Remembering 9/11/01

This week someone asked me, "How will you remember the 9/11 terrorist attacks?"

I thought of many things I could do.

I could release balloons with 'I remember' messages in them.

I could put a colorful magnetized ribbon on my car.

I could send letters of sympathy to the families of the fallen.

I could lay flowers at Ground Zero and shed tears of sorrow.

These gestures with heartfelt emotion are great things I could do, yes.

But what did I choose?

I chose to wake up on Sunday 9/11/11 knowing the world will never be as it was, but with a song in my heart because I still believe in hope.

I chose to attend my church services because I still believe that terrorists cannot quench my spirit.

I chose to paint the new stage backdrop during worship because I still believe in beauty.

I chose to hug my blood, friend and church family members because I still believe that love wins.

I chose to barbeque burgers with my best friend and his daughter because I still believe in fun.

I chose to take a lazy Sunday afternoon nap because I still believe in rest.

I chose to watch football because I still believe a little healthy competition is a good thing.

I chose to enjoy my cats' antics because I still believe in laughter.

I chose to keep moving forward because I still believe that no one holds me back but me.

I chose to heal because I still believe that in it there is joy.

I chose to celebrate the tiny future happinesses not only remember the horrors of the past because I still believe in dreams.

I chose to sleep at the end of the day because I still believe in peace.

I CHOSE all these ways to honor the lives lost and scarified because I still believe in freedom and justice for ALL.

Poetry

Twighlight
Faded Orb
Glow Through Pine
Melancholy
Purple

Island
Aged, Adored
Longing, Searching, Aching
Yearning, Siren Heartsong
Home

Ancient
Always Looming
Sea Rolls On and On
Dance Draws Me In
Mystic

Tribute

Eight 7th graders wade knee-deep through marshland with pencils and paper in one hand, sticks for collecting ‘specimen’ in the other. Splish. Splosh.
“Eeeewwww!”
All heads present turn in tandem.
“Ohhhhhhh, cool!” the boys chorus in reverent tones.
“Good job! That is algae!”
“Yay! Can we puh-lease go back to class now?” the girls ask.
“Yes, we can go back now” the teacher says with a grin. “I’ve got an example from everyone. Line up at the door like we do after recess!”
The girls are running without looking back.
However, the boys and one girl linger, still poking about in the bog.
“Awww, man! Do we have to go in?” she asks.

That girl was I. That bog was a tiny pond of water near my seventh grade classroom.
And that teacher was Mr. Edwards.
Mr. Edwards was not a charismatic personality or a snazzy dresser with handsome features. In fact, Mr. Edwards was, well, he was a geek. No question about it. He had slightly greasy hair with split ends that on good days looked like a small rodent on his head. His glasses were classic nerd style - big black frame, thick glass and yes, on occasion they had tape on them. His ever-present undershirt was always covered by a button up, tissue-thin cotton shirt that seemed to make a habit out of coming un-tucked when he sat down – which was often. He also wore fine gauge corduroy trousers that were a size too big and a belt cinched one notch to tight to compensate for the ill fitting garment. The look was awkward at best. He wore Nike knock-off sneakers that had a perpetual rubber sole flapping in rhythm to his walk. Every so often we kids would notice that the rubber sole had quit flapping and would ask if he got new shoes. I don’t think he ever did. He just took time every so often to glue the flapping piece back on.
So, while not overly fashion savvy, Mr. Edwards did love to teach science. He had majored in Biology and was eager to pass on his love for all things earth and animal related to we less-than-enthusiastic and unsuspecting 7th graders.
The school I attended was a very small private school in Alaska – two teachers and a few volunteer parent assistants for 25-ish 1st through 7th grade students. Mr. Edwards had to be diverse in his teaching material. He taught it all – Math, English, History, Geography and Reading. Bless his heart. But when Science time came around, the atmosphere changed in the class. There was more energy somehow.
I will never forget the day it was announced that the following Monday we would begin learning about anatomy – the anatomy of a frog, that is.
An awed hush fell and for brief moment 8 7th graders thought it was a great idea. Certainly we would not have to cut one open?!
“No, we will not be cutting ONE open”, said Mr. Edwards with a glimmer in his eye that only a careful observer would catch. A fleeting shimmer of relief washed over the girls in the room.
“No, each student will get their own frog!”
The girls were horrified at the idea but the boys and I were fascinated! There were simultaneous comments.
“That’s disgusting!”
“Coooooool!”
Over the course of the next few weeks we slowly and methodically dissected our frogs, learning about their various systems, muscular, skeletal, and respiratory. Certain images are crisp in my memory. I was strangely mesmerized with the goldge bodies that Mr. Edwards told us were there to help keep the frog warm. They were like fingers of fat that wrapped around the ribs and lungs. The smell of formaldehyde can still make me smile with fond recollection of Phil, my disemboweled frog.
On other occasions, Mr. Edwards taught us how to develop black and white negatives, helped us create a short movie about the Mayflower sailing to America,
coached us through research papers about the solar system, and taught us how to recreate the volcano at Pompeii with baking soda and vinegar. I will always remember the old rule of thumb, ‘heat expands, cold contracts’ because of an experiment that Mr. Edwards did with an old gas can. I had never seen a can squish up like that and obviously, never forgot it.
We also made a light bulb light up with a battery we created in class and made a real working telephone! It may have been the only time 8 7th graders were tongue-tied at the same time. No one knew what to say into the phone!
Despite all those wonderful concepts and projects that could have just stayed in books, Mr. Edwards taught us to go beyond the pages. He showed us how to have a love for nature. I doubt that I would remember learning anything about flora and fauna near our rural Alaskan schoolhouse except that he took the class for a walk up a hill to identify as many birds, bugs, trees, plants and flowers as we could. It was an adventure to take the concept of photosynthesis out of the book and put it into reality with leaves and sticks and plant roots. In fact, I sometimes think I smell the woody scent of birch bark and the faint sweetness of an Arctic Fireweed on a beautiful summer day when all seems right with the world.
Still, I think the most important thing I took away from my 7th grade science lessons from Mr. Edwards was that an understanding, appreciation and enjoyment of God’s creation shows me something of who God is. He has intentionally left His personality deeply embedded in a plant’s simple and yet complex structure.
So, now when I see a flower with exquisite color and design, I appreciate God’s beauty. When I see the leaves change colors in the autumn, I understand God’s sustaining power to let something ‘die’ and yet renew itself at the same time. I enjoy God’s power and authority in a raging thunderstorm and want to run into it and be swept up in the wildness.
So, to my geeky 7th grade science teacher, Mr. Edwards, I say, thank you. Thank you for teaching me to dig up algae with sticks that I may know more of God. 

A tasting of an idea for an inspirational book....

It was during those first few days in England that the reality of my finances sank in. In addition to the surprising depth of homesickness, intense worry over my money wracked my emotions. I was sick to my stomach and had to force myself to eat to keep up my strength. There was little joy in making and eating food as there usually had been in my past.

My greatest fear was that I would run out of money and have to go back to Boise, Idaho, my hometown, a failure and a disappointment for not being able to take care of myself. I had been raised with an intense sense of self-reliance and independence. If after only a few months, I had to go back to the United States it meant asking for financial help and feeling ashamed. I cried a lot in those days working through my fear and pleading with God to help me figure out how to make money to survive.

One afternoon, I was worrying and crying again as I put crunchies into my cat’s shiny new food dish. Petey bounded into the room and started munching.

Suddenly, God’s voice said, “Look at your cat! He doesn’t ask how you are going to feed him. When the food gets low he doesn’t run in circles around your feet wailing, “Mom, what are we going to do? What are we going to do?” He just knows that when the supply gets low, you fill his bowl. Do you trust Me like that?”

Pierced through the heart, I crumpled onto my sofa and prayed for that kind of simple trust. I can’t say the rest of the time in England was easy after that, but little by little the fear ebbed and I was able to begin asking new friends at church for help and I was able to get help from people back home. God also gave me ideas to save my money as I continued to live each day, one at a time. I didn’t have the full picture how God would meet all my needs, I just knew He would fill my ‘dish’ when I got ‘hungry’.

'Last Chance Cafe'

            The sun was sliding into the western horizon as I maneuvered my perfectly restored ’59 Stingray onto the crunching gravel. I slowed vigilantly to avoid throwing pebbles from the tires and chipping the sea-foam green paint. It had been a strenuous day of traveling from my hometown to, well, wherever here is.

The sun reflected off the filmy window of a small café and momentarily blinded me. I maneuvered the chrome-trimmed roadster into a slim parking space and stopped. My body reverberated with the memory of the vibrations of the road. It was only now that I took a deep breath and paused to study my immediate surroundings.

            The vehicle door clicked open and I was surprised to find that the air was nippy and laden with a mist that hovered in the tree-lined creek fringe. A thin layer of evening frost was beginning to form over the damp rocks and puddles in the drive-way. I wanted to dash indoors to a roaring fire and a steaming cup of cocoa.

            The diner was nothing special to look at. It was a flat-roofed, squat, square building that covered roughly a one thousand square foot area. Remnants of a flowerbed lined the front of the modest structure. The flowers were long dead from the cool autumn air that had replaced the warm summer breezes that they loved so much. Frozen, hanging low and stiff, the leaf points made miniature rainbow-like arcs against the faded paint. The trim color around the door looked as if it had been neglected for twenty years. It was peeling in jagged slivers that shuddered when the air stirred. The weather beaten wood was faded from seasons of sweltering sun and frigid wind.

            The only distinct sound, other than the other cars blindly speeding past the establishment, was that of a trickling brook somewhere behind the humble shack. Misty wisps of fog hovered in the air above the ambling stream like dancing apparitions.

            In the murky door window a randomly blinking and buzzing neon sign says, “Come one, Come All, Always Open, All the Time!” It beckoned me from the comfort of my plush vehicle. I stretched lazily and took in a breath of the refreshing cool air and began to walk toward the cozy looking refuge.

            As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I sensed something curious about the atmosphere of this café from the parking lot only five feet away. My pulse quickened and my blood thinned. I tugged on the door handle and pulled it open. As I stepped inside I smelled a heavenly scent and inhaled deeply. I closed my eyes to let the memory burn into my senses. It smelled like fresh baked bread, but even fresher. I was transported to a time in my life when I felt secure and loved without any doubts.

            Before I could exhale, someone walking by shook my hand. It wasn’t a flimsy fish grab, but a real ‘boy-are-we-glad-to-see-you! Sit-yourself-down-and-enjoy-your-stay!’ handshake.

From across the room someone yelled to me. They called me ‘friend’ and said, “Here’s your table waiting here!” I was momentarily shocked that they would have a table set and waiting for me. ME!? As I tentatively took my place, an old familiar face said, “Sit on down and welcome to the ‘Last Chance Café’!”

            I glanced at my watch to check the time. I knew I hadn’t been in the café but one minute, yet it felt as though I had been there all my life. I had never been much of one to follow parallel time lines, but I recognized that there was something very different about the way time moved in the café. It was if I were floating on the very edge of time. What a thrill! Suddenly, it didn’t matter what time it was. I sat back and drank in the sweet release from the dictates of societal rules. I didn’t HAVE to be anywhere! Oh, the taste of freedom from schedule pressures was intoxicating!

            As I sat there, I noticed that more people were coming in the diner door. I began to wonder how all these people would fit into this tiny café. But miraculously, they all came in and became part of the atmosphere. It was as though they all belonged there. Still, more people came and yet no one was turned away. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes and thought, “This could only happen here, at this mysterious ‘Last Chance Café’.

            The man who had spoken to me a few minutes before put his hand on my shoulder in a way that was gentle, yet full of power. I never wanted him to remove it. Somehow, just this simple touch was a comfort to my very soul. He leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Look around, this is a holy place”. A shiver shot up my spine.

I opened my eyes and beheld, as if for the first time, family and friends everywhere! In a flash, happy memories flooded through my mind. The visions of the past swept over me as we laughed and cried in each other’s arms. I knew that I had arrived at everywhere I had ever wanted to be. I was completely satisfied and fulfilled here in this humble café. I never wanted to leave this rapturous place! I felt as though I could spend forever here. I felt no shame as tears of joy streamed down my face without hesitation or pause.

All this time the man with this all-consuming presence continued to stand by me. I was acutely aware of him. I was enjoying the presence of my friends and family immensely, but his quiet strength seemed to press against me. I felt urgency within my self to give my attention to him, too. I felt slightly divided.

            When at last I did turn to face the man, smiling he said, “For two thousand years, I’ve been waiting here for you to come and join me at the ‘Last Chance Café’. It’s been waiting here, throughout all the years, this heaven made for you.”

            Could it be true? Heaven is in his tatty diner? No, it was far more than that. It was my destiny. I was in the midst of the relationship I had longed for all my life. I had finally arrived. I wept openly as all the desires of my heart were met in the company of this man. Leaning heavily on his shoulder, his arms supported my relief-wracked body. The fight, the battle, the tension of all my years was gone.

            “Yes, my darling. Welcome home. Well done.”

(inspired by the song, Last Chance Cafe, by Allies)

Hero

I recently watched the movie Footloose. I was pleasantly lulled back to a time when Kevin Bacon was a ‘fox’, the ‘Brat Pack’ set the fashion trends, and feathered hair ruled the prom.

I love the messages of Footloose. ‘Celebrate!’ ‘This is our time!’ ‘Dance!’ ‘Break free!’ Yet somewhere, between the bouncing music, peach chiffon dresses and frilly tuxedoes, I had forgot that those kids were angry. They were angry at being fenced in, tied down and cooped up. The rules and restrictions placed on them pressed in relentlessly. They just wanted a little space to be young and to dance.

I was one of those angry teens. I was angry that life did not work out the way I thought it was supposed to. I naively thought that if I liked my friends enough, then they would automatically like me, too. Instead, what I learned was that betrayal and mistrust was my ‘normal’.

The weight of the unwritten rules was oppressive. ‘Conform or be shunned’. I felt caught in a boxing match with no training. I was trapped against the ropes, cringing in fear of the next blow.

The best help I received? Well meaning adults telling me that ‘Life is not fair. That’s just how it is.’ In other words, give up. Resign yourself to thinking that “This is as good as it gets.”

I often thought, “What?! THIS is God’s best for me? THIS is God’s great plan for my life?” What a colossal disappointment!

Ohhhh…yes. It made me angry.

Though time and maturity have healed many old wounds of my heart, I have made a fresh discovery. I am still angry.

I admit, I am a little angry when I run out of coffee. I am slightly more angry when tools break when I need them most. But ultimately, I am angry when dreams begin to come true but come unraveled. I am angry when I think I’m right only to find out later that I was wrong. I am angry that my friends suffer physical pain. I am angry when my own doubts and fears disappoint me. I am angry when a friend loses a needed job. I am angry when a relationship ends. I am angry when people I love stay mired in their mess. I am angry when a loved one dies. I am angry when I feel guilty for being angry!

However, the Bible says there is a time to be angry. It’s okay to be angry at pain, suffering and injustice. It’s okay to rage against poverty, destruction and death. That’s how bad situations get better. Someone usually gets very angry which turns the tide and breaks the “status quo”.

The question facing me is this: what will I do with my anger? Will I lash out? Will I push it deep, deep within myself, pretending to ignore it?

Or will I choose to run headlong into it with a fiery defiance that channels the emotional energy to bring justice and relief? Will I get angry enough to take a stand against the lie that says, “Life is not fair. That’s just how it is. It doesn’t get any better than this”?

I would like to think that my anger has been refocused and redirected to create some positive change in this rough world. I wish that someone were a little better because they were friends with me. I hope that I have been strong enough to make some sort of impact against the forces of opposition.

In reality, some days I wonder if I am effective in my prayers and my actions. I feel torn between giving up and going on. Some days I feel worn out by the fight. I feel hopeless, trampled down, and completely inadequate. In those moments I say, “I can’t do this!”

That’s when I think to myself, “I need a Hero!”

I need Someone who will be strong for me. I need Someone who’s perfect timing thwarts the onslaught of the fiery arrows of wicked accusations. I need Someone who knows how to outwit the plans of evil; Someone familiar with the enemy’s tactics and will counterattack on my behalf. I need Someone who has the power and authority to bring change that lasts, to bring justice and truth to any situation. I need Someone who is secure enough to not let the dark places of my heart scare Him. I need Someone who protectively watches over every move I make and knows exactly what I need to keep fighting. I need Someone who also knows when it’s time to give me a reprieve from the raging battle.

Sometimes, when I sleep, I dream of a Gandolf-like figure that surges into my desperation on a white stallion and sweeps me off my feet to a place of triumph, security, rest. In my reverie He approaches me with power and gentleness, authority and peace, safety and wildness. Being with Him revitalizes and invigorates me. His presence burns like fire in my blood.

When I awaken, my passion and intensity concentrate into a fierce desire to fight for freedom for the imprisoned, the oppressed and the burdened once again.

In the red-skied dawn my Hero and I charge from our mountain fortress with a purple and gold banner splayed, proclaiming “Victory!” to those who will join us in battle! Joy is our strength! Love is our motivation! Hope is our message!

So, COME! DANCE! CELEBRATE! Our Hero is here!

(Inspired by Holding Out For A Hero, by Bonnie Tyler, from the movie Footloose)

A Writing Assignment...

This story was inspired by a writing assignment for The Writers Guild. (The underlined words/phrases were required for the assignment.) 

I am inviting suggestions for how to show this story more. It seems to just tell the story. Please email me with any ideas! Thank you!

She waited in the shadows at the glossy piano with trembling fingers. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes then curled and uncurled her fingers three times, her ritual. In anticipation of the events of the evening yet to unfold, she strained to control her inner vibrations. The spotlight clunked on with a glare. The emerald dress enhanced her crimson hair glistening in the intense light.

            Gradually exhaling, her fingers began dancing gracefully through their rehearsed routine. They winged over the keys of ivory and ebony with the agility of a ballerina performing a pirouette.

The final notes faded amid cheers and applause of the crowd. She stood to her feet with poise and bowed to the eager audience. One tall, distinguished, man stood out from the throng. He smiled broadly through his neat 3-day stubble. He was so strong and being with him made her feel safe. She could hardly wait until she was in his arms.

She turned and floated off the stage with a sense of pride and accomplishment. It was the only time in her illustrious career with no mistakes during the performance. She felt like she glowed, her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Backstage, she waited with the others participants for the concert to end. She paced the floor and looked at the backstage door wishing he would walk into her waiting arms. In reality, the time was shorter than a New York minute.

In a self-confident manner with all the pride he could muster, he slowly swaggered up to her and swooped her off the floor. He kissed her cheek and spun her around twice. The adoration was apparent. She’d never been so happy. She giggled like the schoolgirl she really was.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed.

“Sweetheart, you were magnificent! You played perfectly! I’m so proud of you!” he gushed, re-setting her on the floor and taking her hand.

“Do I deserve a treat, Daddy?” she asked bashfully.

“A treat? What a good idea. How does triple chocolate cheesecake with an Oreo crustsound to you?”

“It sounds good, Daddy, but that’s not even close to what I want!”

“Okay, okay, let me guess again. How about a hot fudge sundae with a cherry and rainbow sprinkles?” he suggested.

“Nope.” She loved this game.

They began walking toward the doors to the parking lot where their blue, faithful, rusty Ford pickup waited.

“Oh, I know what you want; a hot brownie with vanilla ice cream, drizzled with caramel syrup.”

She squeezed his hand and said with playful reproof, “Daddy! You know what I really want.”

“Hmmmmm”, was his reply as if he was deep in thought. They walked slowly in silence for another moment.

Suddenly, he stopped and in one very stealth move, he reached into his coat pocket and said, “Maybe I do know what you want…”

Their eyes locked with full expectancy. He magically produced the long awaited, wax paper wrapped treat. In unison they shouted, “A pickle!”