Calling it even

“Come Friday, we’re even.”

I had called the man years ago looking for a job. The man had worked for years and years at his job, and though the hours were often long (well over 40 hours) and the pay was not good, he continued to pick up his pay check each Friday and considered his account even.

Square.

Paid in full.

No matter how difficult the task had been, in his mind, the check he received at the end of the week covered the debt. Each week, he marked the account paid in full and moved on.

Do you?

Or, do you, like me at times, look at your compensation for a job well done and complain that it isn’t enough, complain that you aren’t appreciated more, complain that the task was more than expected, complain that the glory doesn’t equal the effort?

To make matter worse, each week we keep carrying that balance forward, adding a little more to the “what’s owed us” column.

We will never be paid what we think we’re worth. We can never be appreciated to the extent we think we should. Friends will never be as loving as we think they should. Traffic will never go as fast as we think it needs to.

Peace of mind can only come when we change what we think . . .

. . . when we get to the end of the week and mark it even;

. . . when we get to the end of the day and balance the books with our friends and family;  

. . . when we realize that give and take sometimes means giving more and taking less.

And when you’re okay with that, you’re finally okay with everything.

PHOTO: so why Jenny Mae? Because I don't know anyone who lives this philosophy more than she does. This is a photo of her after the Chicago Marathon... 26.2 miles and still smiling, regardless the finish, regardless the time. Every day she accepts what life gives her and calls it even. 

I am who I am, and that's enough

“Do you swear you are the person you attest to be?”
I read the question on the application again.

“Do you swear you are the person you attest to be?” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud and was tempted to write, “Who else could I possibly be but me?” or “Who do you think I am?,” but I really needed a copy of my college transcript and I doubted anyone in the transcript office at the university was in the mood for humor.

I am who I am.
You are who you are.
Yet, how often we pretend to be someone else!

We pretend we’re happy when we’re not. We pretend to be healthy when we’re not. We pretend everything’s okay when it’s not. We’re afraid someone will talk about us if they really knew us. We’re afraid we wouldn’t be liked or wouldn’t be admired if “only they knew the truth.”

So we hide.
We create lives we show the outside world which hide who we really are. Only problem is, that pretend life never does fit as comfortably as real life. We feel the drain of carrying this other life around with us all the time.

It’s okay to just be you.
You don’t have to be the best housekeeper in town or the bravest lady on the block. You don’t have to be drop-dead beautiful or pretend to have more money than everyone else.

It’s okay to just be you.
It’s okay to get scared when you’re home alone. It’s okay to be lonely when you lose someone close to you. It’s okay to have a problem you don’t know how to fix.

Never be afraid to just be you.
I hope that if I have taught my children nothing else, I have at least inspired this belief in them, penned by Pablo Casals: “Every second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that never was before and never will be again. And what do we teach our children instead? We teach them that two and two make four and that Paris is the capital of France. We should say to each of them ‘Do you know who you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In the millions of years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. "
And, it’s okay to just be you.

I have finished the race

I know, I know. You've all wondered where I've been and how I could marry off a daughter and take a son to college without a single word on the blog. Well, I've been thinking. And, thinking. And, thinking.

What does one say when someone who has lived her life solely for her children finds herself without a child in the house?  My children are my life. Their activities alone filled my social calendar. They have been my confidants; I their cheerleader. They have been my companion; I their buyer of track shoes. They wiped my tears as I wiped theirs.

On August 14, my daughter, Jenny, married the love of her life, Scott. On August 19, I took my son, Wil to college --- and left him (or he left me may be more appropriate).

So what do I say?
"I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith." (2 Timothy 4:7-8).

There were times over the years I wanted to give up, give in. You've been there, too, I know. Life is hard, too hard, at times. There is never enough money. Anger robs us of joy. Evil sways us to be ugly to others. It seems that as soon as one challenge is met, another is waiting to take its place.

I didn't cry at Jenny's wedding because I finished the race. I saw parenthood through to the end when I handed her over to someone else whose job it now is to care for her. (He has to buy her track shoes now.) This is the moment I worked so hard for all those years of raising her.

I didn't cry when I left Wil. Okay, I did, but not when I left. I cried when I kept trying to help him (get the room organized and get the computer working and get the electronics hooked up) and he didn't want me to. He was ready for me to leave so he could do for himself what I kept trying to do for him.

He knew what I needed to learn. I had finished the race ... whether I knew it yet or not.

He had become the young man I raised him to be.
He knew it. I didn't until that moment he said, "I can do that when you're gone."

I found this story on the Trinity United Reformed Church of Visalia, Calif. website.

It was 7 p.m. on October 20th, 1968. Only a few spectators remained in the Mexico City Olympic Stadium. The winner of the 26 mile marathon had crossed the finish line more than an hour ago, and now, the last of the marathon runners were across the finish line and leaving the track. As the last few spectators began to leave, those sitting by the entrance suddenly heard the sound of sirens. One last runner appeared at the entrance. The man, whose leg was bloody and bandaged, was wearing the colors of Tanzania. The Tanzanian runner, experiencing intense pain, hobbled around the 400 meter track in the stadium, and the few remaining spectators rose and applauded him as though he was the winner. After crossing the finish line he slowly walked off the field without turning to the cheering spectators. In view of his injury, and having no chance of winning any medal, a curious spectator asked him why he did not quit the race. The Tanzanian runner replied, "My country did not send me 7000 miles to start the race, but sent me 7000 miles to finish it."

So, don't worry that I'm sad. I'm celebrating my victory lap.

Photo credit: Who knows. Whoever had the camera at that moment during the wedding.

Just a bit farther down the road

My new job has me traveling to new places, so my friends at my old job got me a TomTom as a going away present. Only problem is, if you don't have an address, the TomTom can't get you there.

I was headed to the Lawrence County Fairgrounds, so I called the office there to get directions. I scribbled some notes and headed north. I turned west as the directions indicated when I realized my notes were a little fuzzy about just how far I was supposed to go. Surely I can't miss a fairgrounds, I thought, so I kept going. . . and going . . . and going until I thought apparently you can miss a fairgrounds, so I turned around.

I watched both sides of the road, certain I would find a fairgrounds this time, and had faith until I drove all the way back into Lawrenceville.

I turned around again. And, again I started off and went as far as I thought I needed to go and stopped. With no fairgrounds in site, I called a coworker who gave me directions. Armed with knowledge, I returned to the path until I got to the point where my coworker said "if you get to here, you've gone too far." Somehow, I had missed it again.

Late beyond repair, I stopped at a house where a man was mowing his yard, and I asked for directions.

"You have to keep going," he said. "You've stopped too soon. The fairgrounds is farther down the road."

It was then I realized that the directions from my coworker were from HER house. I was coming from the opposite direction, so what was "too far" for her was only the beginning for me.

I had to keep going.
I stopped too soon.

How often do we do that? Stop too soon. Fail to take one more step. Fail to do the one last thing that will put us where we need to be. Fail to plot our course. We misinterpret signs and take the advice of friends who aren't where we are and aren't who we are, and we miss the place where we're supposed to be.

I got back in the car and drove, and then drove more, past the point where I had stopped before and there, just a little bit farther down the road, was the fairgrounds. It was there all the time just waiting for me to find it, claim it, enjoy it.

What is waiting for you, just a bit farther down the road?

Photo credit: Tyler Ackerman, CWCHS cross country runner who understands what it means to go just a little bit farther down the road. Sorry, can't remember if this was my photo or his mother's photo, but too good not to share!

Live Out Loud

For years, I've been a bystander of the Fourth of July.

After the divorce, the kids always spent the holiday with their father's family. I knew they enjoyed their cousins, so I never fussed over it. The first couple years, I would walk uptown to watch the fireworks display, but it just wasn't the same as before.

Fireworks are a "two-persons-minimum" event.

The beauty of fireworks isn't the spectacle in the sky; it's turning to the person next to you and saying "ahhhhhhhh" and "ooooooooh." You can't experience it the way it should be experienced by yourself. I tried, but without someone to interact with, I was merely a bystander, someone who, although present at something, didn't take part in it.
Lately, I've realized that, in many ways I've become a bystander of my life, present, but not taking part. I've become a spectator of my own game of life. I've let life dictate to me,  and I've just gone along for the ride.

It's time to stop.
It's time to actively choose where I go.
It's time to participate fully in the rest of my life.
It's time to go watch the Fourth of July Fireworks and Live Out Loud.

Photo credit: Judy Mae Bingman, 2010 Fourth of July Carmi Car Show

No mountain is climbed with one step

It isn't pretty to watch me run, but since both my kids run, I learned if I ever wanted to spend time with them, I needed to learn to run. So, I run.

I changed my course through town a few days ago. The final quarter mile includes a steep hill, and the first two days, I stopped running and walked to the top of the hill. It was just too much, too high, and I was just too tired. After all, I had already run over two miles and from the bottom of the hill, it was just too much.

Yesterday, I tried a new strategy. No, I didn't change my route. I didn't walk before getting to the hill.

I simply didn't look up.

I looked right at the sidewalk in front of my feet. Each step was simply the one step I needed to take to make it to the next step. And I did that over and over and over again ... until I made it to the top of the hill and over.

Now, nothing about me changed; I didn't suddenly drop 25 pounds. I didn't become a runner overnight in my sleep. I didn't take a magic pill. I simply changed my mental perspective on the task. I stopped looking at it as a whole, and started looking at it one step at a time. From the perspective of my feet, this stretch of road was no different than all the steps I had taken to get to this point. Just put one foot in front of another. And then, do it again. See you at the finish line.

It comes down to faith

No doubt there will be much debate over the movie "The Book of Eli." For my family, it inspired many questions about just what we believe and how we respond to those who believe differently.

The star of the movie is Eli (ya think short for Elijah?) who has spent the past 30 winters (after war destroyed most of the world) listening to a voice guide him . . . guide him first to the last remaining Bible in the world, then guide him "west" where The Book would be safe and used for good by the good. His biggest challenge comes from a  man who wants to use the knowledge of The Book for personal gain and power (like that hasn't happened before).

There are great moments in this movie. Some will go unnoticed by the unknowing.

• When asked if The Book would save the world, Eli stated some believed The Book is what caused the final war.
• Early in the movie, Eli stayed hidden while a person is attacked and killed. "Stay on the path; this doesn't concern you," he mumbled to himself. Later, he confessed his mistake and admitted he got so wound up protecting The Book, he forgot to live by what The Book taught: "to care for others more than ourselves." How often could we say that of ourselves?
• I won't spoil the movie for you, but it was touching to see at the end a copy of the Bible placed in the last remaining library between a copy of the Torah and a copy of the Quran.

Throughout the movie, Eli performs amazing feats of physical strength which become even more unbelievable with the revelation at the end of the movie. "How could he . . . " we heard from movie-goers as they left the theater. It is the same thing repeated by unbelievers --"How could God . . ."

Faith. The movie comes down to faith, just like your personal beliefs come down to faith, and that's why some people just won't "get" this movie. One reviewer stated the movie "stretches believability," but isn't that what faith must do? Faith is one step past what we see and what we know.

How do we know? We don't. We simply have faith.
"Show me proof," some may demand, but we have none. We believe in a God who wants us to believe in Him without promise of proof. On the ride home, Jenny said she once explained it to a friend: "If there were proof, everyone would believe."

Faith is not knowing; it's simply believing and that's a tough story for some to accept. Do I know there is a heaven? No, but in faith I believe it to be true. Do I know there is a God? No, but in faith I believe Him to be true.

I don't have all the answers, and thus, some of what I believe may be wrong. I'll take that chance and, like Eli, let my faith carry me through the journey.

Photo credit: Wil Bingman, The National Cathedral

A salute to Gumby, unsung hero

At Christmas, Wil lamented that I never read to him as a child. I was shocked and hurt. No one likes to have their motherhood challenged. I remember spending hours talking with the children before bedtime. It was after reading today's obituary of Art Clokey, creator of Gumby, that I realized why Wil doesn't remembered having books read to him. It's because instead of reading books, I made up stories, new and different adventures each night.

That's what Art Clokey did with his children, and the stories he told them became many of the 233 adventures of Gumby we enjoyed on television.

Childhood lost. I was Gumby for Halloween when I was six. My sister was the beautiful bride. Since this picture, my sister has been a bride three times. Me, well, there are days I certainly feel like Gumby.

To me, Gumby was the ultimate defender of the little guy. Gumbyworld.com says that Gumby's focus was on doing "what is right and good. Because of his faith in following his heart, everything always works out for him in the end, whether that means a triumph or learning a lesson."

Gumby was a hero. Heroes, they're the people who made us who we are today. They may be the leader we patterned our lives after, the beacon who steered us to our career, the spiritual leader who crafted our moral inner self, or the cheerleader who never gave up on us.

Heroes. If there are fewer today than in our younger days, it is only because we have demanded too much from them. We have come to expect perfection, not only from our heroes, but from our business associates, our political leaders, our neighbors, our teachers, our friends, ourselves.

Maybe the problem in today's world is you can literally find out just about everything there is to know about a person. Knowing everything includes knowing the less than hero-like qualities in each of us. We all have them, so the longer you look, the more you know and the less heroic they become.

The ordination ceremony in the United Methodist Church used to (and maybe still does) include a question to all incoming preachers: "Are you striving for perfection?" One year, a preacher-to-be replied, "No," to which the bishop responded, "I didn't say 'are you going to reach perfection,' but, 'Are you striving for it?'"

True heroes strive for perfection, acknowledge they'll never reach it and forgive others when they fall short of it.

True heroes act like Gumby. Rest in peace Art Clokey.

Get out of the boat

I see the look in your eyes; that look caused by unimaginable pressure and grief, that look caused by helplessness and hopelessness, that look caused by incessantly rowing a boat that isn’t going anywhere. I see the look because I know the feeling.

Get out of the boat.

Days and days I felt like I was rowing a rickety boat across an ocean of sticky muck. And, no matter how hard I pulled, it kept sucking me in. Deep down I knew if anything was going to change, I had to get out of the boat. You have to get out of your boat.

Granted, there is a sense of security in the boat. After all, it seems solid, gives at least some protection at times, and seems to be moving, even if only in a circle. But what I thought was security was actually an anchor pulling me to the depths, robbing me of confidence and beauty and love and health.

Get out of the boat, I told myself. Just step out.

Of course when you do, you feel exhilarated for an instant, ‘til you realize you’ve been in the boat so long you’ve forgotten how to swim. The muck is still all around you and now you don’t even have a boat to keep you dry.

Swim, girl. Swim hard. Get to solid ground. For many, familiar beacons on shore from the past no longer offer any help and disappear. For the first time, you’re swimming in new territory. But swim you must.

Get out of your boat.
Find solid ground.
Trust yourself.
Trust others.

It will be all right. I promise.