The Wise One

On August 17, 2007 a stranger approached Dia and I outside of Trader Joe's.  Quite randomly she began telling me all about Dia, her future, and this: She said Dia picked me as a mom 2-3 years before she was born and that she'd chosen well.  She said I was placed on this earth for a very specific purpose and that Dia picked me to help me carry out that purpose.  She said I wrote incredibly well but that my writing wasn’t for me, it was for “us” (meaning her and collectively other people) but that we have Free Will so it was up to me to see to that.  Only when I asked, did she tell me her name was Antonia and I think she said her last name was Love and then she said goodbye.  She didn’t want anything, wasn’t selling anything, didn’t even suggest a website, book or anything.  It was crazy, but awesome.  And it has stuck with me since.

Today, not quite 5 years later, I was reminded of that foretelling when I was chatting with Dia about my latest blog post.  I was waffling on whether to post it at all much less whether to broadcast it on Facebook.  I was worried, because it speaks of God, that it might offend people.  As I was working through this dilemma out loud, I began to wonder why I even had my blog in the first place.  I explained to Dia (and myself) that practically no one reads it and I honestly don't know the purpose of it.  Why do I even write the blog at all?

"It's your hobby, Mom."  Dia began.  "It's what you do.  You write.  You're a writer.  That's why you never feel like anyone loves you - because you aren't doing what you love more.  You should write for everyone.  You are so good at it."

I began to smile, but didn't respond because I didn't want to break her train of thought.  Of course I loved hearing the words.  I was flattered and happy but I felt like she was going somewhere with this.  She was.

"You need to write your book.  Just do it.  Just finish it.  Then once that's done, you need to write many more children's books and take them to the schools.  Children need books, Mom, and they don't have enough.  You tell the best stories.  You should make them into books if you can remember them.  You should make Turtle and Hippo into a book.  I'll draw the pictures for you."  She thought about that last little bit and decided "Grandma will draw the pictures.  I'll color them in."  

She smiled with that and nodded with a satisfied expression.  I looked at her and just smiled back.  "I love you." I said finally.

I know it's a child's perspective.  I know I can't just write a book and take it to the schools.  I know I can't make a living as an author of children's books.  I mean, who do I think I am - Dr. Seuss?  I've also always been haunted by Antonia's statement that I was placed on this earth to carry out a specific purpose and that my writing was for the collective good.  How is a story about a turtle and a hippo going to better this world?  

Anyway - that's where my mind went when I was given a chance to think a little bit.  Of course those thoughts are nothing more than doubts and fear, but if you asked me I would say I'm being realistic.  My Dia, though?  She believes in me.  She believes it all can happen.  So why shouldn't I believe as well?

What could you accomplish if no one told you it was impossible?

Let's go find out.

Our Father

I began praying this morning while out on my early morning walk with Mandy.  The birds were singing and flitting about in such chorus and circus that my thoughts went to Erin my bird loving friend.  I wished I could record the birds' song or their flight or describe it in prose for her, but my camera is my phone and my writing is ... lacking still.  Nothing I had in my arsenal would do the job.  I thought about how badly I wanted to share this moment with her and then I realized what I really want is her well again.  So I began praying  "Our Father..."

As I searched for the right words, the right prayer, the right posture I suddenly was hit with a horrible realization:  I am a crisis Christian.

I want so much to believe in a God the Father, a puppeteer that has our fate in His omnipotent hands.  I want so much to believe that my dad, my great-aunt, my grandparents and my pets are all in heaven watching over me until the day I join them.  I want to believe in heaven as an unimaginably beautiful place where peace, joy and happiness prevail.   I want to believe in prayer and that a few words thrown towards the heavens would tug at the heartstrings of a guardian angel or God Himself and He could make it all right again.  He could cure Erin; He could ensure my friend's daughter doesn't have cancer; He could make it so Dia never gets sick again and He could similarly answer all the prayers of my friends and loved ones.

But I don't believe in God that way.  I just pray to that God when I really need something. 

To start at a silly and simple level, I can't imagine how horrifying it would be to have to answer to my dad, my great-aunt, my grandparents and even my pets about all the things they've watched me do here on earth.  Oh, I'm sure they'd be in their angelic all-forgiving "I'm OK you're OK" mode by the time I'm knocking on the pearlies, but I'm not sure I'd consider that level of embarrassment any form of heaven.

And while on that subject, I happen to be a huge fan of this earth.  I walk every morning and love what He's done with the place.  Even when I lived in Indianapolis and there wasn't much to appreciate, I could find an amazing tree or a sunbeam breaking through the clouds and just marvel in His handiwork.  Besides - my bucket list could double as a travelogue.  My heaven would be to get to stay here on earth until I saw all the wonders of the world twice.  This blue speck of spinning flora, fauna, architecture and human spirit is my heaven.

Yet on a much more philosophical level, I have trouble believing in a God that could cast entire creeds of people to the depths of hell for not accepting a prescribed Lord and Savior.  How could a loving father turn away His children in the same manner riff-raff would be turned away from an elite country club?

Nor can I believe in a God that would banish a person to eternal damnation for the way he conducts himself sexually.  Here's a tidbit for you:  I have seen a walrus masturbate.  A walrus!  I even have the photo to prove it!  I'm pretty sure he wasn't sinning - he was just being a dude walrus with dude walrus urges.  Is he destined to go to walrus hell for a sexual perversion?   Honestly?  Gay, straight, upside down, missionary or alone - I just cannot believe that God would care that much about how we do it.  With everything else on His plate, don't you think He just wants us to love each other - Golden Rule style?

The biggest part of the dogma for me, though - the one where the leap of faith is jumping the Grand Canyon on a pogo stick - is that there is no way that I can believe in an all powerful and loving being that would allow a child to suffer or die.

I understand "things" die.  But "things" should be very old and ready to leave this earth.  A 13 year old girl should not be fighting for her life in a hospital bed with her terrified parents at her side.  A young mother should not be waging war with cancer while her children suffer the fear of potentially losing her.  God the Father?  What kind of father would stand by and allow that when he could so easily do something to make it all better?

I've lived in the bible belt and I've probably heard all the 'why' answers there are to that question, but none of them sit right with me.  Perhaps the most compelling argument I've heard is that God as the Father is as different to a human father as a lion father is to us.  Lions are rumored to kill their own cubs in times of starvation or in fits of rivalry.  Certainly, though there are crazy exceptions, human fathers do not have to be quarantined away from their newborn child to ensure the baby doesn't fall victim at his father's jealous or hungry hands.  In the same way, God the Father has superior reasons for why He does what He does and it cannot be compared to the simplistic actions of a primitive human father. 

I can kind of believe that I suppose.  Or maybe I just want to believe that because I want to believe the whole story.  That way I don't have to be afraid.  If it is true, then my own life doesn't have to end when I depart this body in which I reside.  If it is true I might not be so powerless.  I can grab a little magic and some hope.  I can pray for my friends' recoveries, my daughter's health, my children's safety and I can believe emphatically that it will all come to pass. 

A wise woman once advised me to follow religion a la carte.  Instead of ordering the entree with a bunch of sides I can't swallow, I should choose the dishes I can stomach and come back for seconds on the ones that really sit well with me.  I suppose, after a baptism, a confirmation and years in the church it's understandably hard for me to be as  laissez-faire as that, but I try.  I do believe in some force and have discovered I have a lean toward Buddhist thinking.  I try to be Christ-like and compassionate.  I say grace at dinner to send gratitude, thanks and energy out to the universe in a more social setting.  I have found great comfort in the teachings of several famous and not-so famous monks and, yes, I happen to be a very big fan of Jesus.  I like the idea of a gentle, peaceable, all-loving man that could touch so very many people in such a brief life.  I am not so certain about the dogma surrounding Jesus, but perhaps that doesn't matter.  If the dogma is true, especially in the more conservative beliefs, I imagine I'm headed for hell in the end.  In the meantime, though, (at least if I remember this correctly) I think He will still receive my prayers.

In that case?
Our Father, who art in Heaven, please forgive me for being so uncertain.  I am sure, no matter what form you truly exist in, you can see into my heart so it's silly for me to try to string together a series of words just right.  You are wise enough to know I'm just trying to manipulate your will.  

You know who is weighing heavy on my mind, God.  You know how badly I want my friend to win her war with cancer.  You know how much I want that little girl to come back with a clean bill of health.  You know how I am utterly incapable of living this life if anything ever happened to my own children.  Please, God, lay your hands on them and cure, heal and protect them and let them remain here on earth healthy and happy.  Amen**

Matthew 19:13  Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray: and the disciples rebuked them. ¹⁴But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. ¹⁵And he laid his hands on them, and departed thence. 

**Important Update:  About 14 hours after I wrote this blog post, I received an update from my friend whose daughter was undergoing tests for cancer.  The final test came back clear!  They cannot find any cancer and she is even fever free, eating and on the mend.  Maybe God just gave me a great big BooYah Gran'ma in my face.  Well played, Sir.  Well played indeed.

The Monsters Inside

We finished watching "We Bought a Zoo" and I had to take Mandy out for a quick walk before we could turn in for the night.  "Do you want to come with or stay here?" I asked Dia.  "Come with" she said.  So I got her bundled up, got the leash on the dog and started the loop around the neighborhood.

She wanted to be carried, so I carried her.  Muffled a bit through her hat and scarf and my hood, I heard her wondering aloud about the monsters the boy drew in the movie.  "Why did he draw the monsters?"  she asked.  She said they kind of freaked her out.  "He was sad and angry because his Momma had died." I explained.  "Sometimes people feel monstrous when they are sad or angry."

"I feel monstrous when (a boy at school) makes fun of the way I run." she confessed.

"What does he say?" I asked.

"He calls me a slow poke and says I run funny."

My child, people, does run funny.  Something isn't right in her mechanics.  Perhaps it is in her hips, maybe in her feet... perhaps she simply needs more practice.  Perhaps, though, it's something far more serious - something that we are trying to run down right now with the doctors.  Something, perhaps, that no one should ever mock.  So hearing her say this... and further hearing that she is aware of what others think ...  well, that made all kinds of emotions rise up in me.

But I had to shove those emotions down.

So I told her I wished I could talk with her friends at school.  I wished I could ask them what good they think could come of making fun of another person.  I wished I could ask them if they think that mocking Dia would somehow motivate her to run better.  I wished I could ask them who mocked them about things they didn't do well and how they felt about that.

Instead, as I carried her in my arms and walked the dog around the block, I told her a story .  I'll share it here with you too:
****************************
I played softball once in my life.  For whatever reason, we never played softball in any gym class I ever took, so I was 30 years old before I even considered the idea.  A friend was putting together a co-ed softball team through work and was desperate for female players.  She begged me to join.  When I told her I'd never played in my life and that I was terrified I would suck and even more terrified that everyone would laugh at me, she assured me it was all for fun.  So I joined.

At my first at bat I got reprimanded by the umpire that no wrist watches were allowed.  God only knows why, but fine - I took it off.  Then I struck out.  On my second (and last) at bat I actually hit the ball.  I threw the bat behind me and went running.  Yet insult to injury resulted in this action as I not only got scolded by the ump again (no throwing of bats in softball) but I also just lobbed the ball right back to the pitcher.  Easy out.

My outfield attempts were worse than that.  I caught the ball OK, but couldn't throw it back into play from left field.  Still, I ended the night having had a fairly good time and ready to try again the following week.

But the next day at work it got quickly back around to me that the very person that begged me to sign up - the very person that assured me that it was all in fun - the very person that swore no one would make fun of me for sucking up the place - was having a great time replaying my foibles from the previous night.  Apparently, she was getting terrific laughs re-telling what a horrible klutz I was and how bad I sucked at softball.

That was the one and only time I've ever played softball in my life.

Contrary to this story (I told my dear Dia, while still walking around the block) at my next job my boss convinced me to join an over 30 indoor soccer league.  Most of the women on the team had never played, she said.  Most of them simply knew of the game through their children.  It would be fun, she promised.  So I stepped out of my comfort zone and joined the team.

That period of my life was the happiest I had ever known before I had Dia.  It wasn't just the soccer - Tim and Chey and I were awesomely happy; I adored my job; I was running in races - I had all types of things that balanced me out and made my heart soar - but I cannot belittle the contribution that silly soccer team had on that happiness.  This was a team of women that only cheered each other on.  We never ever won a game, but you wouldn't know that by the way we celebrated each goal.  I think the best person on the team by far was that boss that recruited me.  The rest of us were mediocre to terrible - but, again, you'd have never known it by the way we acted toward each other.  And the miracle of it all?  We got better.  Every single one of us got better.  Our first game we lost 16-0 (seriously - this is soccer, people!) and by the last game of the season we lost 3-2.  Hell yeah, baby.  We were contenders.
*******************************

I told Dia the stories just a bit differently than I'm telling you here.  I took out the less-than-appropriate language and kind of simplified it (she can get bored when I drone on about things), but my point in telling it is the same:  I wonder what anyone who tells Dia she's a slowpoke or points out that she runs funny thinks they are accomplishing.  Why did my so-called friend make fun of me after my first try at softball?  My guess?  I suppose that it made them feel better about themselves.  I just cannot imagine it could possibly be that they thought it would benefit Dia, in her case, or me, in mine.

But there is a part that haunts me a bit.  I've seen it a thousand times.  It comes from the parents.  The taunting.  The teasing.  The ... well, honestly?... bullying ... that parents levy upon their kids in an attempt to encourage, motivate, or improve their children's performance.  I wish there was a candid camera on every one of these parents so they could watch their kids shrivel and cower in response to this type of 'motivation.'

By the way?  It doesn't actually motivate them except to try to make the pain you are causing them to stop.  It creates monsters inside them and teaches them to speak cruelly to kids like Dia - to make fun of them instead of trying to understand or, better, trying to help.  When they cannot improve beyond what is being asked of them, this type of  "motivation"  motivates them only to criticize others. 

If you have influence in a child's life, please watch your words and please teach them compassion.  Please teach them that things may not be so black and white.  Please teach them that, when they see someone not as strong, smart or beautiful as they are,  there is a chance, at least, that the other person's story is deeper than skin deep. 

In Dia's case?  I might have a kid fighting for her life.  Or I might have a kid whose motor development is just not like the others.  But regardless she is so much like the others in that she wants to be validated, approved of and loved.  In that way, I have a kid exactly like yours.  I don't want her to give up and never ever want to play again.  I want her to run free with no monsters hiding in her subconscious mind.

- KEC

** A special thanks to Asher, who at a recent party told Dia "The other kids may think you run really slow, but I think you are fast."  Thank you sweet angel boy.  Thank you so much.

Bittersweet Wishes

"You will make 2 wishes." the volunteer at The Gentle Barn instructed.  "One for the birthday girl and one for yourself.  Place your hands on the wishing well, then make the wishes and clap two times."

Dia listened in rapt attention to these instructions.  She's a big believer in all things magical.   She even considers herself to be a fairy princess, though contends that she hasn't received her wings yet nor any magic since she hasn't completed the full course of fairy hopscotch.  As far as I can decipher, fairy hopscotch is much like Jedi training and has nothing to do with hopping, squares or throwing pebbles.  Regardless, she hasn't conquered that crucial next step in fairy-dom, so she is an apt student and a welcome recipient of magic from other sources.

I watched as she took it all in, ever serious.  I saw her place her hands on the well's walls.  She bowed her head as if in prayer, closed her eyes ... tighter, tighter ...  She relaxed a bit and began again.  The first wish must have been completed.  She repeated the process, opened her eyes and clapped twice.

As we walked back down to the lower barns, where a birthday party feast was awaiting us, she held my hand.  "I can't tell you what I wished for, you know."
"I know." I assured her. (I knew the rules.)
"Well, I can tell you what I wished for Katya." she considered.
"OK"
"I wished that she will love the present I got her."
I told her how sweet of a wish that was and smiled.  She's always taken the role of such things very seriously.  She considers the gifts she chooses so incredibly carefully and always worries that they might not be exactly right.  It was so "Dia" to wish that Katya would love her gift.
She interrupted my thoughts.  "I think it's OK to tell you what I wished for too." she said.
"It would be an honor to hear it."
"I wished that I would never be sick again.  A little girl once wished on that wishing well for this" she swept her arms around to illustrate the 'this' she was referring to "and that wish came true.  Maybe my wish can come true too."
"I wish that too, darlin'." I said.

We were to the party by that time.  There wasn't anyone there, really, to share the moment with and, besides, the way I felt about it at the time was hardly festive.  All that we've been through over the past few weeks have made me realize how daunting life can be.  Even here, in amongst these blog pages, I've wished for love, admitted that I've wished for 'more,' and certainly in my heart I've wished for money, for nicer things, for a skinnier body, for a younger face.  Yet, when your body fails you - or worse, when your child's body fails them - all those things seem irrelevant.  It comes down to one thing.  You wish them well again.

So I do wish that for Dia.  I just also wish, at just 6 years old, she didn't feel the need to wish that too.

-kec