The Gifts of 25 Years, Doors, & Paperclips

I walked up to the glass doors of Dorman Hall that summer day in 1988 as I had a million times before on my way to my part-time job. As I stepped into the lobby, I hesitated at the sight of a group of college boys hanging out waiting on their first summer forestry camp classes to start. I held my breath as I pushed my way through the crowd. The sheer awkwardness of feeling like I was on a stage with a spotlight shining on me made me want to choose a different entrance, but instead I kept my head high with the same fake confidence I had learned a few years earlier when we moved from TN to MS and I was the new girl in school.

“Just keep walking, just keep walking,” I whispered to myself.

And just as I passed the last guy, my heart sank in embarrassment when someone whistled at me.

My greatest fear was confirmed – I felt like I was on display when all I really wanted was to get to my office. I guess for some girls, being whistled at was flattering. To me, it was insulting because I despised that kind of attention. Day after day for weeks, the routine was the same. I entered the building. The boys parted to let me through. And as I would walk past the last guy, the whistle came. It was always just one whistle, and I’d learned to just ignore it and keep walking. I always wished for some witty words to say in those moments, but I wasn’t much good at quick, witty come-backs.

One day, I looked up at my office door to see this guy in boots and Wrangler jeans standing there holding some papers. He asked to borrow a paper clip. So I handed him a small, pink-coated one — that was about as witty as I could be. He gave me a crooked smile, thanked me and left. The next day, he was back at my door asking to borrow another paper clip.

I thought, “He’s not very prepared for class.”
However, this time he lingered a little longer, asked a few questions, and eventually rejoined the rest of the guys. But when he came around a third time for a paper clip, it finally occurred to me that this was all a game.

He introduced himself as “Steve…Steve Brown from Macon!”

I thought, “Fine, I’ll play along.”

“Macon, Georgia?” I asked with enormous curiosity and emphasis on Georgia.

“Uh, no. Macon, Mississippi,” he proudly replied. I had never heard of Macon, Mississippi and in my mind I was thinking, “Who IS this guy? He sure is bold.”

My supervisor/co-worker — and now dear friend – Cindy piped in, “Steve, do you really need those paperclips or are you just here to see Kristi?”

I died. A million times, I died in that one instant. He laughed. Cindy laughed. And I stood there in shock, with my thoughts screaming at me,

“HOLD ON. What is happening here? What have I missed?”

A week or so later, standing inside the door of my office, Steve finally borrowed enough paperclips and persuaded me to go out with him. And when I accepted, I walked through a new door that changed the whole trajectory of my plans for my life. I had plans to go to a different college. I had plans for going to law school and moving to Dallas one day. I wanted to live in an exposed brick loft apartment. Before SB, that’s about as much as I knew, but it was enough.

Sometimes doors close. But sometimes they open to new places and experiences, new people, and new moments that become years. And dreams change – for the better.

***

Four years later, I walked up to the wooden arched doors holding a sweet bouquet of light pink and white roses and tulips. My dad asked me if I was nervous.

As I grabbed his arm and my dress was being fluffed, I lied and said, “Not really.”

In actuality, I was a complete bottle of nerves, and it showed. I had planned out every detail of the day’s events and knew what should be happening on the other side of that door, but I couldn’t see how any of it was playing out. I had to fully trust everything was just as I had hoped it would be. And that made me nervous!

Our wedding was held at the Chapel of Memories on the campus of Mississippi State University, and we’d planned for an outdoor reception complete with blooming wisteria and a harpist. It rained for days leading up to the wedding, but on that Sunday, May 31,1992, when the doors opened for me to walk through, the sun beamed so gloriously at that moment, all I could see were sun rays like a spotlight in front of me. I held my breath as I walked past each familiar and unfamiliar face in the crowd. It was nerve-wracking being the center of attention with all eyes on me. And I could finally see “Steve Brown from Macon, Mississippi” down front waiting for me.

His grandfather married us that day in the sweetest of ceremonies, and we stepped out of the chapel doors into a life together.

There are memories of our apartment and home rentals doors, doors to cars and homes purchased. We’ve walked through doors of new jobs, despised jobs, jobs lost and won. We’ve walked through doors of watching our friends get married and have children and doors of broken and shattered dreams for our own family. We’ve marched through doors of opportunities and stepped through airplane and hotel doors into dream vacations and weekend get-aways. There have been some slammed doors and locked doors. Together we’ve walked through church doors, hospital and veterinary doors and funeral home doors.

In retrospect, I remember every single door we’ve walked up to in these years together. Some have been glass doors that have given us a clear picture of what would be before us. Others have been wooden and heavy and have hidden the journey on the other side forcing us to trust in The Plan and that we would be there for each other. We have run up to and through some doors holding each others hands. Some doors we have reluctantly stepped through together. Some doors we’ve had to walk through individually, and some doors we have been shoved through without either of us wanting to cross the threshold.

Twenty-five years later, it’s impossible to capture every memory on paper. But as any couple who has traveled the road of marriage would attest, that is one of the greatest blessings because some things are fun to share, and some things are just too sacred for anyone but us. In some ways it’s mind-blowing that I’ve had SB in my life longer than I haven’t. As crazy and wild as our days and lives are at times, he still melts me with his crooked smile. He still believes in me, claps for me, and he still holds my hand. He still opens the car door and makes me feel like a million dollars when I walk into the room.

And all these years and memories are held together because I had the courage to keep walking through doors and he had the courage to ask for paperclips.

To my SB – Happy 25th Anniversary! These years together have made me a better person, and I wouldn’t be the same without the point at which our lives intersected. Thanks for believing in me when I haven’t always believed in myself, for taking care of all the details in our life, for greeting me each morning with your contagious smile and knowing just when I need a little extra space. The shelves of our years together display many bottles of tears; thanks for knowing when I need to rearrange those bittersweet memories. And especially thanks for sharing constant laughs because the seriousness of life weighs heavy some days, and your ability to tell me stories and make me laugh is one of the greatest things I adore about you.

You always say, “Thanks for marrying me!” And I say back, “Thanks for asking, and I hope those paperclips were worth it!”

Some days are diamonds, some days are broken toes

Last week a friend and I opted to try a kickboxing class. For me, it seemed like a great way to find a new exercise option. And it’s always easier to try something new when there’s a friend to go along and encourage you.

When my dad died at the end of 2015, I had been regularly working out in a class I’d been attending for four years. But the few months leading up to his passing were rough on my commitment. Between getting him settled into a nursing home, cleaning out his house and putting it up on the market to sell, and traveling for work on a daily basis, I hit a point of falling deeper into a downward spiral of not making my health a priority. Physically, I was exhausted. Emotionally, my usual “pull myself up by the bootstraps” self-talk was muffled by screaming thoughts of insecurity, paranoia, and self-loathing. As hard as I tried this past year, I couldn’t claw my way out of the pit of self-doubt to care enough about working out. So, I took a break  – a good long one  – that lasted until about two months ago when I had to get real with myself.

After two kickboxing classes, we joined. I love the challenge of something new and let’s face it, whacking a heavy bag hanging right in front of you does wonders for stress relief. The first class wasn’t pretty. Although I had a hard time believing it, no one was paying attention to me more than I. This mess of a middle-aged, out-of-shape woman had a lot of thoughts of inadequacy and beating myself up for letting my health go bad for so long that day.

About 20 minutes in, I thought I would pass out from the ten jumping jacks that started the class. I thought about skipping on out the door in a futile attempt to pretend I’d never even walked through the doors. It was the equivalent of the proverbial “one step forward, two steps back”. My thoughts were relentless, “Girl, what have you done?” “You’re an idiot.” “You don’t really have to do this.” “It would be easier if you just left.” “You’re too out of shape, Stupid.”

About 21 minutes in, I realized I needed to get outside my head and just let it out. Everyone has to start somewhere even if the starting point is further away from the last time you started. I recalled all the times in my life when things weren’t fair – being passed up for promotions at work, the loss of loved ones and beloved dogs to death, awards or acknowledgments that I felt were deserved but went to someone else, the loss of friendships that proved hollow and draining, the realization of and grief through infertility, hearing the words “you have cancer” and the fight I put up through the pain of it all.

If there’s one thing I’ve embraced in life – it’s the acceptance of knowing life isn’t fair. No one can make decisions for you or take care of you but you. But there’s a grace that comes into one’s life, when she realizes the greatest points in life aren’t always at the top. The greatest moments come when you’re digging deep through the pain of it all – regardless of what others around you are doing. That’s when you learn the most about what you’re made of and the areas that might need a little help!

As I whacked the bag in front of me – punch, punch, leg kick, punch – I dug a little deeper and somehow managed to push through those 50 minutes of gut-wrenching pain. I must’ve loved it more than I realized because I chose to go back this past Tuesday evening and paid good money to join. But five minutes into the warmup of running around the gym, I rounded the corner with others and found myself falling to the mat. It was like a slow-motion movie of Rocky being hit across the jaw and landing on the mat of a boxing ring.

I stumbled and tried to break my fall – but landed face down in the mat. People were jumping over me to finish their warm up, and I sat there – humiliated, heart pounding out of my chest, and my left big toe throbbing. The trainer walked over to me and tried encouraging me by telling me I wasn’t the first one to fall doing the same thing. Yay, me.

After the shock passed, all I could do was laugh. I sat there for a minute just replaying what had just happened and laughed and laughed. Mortified though, I jumped up and thought – I’ve been here before. I’ve tripped. I’ve fallen down hard so many times in life I’ve lost count. I’ve picked myself up when there was no one else to depend on. I’ve faced pain before and lived to share about what I learned. I’ve stood in front of what seemed like a punching bag I would never be able to move, and I’ve pushed a little harder.

And that’s what I did again to finish the class – pushed harder. Though my big toe throbbed through the rest of the class and began to bruise, I finished the class. It will be awhile before I can get back to my newfound activity, because I indeed broke my big toe – but it’s not going to beat me. I’m stronger today than I was yesterday, and that’s part of this journey. There’s no pinnacle for me here – no award – no recognition – just the continued perseverance to get a little better, stronger, and healthier day by day. Like Clairee Belcher says in the movie Steel Magnolias, “that which does not kill us, makes us stronger.”

What’s keeping you down right now? More importantly, what’s making you get back up?

A mess of a day

Yesterday was one of those days that kicked my tail in every way possible. By the time I turned out the lights last night, I was a picture perfect reflection of a hot mess, and it had nothing to do with the fact that the temps here in MS were up to 70 degrees.

I had been running on little sleep for a few nights in a row, traveling the highways and byways for work-related projects and meetings and feeling generally sluggish by the time I’d finished dinner. I am still not finished putting things away from the holidays at home, and the clutter currently in my house, is enough to drive anyone stark raving crazy. Admittedly, I’m not one of those who can function on 4-5 hours a sleep each night. I don’t think it’s healthy, and I believe the lack of rest eventually wrecks the body and mind. Some can function longer than others on little sleep, but the trade-off isn’t worth it. What is left behind is the lack of ability to have compassion, to listen to someone without anticipating what will be said, to overcompensate in some other unhealthy way. Lack of sleep is a thief that has no intentions of getting caught taking your life piece by piece.

Yesterday was one of those days that I realized the promise of January’s new goals and fresh starts was nothing more than a mud-slinging fight to the end of the day, and the tread marks from all the slinging of words and spinning tires haven’t dried yet. I’m anxious to dust the mud tracks off and begin again, but I must wait until the sloppy muck dries. It’s amazing what a little time and fresh air can do.

But here’s the thing, as much of a mess as I perceive some of my days to be, so far I have another day to try again. I can give grace where it may not be received; I can find different times to interact with important people in my life; I can focus another five minutes on cleaning that clutter out. Each day represents a new year. We don’t have to wait for the calendar to turn to January to make small and important adjustments in our lives. True changes come over time, but only if we want them for ourselves.

I look back at many of my messy days and realize they’re the ones that have taught me the most about myself. I am strong enough to stand in the face of a harsh wind. And I’m smart enough to know when to retreat and when to fight some more. Facing the giants is messy, hard work. But I’ve been told there are health-related benefits to taking a mud bath. I’m ready to try again to expunge those toxins in my life. What a privilege of another messy day!

The coat with the fur

It will be a year ago this March that our daily lives changed from living with dogs to being a family of two again – void of the companionship, unconditional love, daily feedings and walks, playtime, tennis ball chases, neighborhood escapades, travels, wet-tongue kisses, and fur on our clothes.

The change was immediate. There’s no easing into life without a dog. Every moment there was no bark or a wandering through the house looking for her people was a moment that I felt empty and alone. The nuances of the daily routines and expectations were very different and hard. And to this day, I still turn down the aisle of the grocery store where the marshmallows can be found, and tears spring out of my eyes. I’m forced to stand there like a blubbering idiot wanting just one more time to stock up on marshmallows for my girls. Until Sadie and Lily, I never knew Labradors loved the fluffy, sticky balls of goodness. Buying them marshmallows was as much a part of my grocery shopping routine as purchasing coffee. There was no choice.

When our last angel, LilyPad, passed away in March, it was weeks before I took up her water and food bowls. I left her bed in the laundry room which is exactly where she loved to sneak off to for a little privacy of her own from time to time. And the first two months, I never wanted to go to bed because the absence of her warm body between SB and me was too much to bear. I still miss her snoring and running in her sleep.

For the past fifteen years, we’ve had dogs, and that also meant we avoided wearing black when we were in a rush. We became professional clothes pickers – grabbing at and pulling off long strands of white fur that would pierce through the fabrics. Sometimes it was embarrassing for me to have a colleague stand there and brush me off as if I had no awareness I was wearing the fur from our girls. There was a time it was humiliating because I thought it showed a weakness that we were unkempt or lived in a dirty or messy house.

This morning as I was dressing for work, I grabbed a lightweight coat. The royal blue was a good balance to my black dress and tights. It added just a pop of color that I was looking for on this gloomy day. As I arched my back to throw it around for my arm to swipe in the sleeve, the white fur grabbed my attention. Instead of panicking about looking sloppy, I smiled. I pulled it off and just stood there giving the coat the once over, looking at every single piece of fur I could find… and there are quite a few still on it. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I wanted just one more time to rush through the house on my way out the door and grab both of my angels’ ears. I wanted Sadie to pace between my knees back and forth while her fur covered my black tights. I wanted Lily’s coarse fur to jump all over my coat again as I laughed in complete satisfaction that I was blessed with being a dog mama to the finest dogs on earth. They were the sweetest souls who gave me much more than I could ever give to them.

As I stood there looking at the blue coat speckled here and there with a few of Lily’s pieces of fur, I realized that there’s probably very few pieces of my clothing that haven’t been subjected to the brushing off of dog hair. And every fiber in the fabric of my heart was pierced again today with the goodness of what it means to live with a dog. There’s not much of a sweeter memory than one in which you are covered up in love.

 

epiphany day 2017

Let it not be lost that Epiphany Day this year has turned into a snow day for a majority of people I know all across the South. While my social media feeds are flooded with pictures of friends and family frolicking in cold snowy moments, we’ve received the good fortune of sleet. I’m not sure who can get excited about sleet, but I’m positive all the bread and milk have disappeared off the shelves at Kroger. I saw someone post that the most important thing on snow days should be making sure you have stocked up on toilet paper as opposed to bread and milk. I can’t disagree with that statement. In fact, we should all  be prepared with enough Charmin every day.

It’s only been in the recent years that I’ve become more aware and observant of Epiphany Day and what that means in my faith and beliefs. Generally once Christmas has come and gone, the rush to put away ornaments and Christmas wrappings swoops in, and we are left with the meaning of Christmas boxed up, locked up and stuffed away until it is time to bring it all out the next year.

But the observance of Epiphany Day reminds us that the meaning of Christmas has only just begun. After traveling night after night, the three kings found the baby Jesus on this day by following a star. Although his birth had happened weeks before, their commitment to find and honor him remained their number one priority. Once they found him, they opened their treasure chests and offered their very best of gold, frankincense, and myrrh as gifts to the King of the earth. The Adoration of the Magi is something that humbles me beyond words. Powerful, wealthy kings knelt in adoration to a tiny baby who was far more influential in the world than any other king was or would be.

We live in a world obsessed with power and greed. I know people who are so consumed with acquisitions in their personal and professional lives that their need to prove to others they are wealthy and powerful becomes the king to which they bow. We live in a world where humility is a lost character trait. Our world tells us to “be bold, be fierce, stop at nothing to get what you want,” and we miss the opportunity to connect with and hear the cries of hurting souls all around us. We miss the treasure of carrying the gift of this season beyond the Rubbermaid boxes of the holly and the tartan plaid ribbon. We miss many epiphanies of what it means to honor truth and light.

I guess my epiphany on Epiphany Day is one that forces me to reevaluate my own priorities for each day. The older I get the harder I find it is to declare things I will change for an entire year. Sometimes I’m doing good to focus on being truth and light from one day to the next or one moment to the next. But my hope for my life and this world lies in the gift of the manger scene and the Adoration of the Magi on all those years ago. So in the spirit of Epiphany Day, I honor you with the gift of wishing you a Merry Christmas today and every day, and may you keep the Gift of Hope unwrapped always.

Beach Ramblings

We walked along the beach, only a few souls ahead of us, while the sun was still creeping up over the horizon. As the ocean was breaking at our feet, a crab or two hurriedly scampered to bury itself in the shallow shelf of sand just below the water’s crest on the beach. I stopped every few steps to search out any signs of seashells or other oceanic treasures that I could take home as a reminder of our time at the beach. 

Small white shells were not too hard to find at the edge of the water. From the depths and the darkness of the ocean’s journey, the tide deposited each one of them as if to say, “You’re safe now. Rest now. In the sun, you can glow now.”

At that moment of the day, the ocean looked rather calm – at least at the faraway glance. A few breaks in the waves at my feet and the turquoise blues faded one into the other painting for us the different depths of the ocean floor. It reminded me of Christ’s promises for our lives and how life can be likened to the enormity, the fury, the exquisiteness of the ocean. 

Individually, we all carry shades of colors in our lives, in our hearts. The further out we go in life, the more we trust in the Lord and allow Him to use the fury of the waves and the currents, the deeper and richer we become and it becomes easier for others to see the difference between those of us with true faith and those without.

As we continued to walk, I picked up broken pieces, very large pieces of sand dollars. The ones I found were quite strong. A lone sand dollar SB found was small and delicate, and the moment he stooped to pick it up, it broke in his hand. I took it anyway.

Broken pieces of shells and sand dollars make their way to the water’s edge each day and night. Just like the Lord does for us, the ocean forms them, toughens them up, tosses them about and carries them to the shore.

As we continued our walk, I reflected on all the dreams, plans, and lost memories that have never even occurred and realized the ocean was a good place to drop my heartaches that tossed me endlessly, swelling and crashing and crushing my heart day in and day out.  It was time for healing and purposefully stepping forward onto a path I suddenly realized had been cleared for me.

Many days and moments, our lives turn up to be broken pieces. Parts of us are fragile, while other parts are strong.  And just when we think we can handle something on our own, or when we try to pick up the pieces and take charge of our lives, we realize it’s not ours to handle.

Each moment, each day is so fragile and one decision can shatter our dreams and change our lives as we’ve known it. Our safety comes, however, from the Father who safely delivers us to the shores of fertile grounds. We may be broken pieces at times, but we know His divine protection for us when we hear Him say, “You’re safe now.  Rest now. In the Son, you can grow now.”

All Things New

The gift of beginning anything new is the mystery that we’re not exactly sure how things will pan out, what it will look like, or how we will accomplish it.  But it’s the mystery that draws us in – calling to those of us who must write.  Like a ghost we may see in a movie that appears to someone in a room, then vanishes and reappears in another place – still very visible – but a little further out of reach, the urge to write is always there yet the illusion of sharing what we write can leave us feeling invisible to those who gloss over our words.

However, the mystery is so compelling that we find ourselves following that vision whether we really think we can meet up with it face-to-face or not.  Writing for me is sometimes like moving from place to place, turning one corner then another, passing through each door with timid steps at first, then full-out running as fast as I can toward it so that I can catch up to it and have all my questions answered.

Sharing ourselves is more than scary when we only consider if we will be accepted or not.  What’s necessary  is in the sharing of ourselves we receive much more back in terms of growing, learning and nurturing our souls.

So I bring to you a new perspective of life – as I see it – the gift of the upside view.  It’s gonna get fun!