Jordan's Landing

It has always been my belief that if we provide our children a safe and sturdy foundation, no matter how much they flit, fly and at times flop around, they will always land on that foundation.

I've seen soaring angels and bore witness to many belly flops as my kids have flown from the cuckoos nest. However, fly as hard and as high as they might, they have always landed safely right back in my arms.

A few weeks ago, I watched a graceful, dynamic landing by a dear friend of mine.

Jordan has been a friend of my boys for many years. In fact, it was so long ago that I don't even remember the how, when or why to their friendship. He was always one of "my" kids. Always has been. Always will be.

Jordan dabbled in alcohol and drugs. Jordan became addicted. He did things that were "out of character" for him. He went in and out of jail. Periodically Jordan would land at our house and I would see the fear mixed with self-loathing in his eyes.

Jordan wanted to do better. Jordan longed for a life complete with happiness, but he could never quite pull it off.

In November, I sat with the Brown family and cheered wildly as Jordan graduated from drug court.

I'm awed at the strength shown by my friend. I know this has been a tiring, difficult journey for Jordan as well as his friends and family.

I know people don't understand addiction. I'm not an addictive personality. Lucky me. I'm surrounded by friends and family that are enslaved by substance and have made a stand to spit in the eyes of their fears.

I'm proud of those that find the strength to overcome addiction. I applaud the friends and family that allow change. Addiction touches everyone in one way or another. Thank you to the addicts that have shown us that belief and love are a stronger force than substance.

So...build foundations. Stand on those foundations with arms wide open so that those that fly in the face of a storm know right where to land.

These Things I Know

This last Saturday we had our annual Deason Family Christmas Soirée. The family gathered at the home of Uncle Tim and Aunt Shannon for food and fun. Aunt Dawn plans this event. She makes food assignments, purchases door prizes, develops games and gets GIDDY with excitement in anticipation of the gathering.

This year we did a book exchange. At Thanksgiving we drew names to determine who we were to purchase the book for. Let me tell you this was SUCH a great idea. It was so fun to go to the book store and contemplate what book was a perfect fit.

My nephews girlfriend, Denise, was assigned the Linnette-book-buying-task. The book Denise chose for me was penned by Oprah Winfrey and titled "What I Know For Sure". The book is a quick read. What I love most about this book was the "presence" of it. It's really a pretty book - a book I plan to keep out for others to see.

I had a difficult time getting to sleep last night, so I read my book.

I've always been a fan of Oprah. I think she has worked very hard to get where she is. She's SO smart and I find her compassionate. I think she struggles like we all do. Because she is willing to talk openly about her demons, I find her very "real".

Oprah wrote her thoughts on subjects such as joy, possibility, power...  She shared stories filled with details of real life experience.

Of course it got me thinking about my life. With the BIG five-oh-my-gosh-am-I-really-that-old looming in February I wonder what (if anything) I have really learned. I wonder about being an impact on those who have crossed my path. I wonder about my inner compass and the times I am on track and the times I have wandered. Lost.

These things I know: 

Babies and children are a gift. They desire only to be loved and to love back. Unconditionally. 

Everyone has a story. Some stories are written in blood. Some are written in gold leaf. We don't get to choose the beginning but the ending is up to us. 

Everyone dies. Friends die. Pets die. Loved ones die. 

I don't like money. Not at all. 

It is important that good thoughts become good actions. It doesn't matter how good your heart is if your acts are selfish and unkind. And it is next to impossible to undo bad acts. 

Beauty surrounds us. Pay attention. 

The greatest gift you can receive is a hug intertwined with "I Love You." 

Bravery happens. Sometimes we don't even know we're being brave. Sometimes others' notice. Sometimes they don't. But it still happens. 

I don't believe in the word "forgiveness".  I simply believe that bad things happen to us. Sometimes we control the outcome and sometimes we don't.  It's up to us to determine if the "badness" takes over our lives and encompasses every thought and every action. 

Sometimes what you have to say isn't NEARLY as important as the person you are saying it to. 

Renewed life can be found in a book. It can lie in a movie, a song, a prayer or a kind word.  

Be kind. To EVERYONE. You never know when YOU are the link between happiness and sorrow.  

Journeys always begin with a step. Choose to take yours forward.

The People I'll Meet in Heaven

The night before Denise died, I spent the night with her at the hospice home. Denise was unable to swallow her own spit. Her whole body had shut down but one thing that remained intact was her ability to make saliva. She was terrified of choking, and to provide her some measure of comfort, it was necessary to suction her mouth every few minutes. Her dear family needed a small break, so I took a shift and had a sleep-over with my gal pal.

Mitch Albom had just published the novel "The Five People You Meet in Heaven". Wikipedia describes the book as:

The Five People You Meet in Heaven is a novel by Mitch Albom. It follows the life and death of a maintenance man named Eddie. In a heroic attempt to save a little girl from being killed by an amusement park ride that is about to fall, Eddie is killed and sent to heaven, where he encounters five people who significantly impacted him while he was alive.

Denise and I had been reading the book for a few weeks and were getting close to the end. I brought it along. I read aloud. Denise listened.

Periodically I think of this book. I wonder who will meet me at heavens gate. I'm not sure who I have impacted enough, but I know who has changed mine.

One of those who will greet me left today. My friend, Pat lost her fight with cancer. And I'm so sad. Incredibly sad.

Pat has been in the hospital for a few weeks now. Pneumonia. Blood sugars waaaay out of whack. You name it. She had it. She was in need of rest and care and the hospital made sure to see to that.

Some days I found myself at her bedside laughing and joking. Other times, the communication was via text.

Last night around 9:30 I received a text from her to tell me that she had just been told that her life expectancy was being reduced to about a week or two. I told my friend that I would be in tomorrow to see her. I told her I was scared. Her answer? "No. I am just...ready." As per my typical selfish needs, I responded "No. You're not."

She was.

I didn't sleep last night. I cried and worried and fretted. I thought I should go see her, but it was so late and she would be there tomorrow, right?

I returned from dropping Jaden at school this morning and flung myself on my bed. Exhausted. I was not ready at all to face my day. I pretended to sleep for a bit, sighed, and decided that I had better get my groove on and get moving.

When I got to the hospital, Pat had just passed. Alone. I AM SO ANGRY THAT I WASN'T THERE. There. I said it. I know all the right answers. "Don't say that." "You didn't know." "Don't go down that road." But, I am and NOTHING you say can make me feel differently.

Pat's oldest boy took Pat's hand and asked me to take the other. He said, "I came to sing to her."

God be with you till we meet again;
By His counsels guide, uphold you,
With His sheep securely fold you;
God be with you till we meet again.

God be with you till we meet again;
When life's perils thick confound you;
Put His arms unfailing round you;
God be with you till we meet again.

God be with you till we meet again;
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you,
Strike death’s threatening wave before you;
God be with you till we meet again.

Till we meet, till we meet,
Till we meet at Jesus' feet;
Till we meet, till we meet,
God be with you till we meet again.

By the end, I was singing along.
 
When the play Wicked became a hit, Pat would periodically email me the YouTube link to the song "For Good". When Wicked came to Salt Lake City? I bought us tickets and we attended the production. Pat and I held hands and wept while Glinda and Elphaba sang that their lives had been changed for the better because of their friendship.

That was the song that played over and over in my head today as I sat with my friend. My life HAS been changed for the better. Pat played a part in that. I'm lucky to know her and I'm BEYOND lucky to have called her my friend.

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend...

Like a ship blown from it's mooring
By a wind off the sea
Like a seed dropped by a skybird
In a distant wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you...

 Because I knew you

I have been changed for the good.

The Greatest Gift is Love

I've always believed that religion is a personal choice. I faithfully practice the rule that you don't talk about religion or politics to anyone.

A few months ago, Mark's cousin Sheri contacted us. She wanted to head up a charity golf tournament for me in California.

If you have read my blog, on Saturday, April 27, 2013 I wrote "I Knew It" about Aunt Joy passing away. Sheri is Aunt Joy's daughter. Sheri and I were pregnant together 25 years ago. I was going for number three (Tanna) and she was having her first baby (Brittney). We both lived in Ojai and it was HOT. One of my happiest memories with Sheri was on July 4th the year the girls were due. We had a barbecue, Mark set up his guitar/amp equipment and while the guys all fooled around on the guitar, Sheri and I sat in lawn chairs with our FAT feet in the kiddy-pool filled with cold water, eating hamburgers and listening to the guys sing and laugh.

Sunday, October 19, I found myself back in Ojai attending the golf tournament. After the tournament, we had a scrumpdillyicious barbecue and raffle. It was pretty dang cool. DANG cool.

I have always been close to Mark's family. I adore his brothers. My favorite gal pals are my sisters-in-law. I have weaseled myself into the love of his Aunt's and Uncles and his cousins get to deal with me by default.  Family attended. Friends attended. We all had a good time golfing and chatting and laughing.

I love these people. I LOVE THESE PEOPLE. Tons.

It is humbling to be the focus of the kindness of friends, family and strangers. I find a measure of discomfort with these fund raisers that are set up for my benefit. The kindness is humbling, the support is amazing and the generosity is overwhelming. I do find myself lucky, too. I think I am EVER so lucky to be able to hear what I mean to those that I love so much.

Two pretty important events happened at the golf tournament. First, I need to say that I don't want to undo the meaning behind the event as a whole. MANY factors and sacrifices came in to play to put this event together for me. Sheri shopped and worked and fretted and coerced and cajoled friends and strangers and store owners and golfers. Flyers were hung and passed to anyone she came in contact with. Brittney helped. Gerald and Randi and Camryn and Cody pitched in. Dawn and Mike drove from Utah to offer support. Uncle Ron wasn't missing the event for ANY reason. Aunt Mel, her boys, their wives and kids drove two hours from Bakersfield in order to attend. Prizes were donated for the raffle. Pappi cooked our DANG good food. The list goes on and on and on. Just know that it was a ton of work and sacrifice and love. And I know it, too.

A personal experience happened while we were waiting for the golfers to finish up the tournament. I don't know if I want to get into too much detail. However, it plays into a later event, so I need to mention it.

I was asked to hop in a golf cart for some girl talk with a cousin/friend. I did. We chatted and laughed and shared and then she quietly asked if she could pray for me. She did. It was amazing. It came from her heart and it was beautiful.

The barbecue/raffle was winding up when Uncle Bobby walked up to me. He asked if I did much reading. I told him I am a ferocious reader. I love it and read every chance I get. He told me he had something for me. He walked over to his truck and brought me back a package. It contained a Bible. It's called "The Expositor's Study Bible" and it's really cool.

And that, my friends, was a gift that melted my heart.

I know the importance of family. I am consistently amazed at true love given in times of need. I am so grateful for the compassion and service provided to me. I am humbled that time and energy and finances are sacrificed in my behalf. I am so grateful to my family and to my friends for the charity they hold in their hearts.

But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13

Broken Straws

A few years ago my friend, Laurie, shared a theory with me. She said, "Pick up a straw and bend it. Let it straighten out and bend it again." It bent in the same spot. Over and over and over again. Her theory is that when we are forced to bend, we tend to bend at the exact spot where we were first hurt. We go to that place emotionally and that is how we behave.

As time has passed, I have explained that theory to my kids, my friends, my family and strangers. I find it spot on.

Time and time again I emotionally land right where I was broken. My problem? I'm not sure exactly where I became broken. As of late, I have spent many sleepless nights looking inward. I yearn for answers, yet I find muddy memories filled with confusion.

When Aunt Joanne coerced and threatened and inevitably scheduled a meeting for me to figure out all of the "how to's" on signing up for college, I decided to get my degree in graphic design. Of course (at the time) it was the most expensive degree that UVSC offered and my pell grant would not cover the supplies needed in the program. Beckie told me about Job Training Partnership of America (JTPA). If I could get the scholarship my books and supplies would be covered.

I tested. And tested. And tested. Out of 500 applicants, I was chosen for the scholarship. My books, supplies, parking pass, locker and all school necessities were paid for by this scholarship. In return, I had to meet with my assigned counselor every other week to talk about what I needed and HOPEFULLY sludge through some of the baggage I was toting around.

I joke that my Dr. Phil would need a Dr. Phil after finishing with me. He did. For two years, we spent every other week in his office talking and discussing. I don't think that he expected the bends and breaks in my straw and after a few sessions he said "PTSD is beyond my capabilities" and turned our time to school, leaving me to my own madness.

I loved school. I'll brag and let you know that I was on the Dean's list and a member of the Honor Society every term. I was a single mom and learned very quickly to take the kids to the playland at the local McDonald's. Playtime for them. Study time for me. Win-win situation for all parties involved.

However, my straw remains broken. If wishes were granted it would have never been broken. But it was. I am. And I want it fixed.

I have found the fight in me waning. I think that OPCA has played a factor. I wonder why I am fighting a freight train bearing down on me. It's going to hit, right? So why am I shucking and jiving?

I do know the answer. Because my family deserves to see me fight. They deserve a mother/wife that wants to be here and is happy. I desire to be happy. I yearn to be rid of the demons that have haunted me.

I will do it, you know. I will put a new bend in my straw.

My Red Shirt

I'm wearing a red flannel shirt today.

Last year a family member that I love was going through a pretty rough time. I wondered and pondered what I could do to help her realize that she wasn't to endure everything alone. As I was thinking, the thought struck me that everyone in my family would eventually be faced with problems that (at times) would leave them feeling alone and vulnerable.

My favorite television series of all time is Parenthood. I love Ron Howard and feel that everything he touches is golden. SO when I found out he was doing a television series? Yeah. I held my breath with anticipation and wasn't let down. Not one tiny bit. 

Season 4 rolled around and I watched as Kristina was diagnosed with breast cancer. When Kristina embarked on her chemotherapy journey, her mother-in-law, Camille, brought her a fuzzy red shirt to wear throughout her chemo sessions.

As the story progressed, we discovered that the red shirt had been passed along to offer comfort and warmth to several cancer patients and had landed with Kristina. At the end of the episode, we were prompted to go online and find out the story behind the shirt. I did.

I've looked and looked to find the story again, but I can't locate it. SO to make a long story short? Several members of the production crew had been touched by breast cancer, whether it be a loved one or themselves, so there REALLY was a shirt that had been passed around and that very shirt was the one used in the episode.

Thus began my own red shirt and the "Sisterhood of the Traveling Red Shirts" gang.

I liked the idea of something to wrap up in that reminded the wearer that they are not alone. Ever.

A meeting was held, the radically-awesome Deason gals met and were inducted into the sisterhood. I shall not give away our secrets. But the ever-so-covert meeting ends with a gift from each girl to the person in need and the shirt that is to be worn whenever love is needed.

Little did I know that I would eventually be the recipient of the shirt.

Last night I got a text from Pat. She is in the hospital. She has pneumonia and sepsis. The cancer has spread to her sternum, lungs, liver, skin and now to her brain. She is sick. Wow. That's such a small word for how horrible she feels. However, sick it is. AND sick she is.

I dropped Jaden at school this morning and went to the hospital to sit with my friend for a few hours.

When I got home, I took a hot bath and wrapped myself in my shirt.

I sit here trying to express my feelings in black and white. I'm angry. And afraid. And powerless. And afraid. And sad. And afraid. And afraid. And afraid.

And there isn't a dang thing I can do about it.

So I wear my shirt and feel the love of my family. My girls. And I'm stronger because of it.

The Day of Stomach Aches

Today is nearly over. I think I'm glad for that. It's September 11 and we ALL know what that means. It's a day of sadness and grief and mourning and fear and shock with absolutely, positively no relief or comfort to be found.

I hate this day.

I drove Jaden to school today. I don't usually have the radio playing when he is in the jeep. He's a horrible, no-good, rotten teen and I listen to music that has RHYTHM and LYRICS that you can sing along with and it's bad enough that he has to endure the ride with his MOTHER of all people, let alone have his fellow classmates hear my music. Duh.

After I dropped him off and told him "Have a great day. I love you." and he muttered something foreign and slammed my door, I sighed HEAVILY and turned on my radio just in time to hear a tribute to 9/11. Suck. Gave me a gut ache.

In July, my fellow "chicks" and I visited New York. We were SO excited to see the 9/11 Memorial Museum. Actually, the official name is The National September 11 Memorial Museum. The desription on the website says:

The National September 11 Memorial Museum serves as the country’s principal institution for examining the implications of the events of 9/11, documenting the impact of those events and exploring the continuing significance of September 11, 2001.

The Museum’s 110,000 square feet of exhibition space is located within the archaeological heart of the World Trade Center site—telling the story of 9/11 through multimedia displays, archives, narratives and a collection of monumental and authentic artifacts. The lives of every victim of the 2001 and 1993 attacks will be commemorated as visitors have the opportunity to learn about the men, women, and children who died. 

The monumental artifacts of the Museum provide a link to the events of 9/11, while presenting intimate stories of loss, compassion, reckoning, and recovery that are central to telling the story of the attacks and the aftermath.

I don't know what I was expecting. I don't know why it didn't EVER cross my scrawny self-absorbed brain that it would be emotionally draining to see the pictures of the human beings lost or to view the remnants of the precious belongings of the fallen.

We had decided that it was on "the list" to visit the Holocaust Museum. One of my all-time favorite movies is Freedom Writers. In the movie, super cool teacher gal took her students to the Holocaust Museum and I was instantly captivated by the horrors that were experienced by the innocent.

However, the horrors weren't personal.

Does that sound crass? Hollow? Unsympathetic? I don't mean it that way. I can't stand what the Jews endured. I have read The Diary of Anne Frank. I own Night by Elie Wiesel. I am ashamed that the human species can be so cruel to another human being. However, it was a part of history that I have heard about and read about but not that I had experienced.

After leaving the Holocaust Museum, we were close to the 9/11 Memorial Museum and decided to see if they were still selling tickets for the day. They were. We went.

Once again, ignorant me, I don't know what the crap I thought I would see? Did I not know that it would be FILLED with artifacts from that horrible day? It was. 

At once, it was sobering and horrifying and humbling and haunting and surreal and gut wrenching and yet...honorable. We saw fire engines, wallets, uniforms, iron beams. As we walked down a set of stairs, a set of stairs from one of the towers ran along directly to the side. There was a plaque with the staircase. It told us how many people that set of stairs had SAVED. 

I remember leaving and thinking that I would find no comfort in that building if I had a loved one that had lost their life in 9/11. Yet, I am so grateful that the museum was built to bear witness to the horrific events of that day. 

There will come a time that those that go through the museum will be innocent to the pain and fear that filled our country. As the decades pass, these objects will be all that remain of the horror...and the humanity of that day.