12/5/2018 – A Christmas Card from Home by Way of Heaven

This morning began with a series of text messages. Texting is not my preferred mode of communication, and I don’t use it often, so when a series of “dings” occurred in rapid succession, it was a sure sign that something was amiss. Indeed, My Aunt Fran went to heaven this morning.

I sent a short message of condolence to my cousin and read the same from other cousins as they came across my screen. I brewed a cup of coffee and sat in the quiet living room, not quite sure how to feel.

I grew up with many loving aunts and uncles, but Aunt Fran was a favorite. She taught Sunday School and Children’s Church. She had a room in her basement full of little toys that she would give out as rewards for good behavior. For many years, she regularly cut my hair while I sat on a chair in her basement and she even allowed us to roller skate on the concrete floor. Sometimes Fran would “kidnap” me for a day. Friendly’s Ice Cream Parlor was a short walk from her home, and we would go together and she would buy me a sundae that was so big that I couldn’t finish it. Aunt Fran bought me my very first tea set, long gone now, but I remember it well.

Aunt Fran was a talented story teller. Whether the story was from the Bible or from her youth, Fran had a rare talent for making even the ordinary exciting. I particularly remember her re-telling of the story of David and Goliath. She played each role, picking up smooth stones and putting them into a pouch for her imaginary slingshot, and then carefully fitting each one into the pouch to slay the giant. A day with Aunt Fran was magical.

Mom and Fran were constant companions during the years that they shared at the Apostolic Christian Rest Home in Mansfield. Each had her own small apartment just across the street the other. Fran couldn’t see, and Mom had a hard time walking. Mom was Fran’s eyes, and Fran was Mom’s legs. They were a good team. They complemented each other; they needed each other. Even when Mom’s illness had progressed to the point where she could no longer truly care for herself, she wouldn’t leave Fran.

When cooking a big meal became too much for Mom several years ago, I began cooking Christmas dinner and transporting it to Mansfield, where we would serve up a feast in Mom’s small apartment. We always invited Aunt Fran, and she always came down the hall, usually bearing gifts, which were often treasures from her own apartment that she no longer used for herself. I use one such gift – a cast iron skillet – daily, and the lamp made of pink Himalayan salt glows in my study.

In the final year or so that Mom and Fran spent together, Fran’s hearing was failing, and her mind wasn’t working as before. Last Fall, I was staying a few days with Mom prior to bringing her home with me because Mom had grown too weak to get herself in and out of bed. She became very sick the night before we were to leave for my home, and I had to call an ambulance. I called Fran’s apartment, too, but there was no answer. Although I asked other family to let Fran know what had happened, she was convinced that I had stolen Mom away in the middle of the night without even letting them say goodbye. No amount of persuasion by myself or others involved could ever convince Fran that I had, in fact, wanted her to know what was happening and even had tried to reach her. As far as I know, Fran never forgave me. I had never known Fran to be angry, but angry she was. That night, I not only knew I was going to lose Mom, I lost my Franny, too.

Forgiveness is a lesson that took me more than 50 years to understand. I’m doing much better with it, but I still struggle with forgiveness regularly. It’s easier to understand it than to master it.

I struggle often to let go of the hurt that I cause myself with other people’s words and deeds so that I can just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they apologize or even feel bad for their “wrongdoing.”

I struggle to forgive myself for the times that I fail – whether it’s the dumb thing I did in second grade, or one of the times that I failed so completely that people I love won’t forgive me even though I’ve apologized. I struggle to let go of that pain, too, and just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they return that love or even acknowledge my existence.

When I am having those particular struggles -the ones where I struggle to forgive myself – I slip into a mindset where nothing I do is good enough. I don’t write because “who else would ever want to see it.” I don’t post pictures of my knitting or of my teacups because “people will just think I’m looking for attention.” I don’t play the piano because I’m rusty and I make a lot of mistakes, and I struggle to get on the treadmill because I’m slower than I was in 2016. Forgiveness is the key to happiness, if you ask me, because letting go of pain frees up so much energy to just enjoy life and to just enjoy living.

This morning I forgave Fran for being angry with me, and I forgave myself for not foreseeing that my failure to reach her myself would cause hurt so deep that it would destroy a 50-year bond. I allowed myself to weep, and to imagine Fran and Mom, reunited. I believe that Fran, moments after her death, was restored to perfect health with perfect hearing and a sharp mind, and that she understood perfectly when Mom told her that I had, in fact, tried to phone her.

I made it to the office this morning a little late, but pretty much on time. All day, my memories have kept spilling out my eyes and down my cheeks. I’m not one given to loud crying generally, but my eyes have grown very leaky since I reached “a particular age.” It’s one of many reasons why I don’t bother with makeup.

When I arrived at the office, my mail was piled on my desk. On the top of the pile was an envelope with a handwritten address. A bright red cardinal appeared on the postage stamp in the upper right corner – a lone pop of color on a black and white document. It’s said that the sighting of a cardinal is a message from a loved one in Heaven. I saw a post to that effect on Facebook yesterday, so it must be true!

I looked at the return address and saw Dalton, Ohio 44618. Home! No matter how long I am in Vermilion, which I love, my heart screams “home” when I think of Wayne County. In the envelope was a beautiful letter from a beautiful lady who has always been special. We haven’t seen or talked in more than 30 years, but today, just when I needed a lift, her letter landed on my desk on a morning when I was down, not only because my aunt died, but because the stubborn needle on the scale just won’t budge no matter how strictly I diet or how many miles I run right now.

She shared some of her memories of my parents which I had forgotten about, but which flooded back. She told me how much she’s enjoyed reading the little blog posts that I share. She talked about my writing about struggles and transparency and told me that I make a difference. She put a smile on my face.

I keep coming back to that cardinal on the stamp, and the idea of a message from a loved one in Heaven. The letter left Dalton, Ohio, a mere 50 or so miles away, on November 28^th and arrived here on December 4, a day when I wasn’t in the office. I didn’t personally receive the letter until I got to my desk on December 5- six days after the letter left “home.”. The pony express would have been faster! That dear lady closed her letter with “God’s grace and blessing on [my] journey.” In God’s perfect time, a letter landed on my desk at least 4 days late, carrying with it a message of love and hope and friendship. I feel like it also carried with it a message of forgiveness from Fran, and perhaps a “hi, I miss you,” from Mom, stuck to the letter with the glue on the cardinal stamp.

My friend from back home had no idea what I would be struggling with on THIS day on the day that she mailed the pretty Christmas card with the beautiful letter inside. She simply listened to the call she felt to reconnect. In doing so, she made a difference. In this day of instant messages and texts and emails, it is such a thrill to open a card or letter and read a message meant just for *ME*. Had she emailed, instead, I never would have received the message with the red cardinal at just the moment that I needed it.

It is possible to smile through tears. I know, because I’m doing it right now.

Love,

My Life as a Plant

Posted by BecomingBetty

I just returned from a weekend camping in a place with absolutely no internet connectivity. My cell phone did not work. Zero bars. Nada. No Facebook. No weather. No checking my calendar or sharing pics on Instagram. The only purposes my handy dandy pocket computer served were alarm clock, music player and e-reader.

Our 18-year-old son is old enough, now, to spend a weekend without Mom and Dad here to manage him. He wasn’t alone, though. It was closing weekend of the musical theater show he has been rehearsing for all summer long. He’s a busy guy.

I had intended to ask my son to water my plants while I was gone, but I forgot, and by the time I arrived home, a few were just beginning to droop. I don’t generally keep indoor plants because I have a tendency to kill them, but for a few brief months every year, my back deck becomes a tropical paradise filled with a riot of colors. I “visit” the plants nearly every day. I pinch this one back here to encourage more blooms and I move that one a little to the left so that it gets more sunlight. Sometimes, though, I get busy and I forget a day of watering. Earlier this summer, a combination of a badly-planned container and failure of a drip-watering system led to a “dead” planter. I had my husband drill a bunch of holes in the bottom of an old aluminum tea kettle that was my mother’s, and I filled it with vines and flowers. It was lovely.

I went out to the deck one night to commune with my flowering friends and found the kettle plants wilted and dead-looking. The soil was crispy. The leaves were crinkly. The situation looked pretty hopeless. I cried a little. I had “built” that container as a tribute to Mom, who I lost in November, and in that moment, my irrational mind felt that I had let her down (again).

My husband said, “just throw the plants out and buy new ones.” It was tempting. Instead, though, I soaked the container thoroughly. I used my garden shears to cut back the completely brown parts and I moved the kettle from the hook where it hung “crooked,” as if pouring a cup of tea to a shelf where it could sit flat (and was much easier to water).

I began watching the kettle planter each day. On Day 2, it looked a little better. The leaves that had still been green, but were wrinkled instead of full and lush had filled back out. The extremities on the vines though, continued to wilt and grow brown. I pulled out the shears once again and cut back a little more.

By Day 3, the “core” of the planter was beginning to look healthy. There were no flowers anywhere, but the greenery was looking healthier.

By Day 7, new runners were beginning to appear from the vining plants. By Day 10, a few buds had appeared on the the plant with the tiny white flowers.

Now, two full weeks after the disaster, three of the four plants have made a brilliant recovery. They almost look as if they had never been nearly killed. I say “almost,” because if you look closely, you can see the scarring on some leaves. There are some brown parts, too – but if you view the kettle from a distance, you would never know that it was nearly a lost cause. The fourth plant, with it’s delicate leaves and tiny fuschia blossoms, though, isn’t faring as well as its neighbors. Perhaps it is the diminutive size of the leaves. Perhaps this plant wouldn’t have thrived in the same container as the other three even without my unintentionally-caused drought. It’s surviving, but it isn’t thriving.

While running on a narrow trail through the forest this weekend (without music), I began thinking about the plants in Mom’s kettle. When you neglect a plant, or when it goes through a crisis, it begins to shut down. It conserves precious resources for its core. It keeps its center alive for as long as possible. Humans do this, too.

It was just about a year ago when Mom told me that her cancer was “alive” again, and that she would need radiation treatments to knock it back down. In the weeks leading up to that day, I had celebrated my 50th birthday. I was joyful. I was celebrating life. If I were a plant, I would have been “blooming all over the place.”

As the illness progressed, it took her mind. My own soul began to wilt a little. My extremities began to wither – I stopped seeking out people and conversations. A leaf began to die here and there. She became sicker and died. People soon stopped sending cards and notes. The flowers people sent died. The houseplants that people sent to the funeral died, too. I suppose the fact that I hadn’t watered them had something to do with it. We entered the longest winter ever, and I had my own “dark night of the soul.”

With Spring came hope. I waited impatiently for the last chance of frost to pass so that I could plant new life in the containers that still held the wilted remains of last year’s flower garden. The trails called me, too. I began running again on paths through woods and meadows. I began smiling more. As the pots and kettles and gutters filled with living, blooming things began to fill my life with color, my mood lifted. I began reaching out. I even invited people long gone from my life for coffee and conversation. I, too, began to bloom again.

I recognize my plant-like nature. When there is a “trauma” in my environment, the “extremities” are the first to go. I stop doing the extra things that bring me into contact with others. I stop “vining” – reaching out for new places to connect and grow. I stop blooming – whether my blossoms are written words or photographs of pretty teacups.

My grief is not over. Most days I am happy, but once in a while I will forget for a moment that Mom is dead. I reach for the phone to call her, or spot something I would love to send her. Those moments are no longer enough to ruin me for the day.

By late Winter, if I were a plant, I would have looked pretty sad. I imagine I was there, with my long, flowing fronds, once lush and green, now hanging sad and brown. Someone would come along and offer a word or encouragement and my “core” plant would lap it up. At work, I would have an opportunity to help someone, and they showed their appreciation through kind words or referrals that brought me more and more to life. Each act of kindness – each “touch,” whether physical or through the magic of the internet – was like a drop of rain to my parched soul.

Running through the Mohican State Forest this weekend, I was in awe of the resilience of plants – especially the trees. In some spots, I was forced to climb tree roots as if they were a staircase. In other places, I saw trees that had been blown over completely and started to grow again in a new direction. Trees don’t give up and stop growing because there is a storm.

I don’t picture myself as a tree. I’m far too fickle. I’m more like a vining plant with long colorful fronds that blooms brightly once in a while. As I heal, my fronds are filling out and buds forming. as I hit “publish,” I will have put out my first blossom in a long while.

So, today I will be like a plant. I will bloom where I’m planted while sending out vines, seeking new places to experience and erupting in an occasional flower that, when wilted, sends seeds out to land in someone else’s waiting, fertile soil of their imagination.

Time to Give Thanks

Posted by BecomingBetty

November 2017 has marked some difficult changes for me. When you’re adapting to big changes, it’s easy to lose track of time. Weeks seem to have flown by without me having noticed. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day.

I have a lot to be thankful for. Some days those things are easier to see than on other days. On those days – the days when the world seems to be against you and things seem like they may never be “right” again – on those days it helps to have a practice in place to focus on the good. I recently began being “thankful” on purpose – every day.

For me, it starts with “clean water to drink.” I get up in the morning and fill a clean glass with crystal clear water straight from the tap. I don’t have to walk a mile (or more) to a well or a filter site to collect water and carry it home. I can wash my morning pills down with a whole glass without even thinking about it. I take the time to look at that crystal clear water in the clean glass before I consume it. I take a moment to give thanks for clean water, and that prayer of thanksgiving is followed by gratefulness for a furnace to take the chill off the air, a soft rug under my feet, and a giant fluffy dog who greets me as if he hasn’t seen me in a year.

After I trot downstairs, I have the luxury of letting the tap run until the water is hot before filling my kettle to put it on to boil. I can take a long, hot shower and not worry about whether that luxury will leave me without clean water to cook dinner with later in the day.

When I was in the Vermilion Rotary Club, the clean water problem came to my attention for the first time. I was in my late 40s before I realized that something as basic as clean water is a barrier to basic hygiene, education, and economic growth in much of the world.

A Rotary colleague, John Hill, put together a clean water initiative through Clean Water for Haiti. Clean Water for Haiti puts filters for safe water in schools. The children can collect their household’s clean water while they receive an education. The filters are assembled in Haiti, creating jobs.

Start your day off with an attitude of gratitude. If you can’t find something to be grateful for, pour yourself a glass of clean water and drink it. If you are blessed, as I am, with money to pay the bills with some left at the end of the month, consider giving to Clean Water for Haiti or another charity providing clean water solutions in areas of need.

For the price of a $1.00 bottle of drinking water per day for just over 3 months, you can sponsor a clean water bio filter for an entire family. I will be giving to Clean Water for Haiti on Giving Tuesday -help me to help them “Make Waves,” so that someone, somewhere, can start their day by giving thanks for a glass of clean water.

http://cleanwaterforhaiti.org/donate/make-waves/

Day 5 – Be Authentic

Posted by BecomingBetty

I learned many lessons during Day 4, but I didn’t write about them. I was in a dark mood. I didn’t feel like doing anything except knitting and wasting time on social media, so I didn’t.

I spent a few minutes reviewing some of the comments that readers have left on my previous blog posts. One of the comments that I received recently made note of the observation that although there have been very difficult times in the past year or so, my posts have been (mostly) positive. That is by design, but I realize that perhaps that isn’t the for the greatest good.

I write as a way to cope with my emotions. Being sad, depressed or lonely feels bad. Being angry and anxious feels bad. For me, and I believe for many others, emotions each have a physical sensation that feels “good,” “bad,” or “neutral.”

These past months have been extraordinarily difficult. There have been many days during which I have lashed out at people who care the most about me. There have been days that I have cried and days that I have shirked responsibilities. I have made nasty comments under my breath and though unkind thoughts.

I will be the first to admit that I am extraordinarily imperfect. I strive to be positive and to show kindness. Some days I fail. Some days I am a miserable person to be around.

There would be something wrong with me if I only felt happiness while my mother was dying. I experienced sadness, rage, confusion and frustration on a daily basis. I had some really bad days.

I wrote in a journal daily. I let the feelings out. I didn’t keep them inside, and by letting them out in the light, I was able to deal with them. Writing about the negative emotions felt like opening the curtains on a dark room and throwing open the windows to allow the clean air to come in.

Many problems don’t look so big or so scary when you put them on a piece of paper.

I started writing in a new journal 3 days before Mom was hospitalized in August. I chose a book with black paper because I felt like even a grocery list could look elegant written in white ink on black paper. I filled every page of that book. Today I filled the last page. I’ve never been so relieved to finish filling a journal and being able to move on. Instead of a black book with black pages and a black cover, I’m next writing in a beautiful book wit a purple cover embellished with beautiful colors. The pages are ivory and they have lines so that my writing doesn’t end up all crooked.

I hope that the sadness and anger that sometimes filled those black pages becomes a thing of the past as I move out of this dark chapter in my life.

Death visits us all. My experience is not special or unique. Losing a parent is the “natural order” of things. Although I won’t allow myself to wallow in grief, the words of a dear friend remind me to be kind to myself. “You are never truly prepared to say goodbye to your mother, no matter hard you try.” He was right.

I’m not feeling very happy or positive today. I’m also not feeling very negative today. I’m pretty close to “neutral” on the emotional spectrum, and I think that’s a pretty good place to be at this stage in the grieving game.

Spread kindness, sprinkle joy. Be authentic.

The $600 Washcloth

Posted by BecomingBetty

I like to crochet. It is a great way to occupy my hands in the evening when I watch television with my husband. It’s hard to eat popcorn when your hands are full of yarn. I am also a “gifter.” I love to give little gifts. I like to gift what I make, as well. For the past several years, I have crocheted warm scarves in the winter time. Most of my family members have (at least) one. I have at least 20 of them stacked on a shelf in case I need a gift for someone on short notice. They are great to make in the winter, but when the weather gets warm, I usually stop crocheting.

This year, I discovered cotton yarn. I’ve discovered the joy of making face cloths, scrubbies, and dish cloths. I love to make them in bright colors. They make me happy.

I can buy a perfectly nice washcloth at the store for $4.00. I can buy a deluxe washcloth for $10 – $15. I can buy a handmade washcloth just like the ones I am making on Etsy for under $10. Depending on the stitch, these washcloths take me 3-4 hours to make. The materials cost $1 – $2 depending on which brand of yarn I buy and whether or not it is on sale.

When I am making washcloths, I can’t earn money as a lawyer. I suppose, in that regard these pretty little pieces of hand-made fabric that will soon be stained with makeup or food are pretty expensive. However, I’m a believer in doing more of what makes me happy.

Crocheting washcloths is almost a form of meditation for me. I don’t have to think beyond the next stitch. The feel of the yarn and the rhythm are comforting. The bright colors are uplifting. There’s nothing about this little activity I don’t enjoy, and it’s cheaper than therapy.

As I mentioned before, I’m a gifter. If you find yourself the recipient of one or more of these $600 washcloths, you can be sure that I like you, and that I think you, too, deserve a $600 washcloth, and a whole lot more.

love,

~Be~

Comfort and Joy

Posted by BecomingBetty

Happy New Year! I’m quite late for a New Year post, I know, and believe me, that’s actually a good thing. You see, 2016 is the year when I make good on my promise to be good to myself.

“You cannot serve from an empty vessel.” – Eleanor Brownn

Historically, I have run in the new year and then spent hours poring over journal entries and blog posts from the previous year, decade, etc. to see where I’ve come from, and what track my life is taking. This year was different – the clock struck midnight and my husband and I shared a sparkling grape juice toast with our youngest son before heading upstairs – together – and falling peacefully asleep. There was no attempt to review the past – no tears shed at past hurts, and only one resolution: to be good to myself.

2016 is the year of comfort and joy. This is the year of self care and learning to say, “no,” when necessary. I’m taking time (and making time) to do the things that bring me joy. I’m allowing myself to enjoy the things that bring me comfort.

This is the year of silly songs at the break of dawn, loose leaf tea in fancy teacups, essential oils that smell like liquid joy or comfort in a bottle, and beautiful fibers that wind themselves into scarves and blankets while my eyes watch the television.

Thanks to the efforts of my husband and children, I once again have a “sacred space,” (named the Betty Room by my hubby) where I can sit quietly to read, pray, meditate, and contemplate. I’m also getting a new bathtub with enough depth to soak – more comfort (and some joy, too).

My first bit of advice for 2016 is to make room for comfort and joy in your own life. Experiences that comfort us and that allow us to feel joyful replenish the energy that we deplete when we give. Although giving to others without expectation of receiving anything in return brings its own rewards, when people take from us without giving, over and over, it can take a spiritual and physical toll. Seek out joy. Seek out comfort. Make your own happiness, and then share from that vessel that is no longer empty.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” – Psalm 23:5

We can pray for comfort and joy, or we can seek it out. I had a difficult Monday with a difficult adversary in a difficult proceeding at work. It was bitterly cold, and when I stopped my car for gasoline, I opened my back door to retrieve a hat. When I went to shut the door, it would not latch. Believing it to be frozen, I took it to a local auto repair place hoping they could quickly thaw it so that I could be on my way to a court proceeding. It turned out to be a broken latch, not a frozen one, and replacement parts had to be ordered. There was no way to fasten the door shut (except, possibly the rope and duct tape that my cousin suggested) for the 45 mile drive, so I had to beg for mercy from the party with all of the power in that situation. The tone for the tense email exchange that followed was probably largely imaginary. The tone of the voice in my head as I read the email response was set by the morning I had already had.

I wouldn’t go nearly so far as call that person an enemy, but it nevertheless the terse nature of the exchange (real or imagined) created a drain on my joy. I set my little table with one of my favorite teacups as I brewed a fragrant pot of tea. I rubbed a few drops of my favorite essential oil blends on my temples, and I allowed the aromas from the tea and the oil to surround me with beauty, comfort and joy. That’s probably not what the Psalmist had in mind, but soon I was singing again.

My husband said, “boy, you’re in a good mood!” I explained my quest for comfort and joy. Sometimes you have to “fake it until you make it.” When you’re faking joy, though, it quickly becomes real as it infects others with smiles (or even laughs).

I’ve had a tough week so far, but my cup runneth over. Being good to myself is my only resolution for 2016. Actively seeking comfort and joy is the first step toward achieving success.

Happy 2016.

~Be~

All The Colors of the Rainbow (An Unbiblical Marriage)

Posted by BecomingBetty

My husband and I have been married for 15 1/2 years. We have a child together. We disagree sometimes. We make up again. We have been through some real trials and tribulations, but we have weathered the course and I can say with all sincerity that I think our love and our commitment to each other is stronger than ever.

With the marriage equality issue squarely in the limelight right now, I have devoted a lot of thought to the issue of marriage.

I’ve been delving into the scriptures, and I realized that I have the privilege of being married to my wonderful husband only because the State does not put Biblical constraint on heterosexual marriages. You see, I have been married before. I was married at age 19 and divorced some 8 plus years later. Both my first husband and I have moved on. We are each married to new partners. If, however, the State had taken the position that is consistent with the scripture, I could not have remarried.

In 1 Corinthians 10-11, Paul stated, “10But to the married I give instructions, not I, but the Lord, that the wife should not leave her husband 11(but if she does leave, she must remain unmarried, or else be reconciled to her husband), and that the husband should not divorce his wife.”

My husband and I eloped. The only “guests” at our wedding were the other people waiting at the little chapel for their turn to state their vows. We did not have to seek approval of clergy. We did not go through pastoral counseling (not that it would have been a bad idea), we just paid our money, said our vows and signed on the dotted line.

I have close friends in the gay and lesbian community. I attend services at a church that has taken an “all are welcome” stance on the issue. They have welcomed my divorced and remarried self with open arms. Their love has shown me what I have been missing in my life as I worshiped in solitary.

I have witnessed first hand in both my personal and professional lives the havoc that can result when a gay person marries a straight person who is unaware of their sexuality. Although those marriages are Biblical, they can leave broken hearts in their trail, and frequently do.

As a sinner, I leave the judgment to God. I have never attended a gay wedding, but I will if invited. Perhaps gay marriage is not sanctioned by the Bible. Neither is remarriage after divorce. Perhaps there are florists and bakers who would have refused to cater my wedding reception if I had planned one. They’re not making the news, though. I respect the right churches to refuse the rites of marriage to those couples whose unions are inconsistent with that church’s teachings. I expect we will see more on that issue soon.

I thank God for my husband. I thank my family, who may or may not have agreed with my decision to remarry, for accepting us and encouraging us. I realize that on this issue, we may not agree. I learn from them, and I am thankful for every opportunity for me to consider my stance on issues where law and faith intersect. They have always been respectful when disagreeing with me, and I am confident that will continue on this issue. I love them, and I know that they will continue to love me, just as they have in the past when we have disagreed.

I quietly celebrated yesterday. I have many men and women in the LGBTQ community who I am honored to call “friend.” They welcomed me with open arms into their circles. They did not care that I was once divorced, an unwed mother, or a morbidly obese person. They simply called me “friend.”

Just as they do not refer to me as their “obese, divorced and remarried heterosexual friend Betty,” I do not think of any one of them as “My gay friend Max,” or “My lesbian friend Sally” – they are simply my friends. I love them. I will celebrate with them.

I am an Ally. I am a welcoming Christian. I have chosen not to discriminate in my business or in my friendship. I cannot personally use the scripture to deny the right to marry to anyone whose union doesn’t comport. I gave up that right when I chose my own path.

Count your Blessings

Posted by BecomingBetty

Prayer and meditation are important to me. I’ll admit, though, that I am easily distracted. I start praying and the dog barks or the neighbors’ kids laugh, and I’m instantly thinking about something else. I’m one of those people who need tools to focus.

I began a new routine today, one that I hope to stick to. I began by writing in my journal – the one saved for positive thoughts and positive memories. This act of recognizing peace, beauty and blessings in my life helped to get me into the proper mindset for part two, which was literally counting my blessings.

Some time ago I purchased a Mala, which is traditionally a Hindu or Buddhist tool for meditation. I purchased it for its beauty, and it resides in my special space. Today I picked up that Mala and tried it as a tool to focus for my prayer practice. Holding the tassel, I began my prayer by thanking God for the many blessings in my life, including my family and my improved health. I asked God to bless the people in my life and asked that as I said each name, that He would bless that person with joy, hope, peace and health, and to bring into their life anything that they needed.

There are 108 smaller beads on the mala. As the string of beads slipped through my fingers one at a time, the names of 108 people in my life came to me, one after another. 108 blessings. I know about the struggles in some of their lives, and as those names came to me, I prayed for those situations. Others I simply prayed that their lives would be filled with the blessings that they bring into my life.

I had no mental “prayer list.” The names and faces came into my mind one after another. I was somewhat surprised by some of the names that came to mind. Some were people who had hurt me, and along with praying for blessings for them, I prayed for help to forgive long-ago hurts.

108 people, 108 prayers, 108 blessings. As I closed my prayer, I thanked God for such a rich life. I thought it would be hard to come up with 108 people to pray for, but as I write this, the names and faces keep coming.

My life is blessed – truly blessed.

The Destructive Power of Anger

Posted by BecomingBetty

I try very hard not to hold a grudge. I know how much energy it wastes. Worse yet, while I’m wasting energy and feeling miserable, the person on the other end of the grudge is blissfully unaware of it. Someone dear to me once told me, “don’t let someone take up space in your head without paying the rent.” I’ve remembered that and try to live by it.

Last year, someone who I had to deal with on a regular basis did some things that made me angry, then they said some things that hurt my feelings. The result wasn’t pretty. To his great credit, he has extended an olive branch and tried to mend fences on several occasions. Although I said the words, “I accept your apology,” the truth is that I never really let go of the incident.

I went to the gym this morning to run a couple of miles on the indoor track. I set my app to remind me to run for two minutes then walk for 60 seconds. My favorite playlist was playing, I felt “fast” (for me), and I was having a great run. The first half of the 2 mile run was great. I thought about what I would do when I finished my workout. I thought about the fun I had over the weekend. I could feel the grin on my face. People were smiling and waving.

Then, at 1.27 miles in (I happened to look at my running app), last year’s “incident” popped into my head. As soon as I thought about that person and what had happened, I got frustrated. I mentally told myself, “you must forgive him.” I tried to just say the words, “I forgive,” and I couldn’t do it. I felt I wasn’t ready to forgive him. I somehow NEEDED to continue to be angry with this person. I felt my mood continue to darken, and realized that I had begun to scowl instead of smiling.

I continued to argue mentally with myself for a few more minutes, and grudgingly thought, “I forgive you.” I continued to run/walk and soon I began to think of possible ways to not mend fences with this person (fences keep people out), but instead to build bridges. I felt the bounce return to my step and the smile come back to my face.

I finished my run, got back home, and I got curious. I pulled up the chart of today’s run and scrolled the bar to 1.27 miles. While I was filled with anger, I was slower. You can see it clearly. I went from “green” peaks to only “yellow” peaks as soon as I began harboring resentment. Stewing on old hurts slowed me down. I was 37 second slower on mile 2 than on mile 1.

I couldn’t ask for a clearer demonstration of the power that negativity / anger has over me. It kills our joy, saps our strength and robs us what we are working to achieve.

Thankfully, I feel much better. It’s my turn to extend the olive branch. I will never again underestimate the destructive power of internalized anger.

A Subtle Sunrise

Posted by BecomingBetty

Easters were special growing up. We colored dozens of eggs. Mom made homemade candies and molded bunnies. I wore a new dress every year. Some years Mom made the dress for me. The white shoes came out of storage (forget Memorial Day!) and we posed for pictures in the back yard in our finest.

My Aunt would buy bags and bags of the left-over Easter candy and a week or so after Easter, we would have a big candy hunt with all of the cousins. Life was simple.

We didn’t always attend sunrise service, but I remember being excited to go. Some years, it would be very cold, and I would insist on wearing my thin Spring dress (often sleeveless) no matter how loudly my teeth chattered. Although I can vividly remember some of those dresses (and the hand-crocheted shawls Mom made to go with them), I cannot remember the sunrises. In my imagination, they were vivid – as we sang hymns, the bright ball of the sun peeked over the horizon and the angels sang. In my imagination, it was quite a spectacle – worthy of motion picture awards.

This morning, My dear sister-in-law and I decided to go to sunrise service. It was cold (low 40s), and the service was being held on the shores of Lake Erie, where ice covered the water mere days ago. I had no Easter dress, and as an adult, common sense ruled and I wore my heaviest wool pants, two sweaters, a winter jacket and woolen socks under my winter boots. I carried a travel mug of steaming coffee. I was prepared.

The rest of the early morning worshipers dressed like me. Nary a light spring dress with bare arms was to be found. In the pitch black darkness, we sat on rough wooden benches, our backs to the frigid lake. As the service began at 6:45 a.m., the sky began to lighten just enough to read the prayer on the bulletins we were handed.

Our Pastor shared the scripture from Mark 16 – “…trembling and bewildered, the women found the empty tomb and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”

This account lacks the drama from the Passion Play. Mark doesn’t tell us about Jesus’ appearance to his followers. There are no vivid beams of light streaming from the empty tomb. No heavenly chorus – no trumpets – only frightened women fleeing.

As we said the closing prayer and sang the remaining hymns, the sky continued to brighten. There was no startling contrast, no brilliant colors. The lake didn’t sparkle. It was quite dreary (and still very cold). Pastor told us how some evenings when vespers is held at the same location, the sunset is stunning. Other times, like this morning’s sunrise, it is just a subtle transition from one day to another.

I wish that I had more time this morning to sit and contemplate that subtle sunrise. Instead, I came home, downed a cup of coffee and cooked breakfast for seven. After breakfast, I boiled eggs to color with one of the grandchildren who had spent the night. As my daughter helped him dye the eggs, I began preparation for the family celebration as we came together to enjoy fellowship (and food!)

After lunch, the children scampered through the yard looking for brightly-colored plastic eggs filled with candy. While I was inside the house being busy, the day had transformed completely. The cold had disappeared and the sun shone brightly. It was too nice to go back into the house, so we visited on the front porch. It was a wonderful time.

With the last of the family guests gone, I took my opportunity for that quite contemplation that I missed earlier. I donned my running tights and shoes and headed for the high school track. I reflected on the cross, and the excruciating pain that would be involved in crucifixion. I remembered Christ’s pleas for forgiveness for the people who were torturing and killing him. I imagined the empty tomb, and this time my mental movie included this morning’s subtle sunrise, as the black night gave way to the soft gray of a cloudy morning.

My own life has changed a lot in the past year or so. It’s been a slow process. Some days I am disappointed that the changes aren’t mind-blowingly vibrant. Other times, like today, I am grateful for the calm that fills me when I’m alone with the only sounds being those of nature around me and my feet striking the pavement. As I took my final lap around the track, the sun began it’s gentle descent toward evening. The bright ball in the sky was too bright for me to capture with my iPhone camera. It was the kind of light that chases away any kind of sadness left in the corners of your mind.

I sat in the car and watched the light. It was the kind of brightness that would be perfectly accompanied by angels’ voices and trumpets. It filled me with awe, and calm.

Last week was difficult. My mind was occupied with current events and political thoughts. I spent energy uselessly pondering issues that are beyond my control and problems that aren’t even mine to solve. While I was alone, in that moment, none of it mattered.

My subtle sunrise brought me calm. The light that ensued brought me joy – and peace.

The emotions today brought with it may be lost in translation, but the message for me came loud and clear – even a dreary, subtle sunrise can become a breathtaking day.

As the Easter hymns of my childhood echo in my mind, I am filled with joy.

He is risen [He is risen indeed!]