"Lefty"

I’ve been speed walking every day at lunch since July; it’s my over-50 version of P90X I suppose. I speed walk a mile, taking in the sights and sounds of the TCU campus while working on my savage tan. My original goal was to walk a mile in less than 20 minutes. Now, I’m trying to beat my best time of 15 minutes 42 seconds. Maybe I was getting a little bit too cocky; maybe I needed to be brought down a peg or two…

This morning, I decided to extend my over-50 P90X workout routine to speed walk into work. I did so on an uneven sidewalk, passing all of those 18-year-old college freshman who were shuffling unenthusiastically toward their eight o’clock classes, secretly offering to let them ‘eat my dust’, when all of a sudden I was looking up into their faces.

That’s right. I fell.

And I don’t mean ‘fell’ as in stagger a bit; put your hands out to break your fall; land on your knees-type fall. Oh no. I couldn’t fall like that. I had to fall fast and I had to fall hard. In fact, I fell so fast and so hard, I didn’t have time to think. Fortunately, I landed on my left side so I was able to save my lunch, which is always a priority for me.  I immediately sprang up; politely telling all those youngsters huddled over me who were offering to help me up that I didn’t need their assistance; that I was more embarrassed than hurt, even though making contact with the concrete did hurt.  

I’ve heard of people falling before, but it seems most references to those who have fallen were made of elderly people; people in their 80s or 90s, who as a result of their fall broke a hip and became confined to a wheelchair for the rest of their time here on earth. I didn’t break a hip. I’m not confined to a wheelchair. I just turned 50 for heaven’s sake. Fifty!  That’s not old, is it?

Well, here’s the really embarrassing part…I have to report my fall to TCU. I’m trying to keep my head about the whole thing, but it’s hard. I keep telling myself if I report the uneven sidewalk maybe they will fix it so no one else will fall. But still. I wonder if TCU will be tempted to issue me another ID one that reads “Grace” or better yet “Lefty” Kassler.

I wonder if this is what the Bible means when it says “…an arrogant attitude precedes a fall”?

“Ouch” again if it does.

“Harmless”

 A friend recently e-mailed me to share that things around her office were a bit slow this time of year, illustrating her point by telling me that she had received a total of only five phone calls during the previous workday. To add insult onto injury of those five calls two were wrong numbers while the other three “never [had] a voice on the other side of the line”.

Her e-mail reminded me of an earlier time in my life when my roommates and I would receive calls from someone who “never [had] a voice on the other side of the line.” I shared a distant memory with her in an attempt to help alleviate her boredom and, possibly, make her smile...

Living in San Antonio as a single woman over twenty years ago, I had two female roommates. My roommates and I were gainfully employed; however, we were just starting out and made so little money that we categorized ourselves as SLINKs (Single Low Income No Kids).  As such every weekend we had to make a conscious decision between going out and having fun like all our other same-aged peers were doing or paying the rent, electric bill, etc. Most weekends we decided to forego fun in favor of eating which tells you where our priorities were, right? Yeah well, needless to say, we didn’t have too many men beating down our doors to take us out so we were what I affectionately term “dateless queens”.

Wait! Before you feel sorry for us, I will say that we were not totally devoid of male attention. There was this guy who would call us routinely and just breathe heavily into the phone. At first, our “never a voice on the other side of the line” guy scared us. I mean who was he and how did he get our unlisted number? But after a while, when we knew he really didn’t know who we were or where we lived, we took his phone calls in stride. In fact, we actually would joke about it when he would call by holding out the phone and saying, “Hey, Connie, the phone’s for you.” or “Hey, Lisa, I think it’s your 12-year-old brother calling again.” Once our harmless heavy breather called at an inopportune time, but rather than hang up on him rudely, I tolerated his intrusion into my datelessness by laying the phone down on the counter next to our stainless steel toaster so I could continue with what I was doing before the phone rang. When I returned to the phone a bit later, he was no longer on the line, but when I picked up the receiver to set it back on its base, I noticed that the front of the toaster looked like it had fogged over.

Looking back, I have to say it’s a sad commentary on your life when you realize that you didn’t hang up on a heavy breather because you didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But in a weird kind of way, he had become part of our world; he called so consistently that if he didn’t call, we wondered why. Was he out of town or was he ill? I wouldn’t classify him as a friend, but he was a constant in our lives. I haven’t thought about “Harmless” in a very long time. I wonder what ever happened to him. I sure hope he got some help or, at the very least, I hope he went to work as someone’s butler; he would be great at polishing silver.

Fortune Cookie Faith

“Your troubles will cease and fortune will smile upon you.”

That’s what my fortune cookie said.

At first, I was excited. I saw myself in a hammock gently swaying in the warm summer breeze between two palm trees on a sandy white beach somewhere overlooking crystal clear water sipping a cold drink from a pineapple. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided that this would-be blessing could cause me more harm than good.

My dream bubble burst.

I thought if all of my troubles ceased, how would I mentally and spiritually grow? And if I couldn’t mentally and spiritually grow, how could fortune smile upon me? Hmm.

Pondering this, my mind wandered back to a time when I heard a wise man once say, “If you don’t have a problem (or more loosely interpreted ‘troubles’), you should get down on your knees and ask God what He’s got against you.” Interesting train of thought, wouldn’t you say? (This wise man was on his way to becoming a billionaire, married to his first wife.) He asked if everything came easy to you and me, would we appreciate what we have? Would be strive for more? Would we become bored with life? Would we be the people we are today if we didn’t have trouble in our past? And how would we treat others if we ourselves had no trouble?

They say that God never puts more on us than we can bear. I often feel He overestimates our tolerance level, don’t you? Your ‘troubles’ may be perceived to be greater than mine and mine greater than someone else’s, but through it all, here we are. I am beginning to embrace the idea that God is not as concerned with our comfort level as He is with our spiritual growth. Of course, He is not in the business of beating us down, but rather growing us up. In fact, the Bible goes so far as to say that we should consider it pure joy when we face trials of many kinds because the testing of our faith develops perseverance and perseverance develops maturity. (James 1:2-4 NIV)

This begs the question then of how much testing does one need to go through to develop the kind of perseverance that will lead to God’s type of maturity? I suppose one way to find out is to look in the mirror. Do you see more of Jesus and less of yourself than you did the day before? It can be a painful process, but an admirable goal and trouble might just be the catalyst that brings you closer to His image and farther from your own. Makes your head spin just thinking about it, doesn’t it?

Oh, by the way, that same wise gentleman who suggested we get down on our knees if we don’t have ‘trouble’ went on to say that when ‘trouble’ does come our way, we should be thankful for it.

Uh huh.

I’ve kept that tiny piece of paper with my fortune written on it. It’s tucked under the corner of the electrical outlet plate on the wall in my bathroom near my mirror. It’s not in my direct line of sight, but my eyes can find it when I need a gentle reminder that the testing I am going through is developing my perseverance and that perseverance is developing God-like maturity in me.

And about that part of scripture that talks about “considering it pure joy when ‘troubles’ do come,” well…I’m still working on that!

“Good”

The sunrise was spectacular this morning! The few low-lying clouds that stretched across the eastern sky looked as though they were made of white, fluffy, jumbo-sized cotton balls all bound together by marshmallow cream set on fire by God Himself. With the sunlight curtained by these beautiful clouds I didn’t have to drive staring blindly into the sun, steering by braille as I normally would at this time of day. Above all of the road noise, I heard that Wee Small Voice encourage me to turn off the radio and pray for everyone who came to mind. Immediately, I thought of Laurel, my new supervisor, who has MS. As I prayed I became one with Nature while barreling toward Fort Worth on I-20 at 72 miles per hour.

Tranquility filled my soul until my Zen-like state was interrupted by a woman who drove onto the freeway while talking on her cell phone. When I slowed down to allow her to pass, she slowed down too. When I accelerated in an attempt to get around her so that I could cross three lanes of traffic necessary for me to exit, she sped up. I don’t believe she intentionally tried to get in my way. Nevertheless, I missed my exit and was forced to take the next one. In my frustration I called her a ‘name’. What can I say? It just came out. And although I cursed the air, I didn’t stay frustrated for long. I think it’s because I now work with Laurel. I see her limp into work (or ride in on a motorized chair) and limp out of work to her ‘handicap’ van. I see her face flush to a bright pink because of her disability after a full day of work with no lunch break. But I do not hear her complain. In fact, my teeth hurt just being around her because she’s so sweet. She’s so soft spoken that I have to hold my breath, stay perfectly still, and read her lips to be able to decipher every word she says. I think I’ve even seen a halo appear above her head in the late afternoon sun when it is shining in through her office window at just the right angle much like one can see a rainbow after the rain.

Yesterday she rode into the office in her motorized chair, arriving just about an hour late. After a bit, she walked into my office with two files that I thought she wanted me to review. When she sat down at my desk and asked if I had a tissue, my first thought was she might be coming down with a cold. (She’s more susceptible to illness than I am.) After handing her the tissue box, she took two tissues and told me that she might become emotional because she had left her husband the night before, that she has been in an abusive marriage – one she just had to get out of. I know the look on my face revealed my total confusion and shock because I had no clue. The question I had to ask myself was ‘who would be abusive to this woman?’ I just couldn’t imagine anyone being mean to her, much less her husband.

They say that bad things happen to good people. If that’s the case, then I don’t want to be perceived as being ‘good’. Now that I have thought more about it, I’m not sorry that I cursed that woman and her cell phone this morning. After all, God will forgive me, right? Besides, I promised my son that I would jump out of a perfectly good airplane with him when he graduates from high school this spring. The last thing I need is for my parachute to not open.

Honestly, I do try to be a good person most of the time. You may not be able to see a halo hovering over my head in the late afternoon sunlight, but I would dare you to compare me with any of the saints – past, present, or future – just as long as you allow me to sit in my car alone in the garage when you do the comparison. I can be incredibly “good” there.

I Dream of Jeannie Genie Bottle

My daughter relayed a true story to me that she had heard in her 8^th grade English class about a dying old man and his caring neighbor. The old man, we’ll call him “Ed”, had family, but they were estranged at the time of his terminal illness. Knowing that his days were numbered, “Ed” asked his neighbor, my daughter’s English teacher, to help him plan his funeral and to oversee the care of his remains. He wanted his body to be cremated. Out of compassion for her neighbor, my daughter’s English teacher did just that. What she did not realize, however, was that her neighbor believed ‘overseeing the care of his remains’ meant that he would be moving in with her and her family permanently after the funeral. He bequeathed his urn to her in his will! Not knowing what else to do with “Ed”, my daughter’s English teacher decided to place his urn on her baby grand piano because “Ed” always liked music when he was alive. This story made me think about my own mortality and wonder who would be ‘overseeing the care of my remains’ after I go to heaven. Here’s my suggestion:

When I die, I want my body to be cremated, but unlike my husband who wants his ashes quietly released in the air on a gentle breeze somewhere – anywhere – as long as it is within the great state of Texas – I want my ashes to be stored in an urn that looks like the “I Dream of Jeannie” genie bottle. (I always thought that round, pink couch inside the bottle was so cool.) Then, I want my urn to be bequeathed to my two children so they have joint custody of me for one year.

I want my children to throw a party for me on my birthday and invite all of my friends still living for a sleepover afterwards. I’d like a gift from Santa Claus, (no coal please), even though I won’t do any chores around the house. I want them to take my urn to my grandchildren’s soccer games, dance recitals, and band concerts, driving from place-to-place at break neck speed trying to see if they can arrive at those various destinations on time, in one piece, still sane. And, I double dog dare them to do so without raising their voices. (I wasn’t very good at that.) I want a weekly trip to the mall with enough spending money to buy four new pairs of shoes each time I go. (A girl cannot have too many shoes.) And, finally, I want to go on vacation with each of my children and their families separately to some tropical paradise that has an endless white sandy beach. (It would be the first time ever that I wouldn’t have to worry about getting sunburn.)

The bottom line is I want payback for labor and delivery, taxi service, secret Santa assignments, and other various and sundry motherly duties I’ve performed for them over the years. Sound selfish? Maybe. But what if they had to work together to plan my birthday party? What if they had to work out a visitation schedule for me – 6 months on my son’s fireplace mantle and 6 months on my daughter’s? Maybe – just maybe – it would force them to actually use words when communicating with each other rather than the eye roll she gives him now at age 14 or the jeers he gives her at 17. What if all that collaboration would cause them to stop and think about all the good things their father and I have done for them so they, in turn, will do likewise for their children rather than remembering every single thing we’ve done wrong over the years (Good grief!)

And after that year – after they are quite tired of hauling my ashes around in that genie bottle – I’d like my children to scatter my ashes next to my husband’s. If I should pass before he does, which is a distinct possibility, I want my ashes to be spread among the tomatoes in Aunt Alma’s garden just as long as my daughter promises me that she will not let my husband marry a 20-something, ditzy blonde who looks great in a bikini. If that seems probable, I want my ashes to stay in that genie bottle and be put on my husband’s fireplace mantle as a constant reminder that he owes me too!

Chinese Take Out Gift Box

I had a feeling it was going to be one of those days when I arrived at work to find a decorative Chinese takeout gift box hanging from my office door handle. My immediate thought was door bomb. Someone had been invited to one too many of my ARD meetings, if you know what I mean. I just knew the moment I jostled the door handle the gift box would explode and I would be nothing more than a fine, pink mist sprayed on the wall next to the nurse’s office. How convenient. At least the nurse wouldn’t have to travel too far to verify that there was nothing tangible left of my body. Maybe that is why the principal stationed me across the hall from the nurse in the first place. She has probably seen this kind of thing happen time and time again. Maybe that is why the shelf-life of a diagnostician is only 3.4 years. I am living on borrowed time I know. What a shame. I have less than 20 days left on this year’s contract. Couldn’t the would-be assassin be more considerate and attempt my demise at the beginning of the next school year instead when I could possibly recuperate on duty, using my long-term disability benefits if the hit was somehow botched rather than forcing me to try to recover on my own time during the summer? Didn’t the would-be assassin know that I needed time this summer to work on my savage tan rather than convalesce inside? One look at my white legs is proof enough.

I found myself staring at the decorative Chinese takeout gift box and the door handle. There was a message on the box identifying the would-be assassin; however, it was written in code. How awkward it would be for me to still be standing there looking at the box trying to decipher the code at four o’clock in the afternoon so I decided to “man up”! They say it’s over in an instant; the bomb victim never feels a thing. I decided to test the theory. First, I wiped the sweat from my brow, and then I lifted the gift box from underneath. The change in weight on the door handle didn’t trigger a reaction. Whew! Next, I slid the gift box off of the door handle without it touching anything much like one does to extract body parts from that red bulbous-nosed fellow on the operating table in the game Operation, so far, so good.  There were no irritating buzzing sounds to indicate failure. I then gingerly set the gift box on the floor just outside of my office so I wouldn’t accidently detonate the bomb prematurely. It didn’t occur to me at the time to ask the SRO officer for assistance; I’m new at this bomb detection thing. Besides, she doesn’t have a bomb-sniffing dog or an armored suit so why risk co-mingling her fine, pink mist with mine. That would be too messy, I think.

I knelt on the floor next to the gift box on all fours bobbing my head up and down, moving my head this way and that, visually examining the box from all angles, much like a chicken pecks feed from the ground. When I finally convinced myself that I couldn’t see through the decorative coating, I closed my eyes, held my breath, and unlatched the top of the box. Miraculously, I was still in one piece. Inside the box, wrapped in wax paper, I found cookies. It wasn’t until I had popped what tasted like a delicious coconut macaroon in my mouth did I realize that the cookies could be the would-be assassin’s “Plan B”. If somehow I made it  into my office in one piece avoiding the door bomb, the cyanide-laced cookies would do the trick. If the cookies were tainted, I’d be a goner. If the cookies weren’t poisoned, I’d have to spend the rest of the day at work. Either way, the end result was pretty much the same in my mind.

At this point, I felt I had nothing to lose so I closed my eyes and pressed down on the door handle. It opened painlessly. I was in. Remembering the coded message that was scribbled on the outside of the gift box, I decided to try to figure out the identity of the would-be assassin. Racing against time, I frantically scrambled to my desk. From everything I’ve seen on TV, it doesn’t take long for one to lose consciousness once poison enters the blood stream. I positioned myself and the gift box at my desk just so. In case I lost consciousness, I wanted my best side to be the first thing people saw when they came into my office to view my body. So, I then laid my head down, best side up, facing the door, trying to mentally decode the message on the gift box.

The next thing I knew I was startled by a loud knock on my office door, awakened from the nap I didn’t know I was taking. When the door opened, my “favorite general education 6^th grade math teacher” came into my office to ask if I liked the cookies she had left for me on my door earlier that morning.

What time was it? How long had I been asleep? Dazed and confused, I muttered something about door bombs and cyanide poisoning. Fortunately, this teacher is so used to me mumbling to myself in ARDs that my behavior didn’t seem odd to her at all. I regrouped long enough to thank her for the cookies and to tell her how kind it was for her to do such a thing. Of course, I suggested that if she ever felt the slightest inclination to bring me cookies again, she need not hesitate to do so.

So there you have it. Mystery solved. I knew that there was a logical explanation for the decorative Chinese takeout gift box. No one was trying to assassinate me. How silly of you to think such a thing! Everyone gets so paranoid in May…Did you hear that? What was that sound?

Ten Fingers and Ten Toes

I was urged today by a random blog post to remember the joy of seeing our son for the first time and recall the feelings I had when we initially counted his ten fingers and his ten toes. The blog reminded me in a roundabout way of the promise I made to God after having those two unexplained miscarriages that if He would just give us a healthy baby, one with all ten fingers and all ten toes, I would never ask Him for anything ever again. The blog asked when – possibly after holding our healthy son in our arms for the first time -- was there any discussion about him learning how to play the didgeridoo.

“The what?” We don’t want my son to play the didgeridoo, we just want him to graduate from high school and get ready to enroll for junior college in the fall.

Reading on, the blog asked ‘what if it turns out that you can’t have it all?’ It asked ‘what if you could have a clean house or a happy house, but not both? What if the only way to have a clean house is for mom and dad to clean for hours after working and taking care of children all day? What if by cleaning until all hours, we are so grouchy that we fuss at one another and the children? What if the solution is to let the dishes pile up in the sink all day?’ The blog theorized that if the only way to have a clean house is to have a home where the grown-ups are miserable, maybe a slight move in the direction of disorder may be the way to go.

I must confess that I am naturally disordered. Dishes in the sink don’t bother me at all, but they do my husband, okay, not the dishes, more so the disorder. He is an engineer and by nature he is a list maker.  He has made a list for our son, but our son is not necessarily doing what’s on the list. Consequently, this makes my husband grouchy and causes him to fuss at our son which, in turn, is making all who live with them a bit uncomfortable. But how does one suggest a slight move in the direction of disorder when a slight move in the direction of disorder causes discomfort to the one who has to perform the slight move?

The blog concluded by suggesting that maybe our son is not going to get a PhD in philosophy from Princeton…even if we give him psycho-stimulants. It said that if making him clean the house, play the didgeridoo, and take Concerta for his attentional issues guaranteed that our son would be happy and healthy, productive and content; we should do it. But if instead all we can guarantee is that he and his father will be grumpy and the rest of us will be miserable if we force our son to do the these things, then maybe we should go back to being grateful that he has ten fingers and ten toes.

I am grateful that our son has ten fingers and ten toes, but I’m not so sure that the solution to our situation is as easy as letting the dishes pile up in the sink or letting our son find his own way. I totally understand the concept of letting our son experience the consequences of his own actions until those actions have an emotional and/or financial impact on the rest of the family. I didn’t realize while I was holding my son for the first time that being a parent of an 18-year-old would be this tough. Where is the balance between being a pushy parent and being a guiding guardian? If anyone has a definitive answer, feel free to call me, any time day or night; you won’t disturb me; I’ll probably be up anyway doing the dishes.

Excerpts from David Altshuler, M.S. Newsletter blog dated May 15, 2012; david@altshulerfamily.com