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40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 28

The other day my husband met a gentleman whose sole job is to ensure trucks are let in and out of a construction area safely and without harming pedestrians. A noble job and one that requires patience and a keen eye.

I could imagine this must be very hard, to be vigilant and always ready to usher kids or adults across a noisy construction area. More significantly, he guards this area without a screen staring back at him, just the sun shining and the world around him, observing his surroundings. While on his shift, he told my husband a story. As he was just closing the gate for what seemed to be the 38th time that morning, he saw a red streak go by and land near a home in a short distance. As if called to a service, the cardinals landed by an elderly woman who stopped in her tracks, bowed her head, hands folded in prayer.

He recognized this gesture and explained that spotting a cheerful cardinal means a lost family member is safe and happy. “When cardinals are here, angels are near.” He went on to note that the mere sighting of a cardinal is known to bring on emotional feelings. Some feel the vibrant red is a spiritual, and uplifting symbol that those we have lost will indeed live forever.

He told the story as rotely as if reciting the alphabet. Hearing this reminded me of a cardinal I saw in our backyard yesterday who caught my attention with a loud string of whistles and trills. His song made me think of my husband’s grandmother, Sissy who always had a story to share or a prank to pull. How lovely to know cardinals can give us hope that our loved ones who are gone are safe, happy, and watching over us.

Today when we are distracted by so much, it’s easy to push our memories and feelings aside – and forget to look up, find hope, and be grateful. I love that this gentleman who ensured everyone’s safety all day took a moment to observe the love and hope all around us and share his story.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 27

My son and I have good discussions. Great discussions. Hard discussions. I remember lots of knocking and kicking when he was in the womb, no doubt he was planning to buy a big Ford something-or-other truck, load his bike in the back and drive to Moab in Utah to ride. 

When putting him to bed at age 3, he would ask, “Why do you and Papa get to stay up?” We didn’t even curse when we replied…simply gave the parental response of you’re the child, we’re the adults. (Athough sometimes I wanted to be the kid long enough to take a quick nap, let someone make me lunch and not have to get up 30 times to pee.) The interrogating continued and on the second day of kindergarten, he asked WHY!? he had to go again…he ALREADY went to kindergarten!

As he got older, he asked to play baseball and soccer, then give archery a try and why not gymnastics and tennis. Maybe mountain biking and guitar? Unicycling sounds fun and the saxophone – let’s get one! Swimming grabbed his attention for a minute as did basketball and even church retreats. Chess was fleeting…too much sitting. Then came badminton, ping pong, rollerblading, skateboarding, Ripstick, and scooter-riding cross-country running, and frisbee golf. Check! Check! Check! Then there was the creation of fidget spinners, paracord bracelets, and dog leashes. He can hammer leather, solder, weld, sew, change the oil, build a bike ramp, pitch a tent, cast a fishing rod flawlessly, take stunning photos and edit the perfect video. It’s a lot…but he’s not afraid to try or risk failing.

Ironically, our discussion this evening was all about the things we “didn’t let him try”. For the most part, the list includes:

1. driving four-wheeled vehicles with a lot of letters like ATV, SUV, SxS, along extremely muddy trails, and

2. whatever his friends are doing that he’s not.

I get it. I remember wondering why everyone knew how to swim so well when I moved to the east coast. Of course, I couldn’t blame my parents…we lived in a land-locked state, and of course, the Rio Grande River is not known for water skiing.

As he entered middle and high school, his questions continued at home and in class. He admitted tonight that he hesitated to raise his hand in elementary school in fear of getting the wrong answer, he certainly saved all those questions for home!

I spoke to our son’s teachers at a conference in 8th grade and beyond and the one consistency they spoke of was he asked great questions. “Not the off-the-wall questions either” one teacher stressed. “He is content-driven.”

My son leans in the direction of calculated answers. His brain craves knowing why –  like a flower craves the sun. He completely bypasses wondering and simply asks, Why? How? When?

Raising kids who ask questions is a challenge. Thinking back, if I could tell my 16-year-old self one thing it would be ASK! Ask for help on the physics test, ask someone to go to prom, ask why the point was taken off on your essay, or how you can get your grade up. Ask if you can go to the Braves playoff game or skiing with a friend.  

We each had a cavern in our souls to be filled with answers…all we have to do is dig for them…and simply ask.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 24

What is the illusion of choice?

When the kids were little I made the decisions on the biggies: diapers: Pampers or Costco—Lunch: mashed peas or sweet potatoes—Naptime books: Good Night Moon or Bears on Wheels. As they got older they matched their plaid shorts with striped t-shirts for school and none were the wiser. It was THEIR choice. They were at the helm as the drawers squeaked open and closed.

Then I moved to the either-or choices: we can go to either the library or the book store. Playground or zoo? Success! As the kids got older, the onus was theirs. Soccer or mountain biking? AP or Honors? Baseball or lacrosse? Bus or drive? Kidding, driving always wins.

Making decisions is tough. But what about the time when we think we are involved in the decision making process but it turns out to be the illusion of choice?

When defined, according to best-selling author, David James Clarke IV, “The illusion of choice is a psychological mental model that states humans are happy if they believe that have control over their own actions and can exercise free will. If free will is deprived, or seemingly deprived, from an individual, they will become resentful or rebellious, even if the choice forced upon them is identical to the one they would have selected of their own accord.”

My Dad always says, when it comes to the kids, let them decide their plans for college, trade school, etc. “It has to be their decision” he reminds me. There has to be buy-in. In any situation, most people want control. When that control is relinquished, you lose passion, interest, and connection.

At home, work, school, or the ice cream aisle, if free choice is indeed the goal, rules should stay flexible and maintain the integrity of the framework.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 23

My grandma on my mom’s side was a teacher and a hairdresser and my grandpa was a rancher. On my dad’s side, grandpa was a store owner and grandma taught school as well.

My parents grew up with daily outdoor work, and deliberate, simple living. Love of thy neighbor was doctrine, sharing with their neighbor was expected, and counting their blessings was what one did.

My maternal grandmother’s name was Mariana – Marian. Born April 17, 1911, her parents were married in 1902. Her father, Nazario was a sheep farmer and freighter (he picked up and delivered products for the family store). Her mom, Clara died of the flu in 1918. Then in early December 1922, her father, Nazario rode out to routinely check on the sheep. Ill-prepared for the unexpected storm that arose, he headed home with what appeared to be a cold but quickly turned to pneumonia. Three days later, he died.

Marian and her three siblings were left orphans, ages 15, 12, 9, and 21 months. At eleven years old, she and her four-year-old sister were sent to be boarders at the Loretto Academy in Santa Fe, New Mexico. After finishing 8th grade, she returned to Arizona.

A devout Catholic, grandma became an entrepreneur before it was all the rage. She attended Beauty School and owned a beauty salon in a small Arizona town in the 1940s with a friend from the Morman Church, an unlikely partner at the time. Although discrimination lingered in the town, Grandma looked at everyone as good and worthy. She was 4’8″ and strode through life in size 4 1/2 high heels with optimism and “loads of love” – the same way she signed her letters.

Grandma taught us to sew, quilt, embroider, and most importantly how to give a great manicure. She and mom cut our hair and gave us perms we really thought we wanted at the time. We relished the quality time spent and the strong fumes made for good company.

Mom called grandma, “mother”. They had a very loving and comforting relationship. It seemed easy. She was mom’s go-to…always had a secret ingredient for her tortillas (add a teaspoon or 2 of sugar and powdered milk – it makes the dough an easy conversion to sopaipillas). She always knew where to hem the pants, how to sweeten lemonade (maraschino cherries), and how to make mom smile.

My sweet grandma was a gem. From the tips of her well-kept nails to the curls of her perfectly set hair.

God bless you, Grandma, thanks for the many, many memories, and please keep watching over us.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 21

Mom preschool. Home. Puzzles. Play dough, Picnics. 

Reading time Go, Dog. Go! one more time...Pleeease...
Naps. Exercise. Stepping on legos and stray cheerios that crumble into 300 pieces.

Room mom. PTA. Plan, organize, meet moms. Any moms. Wait. Are they rowing the boat with you? Swap stories. Throw their stories at the wall and see if they stick. 

Four-year-old ballet classes. Tears. Why am I the only mom inside the studio wagging my legs in the butterfly motion next to pink clad toddler grads? 

She's nervous. No preschool. I crushed her social life and now dance career. 

School years. Cafeteria years. Bus years…who will she sit with? Will she talk about recess? Whisper or yell? Thank the bus driver?

Middle School mystery. Wonder or fear? Orchestra or band? Tennis or swim? Or, Gasp. Nothing. Lunchtime friends?

Press on sweet girl, the bandaid pulls off quickly.

High school. AP classes. Not Econ. School bus for one more year. Summer jobs and save money. She’ll drive old, new, big, small…maybe not a van.

Hang up the tutu, grab the swim goggles. Compete. Compete. Compete.

College looms. What will sustain her? Friendships? Reading? Connections?

What will her version of life be on and offline? Will she recycle mean words, turn them inside out until they are kind and true? Will she sit in the quiet of the fuzzy boundary time in the early morning and listen to her breathing and her heartbeat?

During her late-night studying will she slip into a softer headspace and realize she’s writing her own story and she gets to choose her own ending?

Go, Girl. Go!