Last night I went to a girls-night-out attended by several old friends. While sipping wine and munching on snacks, we perused shiny baubles and beads, designer jeans and girlie things.
At one point in the evening, several of us congregated near the jewelry table, discussing how gold was back in vogue. Somehow the conversation turned to wedding rings—and then specifically to my ring.
“I love my ring,” I commented. “And it’s history.” About a year after we’d been married, I found the check for my diamond stamped “Returned for Insufficient Funds” in a pile of papers. Somehow, this touched my heart—as I realized how much Pete had stretched his finances to buy my diamond. Somehow, it made me love him and the ring just a little bit more.
“But if Pete brought home a bigger diamond, under the condition that you had to trade that one in, what would you do?” a friend asked.
I hesitated, not pondering my answer, but surprised by the question itself.
“I’d keep the one I have,” I replied.
“You’d upgrade,” she said, smiling in a matter-of-fact, “diamonds-are-a-girls-best friend” kind of a way. I knew she was teasing, but something about her comment stung.
The interaction bounced around in my noggin through the remainder of the night and into my morning. What was it that pinched my heart? What didn’t sit quite right?
The answer, I realized, is this: I’m not a woman that places value on the size of my diamond. And somehow, my friend of fifteen years didn’t realize that.
While I like shiny things as well as the next gal, I know that a bigger diamond on my hand will never impact my—or anyone else’s—quality of life. However, the money it represents potentially could. (A side note: People would generally use what is called “disposable” income for this kind of purchase, but think about the term “disposable;” inherently it suggests a throw-away quality. None of us can afford to spend our money on things that don’t engender long-term value...)
Pete would never buy me an “upgrade” because if we had the money to spend, he knows I would be blessed by things that directly enhance our quality of life: I would love to paint our barn a deep, rusty red; I imagine looking out on it from my kitchen window on a snowy day, snuggled amidst the trees. I crave a small kitchen island and stools, so my girls can sit in the kitchen and chat with me while I prepare dinner. And I would love to start a non-profit, giving back to the community in a way that brings long-term value.
Somehow, my life does not read transparent. Somehow, this value isn’t clear to even some of my closest friends. And this is what stings.
Quality of life reads different for everyone, but for me, it’s not diamonds. It is apparent to me that I need to liver closer to my true values—so my friends will know, without asking, what makes my heart truly shine.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
More Sweet Spots
Marriage changes things.
When we were newlyweds, my husband, an avid golfer, would sneak out of bed long before dawn, begging off to the golf course, guaranteed to be the first one off the tee box—at day break.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” he’d whisper into the black, a question borne of obligation and routine; he wanted my blessing, but also knew my answer would release him to the greens until lunchtime. I was not a golfer. I grew up in a dance studio.
“There is nothing that could get me out of bed at this hour,” I’d grumble from under the covers. “I can’t imagine getting up this early to do anything—least of all play golf.”
“OK, then, I’ll see you later,” he’d breathe into my ear. Then a quick kiss and he was gone.
On these days, I’d routinely sleep until ten, lounge in my PJ’s, sip coffee, and peruse the morning paper for hours. I treasured my moments alone and did not begrudge him the time on the links. When he returned home, we’d resume our day together, with trips to Home Depot and lunches on the deck.
And then we had a baby—and even though my man was off to the golf course by five in the morning—I’d be up with the baby by six. Gone were my casual mornings of reading and leisure. By the time he returned from his outing, I was exhausted and ready to go back to bed. As soon as he walked in the door, I’d push our daughter into his arms, grumbling, and retreat to our room.
Even though I had started to take golf lessons over the first couple years of our marriage, I didn’t actually enjoy the game. I couldn’t seem to hit the ball on a regular basis and usually left the course more frustrated than when I arrived. Now, I was stuck in a nebulous place of envy and confusion: I didn’t want to play and yet, crazily, I did. (I hated getting up early, but I was up anyway—so why wouldn’t I play?)
After several months—and a pep-talk from my mom—I started to play the game on a more regular basis. Pete still stuck to his morning outings, but I was proactive to get out on my own. And we got a babysitter for outings together.
At first, playing golf with my husband presented its own set of problems. “Husband” and “Golf Coach” are not terms that should generally coexist. I expected to shoot par after playing for just a few months; Pete just wanted me make consistent contact. I was crabby; he patient and persistent…in an irritating know-it-all, golf-is-so-easy kind of a way.
“You want find the sweet spot,” he’d say.
“What the heck is the sweet spot?” I’d snap.
“It’s the part of the club face where you make the best contact.”
“How will I know if I find it?” I ask. “Even when I think I’m hitting it correctly, I shank the ball.”
I was a ball-whiffing, mistake-ridden, four-putt disaster queen.
Fast-forward ten years. Pete and I now have two daughters, ages eleven and six. I have made most every golf faux pas known to man (and woman)—including blowing my nose in my golf towel and performing a split leap on the putting green. I have also hit a hole-in-one and published a golf book for women, "From the Red Tees: Help, Hope, and Humor for Women on the Green."
I am still not a scratch golfer, far from it. But I am competent—and I enjoy the challenge the game provides. I also enjoy the fresh air, striving for the perfect drive, and the leisurely (I use that term loosely) time with my husband. Our lives are much more hectic—with busy careers and daughters in their own activities, so I appreciate and crave the time for just the two of us even more than I did as a newlywed.
Perhaps it is golf, more than marriage, that changes things.
Last year, we took a Palm Springs golf trip for our anniversary—in July. It was HOT and so we scheduled all our tee times early, extremely early. For five days in a row, we crawled out of bed in darkness, were off the tee box at daybreak, and poolside by noon. On the last day, we lay in the sun sipping margaritas, reminiscing about our round that morning.
“You played great today, honey,” my husband commented casually, reaching for my hand. “I had an awesome time with you.”
And then, finally, I knew: I had found the sweet spot.
When we were newlyweds, my husband, an avid golfer, would sneak out of bed long before dawn, begging off to the golf course, guaranteed to be the first one off the tee box—at day break.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” he’d whisper into the black, a question borne of obligation and routine; he wanted my blessing, but also knew my answer would release him to the greens until lunchtime. I was not a golfer. I grew up in a dance studio.
“There is nothing that could get me out of bed at this hour,” I’d grumble from under the covers. “I can’t imagine getting up this early to do anything—least of all play golf.”
“OK, then, I’ll see you later,” he’d breathe into my ear. Then a quick kiss and he was gone.
On these days, I’d routinely sleep until ten, lounge in my PJ’s, sip coffee, and peruse the morning paper for hours. I treasured my moments alone and did not begrudge him the time on the links. When he returned home, we’d resume our day together, with trips to Home Depot and lunches on the deck.
And then we had a baby—and even though my man was off to the golf course by five in the morning—I’d be up with the baby by six. Gone were my casual mornings of reading and leisure. By the time he returned from his outing, I was exhausted and ready to go back to bed. As soon as he walked in the door, I’d push our daughter into his arms, grumbling, and retreat to our room.
Even though I had started to take golf lessons over the first couple years of our marriage, I didn’t actually enjoy the game. I couldn’t seem to hit the ball on a regular basis and usually left the course more frustrated than when I arrived. Now, I was stuck in a nebulous place of envy and confusion: I didn’t want to play and yet, crazily, I did. (I hated getting up early, but I was up anyway—so why wouldn’t I play?)
After several months—and a pep-talk from my mom—I started to play the game on a more regular basis. Pete still stuck to his morning outings, but I was proactive to get out on my own. And we got a babysitter for outings together.
At first, playing golf with my husband presented its own set of problems. “Husband” and “Golf Coach” are not terms that should generally coexist. I expected to shoot par after playing for just a few months; Pete just wanted me make consistent contact. I was crabby; he patient and persistent…in an irritating know-it-all, golf-is-so-easy kind of a way.
“You want find the sweet spot,” he’d say.
“What the heck is the sweet spot?” I’d snap.
“It’s the part of the club face where you make the best contact.”
“How will I know if I find it?” I ask. “Even when I think I’m hitting it correctly, I shank the ball.”
I was a ball-whiffing, mistake-ridden, four-putt disaster queen.
Fast-forward ten years. Pete and I now have two daughters, ages eleven and six. I have made most every golf faux pas known to man (and woman)—including blowing my nose in my golf towel and performing a split leap on the putting green. I have also hit a hole-in-one and published a golf book for women, "From the Red Tees: Help, Hope, and Humor for Women on the Green."
I am still not a scratch golfer, far from it. But I am competent—and I enjoy the challenge the game provides. I also enjoy the fresh air, striving for the perfect drive, and the leisurely (I use that term loosely) time with my husband. Our lives are much more hectic—with busy careers and daughters in their own activities, so I appreciate and crave the time for just the two of us even more than I did as a newlywed.
Perhaps it is golf, more than marriage, that changes things.
Last year, we took a Palm Springs golf trip for our anniversary—in July. It was HOT and so we scheduled all our tee times early, extremely early. For five days in a row, we crawled out of bed in darkness, were off the tee box at daybreak, and poolside by noon. On the last day, we lay in the sun sipping margaritas, reminiscing about our round that morning.
“You played great today, honey,” my husband commented casually, reaching for my hand. “I had an awesome time with you.”
And then, finally, I knew: I had found the sweet spot.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
More Little Things...
Last year for my birthday, nestled amongst the gifts from my mom, I received a bar of soap. Now, it was not an ordinary bar of Dove or Irish Spring, but a big, round, lemon-scented bar, made in Italy. It was weighty—feeling about the size of a big Russet when you held it in your hand. It was a nice bar. But, it was soap.
I tucked the bar up in my bathroom closet with my other supplies and, to tell you the truth, I kind of forgot about it.
Then, last week, in an attempt to get Morgan into the shower, I told her, “Morgan, look! I have a brand new bar of lemon soap you can use. It’s from Italy.”
This caught her attention. “Oooohhhhhh,” admired Morgan, shimmying out of her school clothes, now eager to jump into the shower.
Then Peyton came bounding into the bathroom and sniffed the box, still heavy with lemon scent. “Yum!” she said, also admiring the soap. “I’m taking a shower next!”
Later, while Morgan was snuggling with her dad, I overheard her ask, “Dad, do I smell like lemons?”
And a wet-haired Peyton made the effort to tell me, “Mom, that soap is pretty awesome.”
Who knew that my family would be so enamored by a bar of soap?
But here’s the best part: Two days later, the girls and I toodled through Cost Plus looking for an inexpensive birthday gift for Peyton’s teacher. And of course, you know what Peyton wanted to get: A bar of soap.
This little bar has reminded me of the value in the simple things.
Each day, remember the BIG joy that little things can bring:
A thoughtful email.
A good bar of dark chocolate.
A latte.
A hug.
A perfect orange.
A funny card.
A phone call from a friend.
A ten minute nap.
The sun on your face.
And, if you’re lucky,
A bar of soap.
I tucked the bar up in my bathroom closet with my other supplies and, to tell you the truth, I kind of forgot about it.
Then, last week, in an attempt to get Morgan into the shower, I told her, “Morgan, look! I have a brand new bar of lemon soap you can use. It’s from Italy.”
This caught her attention. “Oooohhhhhh,” admired Morgan, shimmying out of her school clothes, now eager to jump into the shower.
Then Peyton came bounding into the bathroom and sniffed the box, still heavy with lemon scent. “Yum!” she said, also admiring the soap. “I’m taking a shower next!”
Later, while Morgan was snuggling with her dad, I overheard her ask, “Dad, do I smell like lemons?”
And a wet-haired Peyton made the effort to tell me, “Mom, that soap is pretty awesome.”
Who knew that my family would be so enamored by a bar of soap?
But here’s the best part: Two days later, the girls and I toodled through Cost Plus looking for an inexpensive birthday gift for Peyton’s teacher. And of course, you know what Peyton wanted to get: A bar of soap.
This little bar has reminded me of the value in the simple things.
Each day, remember the BIG joy that little things can bring:
A thoughtful email.
A good bar of dark chocolate.
A latte.
A hug.
A perfect orange.
A funny card.
A phone call from a friend.
A ten minute nap.
The sun on your face.
And, if you’re lucky,
A bar of soap.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
More Retail Therapy...
A few summers ago Pete and I attended a wedding in Holdrege, Nebraska. On the five hour drive to our destination, we passed metallic grain elevators, tractors, trains, farms, and picturesque dilapidated barns, each an American original. There were fields of sweet corn as far as the eye could see. We don’t drive through Nebraska much, so I enjoyed the trip. Pete enjoyed it too, but for an entirely different reason.
The morning after the wedding dawned gray and gloomy, like a post-party hangover. We ate breakfast, said our goodbyes, and packed up the car. Then Pete announced with a cheeky grin: “We’re going to take a detour on the way home…WE’RE GOING TO CABELLAS!!!!!”
I should have guessed. Since we’ve been married, Pete has wanted to make the pilgrimage to the Cabelas World Headquarters. Despite owning every piece of fishing and hunting gear known to man, he felt he had to go—considering it a male rite of passage—and he glowed with anticipation.
“I’m only going to maybe buy floor mats for my truck, some flies, and some convertible pants,” he said, preshopping the superstore in his mind. This made me chuckle; it was akin to my budgeting/prioritizing before a Nordstrom Half-Yearly sale.
But this was not Nordstrom and I did not share his enthusiasm. Let’s just say, for me, ho-hum was a stretch. As we drove, I tried to concoct reasons to not accompany him into the hunting haven, but by the time we turned into the parking lot, it was a non-issue. We’d gotten into a big fight and he didn’t want my company in the store. He huffed off leaving me to read a paperback on a picnic bench.
What joy!
Well, except for the fight…and except for the fact that I couldn’t read. Just like Disneyland, there was too much to see.
Outside the storefront were boats, cabins, four-wheelers, and tents lined up like ducks. A neighboring pond offered the real thing—geese in abundance. A green water tower with the words “Cabela’s World Headquarters” loomed overhead, with a cabin-style steakhouse on the periphery of the compound. Big trucks of every color and model packed the parking lot.
The men and women shopping were as different as flies and lures. Tandem motorcycle riders drove up decked in black leather, scuffed boots, and sleeveless tees. Cowboys and ranchers came in droves—one carrying an infant in a baby carrier and another with so much facial hair he looked like Rip Van Winkle. Another ol’ Joe, wrinkled and leathery, slowly made his way into the store with oxygen strapped to his wheelchair. There were cowboy hats, camouflage baseball caps, mud-stained boots, and belt buckles the size of Wilbur.
As time passed, each person emerged toting a deep-green bag. When Pete finally surfaced, he also clutched the trophy bag like a child with Halloween loot—and he was a different man than the one who entered the store.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asked, once again amiable and kind.
“Sure,” I replied.
Ahhh, the power of retail therapy. We always hear how men hate to shop—and maybe some do. I found my husband snoozing in a hammock in the department store when “we” were registering for our wedding, but his Cabelas outing proved that shopping endorphins work for men too; it’s just got to be the right store.
After some lunch we were happily back on the road. As we passed the fields of corn, they became a field of daydreams: I can’t help but hope that when we get into our next big fight we are somewhere in the vicinity of Bloomingdales.
The morning after the wedding dawned gray and gloomy, like a post-party hangover. We ate breakfast, said our goodbyes, and packed up the car. Then Pete announced with a cheeky grin: “We’re going to take a detour on the way home…WE’RE GOING TO CABELLAS!!!!!”
I should have guessed. Since we’ve been married, Pete has wanted to make the pilgrimage to the Cabelas World Headquarters. Despite owning every piece of fishing and hunting gear known to man, he felt he had to go—considering it a male rite of passage—and he glowed with anticipation.
“I’m only going to maybe buy floor mats for my truck, some flies, and some convertible pants,” he said, preshopping the superstore in his mind. This made me chuckle; it was akin to my budgeting/prioritizing before a Nordstrom Half-Yearly sale.
But this was not Nordstrom and I did not share his enthusiasm. Let’s just say, for me, ho-hum was a stretch. As we drove, I tried to concoct reasons to not accompany him into the hunting haven, but by the time we turned into the parking lot, it was a non-issue. We’d gotten into a big fight and he didn’t want my company in the store. He huffed off leaving me to read a paperback on a picnic bench.
What joy!
Well, except for the fight…and except for the fact that I couldn’t read. Just like Disneyland, there was too much to see.
Outside the storefront were boats, cabins, four-wheelers, and tents lined up like ducks. A neighboring pond offered the real thing—geese in abundance. A green water tower with the words “Cabela’s World Headquarters” loomed overhead, with a cabin-style steakhouse on the periphery of the compound. Big trucks of every color and model packed the parking lot.
The men and women shopping were as different as flies and lures. Tandem motorcycle riders drove up decked in black leather, scuffed boots, and sleeveless tees. Cowboys and ranchers came in droves—one carrying an infant in a baby carrier and another with so much facial hair he looked like Rip Van Winkle. Another ol’ Joe, wrinkled and leathery, slowly made his way into the store with oxygen strapped to his wheelchair. There were cowboy hats, camouflage baseball caps, mud-stained boots, and belt buckles the size of Wilbur.
As time passed, each person emerged toting a deep-green bag. When Pete finally surfaced, he also clutched the trophy bag like a child with Halloween loot—and he was a different man than the one who entered the store.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asked, once again amiable and kind.
“Sure,” I replied.
Ahhh, the power of retail therapy. We always hear how men hate to shop—and maybe some do. I found my husband snoozing in a hammock in the department store when “we” were registering for our wedding, but his Cabelas outing proved that shopping endorphins work for men too; it’s just got to be the right store.
After some lunch we were happily back on the road. As we passed the fields of corn, they became a field of daydreams: I can’t help but hope that when we get into our next big fight we are somewhere in the vicinity of Bloomingdales.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
More Pie...
Last Thursday, about four o’clock, I started to ruminate on the age-old question: What should I make for dinner?
I scanned the fridge and pantry, considering my options: Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Spaghetti. Veggie burgers. On a normal day, these would be ok, but today, these choices seemed blah. Thursday is our family night—and I wanted to make some thing yummy, something healthy. And with the snow falling outside—I craved something akin to comfort food.
I guess I could go to the store, I thought. But upon further introspection, I didn’t want to take the time, spend the money, or waste the gas for the 30 minute round-trip jaunt to the grocery.
So, I went back to the pantry and stared in a zombie-like fashion, like my kids do at snack time. Since it was the end of the week, my options were scarce; I needed to get creative.
There has to be something I can make.
I started into the freezer. Stared into the fridge. Stared in the pantry again.
I made a cup of tea and continued to ponder the inventory. Finally, I decided I could make a meatloaf with ground turkey breast, chop up my two sweet potatoes to make fries, and sauté up the past-its-prime spinach. Though not exactly a home-run, the meal would be relatively healthy and tasty.
Then, as I dug the meat out of the freezer, I saw a bag of frozen berries and it hit me: I could also make a pie! Bingo!
I turned on the radio and started the pie. I didn’t have quite enough berries to fill the pan to the brim, so I diced a lone Granny Smith and tossed it in. As I pinched the edges of the crust and brushed egg white on the top, I felt a surge of joy. This would be the perfect end to our meal and our day. I carved a heart into the top. Berry-apple pie…made with love.
After dinner, I announced my surprise and smiles flooded the room. I sliced up big pieces of the still-warm comfort confection. We didn’t have any ice-cream, but it was still perfect.
“Mom, you are awesome!” Morgan exclaimed. Peyton agreed. Pete remained silent; his mouth was full.
It is a bit ironic, that as a kid I didn’t much like pie, nor did I really like to cook. Now it is these simple things that often bring me the most joy. I felt creative success at pulling a complete meal–and dessert!!!—from an almost empty pantry. I love making something warm and delicious as a treat for my family. Though I am still a fan of frozen pizza when my schedule is hectic, I enjoy the message sent with a nutritious and delicious home-cooked meal: You are worth the effort. I love you.
The next day, on my lunch break, I was back staring into the fridge. What can I eat for lunch?
This time the answer came quickly: A slice of leftover pie and a big glass of milk.
And as I ate it, I could feel the love.
I scanned the fridge and pantry, considering my options: Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Spaghetti. Veggie burgers. On a normal day, these would be ok, but today, these choices seemed blah. Thursday is our family night—and I wanted to make some thing yummy, something healthy. And with the snow falling outside—I craved something akin to comfort food.
I guess I could go to the store, I thought. But upon further introspection, I didn’t want to take the time, spend the money, or waste the gas for the 30 minute round-trip jaunt to the grocery.
So, I went back to the pantry and stared in a zombie-like fashion, like my kids do at snack time. Since it was the end of the week, my options were scarce; I needed to get creative.
There has to be something I can make.
I started into the freezer. Stared into the fridge. Stared in the pantry again.
I made a cup of tea and continued to ponder the inventory. Finally, I decided I could make a meatloaf with ground turkey breast, chop up my two sweet potatoes to make fries, and sauté up the past-its-prime spinach. Though not exactly a home-run, the meal would be relatively healthy and tasty.
Then, as I dug the meat out of the freezer, I saw a bag of frozen berries and it hit me: I could also make a pie! Bingo!
I turned on the radio and started the pie. I didn’t have quite enough berries to fill the pan to the brim, so I diced a lone Granny Smith and tossed it in. As I pinched the edges of the crust and brushed egg white on the top, I felt a surge of joy. This would be the perfect end to our meal and our day. I carved a heart into the top. Berry-apple pie…made with love.
After dinner, I announced my surprise and smiles flooded the room. I sliced up big pieces of the still-warm comfort confection. We didn’t have any ice-cream, but it was still perfect.
“Mom, you are awesome!” Morgan exclaimed. Peyton agreed. Pete remained silent; his mouth was full.
It is a bit ironic, that as a kid I didn’t much like pie, nor did I really like to cook. Now it is these simple things that often bring me the most joy. I felt creative success at pulling a complete meal–and dessert!!!—from an almost empty pantry. I love making something warm and delicious as a treat for my family. Though I am still a fan of frozen pizza when my schedule is hectic, I enjoy the message sent with a nutritious and delicious home-cooked meal: You are worth the effort. I love you.
The next day, on my lunch break, I was back staring into the fridge. What can I eat for lunch?
This time the answer came quickly: A slice of leftover pie and a big glass of milk.
And as I ate it, I could feel the love.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
More Action!
Today, Peyton had the opportunity to share her story with the Children’s Hospital Trustees and Board of Directors. And while we were at the hospital—I found myself looking at all the people:
The dad sitting on the curb as we drove in—wearing a hospital wristband and pajama pants, his head down between his legs…Was he praying? Weeping? Just trying to breathe?
The pretty teen in a wheelchair—a heart patterned blanket covering her legs.
The little boy with the face mask, saucer eyes scanning his surroundings.
The mom wandering aimlessly ‘round the lobby with tired red eyes and worn slippers.
I used to be that mom.
Though it has been almost six years since Peyton’s brain tumor, I remember the anxiety, the stress, and the fear like it was yesterday.
Each patient, each parent, has a story; their own personal bundle of worry and “what if.” My heart breaks for each of them. I can only pray they will have a favorable outcome like Peyton did. That they will have friends and family to love and support them, skillful doctors to care for them, and the grace of God to heal what only He can.
Tomorrow kicks off “Alice 36 Hours for Kids” radiothon—which is one of the biggest fund raisers for The Children’s Miracle Network in Colorado—which benefits our Children’s Hospital. And Peyton’s story will help “kick off” the event. As the Colorado “Champion” we’ve been told that Peyton represents the thousands of kids who are treated at Children’s each year.
And it is such an honor.
But I am also reminded that each of those thousands—hundreds of thousands—has a story all their own. It reminds me just HOW important The Children’s “Hopsital” is…because it is one of the best hospitals in the country… because it does not feel like a hospital…and because it gives kids their lives back…(and parents their kids back).
There are SO MANY good causes to support. My heart pulls to lots of things—but mostly, it pulls to 1) The Children’s Hospital and 2) finding a cure for brain tumors.
You undoubtedly have your own causes—the things that you believe in and would do anything for.
There are so many causes, so much need.
And there is so much we can do.
So—my encouragement is to DO SOMETHING—whatever your cause. Wherever you are at in life, we can all help. Give time. Give money. Answer phones. Send a care package. Pick up a hammer. Write a letter. ACT.
There is a world that needs us. People who need us. And we each have the power to make things better, to bring hope to others...To help someone’s story have a happy ending.
As a side note: In the current issue of “Scientific American” there is an article on brain cancer. The author says recent research suggests antidepressants may block neurotransmitters, keeping cancer stem cells from talking to each other—thus, preventing them from proliferating. It said test studies may happen quickly—as antidepressants are already FDA approved—but this may be a major breakthrough toward a cure for brain cancer. Isn’t that cool? Doesn’t that want you to support brain tumor research?
The dad sitting on the curb as we drove in—wearing a hospital wristband and pajama pants, his head down between his legs…Was he praying? Weeping? Just trying to breathe?
The pretty teen in a wheelchair—a heart patterned blanket covering her legs.
The little boy with the face mask, saucer eyes scanning his surroundings.
The mom wandering aimlessly ‘round the lobby with tired red eyes and worn slippers.
I used to be that mom.
Though it has been almost six years since Peyton’s brain tumor, I remember the anxiety, the stress, and the fear like it was yesterday.
Each patient, each parent, has a story; their own personal bundle of worry and “what if.” My heart breaks for each of them. I can only pray they will have a favorable outcome like Peyton did. That they will have friends and family to love and support them, skillful doctors to care for them, and the grace of God to heal what only He can.
Tomorrow kicks off “Alice 36 Hours for Kids” radiothon—which is one of the biggest fund raisers for The Children’s Miracle Network in Colorado—which benefits our Children’s Hospital. And Peyton’s story will help “kick off” the event. As the Colorado “Champion” we’ve been told that Peyton represents the thousands of kids who are treated at Children’s each year.
And it is such an honor.
But I am also reminded that each of those thousands—hundreds of thousands—has a story all their own. It reminds me just HOW important The Children’s “Hopsital” is…because it is one of the best hospitals in the country… because it does not feel like a hospital…and because it gives kids their lives back…(and parents their kids back).
There are SO MANY good causes to support. My heart pulls to lots of things—but mostly, it pulls to 1) The Children’s Hospital and 2) finding a cure for brain tumors.
You undoubtedly have your own causes—the things that you believe in and would do anything for.
There are so many causes, so much need.
And there is so much we can do.
So—my encouragement is to DO SOMETHING—whatever your cause. Wherever you are at in life, we can all help. Give time. Give money. Answer phones. Send a care package. Pick up a hammer. Write a letter. ACT.
There is a world that needs us. People who need us. And we each have the power to make things better, to bring hope to others...To help someone’s story have a happy ending.
As a side note: In the current issue of “Scientific American” there is an article on brain cancer. The author says recent research suggests antidepressants may block neurotransmitters, keeping cancer stem cells from talking to each other—thus, preventing them from proliferating. It said test studies may happen quickly—as antidepressants are already FDA approved—but this may be a major breakthrough toward a cure for brain cancer. Isn’t that cool? Doesn’t that want you to support brain tumor research?
Monday, February 8, 2010
More Health
After the girls got on the school bus this morning, I did the breakfast dishes. Then, I scanned the fridge for any old leftovers that needed to be dumped. As suspected, I found some old rice, which I tossed into the trash can, and some fish and artichokes which was too stinky for the trash, so I put it down the garbage disposal.
A while later, I took some dirty clothes down to the laundry room and noticed the utility sink in the laundry room was full of dirty water with floaties in it.
“Pete,” I called out. “Come look at this.”
Pete tried to plunge the sink and it wouldn’t budge. “It looks like there is some sort of food in the water,” he said, after several minutes of unsuccessful plunging. And then it hit me: The slivery floaties were artichokes.
Ugh.
After an hour of snaking the pipe, Pete unclogged the drain and got things working again. But the clogged pipe got me thinking about something else.
Health.
I read a quote once—and my apologies to the author—because I can’t remember who said it:
“Health is not the absence of disease.”
Think about that.
As a society, we tend to think that we are either 1) sick—with obvious symptoms of illness, or 2) healthy. However, many people may look healthy on the outside, but not be living in optimum health. Many are walking time bombs, with arteries clogging up over time just like the pipe in my house. Inflammation building up. Stress building up. Bones and muscles wearing away…all under the surface where we can’t see what is really going on.
February is American Heart Month—and I’m challenging all the gals (and guys, too) not just to wear red and talk about it, but to take care of themselves and to EXERCISE. Not just for our hearts—but for our butts! For our attitudes! For our minds! For our overall quality of life!
Too often, women neglect simple lifestyle choices that allow us to live our best lives. Too often we confuse self-nurturing with selfishness. Too often we simply make bad choices when it comes to diet and health.
I can say this because I do it.
I neglect exercise.
I think about how I should start the day with a work-out and a glass of OJ with calcium—and then I choose the couch and a huge cup of coffee.
I put junk food down my trap, even when I know it’s not doing anything good as it makes its way to my pancreas.
I worry about osteoporosis, then fail to take my calcium and Vitamin D.
Why?
There are lots of reasons—but in reality, most are excuses. I’m guessing yours are too.
So guess what? No more excuses. I worked out today! And I ate oatmeal and had a protein shake—(though I could probably use a detox after all the junk food I devoured yesterday). But, baby steps, right?
Here's another quote from an unknown author: “A lifetime of little changes can add up to a big impact.”
Health is not made—or lost—in a day. Yet, when we exercise, we tend to eat better, and when we eat better, we feel better, and then other good choices flow from there.
So, I’m in the pursuit of more health. Are you with me?
A while later, I took some dirty clothes down to the laundry room and noticed the utility sink in the laundry room was full of dirty water with floaties in it.
“Pete,” I called out. “Come look at this.”
Pete tried to plunge the sink and it wouldn’t budge. “It looks like there is some sort of food in the water,” he said, after several minutes of unsuccessful plunging. And then it hit me: The slivery floaties were artichokes.
Ugh.
After an hour of snaking the pipe, Pete unclogged the drain and got things working again. But the clogged pipe got me thinking about something else.
Health.
I read a quote once—and my apologies to the author—because I can’t remember who said it:
“Health is not the absence of disease.”
Think about that.
As a society, we tend to think that we are either 1) sick—with obvious symptoms of illness, or 2) healthy. However, many people may look healthy on the outside, but not be living in optimum health. Many are walking time bombs, with arteries clogging up over time just like the pipe in my house. Inflammation building up. Stress building up. Bones and muscles wearing away…all under the surface where we can’t see what is really going on.
February is American Heart Month—and I’m challenging all the gals (and guys, too) not just to wear red and talk about it, but to take care of themselves and to EXERCISE. Not just for our hearts—but for our butts! For our attitudes! For our minds! For our overall quality of life!
Too often, women neglect simple lifestyle choices that allow us to live our best lives. Too often we confuse self-nurturing with selfishness. Too often we simply make bad choices when it comes to diet and health.
I can say this because I do it.
I neglect exercise.
I think about how I should start the day with a work-out and a glass of OJ with calcium—and then I choose the couch and a huge cup of coffee.
I put junk food down my trap, even when I know it’s not doing anything good as it makes its way to my pancreas.
I worry about osteoporosis, then fail to take my calcium and Vitamin D.
Why?
There are lots of reasons—but in reality, most are excuses. I’m guessing yours are too.
So guess what? No more excuses. I worked out today! And I ate oatmeal and had a protein shake—(though I could probably use a detox after all the junk food I devoured yesterday). But, baby steps, right?
Here's another quote from an unknown author: “A lifetime of little changes can add up to a big impact.”
Health is not made—or lost—in a day. Yet, when we exercise, we tend to eat better, and when we eat better, we feel better, and then other good choices flow from there.
So, I’m in the pursuit of more health. Are you with me?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
