on scars

This morning I was looking at a cut Trevor got on his leg at a cross country meet earlier this week.

Me: "That might leave a scar."

Him: "I hope it does."

Me: "Scars are awesome."

Him: "Scars are great."

He was out the door and I was left thinking more about scars. Memorials left on our skin to what we've come through, to the injuries that haven't gotten the best of us. Often, badges of pride. 

Trevor has one on his elbow (his "wenis," he'll tell you) from YCamp a couple years ago when he went to the hospital for stitches after some mattress-diving-fun-gone-wrong. He says it was the best day of his life.

I have one on my forehead from falling on a screwdriver when I was a toddler. I was hanging around my Grandpa outside, playing (and, apparently, picking up his tools and running with them!) while he worked on a project. When I touch the scar, I think of the nearness I had to my sweet Grandpa when I was growing up.

I'm guessing you have scars, too. Maybe from incidents that make you smile in the remembering, or maybe from scary times you're just grateful to have survived.

Someone once told me that every time we get a cut or scrape, and our body goes to work repairing and healing it, it's a little miracle happening before our eyes. I had never thought about it that way before, and it stuck with me. It's so true. For the smaller nicks, there often isn't even a mark left behind. But the deeper wounds get scars, probably because we're meant to remember what we've been through.

Free Friday Advice: "Dance like nobody's watching..."

or videotaping.

Dance! 

That is my Free Friday Advice. 

Bleeding-heart Wednesday

This morning I met with my friend Melissa, who runs a Christian service ministry located in our church's basement. (More info about Waukee Area Christian Services here.) She updated me on the latest with the food pantry, community garden, and free clinic, and we talked about the people she serves, many of whom simply can't make ends meet, even if they're working more than one job. Melissa shared the story of a woman whose paychecks will cover rent but not groceries, so she'll make a bowl of oatmeal for dinner and save half of it for the next morning's breakfast. 

"These are real people, just like you and me," she said. I don't doubt that.

After meeting with Mel, I stopped to pick up a prescription at a pharmacy, where a woman walked up to the counter next to me and asked the pharmacist if she could recommend an over-the-counter medicine for her sick two-year-old, who was down with a fever, cough, runny nose, the works. 

The pharmacist said she can't make recommendations for children that young, and suggested the young mom take her son to the doctor. 

"We don't have insurance, so I can't take him to the doctor." 

The pharmacist just stood there not knowing what to say, and another pharmacist weakly suggested maybe Tylenol for the fever. The young mom said thanks ("for nothing," I might have added) and walked away. She was gone before I could put together my own thoughts of what might help. The free clinic I had just come from was an option, but it wouldn't be open again until next Monday evening, which hardly helps her son on this Wednesday afternoon. 

The problems with our health care system are admittedly complex, I know. And I don't know anything about this woman or her situation. I don't know whether she knows about free clinics. I so badly wish I had thought quickly enough to say something about ours, even if the timing wasn't right today. Sooner or later, that little boy will be sick again. Perhaps on a Monday.

I guess all I'm really saying is that it breaks my heart to hear of someone making a bowl of oatmeal last for two meals, or to hear a young mom say she can't afford to take her sick toddler to the doctor.

These stories are right here in the western suburbs. Where it could just as easily be me or you.

Beyond Lois Lane's underwear color

Last week Dennis said something that struck me. I keep thinking about it, trying to unpack it a little more.

We were having dinner at The Rooftop, a favorite summer hang. A gorgeous sunset was in the works; we had cold drinks in front of us and string lights above us. I had my feet up on an empty chair at our table. It was that kind of night. 

I don't even remember what we were talking about. I know it wasn't superheroes, I don't think it was even philosophical, which is why it surprised me when Dennis said, "If I could pick a superpower, I'd want to know everyone's story just by looking at them."

Wait. That could be a superpower?

When people talk about their dream superpowers, I always assume they mean the established ones. Invisibility (my previous favorite). Flying. X-Ray vision. Stretching (or whatever that rubbery superhero does). I never considered inventing a whole new one. 

Maybe this is just a different version of x-ray vision. Moving beyond seeing what color underwear Lois Lane is wearing to knowing her unique story.

Where she's from. What her hobbies are. If she knows some of the same people you know. What scares her. What inspires her. To know all of that at a glance.

We did a fair amount of rolling this idea over. Our discussion ranged from the deep (How would you treat people differently if you knew their past hurts and heartaches?) to the shallow (It would be so easy to pick up people!). What?! My indignation quickly gave way to oh my gosh, you're so right.

Like all great superpowers, the holder would be charged with the task of using it for good and not evil.

I'm not a great conversationalist. I don't always know the right questions to ask or the sweet-spot topics to bring up. I'm thinking this superpower might help a whole lot. 

It makes me wonder what I would find out about even about the people I consider close friends. I'm not talking about skeletons in closets. (Can I put a filter on my superpower? Because there might be things I don't want to know.)

Or, I don't know, maybe I'd find something in common between your skeletons and my own.

But the essence of this ability would really be to see a person in their wholeness, and not just the cross-section that happens to be in front of me at the moment. 

I'd like to be able to do that. The next time we talk, tell me something about yourself that I don't know. Or, I'll try to remember to ask. 

I don't need to know what color underwear you're wearing, but if you really want me to know, I'm cool with that, too.

Free Friday Advice: On Burning Rubber

Like a lot of families, from time to time we deal with complicated logistics. The boys are in different fall sports, and they get out of school at different times. While they both now have cars to drive, only one of the cars is allowed to park at the high school. So, occasionally, we have to draw some flowcharts to figure out how everyone will get where they need to be.

Wednesday was a flowchart day. The night before, we talked through times and places and keys and cars, and had it all worked out. I was supposed to be in Waukee all afternoon, and I had one job to do for my part in the boys' after-school shuffle. I needed to take Nate's golf clubs out of my trunk before heading to Waukee, so he could stop by home and get them on his way to practice.

About 3:00, I was happily working on a project at our church when my phone rang. Nate: "Mom, what are the chances my clubs are still in your car?"

The one thing I needed to remember. %^$@!

"I'm on my way! Meet you at the golf course." Out the door in a flash.

The team's tee times were to begin at 3:15. In fifteen minutes. The golf course is on the south side of town, and I was in a whole different town, out west. [side note: He's one of the "new kids" on the jv/varsity team this year, still earning his stripes and trying to fit in.] I burned it and got there the same time Nate did. He laugh-smiled and said, "Wow. You got here really fast."

My advice for today is, if you really have to be somewhere in a hurry, do it in a way that can impress an teenage boy.

[Should either of my kids or their friends happen to read this, my real advice is to go the speed limit and drive carefully at all times.]

"squirrel!"

We have an ornery squirrel who lives in the tree outside our back door. Sometimes he (she? nah.) will come down the tree when Marley's outside, and whip his tail and make that angry-squirrel kukking sound while standing just above the poor little pooch.

Other times he'll knock my plants off the deck.

He's not nice.

Today he was especially intrigued by a tub-shaped cooler that sits on our deck in the summer. The cooler was empty, but its lid was somewhat askew, and about a half inch of rainwater had collected in the bottom. It took me a while to figure out that squirrel was trying to get to the water, but his knocking the lid completely off was my first clue.

He then circled around the edge of the cooler a few times, studying the options for lowering himself down to the water. Eventually he figured out how to hold on to the edge with just his back feet and suspend himself down for a drink, which was both clever and impressive. He pulled himself back up, took a short rest, and did it again. This time his grip didn't hold, and he fell into the water. A blur of flailing legs and wet squirrel tail came flying back out.

I was watching through the window and laughed loud enough for him to hear me.