Remain Passionate and Change the World

    I'm a mutt. I'm the descendants of Germans and Prussians and the unknown. I have Southern blood running through my veins and the sweat of hard working farmers dripping from my brow.
    I am the daughter of artists and dreamers and adventurers.
  
   People braver than me.

   People that comprehend the comings and goings of this world far better than I do.

   I was raised poor. Renting poor. Working hard poor. But what my parents couldn't give me in money they gave in other things.
    Ideas, memories, dreams. Treasures of the heart.

    At times I was a pretty serious child. When I was in third grade I was in the newspaper for trying to teach people about the dangers dolphins faced from tuna nets.

   I was eight or nine. In between making posters about Boycotting Tuna and recycling and reading articles about elephant poachers in Africa...I would have sleep overs, and play Barbie and ride my bicycle.

  By middle school I was reading books upon books about how to save the world. I was still making posters and hanging them up in the school library. The local library.

   Protesting. Protesting. Protesting.

   Always demanding that systems could be ran better. That ideas could be bolder. That people could try harder.

   I was an idealistic teenager.

   Who turned into an idealistic adult and realized that this world is not made for the dreamer.
 
   The believer. The idealistic.

   Only the strong survive in this world. Or the greedy or the selfish. The takers. The dream breakers.

   BUT ALSO those strong in FAITH.

   In this last year I have learned many things.

   Friendship is a strong support system. That we were never meant to live without true friends or a sense of community. Of belonging.

   Change, real honest change,

                is possible with small- not ideas because those are easy- but  actions.


                 Big ideas can happen by faithfully putting small actions into place.

One has to remain passionate about dreams, ideas, and faith otherwise you go into this dark zone of drift where you allow despair and sadness to rule your life.

Faith and prayer are extremely important because we are spiritual beings.


LOVE holds this messy, chaotic life all together.

So this year I'm not making New Years Resolutions. Instead I'm going to focus on:

                   Big ideas can happen by faithfully putting small actions into place.

and 

 Remain Passionate and Change the World

   

Happy New Year. I pray for all my readers near and far and wish you a healthy, safe, and hope-FILLED 2014.

  

Baby Blueberry and Torn Placentas

     It had been a normal day. -Right there that statement implies that my usual, normal Tuesday afternoon changed into something not so typical.-

      I took CT to preschool and picked her up when it was over, spent the rest of the day taking care of Bug, kept the house tidy...

    which how can a four year old and a one year old get out every single toy they have in only ten seconds...

    and working on my current romantic short story.

    Later that evening, when the little girls had went home, I took Bean to dance class. This gave Abu and I some much needed Mommy time together. We were going to stop by the library and then color in her dragon coloring book before we had to pick up Bean.
    In one second- life was normal. Busy and unexpected. After all, in four and a half months we are going to have another baby, who has been given the nickname Blueberry until we know if they're a boy or girl. The name was given by the girls because when I found out I was pregnant the baby was just the tiny size of a blueberry. So tiny and precious and amazing. So hence the nickname- Blueberry.
    I held open the library door for Abu, smiling as she skipped through the entrance, happy to have ALONE time with me.
    I took another step following her and then felt like my period had started. -That was the next second in my life and it changed everything.-
    I instantly told myself that wasn't the case and decided I just needed to use the bathroom. Baby must have jumped on my bladder. They had a funny way of doing that as they get bigger and their kicks get more powerful.
    In the bathroom though, I quickly realized it was blood. Bright red and not supposed to be there.
   
    I started cussing. Harsh words of anger and pleading. I didn't want to lose this baby. Not when they had started to warm my heart with their movements. Their presence.

    Kicking and twirling inside me like a acrobat or a karate expert. This was a busy baby who we had started to play music for and they enjoyed it.
  
    "Mom, what's wrong?" Abu asks from the next stall.
    I heard her ask the question but I didn't answer right away. What was I supposed to say? That something bad and horrible might be happening. That the baby at only nineteen weeks was too young to survive if they were to be born. That this little life that we had all grown to love might...
    "Mom?" She was quite worried.
    I swallowed. "We have to go home. We have to go now."
   I rush her out of the bathroom, trying not to cry. Trying not to lose it. Usually I take things so calmly, so matter of fact but this struck panic and fear right to the core of me and I just wanted to get home so I could call my doctor and figure out what to do.
    "Mom, are you going to die?" Abu finally asks, since my answers were not clear. I was not focused, not explaining things to her the way I should have. My own fear was too strong.
    But that question stopped me cold. She's only eight and so young and she only knows part of the details and doesn't know what's happening, except that her Mom is scared out of her wits.
    I explain to her that I was bleeding and needed to get to the hospital but I was going to drop her off at home with Grandma first.
    "Mom, just take me with you to the hospital. I don't have to go home." She pleads with me, worried about Blueberry. Worried about her Mommy.
    I shook my head, giving her a quick glance in the rear view mirror while I drove home. The library was three minutes away from our house and the hospital only another four minutes. I wasn't having pain or cramping and the bleeding wasn't excessive just bright and intrusive.
     I wanted to call my doctor, leave Abu with her Grandma and call Hero Hottie from work to take me to the hospital. I was too scared to go by myself.
     The doctor told me to go to the hospital and Hero Hottie rushed home to take me as soon as I called him. Of course, it didn't help his panic level that I was crying when he got on the line.

     The ER was the ER. I was so glad to see one of my friends there that works as a ER nurse. She kept checking on me and chatting with me as she had a moment. It helped keep me from totally losing it.
     They checked for signs of a miscarriage. Completely negative. - Thank God.
     The first nurse came in to check for the baby's heartbeat and even though I had just felt them move a few minutes before, I had to hear that rhythm. Had to have that reassurance that they were strong and alive.
     She couldn't find it. I kept the panic down, simply because I had just felt them move and she was obviously not especially skilled at it.
    My friend poked her head in to check on me and was instantly wrangled into trying to find the heartbeat. In one try she had the reassuring sound filling the room. It was steady and sturdy.
    I almost starting crying with relief.
    Then I had blood work drawn. I hate needles. Especially when the first vein fails and they have to give the other arm a matching poke. Ouch.
    Urine samples- Do you know how hard it is to pee into a cup when you're trying to hold up a loose, way too large gown with the other hand? Can't they make hospital gowns in a few different sizes? One size does not fit all. And why do I always end up with the gowns with broken snaps and broken strings? I would like to have my bum covered as I walk down the busy hospital corridor to the bathroom please.
    The pelvic exam was the worse one I had ever experienced. The room I was put in did not have stirrups. So what they offered me was a pelvic wedge. It looks like a wedge of cheese and is the size of a pillow. I had to balance my bum onto the top edge of it, while still sitting up, using my arms behind me to keep from falling off it.
     The nurses explained that the wedge was much better than what they used to do.
     Bedpans. They use to have female patients balance and perch so they could expose themselves for a pelvic exam for some strange doctor on the edge of a bedpan.
      I suppose I will take the pelvic wedge.

     The ER doctor did an ultrasound and the baby's heart was nice and strong.

     They sent me home to rest, to come back if I started to have pain and told me to call my doctor in the morning.
     I hate hospitals. Probably because six years ago I entered one, not sure if I was coming out alive. Now I was leaving one, and I wasn't sure the outcome.

     I spent the next two days visiting my doctor and having two different ultrasounds. The diagnosis...a slightly torn placenta and some blood in the uterus.
   Ouch. I still wasn't having any signs of a impending miscarriage but I did have problems with my placenta. I was still scared like crazy.
    She put me on bed rest for the next week. No lifting, no traveling, no -and she looked at Hero Hottie while she says this- sex. He asked me later why she looked at him when she said this. Because you're a guy. I managed to not roll my eyes.

    She has hopes that it will heal and every thing will be fine. In the next week or two we will know. In the mean time, I'm stuck on the couch, trying to keep myself from worrying. Or reading too many Google entries about placenta abruption.
     I think I would have been better not looking up those words. A full placenta abruption is horrible and devastating. And heartbreaking.
 
     A slightly torn one has a much better chance of healing and finishing out the pregnancy. At least that's what I have been able to find online. So right now baby Blueberry and I are doing fine. Bleeding has stopped and I still don't have any pain or cramping. It took a few days to write this blog, I was so afraid of jinxing myself if I wrote that we were doing okay.

    I think the rest of this pregnancy might be a one day at a time kind of pregnancy. She's kicking wildly while I write and that makes me smile. I pray and then pray a whole lot more.
    I have a wonderful family to help me. Bean and Abu actually spent the weekend doing chores I could never get them to do before without listening to minutes of complaining.
    I have amazing friends...women that have offered to help with my chores, to let my children play across the street when they're out and playing, to make me meals, that have loaned me videos and books to keep from going insane.
    Who have understood as mothers how scary and frightening this is and have been there for me. I am truly blessed by the people in my life. Blueberry is blessed already by the people who love her and we haven't even met her.
     I will keep everyone posted as hopefully things move along without anymore scares. Plus I will have time to write as I have a feeling my days are going to be a lot quieter. And writing is a whole lot better than watching daytime television. :)

    Oh, and in the meantime one of those ultrasounds I had told us what Baby Blueberry is...drum roll please....
     she's a GIRL.

    I think Hero Hottie is getting a Man Cave.

Day Twenty Five- Baby Jesus is Lost

   I know I'm a few weeks late on this blog entry. Writing twenty five entries in just twenty five days when I'm a full time Mom and Aunt was even more difficult than I had planned. But here we are, Day Twenty Five of Blessings but no where near the end of our journey on faith.
    I've actually learned a lot about myself on this digital journey. But I have to recommend, if you're going to take a honest look in the mirror, don't do it in December. The emotions already seem to be too stretched during this month and then you add in other stuff...it's like eating a third piece of pie when you're already stuffed. :)
   I've really enjoyed writing the stories...the moments...that have shaped who I am. The ones that reminded me of my faith or taught me to dig deeper into my faith to guide me. 
  There were some things I found I couldn't write about yet, perhaps in the next few months when winter is at its bleakest and I already feel dark and gloomy...I will tell you about when I was so sick that Death was literally waiting on the front porch for me and how it took a whole bunch of faith to overcome everything. But since I couldn't write about it last month, we'll see how long it takes me to explore how emotional damaging getting that sick can mess with a person.

    I feel extremely blessed to have the family and friends I do. Even though this last year has been difficult for my family and right now hero hottie and I feel like we want to take the next train out of Crazyville...I know what emotion drives my faith...LOVE.
    The Beatles had it, "All you need is love, love---Love is all you need.'

    Through the ups and downs; the little daily struggles and the monstrous I might die struggles; through the frustrations and the grief; the one thing I could hold in my heart, almost as if it was tangible was LOVE.

   Love for my family.  Love for hero hottie. Love for Bean and Abu. Love for canine critters that love back unconditionally. Love for God and all creation.

    Mary gave birth to the baby Jesus in a manger, surrounded not by the ideal environment to be laboring in but she had love.
   Jesus taught about faith, forgiveness, and love.

    One day CT, my niece was playing with the small wooden Nativity dolls I have and in her playing she misplaced the baby Jesus in the pile of presents under the tree. Suddenly, she is frantic, searching through the wrapped gifts.
   "Aunt Christy, the baby Jesus is lost underneath all the presents. Help me find him."

   I came to a shocking stillness and stared at her. She was simply speaking of the wooden baby Jesus doll lost in the presents but it was a stark reminder that even though presents are the fun part of Christmas... I do enjoy finding and giving the perfect present for someone...the true meaning of Christmas must never be lost underneath all the presents.
    Love. Forgiveness. Faith.

    They're some of the true gifts of Christmas.

   "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
    Matthew 6:19-21 TNIV

    Love, don't go on a journey of faith without it.
  

Day Twenty One- Friends

   I was moving soon with my entire family across country. And my seventeen year self was extremely excited. This was an adventure and since I had happily graduated early from high school over a year ago- it was time for something different.
   I had quit my job, helped pack up the house and visited all my favorite places and people one last time. I was nearly ready.
   Except for saying goodbye to my friends. That was the only painful part of my decision to move to a new life.


   My best friends at that time were Sarah and Gwen. They were a year younger than me but we hung out all the time. We did all the typical teenage things; movies, shopping, talking and drooling over boys. We also liked other things that weren't popular with the other teenage girls in our town, such as antique shopping; which Oregon has a ton of different shops to explore; and hanging out in the local college town coffee shop. But perhaps, we weren't as lame as the popular girls thought we were for hanging out at a coffee shop.
   Because it was a coffee shop catering to the local college students. And there was a lot of cute musician college boys that would play their guitars at night for the coffee drinkers. Not only did they have perfectly made coffee, delicious pastries but they had college guys.
   Of course, we were way too shy to talk to any of them. But we certainty liked to giggle over them.

   One day, just a week or so before I was moving, my friends show up in Gwen's clunker of a car. I'm not sure which junk yard she dragged it out of but if she jostled the gear shift rough enough it would eventually pop into drive and it would actually get you to where you were going. The car was a two door, blue and rust color vehicle with more noise than a locomotive.
   It was a sunny summer afternoon when they unexpectedly pull into the driveway.
  "Hey, what are you guys doing?" I asked.
  Sarah grinned smugly. "We have a surprise for you. Your Mom knows about it, so don't worry."
  My friend could be a bit wild so it was natural to wonder if her surprise was Mom approved. Turns out it was, so I got ready and we hurried out to the car.
  "You're sitting in the back." Gwen said, pointing to the small backseat. I hated sitting in the back, it was cramped and had no leg room.
   I frowned and rolled my eyes. "Fine."
   Sarah grinned again. "And we're going to blind fold you."
  "What?" I screeched.
  They were both grinning as Sarah waved the bandanna in the air. "It's a surprise, remember?"
  I shook my head and it took them a few minutes of earnest pleading on their parts to convince me to don the blindfold and then sit in the back of the car. So not only was I stuck in the back, I couldn't see anything. What was I thinking?
   What was my Mom thinking?
  I had great fun with my friends but this was like giving them permission to be as wild and crazy as they wanted. I couldn't believe I had agreed to this.
  The first few minutes were okay. I noticed just how loud the car protested being driven, now that my sense of sight was behind a stupid blindfold. My friends just giggled smugly as we drove. They were enjoying this surprise way too much. Probably because I was always the sane one. The one who didn't want to get into trouble doing something. Maybe not a daredevil, but still they enjoyed my company.
   Now I was trapped helplessly in their hands. Of course, I could have just taken the blindfold off but they kept warning me to keep it on. They had a great surprise for me and they didn't want me to ruin it. Sure, use guilt and my own nature against me. I didn't want to hurt their feelings so I kept the blindfold on.
   Suddenly, the car is spinning round and down a steep hill, making me dizzy and sick. I don't even have time to rip the blindfold off, I'm just holding onto the seat, wondering if I was going to be alive in the next few minutes.
   Sarah is screaming at Gwen to slow down but the car still turns precariously and frantically. I close my eyes under the blindfold, holding my breath.
   "Shut up, Sarah." Gwen screams back. The car does a 180 turn and comes to an abrupt and noisy stop. We are alive. I let go of the seat and reach up to take off the blindfold.
   My friends grab my hands. "You can't do that." Sarah says. "We aren't there yet."
  "You almost killed us."
   They start laughing hysterically. "No, we're fine. Gwen just took the hill a little fast. Keep it on, please."
Sarah doesn't let go my hands until I nod. This surprise had better be good. Since they almost got me killed. I fold my arms and glare at them through the bandanna.
   "Don't be mad at us. You're going to like this." Gwen says softly.
   "I better." I muttered.
 
  A few minutes later, we finally arrive. Where. I'm not sure. I have to climb out of the car with the blindfold on, each friend flanking my side and guiding me. The happy noises of other teenagers fill the open air and we walk across the grass until Sarah whips the bandanna off my eyes with a dramatic flourish and a wide gesture of her arms, encompassing the surprise.
   We're in some one's yard which happens to belong to a nice and fancy house up in the hills surrounding our town. Huge trees adorned the property and a small gully runs across the backyard. It's probably twelve to twenty feet deep and only ten to fifteen feet wide.
  And kids are swinging across it on a rope and plank hung from a beautiful hardwood tree.
  "Surprise." Sarah says. "This is my friend's house." She points to the blond teenager next to us. I smile at her. "And she said I could bring you here to enjoy her backyard as a going away gift."
   Gwen is silently grinning from ear to ear.
   I gulped. The kids were laughing and enjoying themselves but even though the gully wasn't that big it was still big enough to hurt if the rope broke, or went the wrong way or...I was worrying about all the 'what ifs'.
   "Come on." Sarah grabs it when the last kid is finished and holds it while I nervously climb onto the plank of wood. Will it hold?
   I grip the rough, scratchy rope and then she lets go.
   I fly through the air with dizzily speeds, crossing the gap a few times before I slow down enough for someone to grab the rope.
   It was awesome!!!
  We spent the rest of the afternoon taking turns on the rope swing, resting on the grass and talking while we waited. The conversation isn't anything I remember in detail. We spoke of the college plans we had, the boys taking their turns on the rope who were cute, and what things I would miss the most when I moved.
   My friends. Definitely my friends. I said. That part I remember.
   I also remember the fun we had that afternoon, swinging and laughing and talking. It was one of those 'perfect moments.' The ones we don't forget. The moments we carry with us like little treasures because they warm our hearts when we need some warmth from the harshness of life.


   We need friends. And I have some absolutely great friends right now. People that encourage me to be creative with my writing. Thanks neighbor!! And friends that remind me that with even being a busy mom that there is still time for fun.- Grown up and still talking about cute guys fun.- (Sorry hero hottie, but I know what guys talk about so I think us women can discuss sexy movie stars. It's only fair. :)

    Friends are like icing on the cake. And I'm so grateful to have mine.

Day Eleven- Casper the cat and his sad start

    It was nearly summer in Oregon. And we actually had a bit of sunshine. The house we had moved into during my fifth grade year was in a cul-de-sac, so although across the street on one side was the horrid railroad track; on the other side of us, between the two houses built in the arch of the cul-de-sac was a gate to the city park.
    What kid doesn't love having a park next door to them. It didn't have a playground, but it had a track, baseball fields, tennis courts and big trees to climb.
    Lining the park was a eight foot chain link fence, separating the houses from city property. They didn't have much privacy but it was difficult for people to trespass into their yards. One of my new friends lived in one of these houses and I spent quite a bit of time over there, especially since I could walk to her house.
     Her name was Sam and she had wild, tangly yellow curls, was willow branch thin and jumpy like a popcorn kernel in oil. We played Barbies in her huge, old- fixer up house, that had more old than fix, and out in her yard where her Dad let the grasses grow as tall as her we played pretend. We would keep an eye on the park and when we saw someone we knew we would struggle through the grasses to reach the fence and chat for a while. If middle school was awful, at least the friends I had made around the neighborhood were great.
 
     One day we were skipping through the wilds of her backyard when a five year boy named Laser started yelling at us from the park. He was always roaming the streets on his bicycle; left alone and lonely; he lacked compassion because in his own short life he had been shown very little. Always finding trouble, he was constantly showing us small toys and candy he had stolen from either the store or other people's houses. This time he was carrying around a square metal lunchbox that had been clearly taken from someone else. But it was what was in it that would end up being quite shocking.
     "Hey, come here. I have something to show." He hollers, starving so much for attention that even as a fifth grader I could sense the desperation that clung to him. But there wasn't anything I could do for him.
     I looked at Sam and shook my head. "It's probably stolen."
    She nods, "Let's go see."
    We get to the fence and he's kicking the lunchbox around. Then tossing it up in the air or throwing it across the grass. Each time it lands with a thud. Each time something rattles inside it.
    "I have something in here." He says and gives it another hard kick.
   "Okay, so show us." I said, rolling my eyes. I rather be playing with Sam then playing a guessing game with a five year old.
   Sam agrees with me. "What?"
   He smirks. "I have cats in there."
   We both frown. "Yeah, right."
   He squints his eyes, his dark eyes completely serious. "No, I have baby cats in there. I took them from their mom. I killed the other babies. Drowned them in a puddle of water. But I have two left."
   I froze, staring at the lunchbox lying on the grass. It's grimy and dented from being tossed around. Was there baby cats in there?
   "Show us." I say, wishing the fence wasn't so high because I would simply grab it from him if I could. Instead, I had to convince him to throw us the lunchbox. Sam looks at me, and her wide eyed shock says it all. We have to see if he's telling the truth.
   "They're still alive." He boosts.
   "We want to see. Throw us the box." I smile.
   "You won't give it back." He grabs the box and holds it tight.
   Sam shakes her head. "No, we'll give it right back. Just let us see them."
   "Throw us the box. We'll look and give it right back." I act like I'm not lying. A feat that's difficult for me. I'm not a liar, but if he has cats in there...we have to get them. We have to save them.
    It takes a few more minutes to convince him that we will give him the lunchbox right back after we take a peek. He's eager to show us his 'prize' and is fairly easy to win over. Finally he agrees.
   "Catch it." He tosses the lunchbox over the fence. As it flies through the air, I'm praying that I won't drop it and then it lands in my arms and the breath I had been holding rushes out.
   We quickly kneel on the ground, with Laser on the other side of the fence watching us intently. Sam gives me a look, an expression that matches my own. We don't want to see what might be in the box. The thought is horrifying.
   Then we hurry to unlatch it, flipping the lid open and peering inside. We are stunned into silence. A thick feeling of dread and horror fills me as I hesitantly touch the two, incredibly tiny baby kittens, nestled together with an alarming lack of any movement.
   We look up at Laser, who isn't saddened by what he has done but is smiling, now that he has shown someone what he has.
   "Are they dead?" Sam whispers, reaching out and stroking the kittens. They are no bigger than the palm of my hand, their eyes shut tightly and their bodies fuzzy but not furry. Their tails are naked and they barely look like cats. I've never seen a baby cat before and the sight would be amazing if it wasn't for what had just happened to them.
  "I don't know." I touch the soft black and white body. The kitten is warm...and breathing. "Yes. Oh, my gosh. Sam. They're alive."
  "What do we do?" she asks, picking one of them up and holding it close to her warm body. I pick up the other one and snuggle him between my palms. They make small mewing sounds.
   "Hey, give them back." Laser demands.
   I look at him and shake my head. "You are not getting this cats back. Go. Go home."
   Angry cuss words stream from his mouth but we ignore him.
   "My Mom will know. She has had kittens before. Hurry." We run to my house, holding the kittens close and burst into the house, our frantic story tumbling from our lips in such a rush I don't know if she understood at first what has happened but she sees the helpless creatures in her hands and goes right to work.
   She pulls out a box from the garage, sets a heating pad in the bottom, followed by a blanket and sets them in there. A small towel becomes their blanket, an eyedropper is used to feed them. Over the course of the next few days she spends hours with them, a boy and a girl, keeping them warm, wiping their bottoms so they can poop, and feeding them one drop at a time. Their mews grow louder, their movements stronger... and then they start sneezing and their mews grow faint again.
    The girl kitten dies and we bury her in the flower bed.
    We take the boy kitten to the vet, who diagnoses him with pneumonia and shakes his head sadly. He explains that the kittens were only a few hours old when Laser stole them from their mother. The kittens didn't receive much, if any, of the valuable colostrum milk and this last surviving kitten's chances were near zero. He gave him an antibiotic shot for free, compassion in the gentle way he handled him and sent us home.
    The boy kitten who we named, Casper, struggled to breathe. Mom kept feeding him, getting up every couple of hours to nurse him. I spent time petting him and talking to him but we still didn't know if he was going to make it. 
   
    Then the sneezing stops, the runny nose dries up and his mews grows strong. He starts trying to move around and he's eager to wiggle against Mom when it's feeding time. After a while his eyes open. He's growing and turning into a kitten, walking and rolling around. His black and white fur grows fluffy.
    A bit more time passes and he survives. He's a full grown cat, healthy and sassy and he lived a long and happy life, thinking he was a real boy not a cat but that was because he didn't know how to be a real cat. 

    I look back at Casper's rough start. It was a terrible way to join the world. And what must have happened to Laser in his short life to cause him to behave with such cruelty? What must he had done after that? Children that are cruel to animals are prone to take that cruelty further. I think teaching children compassion towards animals is highly important. It's part of the bigger picture, acting with compassion in all aspects of our life.
   It was lack of compassion on so many levels that almost killed Casper. It killed the rest of his siblings in a horrible, violent manner.
   But it was compassion from a few different people that saved him. Humanity can't function without compassion. And it starts with teaching our children as soon as they're born.
   The human race needs compassion, without it we can't even find the road to our faith.

Day Three- Mrs. Tracy and the Second Grade

      My journey of faith leads me to the second grade. A year that changed my life. A year that made it possible to write this blog without starting each sentence with the same word. :)
      It was a big year and at first it wasn't going the way I wanted it to.
      But thank goodness it unfolded the way it did.

  
      My second grade self; a bit chubby, with long, mousy brown hair and eager to learn; stepped into Mrs. H's room. It was a typical room, not exciting, not cluttered- just efficient and sterile. The huge chalkboard  took up the entire front wall of the class, with all the desks in neat rows facing it, like soldiers standing to attention. A row of big windows lined the entire wall opposite the entrance.
      I quickly picked a desk near the windows because outside those windows there was life.
      Adventure. A little bit of life in the otherwise cold, Arctic environment that was my second grade life.
     Towering maple trees lined the school outside my view and when I was bored it was easy to be distracted by the whirling and swirling of maple tree seeds, like little helicopter blades traveling where the wind took them.
     I wasn't fond of Mrs. H, not after she caught me counting on my fingers. 
    "Don't count on your fingers." She frowned, her white bushy eyebrows drawing together with icy disapproval.
    I just stared at her, afraid to question this imposing, strict disciplinarian.
    "When you're an adult all your fingers might be chopped off, or frozen off and then they'll have to chop them off and then what are you going to count on? You won't be able to count on them anymore. Math in your head."
     Chopped off? Frozen off? I swallowed, staring at my fingers, completely horrified.
     But that was Mrs H's teaching style.

    
     For reading groups, all the second grade was going to be tested and then divided into three different levels with each second grade teacher taking a class. Mr. S would take the highest readers, I know I would be in that group. Mrs. Tracy would teach the middle group and Mrs. H would have the struggling kids.
     On the day of the test, I knew, just knew that I would be put in Mr. S's class. I had devoured every book I could read since I was preschool age. The library and I were already great pals. There was no question in my mind which group I was going to belong to.

     Unfortunately, the reading test wasn't what I was expecting. I had to read passages from books- aloud- with perfect pronunciation.
     I, had to read aloud, the kid that had a speech teacher.

    I knew what the words meant, I had a huge dictionary inside my head.
    But I struggled to pronounce the words correctly.

   When the groups were decided, I wasn't selected for Mr. S's class. I was placed with Mrs. Tracy.
   Me. The smarty pants of the second grade was put in a class that wasn't the highest level.
   I was embarrassed. Mad at myself for failing. My pride had taken a hit.
   But sometimes pride has to fall.


   The day of our new reading groups I entered Mrs. Tracy's room with resentment and anger. I just knew I was in the wrong group, the teachers didn't know what they were doing.
   I stepped into her room ready to hate her and then I froze...if Mrs. H was rim rod straight and cold...
   Then Mrs. Tracy was the exact opposite. Her room was warm and inviting. Mobiles, made of natural materials, hung from the ceiling. Posters, not silly school charts, but art covered the walls. Her colors were forest green, warm brown and Earthy tones. In the corner, she had made a reading corner with bean bag chairs and an Earth tone colored rug, surrounded by short, wooden bookshelves. Kids with content smiles read intently.
    And even though she had been assigned the same sterile space that all the other teachers had been given, she had created something special and unique. A true learning environment.
   Our group from Mrs. H's class stood in shock. How come our room didn't look like this?
    This was a paradise.
 
    Mrs. Tracy approached us with a gentle, welcoming smile on her face. Some where in her fifties, her long, thick black hair was only peppered with a bit of gray. But it wasn't styled, just drawn back into a hippie braid and slung casually over her shoulder.
     She was slender, dressed in brown corduroy pants and a flowing blouse. Her hands were beautiful- long, sculpted fingers, wrinkled with age and moving delicately as she spoke softly.
    Every once in a while she would pause and tuck a stray piece of hair back behind her ear. The smile never left face.
    She gestured towards the room and we were invited, actually invited, to enter this wondrous domain she had created.
  None of us hesitated.

   During the next few months I settled into the best kind of learning with her. She had created an environment that was encouraging, nurturing, challenging.
   Softly, with a voice that never seemed frustrated or upset with any of us, she guided us to improve our reading while retaining our love for learning.
   Reading aloud to her I never felt embarrassed by my faltering words.
   She knew my difficulties weren't with the words and their meanings but with my speech.
   This meant she encouraged me to read novels to myself. And enjoy books and their wonderful stories for myself and not allow the difficult schooling part of it damage my love for literature.
   When I completed my work I could read in her reading corner. It was a treat. Not just for me but for all the kids. That corner was never empty because someone was always reading in it.

  She also worked on writing with us. My first story I wrote for her was about a dinosaur. And this poor dinosaur did a lot of things in my dozen sentences.
  But every sentence started with the word, 'the'.
  It was quite repetitious.

   Mrs. Tracy pulled me to the side, she never corrected a student with an audience.
   "Christy, I like your story." Her gentle smile warmed me and I beamed.
   "What if you didn't start every sentence with the same word?" She pointed to my obvious over use of the word, 'the.'
   I frowned at first, hurt because my favorite teacher had found something wrong with my dino story. And then I really started to listen to the encouraging tone in her voice that hadn't threatened me to learn or else but had guided me to learn something new without feeling like I had failed because I hadn't gotten it right the first time.
   From that time forward my stories never overused the word, 'the'.
  And instead of squashing something just blooming, she nurtured it. My love of reading and writing was strengthened by this teacher that I haven't even wanted.
   But I'm so thankful I wasn't put in the other class. I ended up right where I needed to be at that time. My pride had been scuffed but what I learned from Mrs. Tracy changed me. And to this day I still write her. A second grade reading class led to a life long friendship.

   So my journey leads me to believe that we must not let pride get in the way of our faith. We might miss opportunities to know the 'bestest' of friends and mentors.

The Blessing List

     I'm great at making lists. I make lists of things I need to do. Lists of business and writing goals. And lists of chores that are waiting for me.
     When I'm in a mood I'll even add things to my list that I've already accomplished just so I can cross them off.
     Pitiful, I know. But it's a great pick me up without the calories from emotional eating.

     When the movie, 'The Bucket List' came out and everyone was composing their lists of things to experience before they died, I made my list too.
      This list was a bit wishful. I would probably have to win the lottery or find a long lost extremely wealthy relative to be able to cross off all my ideas.

      The list I made after I almost died was a lot more meaningful.

       I know people who make list of material possessions they have to own before they die. I wish they would realize that heaven doesn't have a FedEx service. You're not even allowed to bring the clothes on your back. Doubt me? Look at the ancient Egyptians, all those tombs were empty weren't they? (They weren't. Everything they planned to take to the afterlife is still waiting for delivery.)

      What do we take? Only your memories and who you are. Good or bad. Perhaps a list of brownie points (just kidding.)

      But in all these long lists I have made I've never made a list of blessings.

     Lately, I've been struggling with my faith. The crazier the world gets; when people are willing to stampede each other for $2.00 waffle makers, when I have to wonder how the collapse of the Euro will affect me and my community or how 46 million Americans depend on food stamps to feed their families; the less I understand. What purpose is there for humanity and how far off track have we gotten?  Is there even a track to follow? If Dora The Explorer can call for a map at any time which always tells her which way to go, can't I at least get a cheat sheet? A clue? Something? Anything?
    
      In my search for faith I decided to make a list of blessings. And what better month to do that, than in December? The month we associate with peace, hope, miracles, and a chance for redemption.
     For the next twenty five days I will write about a random blessing in my life. They won't be in any sort of order, just written with gratitude and hope. These are deeply personal and meaningful and I hope inspire my readers to make their own list of blessings.
      And if they do inspire you, please forward my blog on to family and friends that might need an encouraging word.

     It's a written search for my faith, fueled by gratitude, humor, and hopefully some answers.