Confessions of an obsessaholic No. 4: Odd numbers

I hate odd numbers. Stupid, I know. I mean, it’s not like they’re slimy and slithery like snakes, which I hate, or those creepy crawlers with millions of matching legs that scurry across the floor like they’re headed to some great party behind the baseboard.

But there’s just something about an odd number that I don’t like.

So if I’m on the treadmill and I’m about dead, struggling to take another breath, needing water like a bubble eye goldfish who’s been out of his tank too long and I look down and see that I’m on lap 13 – TOO BAD!

I can’t stop.

Gotta go to 14.

Or when I buy bananas at the grocery store I buy a bunch with a even number. Now I know what you’re thinking (besides this chick is crazy), when I eat a banana the number will then be odd. But for some reason that doesn’t bother me (Thank, God). We all have quirky things like this. What is your’s?

Confessions of an obsessaholic No. 3: Smelly stuff

I like things to smell good – my clothes, my hair, my house, everything. I mean, who likes smelly things, right? So anyway, I started buying deodorizers for my house. But I liked the idea of coordinating the scent to the room. So, for instance, I have the clean linen scent in the laundry room and the apple-cinnamon scent in the kitchen and the ocean blue scent in the boys’ rooms and the sweet pea & lilac scent in the powder room and the lavender vanilla scent in the master bedroom and the jasmine and white rose in the library. I like being able to customize my smelling experience. Just another one of the many quirky things I do.

Tapestry: A shift of view

A friend of mine shared a thought one day that blew me away. It touched me so deeply that I’ve passed it on to others who were hurting or grieving. It’s one of those moments you can’t help but share. Before I tell you what he said, I need to explain what led up to it.

I had just called the hospital to ask for my girlfriend’s room number. Dee had been admitted the day before, and I figured I would pop over during my lunch break and surprise her. But after I told the woman at the hospital why I was calling, her cheerful voice changed. It’s then that I learned Dee had died just a few hours before.

I was in shock. I couldn’t believe she was gone, and I went to share the news with my editor, Jim McClure, a man of deep faith. Jim and I have talked a lot over the years about my many losses. Mom. Dad. Sister. Brother-in-law. Pastor. Other family members and friends. The list, sadly, is too long to count.

He listened quietly like he always does and offered his condolences. A few minutes later, he came over to my desk. The conversation went something like this.

“ Buffy,” he said. “Right now you are looking at the back side of the tapestry. You see all the knots and loose threads and it’s not very pretty.”

“You got that right,” I said. “It’s ugly. Real ugly.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know you think it is. But one day you’re going to see the other side of that tapestry, and you will see how beautiful it is.”

Wow! What an image he had painted for me. I remembered the cross-stitch wall hanging my mother made for me before she died. He was right. The back of it wasn’t pretty. There were knots and loose threads. It didn’t look like a picture at all. But when I flipped it over, all the ugliness was gone and a beautiful picture was in its place.

So many times in life we’re looking at the back side of the tapestry. It’s hard not to. Life’s not always fair. It’s not always happy. And it’s not always how we want it to be.

But I’ve learned that it’s the knots and the loose threads on the back of the tapestry that make the front of it the masterpiece it is.

We won’t always understand the twists and turns our road of life takes, but, if we trust in the Lord, we know where that road will ultimately lead.

Thank you, Jim, for your gift that day. You probably didn’t know how much that moment meant to me or that it was a moment that I would pass on to so many other people.

I will always remember the tapestry story and that beauty can be found in even the ugliest of times.

First published in York Daily Record/Sunday News March 11, 2007

Confessions of an obsessaholic No. 2: Linen closet

I drive my husband nuts. Like the other day, I opened the linen closet and what do I find? Towels. Nothing unusual about that, I know. But the pink towels were mixed up with the yellow towels, which were mixed up with the blue towels, which were mixed up with the striped towels, which were mixed up with the green towels. No. No. No. That’s not how I do it. The pinks go together and the yellows go together and the blues go together and the stripes go together and the greens go together. So I reorganize them. All the while my husband’s telling me that he’ll never put the towels away ever again. And I’m like, “OK. Sounds good to me, because I’d rather do it myself anyway.” Just another example of my obsessiveness about things that have no relevance. Poor husband. He really is a saint for loving my crazy self.

Our choices determine the impact

Choices. We make dozens of them every day. What to wear. What to eat. What to watch on TV.

Most of our daily decisions are no big deal, but there are some that really matter.

We choose to stay angry or we choose to forgive.

We choose to speak out against an injustice or we choose to remain silent.

We choose to stand alone or we choose to give in to peer pressure.

Life is full of moments when we make important decisions. And the decisions that we make not only determine the outcome or consequence but how others react to us.

I’d like to say that I’ve made all of the right choices in life, but I would be lying. The truth is, I’ve made my share of bad ones. And sometimes the consequences have been painful — a bad grade, lost privileges and, perhaps worst of all, the disappointment on the faces of my parents, husband or children.

I’d like to think that the moments when I make bad choices are just as important as the moments when I make good ones because of what I learn. I’d like to think that somehow the good and the bad balance each other out and that, in the end, both have formed who I am today. That’s what I’d like to think, but I guess you can never be sure.

I started thinking about choices recently while taking an inventory of my life. I had lunch with a dear friend, and he asked me some pretty tough questions. The kind that make you uncomfortable because they force you to become introspective. To be honest, it was a moment I didn’t particularly like. I was at a crossroads of sorts, and he was encouraging me to examine my life. To make a list of my goals, evaluate them and determine how I was going to achieve them. He wanted to meet again in a couple of weeks to share my thoughts and see what choices I had made.

I thought about what I had accomplished and what I have yet to achieve. I thought about the choices I’ve made in life. The good and the bad. Those that brought me closer to my goals and those that didn’t.

I thought about my family and friends — and whether I had been the mother and wife or sister and friend that I’ve wanted to be.

The truth is, I’ve fallen short in all of these areas. That’s the bad news. The good is that I have a choice — I can keep trying to do better or I can settle for less. I’m not about settling for less, so the choice is clear.

Each of us is the driver of our lives. We choose which road to take, whether to turn right or left or go straight at an intersection and ultimately where we will end up. And each time we make a choice on our road of life, we need to deal with what lies ahead. Sometimes it’s a pothole or bump. And these hurt. Sometimes there’s a fallen tree blocking the path, and we need to figure out how to get around it. These make us stronger and wiser. And sometimes — and these are the sweetest of times — the road is straight and smooth.

But here’s the thing. Good. Bad. At least we have choices. And, in the end, the choices matter because they help shape who we are and what we hope to become.

First published in the York Daily Record/Sunday News April 22, 2007

Confessions of an obsessaholic No. 1: Closet

OK. I admit it. I obsess just a teeny-tiny bit about things. But I wouldn’t be my crazy self if I didn’t. And I sort of like who I am. Anyway, the other day I was looking at my closet, feeling pretty good about it. It’s organized and neat. Then I opened my husband’s closet to put some shirts away and let me tell you folks, his closet is nothing like mine. Made me itch just looking at it.

In my closet, everything is arranged first by item (sweaters, pants, shirts, etc.) and then by color (or prints) followed by sleeve length. For example, suppose it’s really hot and I want to wear a short-sleeve white shirt. I know just where to find it. Ditto for a long-sleeve black shirt or a stripped sweater or a pair of black pants or a brown mock turtleneck or a red regular turtleneck (Yes, even turtlenecks are arranged by mock and regular) or a summer dress or a winter dress – well, you get the picture. Pure bliss.

To me, it makes perfect sense and is efficient. To my husband, it’s just another example of my quirkiness that he has come to accept (and I think love).

How do you arrange your closet?

We learn from our failures

Sometimes, despite our best efforts, things don’t work out exactly as we had planned. We fall, and sometimes we fall hard.

In the movie “Batman Begins,” Bruce Wayne has a flashback: He falls into a well as a young boy. His father, a doctor, sets his fractured arm, and he asks Bruce “Why do we fall?” The answer: So we can learn to pick ourselves up.

Later, Bruce Wayne’s butler and confidant, Alfred, asks Bruce the same question after rescuing him from his burning home. The answer doesn’t change.

Falling hurts. It makes us cry, and it makes us angry. But if we never learn to pick ourselves up, we will never learn to deal with life’s strikeouts. I’m dealing with one right now. More on that in a bit.

I always tell my sons that failures are the building blocks of success. I never really understood this as a teen, but it’s something my father would remind me about whenever I fell short of a goal.

On my first real knock-the-wind-out-of-me fall, I remember crying and my mom feeling helpless, unable to console me. “I just don’t understand why you are so upset,” she said.
Looking back, it was a really silly thing to be upset about — even if I was only 16. I wasn’t chosen to participate in a pageant.

“Dot,” my dad said, “she’s upset because she’s never failed at anything. This is a hard lesson for her. But a good one.”

He was right. It was. I learned more from failing than I ever would have from succeeding. Let me say that again — I learned more from failing than I ever would have from succeeding.
Of course, you couldn’t tell a know-it-all teen that then. That realization would take a few more years and some maturity. But as I grew older, I learned to appreciate my dad’s guidance and honesty. He was always there to help me up from my falls, but he expected me to get my legs moving afterward.

On this painful first-fall day, he looked at me with a loving smile and said, “When you’re done crying, get up and go.”

I think I cried a bit more, wallowing in my self-pity, but I eventually did get up and press on, never forgetting his wise words.

My failures have made me stronger and more determined to succeed. They’ve forced me to admit my shortcomings and figure out how to overcome them. And they’ve taught me that we have only truly failed when we allow the Monster of Defeat to overpower us and hold us down.
We don’t always understand the defining moments of our lives as they are happening. But when we look back, we can clearly see that along with the hits and home runs there are some strikes and strikeouts and that together they make the game. In the end, the winner is one who learns to deal with both.

I was reminded of this moment recently when a big, fat rejection slip came in the mail for a book manuscript I have been trying to place. Another failure. Another strike.

As I opened the letter, I could feel my dad’s presence, looking down on me from heaven. I saw his loving smile and heard him say, “When you’re done crying, get up and go.”

I know I’ll get up and go — but I need to cry a bit first.

First published in York Daily Record/Sunday News Nov. 4, 2007

Excerpt from Freaky Frank

I have a secret. I know things. Lots of things. About people. Like I know that my math teacher, Mr. Bugg, is going to pick his nose and wipe a boogie on the back of his yellow smiley face tie when he turns around to write on the board. And I know that Lacey, who sits next to me, is hoping that Jon, who sits behind me, asks her to our eighth-grade school dance. And that she really, really, really hopes that the pimple she popped and powdered before class doesn’t look like a giant apple on the tip of her nose. And that Jon doesn’t see said giant apple pimple when she accidentally-on-purpose bumps into him while leaving class.

See what I mean? I know tons of things. Freaky Frank. That’s me, all right.

Excerpt from Freaky Frank, latest middle-grade manuscript

Seeds of healing fall from sky

A dried rose sits on my computer, along with a popcorn seed, star- fish, seashell, toy turtle and floral-shaped eraser.

It’s an odd menagerie that grows as sentimental items are added. They are daily reminders of precious moments.

The rose from a friend’s funeral. The popcorn seed from my pastor, who gave it to me during a sermon before he died.

Our lives are filled with tiny treasures that transport us to another time and place — moments that have helped define who we are and what we hope to become.

I recently had dinner with a dear friend, and she told me a story that I’d like to share. I will never look at acorns in quite the same way — and I’m guessing neither will you.

Kim was visiting her father’s grave in western Pennsylvania. Kneeling by his tombstone, tears streaming down her face, heart heavy with inconsolable grief. She told him how much she missed him and how much she loved him and how hard life was without him.

If only she could hug him one more time.

Just one more time.

To feel his strong arms, see his loving smile and that magic sparkle in his green eyes.

She laid down the bouquet of roses she always brings him and wiped a spot from his name on the tombstone.

That’s when it happened.

It sounded like a knock. Kim looked around, but no one was there. So she continued talking to her dad, sharing her private thoughts and feelings.

Then came another knock.

And another.

She looked around the cemetery for someone walking toward her but, again, no one.

“Then I saw the acorn,” Kim said. “A squirrel, busy with his early autumn duties, was dropping acorns right beside me on the grass. It made me laugh out loud. A squirrel hunting acorns. A reminder that life goes on. I wiped away my tears and picked one up to put in my car. . . .”

The next day, Kim walked into a gift store and saw little silver acorns for sale. She picked one up. A tag on it said that acorns represent a long and happy life. That’s when she knew that her dad was still with her and that she would be just fine.

The day after Kim told me this story, I went for a run. Instead of going my usual route, I went a different way. I came upon a huge oak tree. I smiled, stopped and picked up an acorn. And I knew just what to do with it.

When the pail filled with life’s troubled waters gets too heavy to carry and I feel like I’m going to drop it, my eyes drift to my menagerie and I am steadied.

I’m reminded of Pastor Danny — who showed me the awesome power of the Holy Spirit by using a seed of corn.

And of Dee and so many other loved ones who are no longer here who taught me that, although a rose will die, its beauty lives on in those touched by its everlasting grace.

And of my co-worker Sue who, through seashells and starfish, reminds me every day that life is richer when it’s sweetened with laughter.

And, as the acorn joins my little computer club, it evokes memories of a special dinner with a special friend who shared a special story that will live on long after we’re gone. A story about hope and love and the beauty of this thing we call life.

First published in York Daily Record/Sunday News Sept. 23, 2007

Don't be afraid to show love

If you had 60 seconds, one moment, to say something to a loved one, what would it be?

“I love you.”

“I’m glad you’re a part of my life.”

“You make me happy.”

“I’m proud of the person you’ve become.”

“You make life fun.”

“Sometimes I say things I don’t mean.”

“It’s crazy, I know, but I just had to call and say hello.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for helping me.”

“You can do it.”

“I believe in you.”

“Just yesterday I was telling my friends how much you mean to me, and I realized I should be telling you.”

“Being your mom is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I know I sometimes fail you as a parent, but I’m doing the best I can.”

“Like you, I have a lot to learn. Isn’t it great we’re growing and learning together?”

“Life’s not always happy, but I’m here to help you when it’s not.”

“We can get through this — together.”

“Learn from your failures. They are the building blocks of success.”

“Be the best you can be.”

“When I learned I was going to be a dad, I was scared. But then you came and I was like, ‘I can do this.’ And I am doing it. And I’m glad.”

“Your smile makes me smile.”

“I won’t always be able to prevent you from falling, but I’ll be there to help you get up.”

“My life is better because you are in it.”

“I really do love you.”

To say all these things takes 60 seconds. How many seconds do you spend each day saying even one of them?

These, folks, are moments that matter, little things that mean a lot.

The moment we tell our children they are wanted and loved.

The moment we admit our shortcomings.

The moment we say I’m sorry or I messed up or forgive me.

Each night, I share several seconds with my teenage sons that make up one of the most important moments of my day. Before I head to bed, I go into their rooms and tell each of them how much I love them. They put up with my hugs and kisses mostly because they know it makes me feel good. They understand that if I die in my sleep, the last words I want to have spoken to them is “I love you.”

I doubt if this nightly moment means as much to them as it does to me. But I also know if a night passed and I didn’t do this, they would probably wonder what was wrong.

My hope is that as they grow older and have families of their own, they’ll feel comfortable sharing similar moments with their children. I want them to love and not to be afraid of showing their love. To feel and not to be afraid of expressing their feelings. To be the kind of husbands and fathers I know they can be.

And I hope that this nightly moment is leading the way, that it matters not just for the present but for a lifetime.

First published in York Daily Record/Sunday News April 8, 2007

One special moment can reveal a life

I’ve wanted to write this column for a long time now. The truth is I’ve been afraid. Afraid of not expressing what’s in my heart as eloquently as I would like. But I realized that perfectionism is the oppressor. And I can’t allow that Goliath to drown me in self-doubt and insecurity. My friends and family deserve better. You see, this column is really about them and what they’ve taught me.

There are many moments in our lives that change us, make us better people. Small moments. Big moments. Quiet moments that if we aren’t paying enough attention slip right by without our realizing their significance until much later.

These moments touch us and teach us something about ourselves and others and this big ball we live on. Someone says something or does something or nothing at all, and we realize that it’s a moment we will never forget.

Often these moments are ones we share at funerals, slivers of time that capture a loved one’s essence.

I’ve been blessed to have many of these can’t-forget moments in my life. Many of them have come while watching friends and family who are dying.

They see things differently. Little things mean more, and big things mean less.

They find beauty and the promise of new life in a branch dressed in ice. We see cold and frailty and death.

They listen to their heart- beat and hear a symphony. We home in on all the skipped beats and lost opportunities.

They face each day with hope and anticipation. We do so with some dread and trepidation.

Their perspectives are sweet gifts to us. Too often we unwrap these gifts after they’re gone, sad that we didn’t do it sooner. “If only,” we say. But “if onlys” lead to too many regrets.

To understand the value of a day, we first have to live the seconds.

It’s hard, I think, to live like you were dying, as Tim McGraw sings. It’s hard for us to see good in bad, hope in despair, success in failure. The best we can do is to keep trying.

And so, I’ve decided to share everyday moments with our readers on an occasional basis throughout the year. These may

be moments that have made me laugh or cry, think or be thankful. Whatever emotion they may have stirred in me, one thing is certain — they are moments that matter. They are moments that have taught me something and are helping me grow into the person I want to become.

Here are two to get started.

..........

No one would have blamed Dee if she wasn’t at our church’s charity auction. No one at all. She was tired and weak and battling melanoma. But she wanted to be there with the rest of us, raising money for the local food bank.

It worried some of us that she was doing too much, pushing herself too hard, but it didn’t surprise us. It’s how Dee was, always giving. Always putting others first, whether it was collecting school supplies, hats or mittens for needy children, or helping with the annual Easter egg hunt and fall bazaar. Dee did what she knew best — give.

When the charity auction was over and everyone went home, we had to clean up. Dee could have gone home, but she stayed. She stood in the kitchen at the fire company washing the glass brandy snifters we had used for centerpieces. She and her husband, Dave, lent us the snifters each year for the event. These were the same glass brandy snifters they had used at their wedding reception. Dee washed one after the other, handling each one with care so we’d have them for years to come. When everything was cleaned up, Dee went home. She served and gave until she could serve and give no more.

Dee won’t be at our charity auction this month. She lost her battle last June, leaving behind her loving husband, 4-year-old twins Sarah and Erick and 9-year-old son Jordan. Dee Sowers was 34.

I know that as we place the glass brandy snifters on the tables this year, we will remember Dee and her commitment to making the world a better place — moment by moment.

..........

Don had been in and out of the hospital for a year battling pneumonia and other breathing problems.

Short stays.

Long stays.

In-between stays.

But somehow he always ended up back at church collecting the early service offering. One Saturday last October, he sat behind a table at the annual bazaar selling raffle tickets for a quilt and other homemade treasures. He had just come home from the hospital the day before. A portable oxygen tank was by his side.

He could have stayed home and rested, but he didn’t. There were people to see and things to do. Even when he was feeling lousy, Don Fries never stopped serving and giving. Through pancreatic cancer, through open-heart surgery and through all of his breathing problems, Don helped when he could.

He died Jan. 12, leaving behind his wife, Evelyn, of 53 years, five wonderful children, four grandchildren, a step-grandchild and two great-grandchildren. I’ll miss Don at the bazaar this year. I wonder who will sell the raffle tickets.

..........

When life gets a little tough or my day isn’t going exactly right or the kids are driving me crazy, I remember Dee and Don and so many others who have taught me that I shouldn’t wait until I’m dying to learn how to live.

Moments come and moments go. And some moments last forever.

First published in York Daily Record/Sunday News Feb. 4, 2007