tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369642942024-02-19T19:35:58.886-05:00Notes from the HomefrontOne mom's musings on family and faith... and the crazy stuff in between.Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-47387907679413980362015-12-13T22:48:00.000-05:002015-12-13T22:48:36.905-05:00Remember me?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> It never fails.
A student, long-graduated, stops by my classroom at the end of the school day
and asks the same question, “Remember me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I sometimes think this is sweet
vengeance for all the pop quizzes I may have given over the years. And truth be
told, after getting my education degree more than 30 years ago, I can’t possibly
begin to recall all the names of students gone by. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But that doesn’t mean I don’t
remember. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so I want to once and for all say to each and
every student I have ever had:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes, I remember you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t care if you were the
quietest student in class, or the one who competed for attention daily. It
doesn’t matter whether your hand shot up with every question I asked, or if
your eyes darted to the ground each time, praying you wouldn’t get called on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I remember you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You see, even as an English teacher,
I can do the math. And we spend 180 days together –for close to an hour a day.
Together. I realize that the time I spend standing in your presence might be
longer than any amount of time you spend with many of the adults in your life who
share your last name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Trust me, I never forget that. It
matters to me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i> matter to me. Because
you, your story, and your personality are unique and belong only to you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sure, you spend a good portion of
your school career trying to fit in, blend in, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be </i>in. But what I honestly remember about you is your uniqueness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I remember you, my student who got
so mad one day about the school lunch. This seemed a petty concern to me until
I finally discovered your free lunch was the only meal you’d sometimes get each
day. And yet, when I’d offer you food, you’d turn it down unless everyone in
the class got food too. I’ll never forget that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I remember you –the one who
wouldn’t look me in the eye for the first half of the year. But in one writing
assignment, you pulled the veil completely off and showed me who you were. And
it was beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And of course, I remember you—the
student who left class every day announcing, “Thanks for the class –have a
great day,” while paying no attention to the rolling eyes of your classmates
behind you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I remember you, and you, and
you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The one who barely talked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The one who talked too much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Somewhere, in my heart, I remember
you all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>True, I cannot recall your name as
often as I used to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honestly, I can’t
recall the names of my current students all the time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s a cognitive overload thing; maybe
it’s a getting older thing. But don’t for a minute confuse recall with
remembering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because, I swear to you, I remember.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One day, you might understand the
difference. And on that day, far from today, you most likely won’t remember the
name of the crazy English teacher who got so excited each day when she stood in
front of the classroom and introduced a new novel or writing assignment. You
may not recall what imagery is and you certainly won’t care about prepositions.
And that’s ok. I don’t kid myself into believing you will remember most of the
things I taught you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sure it’d be nice if, after my
class, you sounded more intelligent when you spoke or wrote something. And I
truly do hope you would have learned that reading is a gift, not a punishment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But beyond all that, whether you
will remember my name or my curriculum and learning goals, I want the most
valuable thing you learned from me during our 180 hours together to be one very
important fact that I tried to teach you each and every day:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You are, indeed, worth remembering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-36159088671095988502014-08-21T19:31:00.000-04:002014-08-21T19:31:06.799-04:00Dear World<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Dear
World,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Are
you ready for my Evan?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Are
you ready for my fourth child who wears a “Coolest Grandpa in America”
sweatshirt? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Are
you braced for his wild mismatched socks and even wilder sense of humor?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Are
you ready for a young man who can quote any sports stat imaginable, who also
named his band after a quote from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Great Gatsby</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Can
you handle someone who knows as much about the perfect way to grill a hamburger
as he knows about the perfect way to perform a song in front of hundreds of
people?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Can
you completely be ready for someone who, a couple of years ago decided he liked
the name Wolfgang, so he asked people to start calling him that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, they did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Are
you ready, world?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Nineteen
years ago, when my husband told a co-worker we were expecting our fourth child,
the co-worked inquired, “Oh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this
your last one?” to which my husband responded, “No, the last one was the last
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one is a bonus.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">And
that was true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">You
see, the dictionary says the word “bonus” means “<span style="color: #1a1a1a;">something
welcome and often unexpected that enhances something that is itself good.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">And al</span><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">l
these years later, knowing Evan (or Wolfgang) he, indeed, is something welcome
and unexpected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But nineteen years ago,
I couldn’t have had a clue as to how much that bonus baby would enrich my life.
I didn’t know how his unique perspective or his funny personality would color
my life with the richness of a deep hue I’d never known. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">And
now that bonus baby is about to share his perspective and personality with you,
dear world, via Oxford and Miami University.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">And
as I get ready to watch him walk away in those mismatched socks, I realize “bonus
baby” may not have been the perfect term after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the word “bonus” means something
wonderful, it also implies something that you could have managed to live
without.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my fourth child, whatever
you call him, is indeed, someone I needed for my life to be complete.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">So,
I take a deep breath and watch my last baby, my Evan, my Wolfgang, walk forward
into his (undoubtedly colorful) future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">And
I will watch you, dear world, embrace him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Please
be good to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Keep
him safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">And
of course, laugh with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">I
suspect you, dear world, are ready for this last child of mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;">I
know for certain, he is ready for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB80S3v2Xi9sFCM8WQUaJ2K4Gob25FOwVC7mbMsLrRqPuo17stYrS8Q3Pnrnfz-rsNzwC1-pzRl_-KJwvhMFREbjVU_LAq9c4XK6iJGNuIq5RAJzul5qY2pZDNyFbl_hAQXRSeVQ/s1600/Evan+in+the+grass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB80S3v2Xi9sFCM8WQUaJ2K4Gob25FOwVC7mbMsLrRqPuo17stYrS8Q3Pnrnfz-rsNzwC1-pzRl_-KJwvhMFREbjVU_LAq9c4XK6iJGNuIq5RAJzul5qY2pZDNyFbl_hAQXRSeVQ/s1600/Evan+in+the+grass.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sincerely – Evan/Wolfgang’s proud mom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-53063999386819891102014-02-03T18:51:00.001-05:002014-02-03T18:51:36.683-05:00Diana <br />
It was the end of September when I saw my cousin at my dad’s 80th birthday celebration. As we had both just started wandering through the complicated maze of our new school years, burdened by the new teacher evaluation procedures, that topic monopolized our conversation. <br />
We had become teachers at the same time, close to thirty years earlier and had seen proposed changes and complications come and go to the teaching system; but this new system packed with tests after tests for students and task after task for teachers, was agreed to be the most concerning yet. And so we spent our time together discussing this evaluation system and how this year was destined to be our toughest year yet. <br />
A few days later, she would find out she had cancer.
<br />
A few months later, she would be gone.
<br />
Looking back, I think of so many more worthwhile topics we could have spent our last big conversation on.
Maybe we could have remembered summer weeks spent together at grandma and grandpa’s house picking beans and then snapping them on the front porch while listening for the sound of the noon whistle that alerted us to grandpa and his white truck coming home for lunch from the mill. <br />
Perhaps we could have laughed at how we would race up the gravel driveway, arriving breathless to the end of the apple orchard to wait for grandpa to pull in, lower the truck’s gate and take us on a ride around the orchard while we bopped up and down, certain one of us would bounce out, if we didn’t hold on to each other. <br />
We might have spent our precious time that day discussing shared secrets, whispered dreams and girlish giggles that filled our youth.
We could have reminisced about our weddings, our children, our shared hobby of crocheting which grandma had taught us both during those summer vacations spent together.
<br />
But instead, we spent one of our last moments together lamenting on the dark shadow of the new teacher evaluation looming before us. <br />
These few months later, I am less a fan of the teacher evaluation system than ever, and I’m sure, had she been here, my cousin and I would have more to complain about today. <br />
But she’s not here. <br />
And that fact is enough to wake me up to what is really important in my life. <br />
This teacher evaluation and all the hoopla that accompanies it is here. It will do what it needs to do and then move on for something else to eventually take its place and sooner-or-later, concern us as well. But I am going to try not to dwell in that shadow of its darkness anymore.
There are far more wonderful things to discuss with the people in my life. There are infinitely more precious memories to share as well as make today.<br />
I guess we all need to be reminded from time to time that we never know when the last conversation we have with someone might truly be the last conversation we have. <br />
One day I believe there will be a worthwhile evaluation of my life and it will have nothing to do with scales and tests and data. And today, I better understand how I want to spend the precious time I have between now and that ultimate Judgment Day.
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gUbpmFLq_lMpEWE8AF0hrvxy1bKRi0G2-5sOzomJW5DdQjvnUnKEr68dCDgR03_N2wAiG0D_J7g40myrLXnUft5QyJbW1TiyK26Gu-Y6vXQDe_HC1vZqsW18mtPA-xo-CFGLfA/s1600/Diana+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gUbpmFLq_lMpEWE8AF0hrvxy1bKRi0G2-5sOzomJW5DdQjvnUnKEr68dCDgR03_N2wAiG0D_J7g40myrLXnUft5QyJbW1TiyK26Gu-Y6vXQDe_HC1vZqsW18mtPA-xo-CFGLfA/s1600/Diana+pic.jpg" height="320" width="292" /></a></div>
Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-45332470731564711542013-11-20T12:14:00.001-05:002013-11-20T12:14:12.885-05:00Blink Hello, my little one!<br />
Welcome to my world.<br />
Your first breaths<br />
become my last<br />
breaths I ever breathe<br />
without thinking of you.<br />
And as you lie upon my chest<br />
nestled close to my heart,<br />
I wonder what being a mommy will hold<br />
as I smile and breathe in your delicious baby smell<br />
and promise not to blink.<br />
<br />
But I must have….<br />
<br />
Because now you are learning to walk<br />
One toddler foot in front of another<br />
Your dancing eyes lock on mine<br />
determination oozing from your beaming smile.<br />
You can do it…you can do it.<br />
And you do<br />
as I smile and breathe in your delightful giggle<br />
and promise not to blink.<br />
<br />
But I must have…<br />
<br />
Because now you are trying to ride a bike<br />
Wobbling, weaving, zigging and zagging.<br />
Slowly, my steadying hand<br />
becomes less necessary.<br />
You can do it…you can do it.<br />
And you do.<br />
as I smile and breathe in your exhilarating joy.<br />
And promise not to blink<br />
<br />
But I must have…<br />
<br />
Because now you are entering<br />
Kindergarten…<br />
First grade…<br />
Middle School…<br />
High School…<br />
College…<br />
You can do it… you can do it<br />
And you do.<br />
As I smile and breathe in the wonder of the woman<br />
standing next to me.<br />
preparing for life on her own<br />
miles and miles away from home<br />
yet still so close to my heart.<br />
Wondering what waits for you now,<br />
I must remind myself to breathe.<br />
I can do it….I can do it.<br />
<br />
“Welcome to your world, my little one.<br />
Take a deep breath<br />
…and promise me you won’t blink.”Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-56253133139282510842013-03-17T18:20:00.000-04:002013-03-17T18:20:19.766-04:00Habemus Papam!<br />
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyIUxz2t1MFlsA76GgVBZYBMt74iOeJvVHsUe5tz_ED2cQEMgUHkqY6zW8U3WilXYJgGIlLQM1oKRx__1sgtFQb69yM0r9BLpVMkbH5XlIt8K0RzQguti272xnZ7i1b-jhWiW-Q/s1600/vatican-smoke-stack_2_lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyIUxz2t1MFlsA76GgVBZYBMt74iOeJvVHsUe5tz_ED2cQEMgUHkqY6zW8U3WilXYJgGIlLQM1oKRx__1sgtFQb69yM0r9BLpVMkbH5XlIt8K0RzQguti272xnZ7i1b-jhWiW-Q/s200/vatican-smoke-stack_2_lg.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: #454545;">I saw the puff
of smoke.</span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">And I
smiled. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Really
smiled. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I smiled one of
those smiles where you know you look silly because you are grinning like a
Cheshire cat. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>But I didn’t
care. I was happy. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I
was proud.</span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">I was proud to be witnessing a fascinating
tradition that is 2000 years old. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I
was proud of the way the whole Vatican news had been handled.</span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">As a Catholic, I
don’t always look forward to turning on the national news or opening my morning
paper. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>In the last many
years, there has simply been some horrible news to report. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And some of the news has simply been
reported horribly. </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">And so it is
extra special when the Church that you love can again be seen in the light of
its heritage, steeped in the traditions that have seen it not just survive, but
thrive over the years. </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">It seems like
the blink of an eye when the last puff of white smoke arose to a waiting world,
signaling the new Shepherd of a Church of 1.2 billion Catholic sheep. But that blinking eye has actually been eight
years of a new pontifical power. And
those eight years culminated in a history-making retirement that lent itself to
another round of majestic moments of tradition for a faith community and a
waiting world. Perhaps it was the very essence of the practically unprecedented
papal retirement juxtaposed against the never-changing pomp and circumstance of
selection that fascinated me the most this time. The completely unexpected
aligning itself with the comfort of the expected reminds us of both the mystery
and majesty of God’s plans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">So I sat on a Wednesday
afternoon with the rest of the world, completely transfixed by the whole
glorious spectacle of the selection of a new Pope. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I confess I would have to stifle a smirk
when people would ask me if I thought the new Pope would be less conservative
in his leadership. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>That
seems a bit like asking if the new principal is still going to require that the
students take math and English classes. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>But
I loved the question. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I loved
the fact that it was covered to the degree that we saw.</span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">And then I saw
the puff of white smoke. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I
heard the announcement. “Habemus Papam!”<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And
even I was surprised that my broad smile gave way to tears of joy for
witnessing such a piece of history in the Church.</span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">Once all of the
“Who is the new Pope” stories have been exhausted, the Church traditions and
teachings will no longer make the front pages. No, the front pages will go
back to covering the bad news of the Church and the world <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And we all know there will be more bad
news, because this universal Church and this world are made up of this species
we call humans. </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02511/popeFrancisVatican_2511424b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="124" src="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02511/popeFrancisVatican_2511424b.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="yiv1655708939msonormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">But I, for one,
want to hang on to the good feelings of hope and pride I have for a little
while longer. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I just don’t
want them to disappear in a puff of smoke.</span></div>
Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-14574425391669991522013-02-25T19:23:00.000-05:002013-02-25T19:23:58.689-05:00I told you so<br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.65pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space" style="line-height: 14.65pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 14.65pt;">“</span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 14.65pt;">I told you so”.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
The words were not so much on the tip of my tongue as they were in the pit of
my stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
I just needed to say it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
But she just needed to talk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
Her eyes were still red from the car ride home from the Myrtle Beach vacation
with her friend’s family. The sunny time on the beach had turned somewhat
stormy the last night when my daughter’s sixteen-year-old heart was
broken. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
First the phone call from the boyfriend’s old girlfriend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
Then the call from the boy himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
It seems my daughter’s absence had made the boyfriend’s heart grow fonder.
Unfortunately, though, it grew fonder for the old girlfriend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
“So, I can’t see you anymore,” he brashly informed my teenager whose shoulders,
and now, heart, were badly burnt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
“I told you so,” I wanted to say; but I didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
The mom in me yearned to point out the boyfriend’s pathetic pattern her dad and
I had been complaining about for the last six months. I needed her to recognize
the wisdom of her parents who had repeatedly warned her that this young man
couldn’t be trusted even as far as he could throw a mean baseball. I
wanted to comment that this “player” did the same deed a few months earlier –a
deed for which my doting daughter forgave him as soon as the old girlfriend was
off to college again and baseball boyfriend found himself alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.65pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
“I told you so,” would have given the bitter moment some sweet
satisfaction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.65pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But instead, I
listened to her say she was over him, even though those beautiful brown eyes,
still tinted red, told me it would take a little more time. And I continued to
listen as she ended her beach break-up story with details of the ceremony she
and her friends had by the ocean –when she threw the boyfriend’s newly
purchased souvenir shot glass into the water, hoping to sink her high school
crush along with it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
Finally, her words stopped as she swallowed her last sob, sighed and leaned
toward me until her head rested on my chest. As I wrapped my arms around her,
the years melted away and she became less my teenaged girl, and more my baby
girl again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I knew I could tell her I had told her so. What’s more, I
probably could have offered words of wit and wisdom on how she will one day
meet another boy who will actually appreciate her unbelievable spirit. I
certainly could have pointed out that she will, most likely, have her heart
broken more throughout the years, as well as break a few herself along the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
But all the other words I wanted to say, didn’t matter after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">All that truly
mattered was my daughter had a soft spot to fall, blanketed in the knowledge
she is loved more than she can comprehend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
And I’m confident she knows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.65pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">
Because I told her so.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-78773327879751815602013-01-08T17:36:00.000-05:002013-02-24T17:39:05.128-05:00Epiphany <br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>“What was the one moment this season where you felt the Christmas spirit?” asked the priest during his homily on the Feast of the Epiphany. This is the Sunday that symbolizes the end of the twelve days of Christmas. Christmas is officially over.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Of course, I knew Christmas was over. I had after all recently given some presents, received some presents, and even returned some presents. And what made the message all the more clear was the fact that just yesterday, I de-decorated the house. No more tree. No more glistening lights. No more Christmas.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
But his question echoed throughout my brain that had just prided itself on checking off that last item on my Christmas to-do list. Unfortunately, a checklist Christmas is the way I seemed to celebrate it this year.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Presents bought? </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Check.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Cookies baked? </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Check.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
House decorated?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Check.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
De-decorated?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Check.</div>
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Christmas spirit?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
No check. But perhaps , I should say, “checkmate” to this one , because I had forgotten about my King. Did I put Him on my list at all?</div>
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I can come up with all sorts of excuses as to why this year was different. I can cite my kids busy schedules, my work demands, and I can even find justification in the reality that both my parents were in hospitals right before Christmas. </div>
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But the check I always need to… strive to… live to …check off my Christmas to-do list is the one where I find my Christmas spirit. Usually this involves me stepping away from the demands of the holidays, and sitting in front of the glowing Christmas lights in my darkened house, usually with “O, Holy Night” in the background. That’s the moment where I take the time to breathe in the precious spirit of Christmas. I take the time to let it seep through the busy-ness of my world and fill my weary soul. That’s when I take the time to thank God for being the light in my darkness. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
But I didn’t take that time this year. And the tree, like my Christmas spirit, is sitting abandoned at the curb. The illuminating lights, like my to-do list, have been packed and taken to the basement until next year.</div>
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So when asked when I felt the Christmas spirit the most this year, I wanted to cry. Not for myself and what I lacked --- but for my lack of acknowledgement and complete gratitude for the most precious gift I have ever been given. </div>
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That Holy Night came … and left. And I didn’t take the time to breathe it in. </div>
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With my head bowed, I beckoned the words to my wise Christmas carol to wash over my guilty conscience.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
“<em>Christ is the Lord! Forever, ever praise we</em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
<em> His power and glory ever more proclaim!”</em></div>
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And I had to smile.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Forever. That’s the time we are told to praise him, to celebrate His birth. There is nothing there that says it all has to be done before or during those twelve days of Christmas …and then checked off our to-do lists, until next year.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Forever.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
So, I’m going to try… and try… and then try harder… to feel that Christmas spirit I’ve lately been too busy to feel, for the next 364 days. I am planning on praising Him every day, and remembering Christmas as I do. Maybe I’ll retrieve a string of lights from the basement to help remind me.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
Just thinking about it, brings me a piece of that peace now. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
I guess on this feast day, I had my own little epiphany, after all.</div>
Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-41326670047160842012-12-14T21:22:00.001-05:002012-12-17T21:09:37.974-05:00December 14, 2012<style>
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</style> With tears in my eyes from the inconceivable news report of an elementary school shooting and precious little children killed, I changed stations on the radio, trying in vain to change the situation. Soon the strains of “It’s the most wonderful time of the year…” blared through my speakers, and I turned off the radio as quickly as if profanity were suddenly streaming from the station. <br />
<br />
Somehow it seems so wrong and inappropriate to sing of the holiday joy and merriment right now. Because right now, there are moms and dads whose little ones are not going to get a Christmas… a birthday… a graduation … a wedding. <br />
How can we think of Christmas now?<br />
When tragedy strikes, especially when it strikes the incredibly innocent among us, we look for answers and reasons. But when our collective hearts are breaking for such a real cause, there are no real answers and reasons. Maybe we will talk about laws that can change. Perhaps we will be a little nicer to each other. We promise we will pray for those taken and we vow we will take nothing and no one for granted again. <br />
But too soon we go back to our “normal”. <br />
We stumble. <br />
The whole world stumbles. <br />
And how can a stumbling, bumbling world even think about celebrating Christmas? <br />
<br />
But then I turn the radio back on and I hear the words of “Oh Holy Night”:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>"O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining<br />It is the night of the dear Savior's birth.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Long lay the world in sin and error pining.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>‘Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em> For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn..." </em></div>
Perhaps a stumbling, bumbling, mixed-up world needs Christmas more than anything. <br />
We know Jesus wasn’t sent to us as a reward for the world being so good. He wasn’t born in a manger because we deserved it. <br />
But He was born in that manger. <br />
For us.<br />
And that’s the miracle of Christmas. <br />
<em>“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”(</em>John 3:16)<br />
Maybe tonight we can hold that Truth…. and our kids …a little bit tighter. <br />
<br />Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-68132721005147564432012-07-23T15:10:00.001-04:002012-07-23T15:10:29.111-04:00Remembering ColumbineIt was a picture of a baby that made me cry.<o:p></o:p><br />
I was at the downtown library chaperoning a field trip for my daughter’s sixth
grade class, when I saw an innocent picture of a baby. And it made me
cry.<o:p></o:p><br />
We had gone to the library to work on their research papers. But there
was something about this day that made everyone want to cry.<o:p></o:p><br />
This was the day after the hideous Columbine school killings and everyone was
walking around just a little numb.<o:p></o:p><br />
I couldn’t help but look around me at the children busily working on the
projects and realize that they were only a few years younger than those
thirteen children who were murdered at school the day before. But I also
had to face the fact that they were only a few years younger than the two
killers as well.<o:p></o:p><br />
When this happened, I wanted so badly to label the murderers as
monsters. But the fact remains, the most important label we must
recognize is that they, too, were children.<o:p></o:p><br />
How can ones so young be filled with hatred so strong that they are driven to
do something so horrid in a place where we parents believed was a haven for
learning?<o:p></o:p><br />
Again, the picture of the baby haunts me.<o:p></o:p><br />
Years ago, when I sent my oldest off to kindergarten for the first time I was
scared. I was scared about the real world finally touching the daughter I
had been able to protect for five too-short years. <o:p></o:p><br />
But, truthfully, I was scared for the little hurts I feared my child would have
to endure. I was worried some child would not want to sit next to her on
the bus. I worried she would feel sad if chosen last for a team in gym
class. I worried she might get her feelings hurt by a classmate.<o:p></o:p><br />
I never thought to worry that another child might one day bring a gun to school
and start shooting. <o:p></o:p><br />
Every day, we parents must trust that the bus drivers who daily transport our
children are physically and mentally healthy.<o:p></o:p><br />
We have to assume that the teachers educating our children are academically and
morally good.<o:p></o:p><br />
We believe that all the students who attend school with our children, are
basically the same as ours.<o:p></o:p><br />
But not all are.<o:p></o:p><br />
And when children so dramatically fall through a societal crack as the ones did
that frightening day, the whole world can hear the thud. <o:p></o:p><br />
Or bang.<o:p></o:p><br />
For this reason the picture of the baby made me cry. To think that a
child enters this world full of promise and purity and somehow makes such a
wrong turn on the journey that is their life, is more than I can bear.<o:p></o:p><br />
I stare at the picture for the last time. I see the small pouting lips
attempting a smile. I notice the soft, full head of dark hair. I
smile at the full, rosy checks. And then I shut the book, trying hard not
to notice the caption underneath the picture:<br />
“ Austria , 1889. Adolf Hitler.”<o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-23407535714280856892012-05-18T16:29:00.000-04:002013-02-16T23:44:51.480-05:00My dad<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Central Ohio has known Tom McNutt as their Gardening expert for the last 23 years. But, I’ve had the pleasure of knowing him by an even better title: dad. And today, as my dad hangs up his television microphone and his gardening tools, I want to share a very private detail of this very public man.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"> Perhaps his viewers have noticed the fact that many of my dad’s latest televisions appearances have been done sitting down. If you see him in public, he is usually on his scooter, or walking with a cane or walker. The reason behind this is a muscle weakness. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">This muscle weakness had been slowly affecting my dad for years before he was finally told a name for his condition. The diagnosis was Inclusion Body Myositis, but the easier to remember name is the acronym, IBM. This diagnosis was a mixed blessing. After such a long process of seemingly endless doctor visits, there is definitely something good about getting answers. But there is admittedly something bad when the answer comes back as a chronic condition for which there is no cure. He was told by his doctor that his quad muscles would weaken with time, most likely landing him in a wheelchair within a few years. That was many years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Over the years he has reluctantly given in to using a cane, a walker, or that scooter, to keep himself from falling as much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Now, to say his falls are unpredictable may seem odd, since most falls, indeed, are not predicted; but it seems all the more true when talking about my dad. My dad always walked with a purpose. He walked with a destination in mind. Full speed ahead. His walk always said so much about him. He is strong, determined and heading somewhere.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">I remember, as a little one, having to run two steps for every one step of his just to keep up. And somehow, I usually would manage. In more than one way, it has frequently been a goal of mine to keep up with my dad.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Today, my own kids beg me to slow down as I shop with them or even just walk around the neighborhood. I have to smile when they complain about my rapid pace, because I know where it came from: the man who taught me to walk with a purpose.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">He vows he won't go willingly into a wheelchair. And with the determination that is my dad, I don't doubt for a minute that he will do all he can to avoid it. After all, he is the man who, after his first "retirement," took on the career that brought him into the gardens and lives of all of Central Ohio for the last 23 years.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">But no matter what happens in the future, there's one important fact Tom McNutt, the beloved gardening expert, needs to understand, especially today. Whether he falls, walks unaided, with a cane, or even one day ends up in that wheelchair, to me, no man will ever walk as tall as my dad.</span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-60356369710032088182012-03-14T16:46:00.003-04:002012-07-20T19:12:36.765-04:00The Journey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhinz8kq6Q6zIJty5SgbIsMvEPXz6Nmu2YEzZ8WJ7gM9sJWULEx9s72nuL_2q7eHFkv2cpQdZVphBLhNW2oam4ZJpSbm91utnMusESeZfpzyl5ktNckA5OvXEhJVa13mD3us31PCw/s1600/Honda.jpg"></a><br />
<div>
As the journey of my life travels down a new road, my mode of transportation is detouring to reflect this change. And reflecting on that transportation transformation makes me realize more has transformed than I might have realized when I walked into the car dealership for the first time.<br />
Yes, I am driving away from the minivan stage of life.<br />
It shouldn’t come as a surprise. My four children all have this one characteristic I cannot deny: they're growing up. Preschool days flew into elementary school,<br />
which whirled into middle and high school.<br />
College and careers soon would be calling. And with only one child at home fulltime now, the minivan seemed excessive. So when that minivan was given the ”do-not-resuscitate” order upon its last auto-shop visit, the decision loomed behind me like the shadow of my children’s childhoods.<br />
Much is written about the monumental moment in life that dictates the need for a bigger car. That moment when the family purchases their first minivan symbolizes the exciting changing dynamic of a growing family. What then does the moment mean when the same family no longer needs room enough in a car for multiple children and car seats? My family hasn’t shrunk in size, but admittedly the number of times we all travel together has shrunk drastically. There’s no denying, the dynamic is different as I acknowledge a stab of sadness, realizing the days of<br />
family road trips with toys and games and sing-a-long tapes are over. The exhausting yet sometimes exhilarating hours spent in my home-away-from home minivan are all behind me. Most poignantly, my moving on symbolizes the fact that my children also are moving on.<br />
And so I walk into the car dealer with my heart a little heavy. </div>
<div>
But as luck would have it, my heavy heart soon enough finds a cute little red number that calls to me, promising with its flashing dashboard lights to never grow up and go off to college. Its finger-print-free interior invites me to sit and stay and faster than you can say, “gear shift”, I find myself honking goodbye to that minivan along with the stage it represents. And cruising down this new road as my high tech CD player broadcasts music I can sign along to, I have to smile.<br />
Part of me will always relate to being a minivan mom. Those moments, as messy and manic as they were, are planted in a precious part of the definition of who I am. But I’m starting to comprehend the idea that while driving my kids around is no longer a major focus of my day, my kids, as old as they might get, will always be a driving force of my life.<br />
And as my new sporty tires quietly hum along the pavement, a feeling washes over me that this new road I’m traveling might also be pretty fun to navigate.</div>
<div>
</div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-90534654550628563202011-11-13T19:15:00.002-05:002012-07-20T19:13:41.162-04:00Letter to the young mom in churchDear Mommy-in-the-next-pew,<br />
<br />
<div>
You don’t know me, but I know you. I recognize the look of exhaustion on your face as you juggled young children, a bottle, a pacifier, and a quest for an hour of worship. I’m familiar with the tone in your frustrated voice when you whispered to your husband, “Please take one of them.”</div>
<br />
<div>
I know the expression that fears the judgment of other worshippers around you, afraid we will see misbehaving children. You are worried we will see parents who can’t control their young ones.</div>
<br />
<div>
But as the mom who sat in her childless pew behind you, let me tell you what I really did see:<br />
I saw joy in the sweet faces looking back for a quick game of peek-a-boo.<br />
I saw pride in the older ones attempting to mimic your moves and care for the littlest one.<br />
I saw curiosity as their young eyes turned to you taking in your every move.<br />
I saw peace as they reached for you, to be held secure in your arms, their tiny heads nestled in the nook of your neck.<br />
I saw a precious reflection of my own little ones, now so grown.</div>
<br />
<div>
But what I saw the most was a mom and dad setting a significant example for their young children about the importance of worshipping even when it seems so far from easy, or even remotely holy.</div>
<br />
<div>
And trust me, young mom in the next pew, the day will come way too soon when you will be sitting in a childless pew, no sticky hands poking you, no fussy ones distracting you, and you will see little ones close by, and your heart will hurt a little for the way the world spins so quickly. You will play a quick game of peek-a-boo with them, and smile as you realize you sometimes miss those crazy, exhausting days.</div>
<div>
Then, you, too, will fight the urge to tell that young mom, “You don’t know me, but I know you.”<br />
Or maybe you will write her a letter.<br />
<br /></div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-39227719870743304122011-08-06T19:41:00.009-04:002011-08-08T09:17:33.948-04:00For Cody<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-gSDkxpevxH48xJGfaq50xCCbXiJ_ElTnYMkaW9L1sFrmD42hq6O8G3SYJltIfYV_vdAc7rQJPUYEEheB8h2ZdzsnHu0909afm5G8k7VKCx4yZiQx9lKnxksmjtPXwIi4xuxCw/s1600/Cody.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 154px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637893740440738514" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-gSDkxpevxH48xJGfaq50xCCbXiJ_ElTnYMkaW9L1sFrmD42hq6O8G3SYJltIfYV_vdAc7rQJPUYEEheB8h2ZdzsnHu0909afm5G8k7VKCx4yZiQx9lKnxksmjtPXwIi4xuxCw/s200/Cody.jpg" /></a>Maybe it was the pet carrier he was riding in, but I couldn’t help but to think of another time so long ago. After not eating for a couple of days, and a painful walking gate, we were on our way to the vet hospital.
<br />Suddenly, I remembered each of the four kids gathered by the window waiting for daddy to pull up with our new puppy: our Cody. Arguments over who would first get to hold him quickly abated when the puppy arrived with what appeared to be nervous puppy intestines. Our little white fur-ball was not so white when he made his debut.
<br />Upon immediately giving him a bath and swaddling him in a soft towel, I wondered if he knew he was now at home. He closed his eyes and I swear he smiled.
<br />I think he knew.
<br />And now thirteen years and so many baths and swaddles and smiles later, he was in that carrier being uncharacteristically sedate. My mother-heart that understands the difference between children and pets, couldn’t help but hurt for this little guy who believes himself to be my fifth child. The doctor diagnosed arthritis and prescribed medicine and sent us home. I was happy we were on the right track, but sadness crept in the back of my mind.
<br />I think I knew.
<br />A few days went by. He ate too little and limped too much. I noticed he followed us everywhere, not letting us out of his sight. He seemed to be taking it all in as long as he could.
<br />I think he knew.
<br />A week after the original vet visit, I returned with a weaker dog who refused to eat or take any medicine. X-rays revealed the real culprit: bone cancer. Upon finding it had aggressively spread to his lungs, the vet this time sent us home with a few days' supply of Morphine, telling us there was nothing else to do but try to keep him comfortable, love him… and say goodbye. But she didn’t really have to tell me that.
<br />I think I knew.
<br />Too soon it was time. And as we waited, waited, and waited for the beginning of the end to begin, I watched as my tearful daughter held my trembling dog and I fought the urge to hold them both in my arms and make it all go away.
<br />It was time for the I.V. to be placed in the paw of his now 12-pound body. Then, I held him as the injection began. Within seconds he was at peace for the first time in a long time. No more trembling. No more pain. No more cancer.
<br />No more Cody.
<br />And as I held him, the precious family memories of which he is so entwined raced through my mind: the Christmas we told the kids we were finally getting a puppy; the walks, the games, the days, the nights. Remembered photographs of holidays and birthdays flashed before me. But even more than that, so many memories not photographed because they seemed so unimportant, but at moments like these, become so important, all played like a slow motion slide show in my mind.
<br />And I think I knew.
<br />I always understood that Cody wasn’t really my fifth child. I recognized he was our pet. But more than that, he was such a vital part of our family dynamic. He was both devotedly loving and devotedly loved. He belonged to us. We belonged to him. We’re family.
<br />As I looked down at the eternally sleeping dog in my arms, through my own tears I swear he smiled.
<br />I think he knew.
<br />Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-55304630678277045632011-06-12T00:01:00.004-04:002011-06-12T00:12:14.232-04:00What's in a name?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQoPkaFOb3e-zwT-jk_kiFT-tsmHAWa4QLcSSjK3Zc4IfzhL5CR1bUF5coNa_vo28zHQO3gR3k3P79Q72_AcKojgffH2tCBqVwUy4BmRlz1HwWtnG2TnilRdRtb0m5_KRoq3M1A/s1600/Ry+grad1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 104px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617180657804286034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQoPkaFOb3e-zwT-jk_kiFT-tsmHAWa4QLcSSjK3Zc4IfzhL5CR1bUF5coNa_vo28zHQO3gR3k3P79Q72_AcKojgffH2tCBqVwUy4BmRlz1HwWtnG2TnilRdRtb0m5_KRoq3M1A/s200/Ry+grad1.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>Eighteen years ago, above the swish-shish of the ultra sound machine, I heard the doctor announce, “Without a doubt, this one’s a boy.” Soon I was blinking back tears of joy which spilled into worries of how much pink in our existing nursery needed to be replaced with a cute hue of blue. Then, after dismissing the nursery rhyme line of “snakes and snails and puppy dog tails,” I finally allowed myself the precious pontification, “What will we call him?”<br />There is something so monumental about assigning a child a name that will be his calling card, his introduction, his label of who he is for the rest of his life. Having had two other babies in five years, we, of course had some boys’ names as back-up just in case. But at the moment when it wasn’t just a possibility he would be a boy, but a fact he was, choosing a name took on even more responsibility.<br />As a teacher, several names that had been favorites over the years often became unflatteringly attached to the mannerisms of another child who also just happened to answer to the once favored name. That shortened the possible-name-list a bit. And having had a Megan and a Katelyn, we needed a brother’s name that sounded like it could be said in the same breath as the others. “Megan, Katelyn, Frank—time to eat!” just didn’t sound natural.<br />So it was, we came up with a name. The baby books said it was Irish which went well with his sisters. They also said it meant “Little King” which sounded like a name that should certainly lead a child to a life of confidence and success.<br />And soon after, our “Little King” was born and we removed the “Baby Boy Bundy” sign and christened him “Ryan”. Not long after that, he would assume the alternate titles of grandson, nephew, baby brother, big brother, and “little Brad”.<br />Over the years he would also answer to “Ry”, “Ry-guy”, “Bundy” and, at the age of 9, after mistakenly climbing into the Tasmanian devil’s pit at the zoo (and hurriedly climbing out) he became known as “Taz-Bundy”.<br />Later, he’d grow into other names. By his own efforts, he has been referred to as friend, volunteer, fan, student, musician and athlete. In sports he’s been numbers 14, 34, 1, and for the last four years, 2.<br />Still today, he has earned yet another name: “Graduate”. And as he prepares to leave Wyoming High School and walk his path to Miami University and the endless stage of the world, I can’t help but to marvel at the amazing young man he has become and how much he has blessed my life from that first moment of the tell-tale swish-shish of the ultra sound machine. It’s then I realize that of all the names, nicknames, and monikers he has had over the years and will have in the future, there is one of his titles that fills my heart, meaning the most to me: “Son”. </div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-6621408007667074982011-04-07T22:07:00.002-04:002011-04-07T22:17:02.457-04:00On turning 50<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zl58DdaGEfFwTntwWAdMmjLSz7shH8L88ybqcMQ31v7RNaoWW2BdkTB0aNkwxBIGjjagBMCoydrViAC9KUMvY-tq-v1oU-S9uWpwnp3yRABu4wsoDBVwzahbNrAIBeEmfXc7Dg/s1600/birthday+pic.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 163px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 162px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593030433200674098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zl58DdaGEfFwTntwWAdMmjLSz7shH8L88ybqcMQ31v7RNaoWW2BdkTB0aNkwxBIGjjagBMCoydrViAC9KUMvY-tq-v1oU-S9uWpwnp3yRABu4wsoDBVwzahbNrAIBeEmfXc7Dg/s200/birthday+pic.jpg" /></a> <br /><div>Standing at the dawn of my second half-century of life, the words of Mother Superior echo in my head. No, I’m not considering joining a convent and picking up a new habit, but I am hearing a song over and over. The song is “Climb Every Mountain” from The Sound of Music because I’m coming to realize that’s what it’s been about for my first fifty years. </div><br /><div>Over the years I have climbed mountains: Education mountains. Marriage mountains. Parenting mountians. Career Mountains. Some have assured me after days or weeks or years of climbing, that I have indeed, climbed the right mountain. And yet, my victory dance of completion is always interrupted by a metaphorical sign that tells me, “But wait… there’s more…keeping climbing.” </div><br /><div>Still others, have been in vain; a realization I find only after laboring away for long periods of time to find it was the wrong mountain --- the sign this time tells me the mountain I have spent my time on wasn’t my mountain at all. </div><br /><div>Of course, there have been mountains in my life where I have begun to climb, but backed down. Tired, discouraged, distracted, bored, there were many excuses I found for ending the climbs prematurely. But today, they still remain mysteries to me –my what ifs, would-a beens, could-a-beens and should-a-beens. </div><br /><div>There’s something about a milestone birthday that calls us to reflect on where we’ve been and where we are going. There’s also something about it that forces us to acknowledge we are getting old. Would I like to look younger? Sure. Would I like to see better, move better, remember better? Okay, I’ll give you that. But would I like to be younger? Absolutely not. Because being younger would mean taking away the experience of one of those mountains I spent my time climbing. Even the ones that didn’t turn out to be meant for me, taught me something along the way. And the ones that were mine to climb? Which one would I give up? I can’t part with any of them. They are mine. They are my yesterdays that guided me into my today that point me to my tomorrow. </div><br /><div>So I kick off my next 50 years, grateful for the steps I took before and excited for the steps to come. I pray for the strength to keep climbing and the discernment to pick the right mountains. Of course, these days I also pray for some soft spots to rest along the way; and when I get to the top, I’m hoping those metaphorical signs will be in large, bold print. But whatever my next years hold for me, I never want to stop climbing those mountains. Who knows? I might also start fording streams and following rainbows. There’s no guarantee I’ll find my dream, but it’s a chance of a lifetime to try. </div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-44213262926224528982011-03-05T18:21:00.003-05:002012-07-20T19:14:30.019-04:00I am a teacher<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZwUd3a1BRoZ6xqyitrBbwCjeJ6iCfSNbUh4h0M_m9XDk7AEYODkMP2v9wrhPe0z6iwc5aWJ2pAsCajXeCbJEGSSJiz67bkcWdQirxyC2ErlFtqIoybjXzUaHNAsh5kKdTBGf/s1600/appleTeacher.jpg"></a><br />
I am a teacher. And as a teacher, Senate Bill 5 has brought something to my attention that both surprises me and saddens me. It’s probably not what you might assume. Yes, the potential to lose up to $20,000 of my salary is enough to make me sad. What’s more, losing benefits is never good to hear. Also, merit-based pay that would only work if all students were equal and all tests were fair, is definitely frightening to me. <br />
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But what surprises me and saddens me the most about Senate Bill 5 is the response against teachers it has revealed. Every article or debate discussing either side of this issue soon becomes flooded with vitriolic comments that paint teachers as lazy elitists who seem to only care about their tenure and summer vacations. When did this happen?<br />
<br />
In the twenty-eight years since I became a teacher, I cannot think of one teacher who went into the field to make money. We all knew that was not an incentive. Still, we were drawn to a career that placed us directly in the lives of our students --the future of our nation. There used to be an honor, an understood respect in being able to say, “I am a teacher”. <a href="" name="_GoBack"></a><br />
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True, the state of education is in a state of chaos. You don’t have to point that out to any teacher. We’re at the front lines of this battle. We know. But, assuming this dire state is because teachers aren’t doing their jobs, is like assuming the ongoing war in Iraq is due to the soldiers overseas not doing their jobs. No one would dare put that blame on our brave soldiers’ shoulders. We are quick to point out there are many other factors out of their control. Instead of blame, we look for ways to support them in their battle. Why the opposite for teachers who battle to educate our future?<br />
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Are there bad teachers out there? Certainly. Is that what causes such a negative reaction when this topic comes up? Maybe. Perhaps some people simply remember the one teacher they had who never should have become a teacher at all, and forget all the wonderful teachers who helped shape them into who they are today. Believe me, though, the bad teachers are the exception. Instead, the field of education is saturated with wonderful, caring teachers who give way beyond their 180 days of contracted service to ensure that each child has a chance to succeed. <br />
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If Senate Bill 5 passes, stripping wonderful teachers of pay and benefits, and strapping their merit to ridiculous standardized tests approved by those who have never been in a classroom, many great teachers will be forced to leave the profession they love. And many great teachers-to-be will be forced to choose other fields. In the meantime, we teachers will continue to do our jobs amidst growing frustration, disrespect, and uncertainty. <br />
<br />
Because we are proud of who we are. We are teachers.Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-43923148969239141062010-08-25T19:57:00.003-04:002013-11-20T12:13:34.544-05:00Blink<a href="http://kevinwhite.me.uk/assets/images/db_images/db_Baby_Hand_5996_4630_1.jpg"></a> Hello, my little one!<br />
Welcome to my world.<br />
Your first breaths<br />
become my last<br />
breaths I ever breathe<br />
without thinking of you.<br />
And as you lie upon my chest<br />
nestled close to my heart,<br />
I wonder what being a mommy will hold<br />
as I smile and breathe in your delicious baby smell<br />
and promise not to blink.<br />
<br />
But I must have….<br />
<br />
Because now you are learning to walk<br />
One toddler foot in front of another<br />
Your dancing eyes lock on mine<br />
determination oozing from your beaming smile.<br />
You can do it…you can do it.<br />
And you do<br />
as I smile and breathe in your delightful giggle<br />
and promise not to blink.<br />
<br />
But I must have…<br />
<br />
Because now you are trying to ride a bike<br />
Wobbling, weaving, zigging and zagging.<br />
Slowly, my steadying hand<br />
becomes less necessary.<br />
You can do it…you can do it.<br />
And you do.<br />
as I smile and breathe in your exhilarating joy.<br />
And promise not to blink<br />
<br />
But I must have…<br />
<br />
Because now you are entering<br />
Kindergarten…<br />
First grade…<br />
Middle School…<br />
High School…<br />
College…<br />
You can do it… you can do it<br />
And you do.<br />
As I smile and breathe in the wonder of the woman<br />
standing next to me.<br />
preparing for life on her own<br />
miles and miles away from home<br />
yet still so close to my heart.<br />
Wondering what waits for you now,<br />
I must remind myself to breathe.<br />
I can do it….I can do it.<br />
<br />
“Welcome to your world, my little one.<br />
Take a deep breath<br />
…and promise me you won’t blink.”Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-51440255552127545402010-05-25T19:53:00.000-04:002012-07-20T19:15:42.319-04:00Excellence<a href="http://www.washloc.k12.oh.us/images/administration/excellent_banner.jpg"></a><br />
Some moments wrap so tightly around me, I have no choice but to write them down. So it was with the May morning breeze cooling off an otherwise overheated week, that I glanced around the fields of Colerain High School at the mixture of teens and teachers and had to smile.<br />
A week earlier, we finally received the results of the test that holds our students’ sophomore year hostage. Thankfully our banner can stay –we are excellent once again.<br />
Now it was time for our OGT party.<br />
And amid donuts and Deejays, the teenagers mingled among their teachers while the tunes of country, pop, and hip-hip hugged the air.<br />
And that’s when I smiled.<br />
As a Sophomore English teacher I understand the importance of the Ohio Graduation Test. I get the significance it can hold for my students as well as my district. Still, sometimes as much as we try to make the necessary information palatable, it seems we teachers must spend months cramming test answers down our students’ throats instead of feeding them morsels of knowledge to whet their academic appetites.<br />
And perhaps it was this fact combined with the juxtaposition of the mild mini moment of the party coupled with the intenseness of the end of the year academic demands, and the worry of piling up papers to grade, that made me stop and take notice. But when I looked out and saw teachers and students laughing, bouncing soccer balls, hula-hooping and just sharing this time together, I had an “aha!” moment.<br />
For, standing before me were not test scores and statistics.<br />
No, standing before me were the adults and teenagers I had worked closely with to get as many across the finish line as possible. Sadly, some students remain shy of the goal, while, happily, others have flown past any preconceived success estimation. But that day we celebrated the coordinated effort of so many individuals working together, culminating in just having fun together.<br />
And as I was competing in my own hula-hoop contest with one of my students, she giggled at me and said, “Mrs. Bundy, when I’m a senior and look back –this is going to one of my best memories from high school.”<br />
Now, that is an excellent rating that beats any banner or ribbon anywhere.Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-86820529247914237852010-01-25T19:48:00.000-05:002010-08-25T19:53:42.975-04:00Judgement Day<a href="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=80ef4843a2ddec738337ad3feab043f0&w=130&h=130&url=http%3A%2F%2Fi.ytimg.com%2Fvi%2F_USyVYGX7eg%2F2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 90px;" src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=80ef4843a2ddec738337ad3feab043f0&w=130&h=130&url=http%3A%2F%2Fi.ytimg.com%2Fvi%2F_USyVYGX7eg%2F2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />At the end of the seventeen hour journey, the trophy proclaiming second runner-up was positioned next to the Grand Champion trophy. Although the smaller award was admittedly dwarfed in the shadow of the previous week's impressive prize, it represented something mere size can't measure.<br />The high school Show Choir met at 7 a.m. on that Saturday to travel to their destination in another state for an all-day competition that culminated months of practicing everything from singing and dancing, to presentation and production, to articulation and attitude. Coming off the grand champion victory of the previous week, the teen's spirits were high. They walked into the venue with a confidence that belongs to champions.<br />Unfortunately, the wheel of good fortune spun that day and landed on the judges proclaiming them third place in the preliminaries. And for a while this affected the way they saw themselves. They were the same award-winning, awe-inspiring, talented kids that walked into that competition. It's just they stopped believing that's who they were the moment someone else deemed them less deserving than the best. The performers had forgotten that others can judge us, but they can't define us.<br />The teens themselves had not changed. Perhaps this week, a pose wasn't held long enough, or a note went sharp, but that didn't change the definition of who those teenagers were.<br />At last by the finals, they finally seemed to realize this. They didn’t give up. They regrouped and reclaimed their winning spirit. This goose-bump-inducing performance would leave the audience recognizing beyond a doubt that they were winners. Receiving the second runner-up trophy didn't change the triumphant definition of who they were in the least. In some ways it represented the heart of a champion even more than the colossal trophy of the week before. True, we all like coming in first. Winning is good. And we certainly need to encourage our children to strive to be the best they can be, not settling for less than we know they are capable of. But when we allow those judging us to have the power to define us, we lose sight of who we are and who God intended us to be.<br />After all, He is the one who originally defined each of us and ultimately is the only one whose judgment actually matters at all.Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-71969267361894626052010-01-15T19:37:00.002-05:002012-07-20T19:16:13.578-04:00Lessons Learn from Haiti<a href="http://img.timeinc.net/time/photoessays/2010/haiti_earthquake/haiti_01.jpg"></a><br />
<div>
Things we learned about Haiti this week:<br />
• It makes up one-third of the second largest island in the Caribbean.<br />
• The capital is Port-au-Prince.<br />
• Haiti is one of poorest countries in the Western hemisphere.<br />
• 80% of its residents live in poverty. Things we learned about earthquakes this week:<br />
• The largest recorded earthquake in the world was 9.5 on the Richter scale in Chile in 1960.<br />
• Haiti’s quake rocked their world with a 7.0 .<br />
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Things we learned about people this week:<br />
• They are resilient: The Haitian people, while waiting for help to come, began their own rescue missions. This often resulted in heroes, battered, bruised, and barefoot, frantically digging with bare hands to try to find a sign of life buried under layers and layers of crushed buildings.<br />
• They want to help: The spirit of help began to formulate around the world even before the last tremor of the quake was felt. Churches, schools, charities and individuals began to collect money, canned goods, water, and various personal items in hopes of somehow sending a bit of a band aid to a country with such a horrific gapping wound.<br />
Things we learned about God this week:<br />
• He uses it all: Strength can be found in weakness. Hope can be found in despair. Joy can be found in suffering.<br />
<br />
And now that we know all we know, what we decide to do with this information will help determine the answer to another question: “What did God learn about us this week?” </div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-32716002642086009312009-08-05T17:15:00.004-04:002012-07-20T19:16:54.302-04:00A Minivan Named Gratitude<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2096/2299070115_9016701887.jpg"></a> In<strong><em> A Streetcar Named Desire,</em></strong> Blanche Dubois utters the famous line, “I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.”<br />
Today, I know exactly how she feels.<br />
It all began with a two hour drive to Indiana so my son and daughter could fulfill one of their dreams: seats in the fifth row of a Dave Matthews Band concert.<br />
Just shy of our destination outside of Indianapolis, people in other cars started honking, waving and pointing to us. Realizing they were probably not expressing their deep admiration for my eight year old minivan, my kids pointed out that they seemed to be pointing to my tire. Upon pulling over, it was easy to see the flat tire was about as useless as my knowledge of fixing it.<br />
Buying air from a gas station pump (who said air is free?), I managed to buy a little more time and get the kids to their concert venue. Then, I set out to figure out where on earth my spare tire actually was, and what on earth I would do with it, once I found it.<br />
Within minutes, the newly replaced air was hissing out of my tire. Finally finding my way to another gas station, my hopes became as deflated as my tire when I realized that gas station didn’t even have an air pump.<br />
At this point, I had a flat tire 120 miles from home, by myself, at 6:00 on a Saturday night. And of course, just to complete the mood, it started to rain.<br />
That’s when I uttered a prayer –admittedly more of a complaint than a petition. “Lord, You have to help me here –I have no idea what to do.”<br />
And then, just shy of a chorus of angels singing harmonies in my head, directly across the street, I saw a muffler shop with an open garage door.<br />
Approaching the garage, I noticed they had closed an hour earlier, but three grease covered mechanics were still inside working.<br />
Playing the damsel in distress more than I really wanted to, I interrupted them, hoping one might at least know where the allusive spare tire was on a Honda Odyssey minivan.<br />
When all was said and done, they not only knew where the tire was, but without hesitating, they also put the van on their car rack and changed the tire for me. All of this was more than an hour after they had closed on a Saturday night.<br />
Overcome with gratitude I choked back tears as I asked how much I owed them.<br />
“Don’t worry about it, Ma’am,” the young mechanic replied.<br />
Once back in my van, I allowed the tears to flow as I thanked God for the kindness of strangers, and all the angels he sends into our lives –especially the strangers who are angels who are sometimes covered in grease.Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-24631793778330034792009-07-21T21:28:00.003-04:002012-07-20T19:17:19.947-04:00Megan's Rainbow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrwry1l9yzsDUdFkI2bhH96QFxnK0CYK_K7_eVRvZvNDd6uLnBNMmVK83mg7pcjCM5wFV_vVrGRiBWY4KDvjLLK9ENcHVh8BW6P-tavTTzvgWyiLcMYQPQ34KyUf70tNazc4TBQ/s1600-h/rainbow-too.jpg"></a><br />
<div>
Some life moments wash over us as if they were scripted by Hollywood. The time is so intense we are certain that at any instant we might hear a director yelling, “Cue the music!” as the dramatic scene plays out before us.</div>
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Thus, I was waiting for the swell of the soundtrack of my life to begin playing last night while on a walk with my first born.</div>
<div>
Her suitcase was waiting by the door. </div>
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Her passport was waiting in her purse. </div>
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Her future was waiting around the corner. </div>
<div>
This was the night before she was to leave for Guatemala as part of a program to help Guatemalan women find life skills and careers that will keep them from being at the mercy of others. It’s a wonderful program–--one I fully believe in ---–for other people’s daughters. For my daughter, after she graduated from college, I was thinking more along the lines of a job within fifteen minutes of home, one she could drive to and from in an armored vehicle, with or without an escort from the National Guard. So it was, this detour from the life-bubble I wanted to keep her in was smacking me in the face while we walked on the eve of her endeavor. </div>
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It was an unseasonably cool summer night. The light mist of rain was a perfect setting for the mood I was wallowing in. We walked and talked and I hugged her as much as I could. </div>
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As we arrived back to where we began, we sat for a moment on the front porch, looking out at the cloud covered horizon. She indulged me as I blabbered on about how quickly the years had gone ---how proud I was of her –how hard letting go sometimes is. </div>
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And then, just as the misting rain was watering my wallowing, a ray of sun squeaked through the dusk sky. “Look,” my daughter pointed at what the ray had brought us. </div>
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There, right above us, was a rainbow. And at that moment I felt a blanket of comfort covering me, reassuring me, reminding me.</div>
<div>
When my first born was a baby, her daddy used to sing her a song that became her theme song. The refrain is:</div>
<div>
“Look, look, look to the rainbow</div>
<div>
Follow it over the hills and streams</div>
<div>
Look, look, look to the rainbow</div>
<div>
Follow the fellow who follows a dream”.</div>
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As I remembered those words of her song, I realized that is exactly what she is doing ---following her rainbow –following her dream. </div>
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And if a director were to be shooting that scene of my life, he would have at that moment yelled, “Cue the music.” And the scene would fade with my arms lovingly wrapped around my baby girl.</div>
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For at least a few more minutes. </div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-52916888856869817142009-07-14T21:45:00.005-04:002009-07-14T22:16:20.703-04:00Tammy's Tat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0WfOTT03OXentpnt8PUA_W6SN_Xf4zeGFVK6ijk144VOTTqHR8Y9MGA6qI3Cgm2Ivp4jLzzxou6Kd8t4c8kMQAlAtR09Lewvgaeh0W9RxodwL6RMUrQq4N4bbhrZDwDbKaAmIsQ/s1600-h/T's+TAt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358497685544005586" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 114px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0WfOTT03OXentpnt8PUA_W6SN_Xf4zeGFVK6ijk144VOTTqHR8Y9MGA6qI3Cgm2Ivp4jLzzxou6Kd8t4c8kMQAlAtR09Lewvgaeh0W9RxodwL6RMUrQq4N4bbhrZDwDbKaAmIsQ/s200/T's+TAt.jpg" border="0" /></a> “Maybe one day you can write an article about it and tell me why you did it,” teased my father-in-law as he heard of my absolutely uncharacteristic “indiscretion” of the weekend before.<br />And as I now pivot my head to look in the full-length mirror, the reflection of my no-longer bare back takes me aback for just a moment.<br />A tattoo? Who-da- thunk it?<br />Yes, the weekend involved a college campus and a bit of peer pressure. But I swear no alcohol was involved.<br />I was attending a weekend workshop as part of my Masters’ classes at Miami University. The day marked the last day that my two daughters and I would all be students at Miami at the same time. With my oldest graduating the next month, the day was all the more sweet due to its significance.<br />“We need to do something big today,” one of my girls suggested. After a varying degree of propositions that took more time, money or nerve than I had that day, they both agreed on the best memory maker for us.<br />“You need to get the tattoo today.”<br />A few months earlier, when my younger daughter started at the same university as her sister, they decided to get matching tattoos. Their selection was a Celtic cross –the cross with the circle in the middle. When they unveiled this decision and tattoo to me for the first time, I have to admit it was a bit concerning to see the backs that I had rubbed with sunscreen all those years to protect from any permanent marks, now forever marked with a symbol. Still, I admit the idea of the symbol was intriguing. The cross of course, represents our faith; the circle of the cross, a symbol of eternal love. I actually thought it was a pretty nice tattoo for my daughters to share. When I mentioned it was, indeed, a nice bond, they suggested I join them in the bond. And I laughed at the impossibility of it all.<br />But somehow it didn’t seem so impossible when my daughters reminded me of their suggestion that day at Miami. Standing there with my two girls each now a young woman, on her own verge of the rest of her life, I wanted to freeze the moment. So I said yes.<br />And as I sat in the tattoo parlor in Oxford I could not stop smiling a ridiculously goofy smile at the strange scenario I was witnessing but could not fathom. This was a piece of my life’s puzzle you could never have told me would fit in with the other pieces of the last 48 years. It was so not me. And yet, knowing my girls wanted me to share in their bond, made me want to share in getting a tattoo I never would have imagined.<br />And as I stare at my back today, I think about writing that article to explain to my father-in-law and others why I did such a thing that is so different than anything else I have ever done. But maybe that is also part of the reason I did it.<br />Coloring inside the lines, thinking inside the box, doing the expected, is stable and decent and good. And that is pretty much how I have lived my life. I have prided myself in being dependable and therefore, pretty predictable. But there is something so liberating about getting older and waking up one day to realize you don’t need the approval of everyone after all. You have reached a beautiful zenith of life when you embrace the idea that you just don’t need to explain everything anymore.<br />So part of me was tempted to write that article explaining why I got my Celtic cross tattoo; but the other part of me doesn’t want to write it, because after 48 years, I finally know that <em>I </em>understand. And that’s enough.Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-14855400816550331312009-07-08T10:31:00.002-04:002012-07-20T19:17:40.838-04:00Reflections<a href="http://www.digi-hound.com/wp/img_wp3/wp_fireworks_l.jpg"></a><br />
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Holidays when the kids are little have their own way of grabbing your attention as if in a face-hold and not allowing you a single thought until the moment is over. With those early years and the overwhelming need to protect, entertain, and feed our children, the reflective thoughts about the moment get put on the backburner for one day when you might actually entertain a free thought.<br />
That day is today for me.<br />
With my oldest now just graduated from college and my youngest in middle school, the days are full of busy-ness –but the time between the moments allow me to actually have a thought and process it.<br />
This is what I reflected on while watching the 4th of July fireworks reflect from my rearview mirror this year.<br />
Gone are the fourth of July days of preparing a bicycle for that early morning parade. No more purchases of crepe paper and mini flags to adorn a tricycle that will end up not being ridden when the little one decides he wants to be carried for the mile walk. No more packing a suitcase full of toys, snacks and mosquito repellent to take along for the waiting of the evening fireworks display.<br />
This fourth of July had most in the family going their separate ways. Then as night began to fall, in anticipation of the fireworks, my son asked for a ride for him and his friends to go to the display. After dropping them off, I pulled over on the side of the road to watch the fireworks from my car.<br />
At that moment it was the independence of my children I was reflecting on more than the independence of my country. But that night with every beautiful burst of light shooting across the sky, I started to believe the fireworks were symbolic of that precious thing called childhood.<br />
With a burst of beauty, it all begins. At times loud, but always exciting, it has your full attention. You swear you will never take it for granted. But somehow you do. Then, when you think you have seen it all, something surprises you that takes your breath away, once again. Sometimes you think it’s preparing for the finale, but before you know it, you are given a little bit more. And a little bit more.<br />
And then you start to kid yourself and pretend it will never end. But the fireworks and childhood always seem to end before you are completely ready to admit it’s time. </div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36964294.post-4197526941016175952009-06-23T20:35:00.002-04:002009-06-23T20:39:53.694-04:00Champions<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVm3t_Mc5P1cf00Ho3thkZfhi-jFF_egorEwYyH2JMNIVbimD9OSafO9XReEYk7VeKVgM6Bl0zcvfE0l1iCjaqfVgLpII_LYcgETwpuYRCqpDqmZdEZXaa272XlMzNAgev-r6IA/s1600-h/Evan's+tournament+team.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 146px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350686544269759490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVm3t_Mc5P1cf00Ho3thkZfhi-jFF_egorEwYyH2JMNIVbimD9OSafO9XReEYk7VeKVgM6Bl0zcvfE0l1iCjaqfVgLpII_LYcgETwpuYRCqpDqmZdEZXaa272XlMzNAgev-r6IA/s200/Evan's+tournament+team.jpg" /></a><br /><div>The first definition my dictionary uses to define the word champion is: “<em>Anything that takes first place in a competition”.</em> After last weekend, I might argue that one.<br />My 13 year-old son’s baseball team, the Grinders, headed off for an overnight tournament. This was the first full-fledged-travel-four-hours-and-stay-in-a-hotel kind of tournament. The boys were in the big time now and they knew it. Spirits were high. Unfortunately, right before the first game, my son admitted his shoulder had been hurting since baseball camp earlier in the week. The motion of throwing a ball caused him to grimace in pain. Now, I don’t know a lot about baseball, but I do know that the motion of throwing a ball is fairly important to the game. He didn’t want to let his team down, but he knew he could only bat, not field for the weekend. The tournament began as the games were played; my son’s team managed to win both games on the first day. Heads were held high –spirits remained higher.<br />On the next day of the tournament, the Grinders started looking a bit grinded up. One player’s back had a muscle strain; one, just off crutches, had a swollen hand; another, a broken toe, a possible broken finger and broken glasses; yet another, something wrong with his foot. But still, they played. They pulled together, they encouraged each other. The boys were obviously hurting but they continued to play baseball. By the last game, my son had to field with his sore arm since the boy with the possible broken finger, who finished the game before, could not even begin to grip the bat now–and the team would have to forfeit if they couldn’t field nine players. So my son went on the field. The young boy with the back problem, needed to bat, even though he was quite certain he couldn’t run if he hit the ball. So he went on the field. And on it continued. Battered boys with bats hanging in there, playing ball, encouraging each other to keep on going. It may not have been pretty. But it seemed pretty wonderful.<br />According to the first definition in my dictionary, the Grinders were not the champions of the tournament. </div><div>They did not take first place. </div><div>Or even second. </div><div>But looking further down the list of definitions, the dictionary offers that a champion is also “<em>a fighter or war</em>rior”.<br />And there is not one person at that tournament who could deny that definition to the unrelenting team that seemed to have something wrong with every body part --- except their heart. </div>Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12784083458116732066noreply@blogger.com4