever been able to erase it. So…I find comfort in revisiting these hugs, for it is the only reminder of the person I once knew.

Weekly Writing Challenge