What Makes Me Happy

“Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be,”  Abraham Lincoln is credited with saying. I agree wholeheartedly. While I certainly understand sadness and depression, having spent some time in that desolate territory, I do not wish to pitch my tent and dwell there.

Some days and seasons are hard to live through.  Sometimes you have to recognize when you’re in a situation that’s over your head and you need help. Sometimes you need a listening ear, even perhaps a professional counselor, to sort through all the mess and confusion.

But research has shown that people who focus on happy thoughts and put a smile on their face, even when they’re feeling down, are just happier folks.

Today I’ve been thinking about some things that make me happy. Here are a few, in no particular order:

A child’s laughter

A good belly laugh

Dancing

The aroma of lilacs

Learning something new

Being able to say something in Spanish or French (the latter, I’m not tres bien at…imagine that accent “eggu” over the “e” in “tres”)

Laughing at myself when I do something silly

Doing something silly just for the heck of it

My kitty stretched out on my lap with her paws extended over her head,  in a posture of complete relaxation

The ditties my husband makes up and sings to me in his slightly out-of-tune voice

Seeing my children do something kind for someone

The smell of molasses cookies baking

Cooking

Making a dish for a neighbor or someone who’s sick

Having a conversation with what would be considered an old person

Reading a good book

Reading a trashy novel every once in a while

Getting a letter from a friend

Hearing someone giggle

A thought-provoking quotation

Cartoons (both printed and animated)

Taking a mental health day from work

Puttering around the house

The smell of laundry fresh from the dryer

The feel of folding clothes

Finding mates for socks (the washer usually eats one or two)

Going on a scavenger hunt

Playing volleyball

Taking a walk and stopping to smell a flower or look at a beautiful tree

Good conversations

Meeting interesting people (I gravitate toward musicians and artists)

Trying to figure out what makes people tick (although this is often frustrating)

A beautiful, sunshiny day

Watching snowflakes outside my window

Hiking, especially in autumn

The crunch of leaves as you walk through them

Radnor Lake

Walking on a trail in the woods by myself

Wine with a good friend

Babies after a bath, with their flyaway hair (and hooded towels are just too funny)

Finishing a project and feeling like I’ve given it my best

Drawing, coloring, painting

Enjoying an art show

Reading the Psalms, pondering the Gospels, trying to fathom what in the world the apostle Paul meant by some of his writing

Speaking or writing words of encouragement to lift someone’s spirits

My family having a good discussion around the dinner table

A humble author

Watching TV with our entire family (seldom happens; we don’t have many shows we all like, nor are we all home at the same time)

Seeing positive developments in my children’s lives

Holding hands with John

Hearing Daniel say “I love you” as he signs off the phone

Having lunch with a friend

Watching Julie take pride in keeping her car clean

Laughing together at a joke

E-mail jokes from Jim and Gail

Knowing I’ve listened to someone else and tried to understand that person’s point of view without telling my own story

Singing

Making music on the piano

Finally enjoying singing in Latin at church (it took a while for me to get there)

Watching people in my congregation…especially during baptism and Communion

Hearing our children’s and youth choirs sing

A little Bach, a little Beethoven, some Three Dog Night, Elton John’s early music, The Eagles, Mozart, Norah Jones, Latin music, classical guitar…oh, there is so much good music and great musicians, this is just a mere sampling

These are just a few things that make me happy or bring me joy. There are many more that I can’t think of at the moment. Oh, one joy is knowing I’ve got food in the crockpot for dinner and I won’t have to think about it later in the day when I’m tired. This happens about once in a blue moon.

What I Hope for My Children

As I was musing about this blog, I originally planned to write “What I Hope for My Daughter,”  but I realized that I desire many of the same things for my son. Here goes:

* That they will feel loved unconditionally for who they are,  not for their achievements

* That they will find their own bliss, their unique calling and purpose

* That they will believe in something larger than themselves

* That they will love other people unabashedly and passionately and that they will receive the same kind of love from good, solid people and will remain faithful to the loves of their lives

* That they will care about the needs of the less fortunate and find ways to show their concern

* That they will have their own children someday and experience the joys and challenges of raising their children to become independent, loving, healthy, happy adults

* That they will remain curious  and will be lifelong learners

* That they will manage their money well and generously give to others

* That they will realize that careers aren’t everything … that balance in all areas of life is desirable

* That they will be tolerant of people who are different from them and will try to see others’ point of view

* That they will leave this world a little better than it was when they entered it

*That they will have faith, hope, and joy

* That they will be resilient in the face of troubles and never give up

* That they will experience much laughter and fun!

* That they will take responsibility for their own happiness and not blame others

* That they will remember a fraction of the things their daddy and I tried to teach them and will gracefully forget about the times we haven’t been the best models

* That they will always be surrounded by love

* That they will continue to develop their creativity and discover new talents

I guess that’s enough for today. My happiness does not depend upon what my children do or how they turn out. So far they’ve proven themselves to be kind, dependable, compassionate, intelligent, responsible people. They will only get better as time goes on.

On Sharing a Car with My Son

Daniel, our 25-year-old son, and I have been sharing a car for several months since he totaled his 1993 (or was it 1994?) Maxima at the end of September 2011. This is the third time in three years that we have been forced by circumstances to share a car for a while. The other two times we helped him find another car.

This time, our young man is on his own. We figured he would learn some valuable life lessons by saving for a car and that maybe, just maybe,  he might drive a bit more carefully if he knew what it took to save his own money and to find a car.

One of the unexpected pleasures that has resulted from this time of waiting is watching Daniel grow up. Before he took a part-time job at Barnes & Noble Vanderbilt in December, he was in the habit of sleeping most of the day. I teased him (sometimes impatiently) that he took sleeping to the level of an Olympic sport.

I wondered whether he could make it out of bed, night owl that he is, in time to get to work by 8:30 a.m. at first and now 8:00. Some mornings I heard his alarm go off repeatedly but there were no signs of life afterward. I’d knock on his door and say, “Daniel, are you awake?” His reply was usually something like, “Working on it.” I’d say, “Last call” and head downstairs to finish getting ready.

For a while this was our pattern, and I felt somewhat guilty for “enabling” him to by prodding him awake like a child in the morning.  But we (he, his dad, and I) wanted him to succeed at this job, because Papa John’s, his other employer, had drastically reduced his hours since his September accident, which removed him from being able to drive and deliver. He was getting about 10 hours a week inside the store, compared with around 30 hours a week before his accident.

Somewhere along the way he began to take responsibility for his own waking up. In recent weeks he has stayed home on nights before he has to be at work at 8:00 a.m. We had suggested that many times previously, but he had to come to his own conclusion that he couldn’t enjoy the night life with his friends until 1:00 or 2:00 a.m. and expect to wake up at 7:00 ready to function at work for 7.5 to 8 hours.

Much of parenting a young adult (and I never thought when I was in my earlier years of child raising that I would still be parenting at this stage) involves shifting from the authority figure to a consultant/coach. It’s hard sometimes watching young adults make mistakes as they strike out on their own, but it’s a necessary stage in their development. They need the freedom to fail and not be rescued by well-intentioned parents; that only hinders the process of becoming a responsible adult.

Sometimes they come up with wonderful solutions to problems, and the parent gets educated about creative ways to respond to challenges. Maturity is a two-steps-forward, one-step-backward process, and it’s sort of messy. Come to think of it, that is also true of life in general. One of my aunt’s sayings comes to mind: “You have to learn to roll with the punches.” (Ouch, those punches sometimes hurt.)

One serendipity that has resulted from these months of sharing a car is getting to know Daniel better. He has a quirky sense of humor, and you have to be quick to catch it.  I am beginning to appreciate his unique slant on life. This is the son whom I described in his younger years as an “old soul.” When he was 9 and we were talking about moving to another house, he said, “I want a place with a creek and a hillside where I can go sit and watch the sun set.” That sounded pretty good to me.

We didn’t move until his senior year of high school. Our backyard does slope downward, so I guess he has his hill. There is no creek really close to our property, but there is one in the neighborhood. I don’t think he’s spent a lot of time at home contemplating, but what do I know? Our children lead secret lives away from their parents. They are really gifts from God, and I’ve grown to treasure them more and more the older they get.

Sometimes I hear them repeating things John and I have said to them. It’s a little disconcerting sometimes to have your own words tossed back at you in a manner you didn’t intend when you said them. But we all are still learning at this stage of our journey. May it ever be so.

My Best Friend Rosa

Rosa Alice Steele, my maternal grandmother, was born on May 7, 1887. Every year around her birthday I remember her. I think of her a lot at other times, too. You see, my mamaw was my most faithful friend during my adolescence.

I was fortunate to live next door to my grandparents and my Aunt Reb. When the walls at my own house  felt like they were closing in, I could go next door to hang out with Mamaw Robinette, and of course she was always there.

I sort of tolerated my grandfather, who was in his 90s and was “off his rocker,” as we described dementia then. He wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around. Papaw was an angry old man who raved (usually random scripture verses that never made sense to me … one phrase I remember was “how great is that darkness!”) and struck out with his cane at anyone who tried to help him out of his chair. Once he got to his feet and his blood was circulating a bit, he’d be okay.

Mamaw, on the other hand, just got sweeter as she aged. When I think of her, I mainly remember her and Papaw sitting in their rocking chairs in the sunny den of Reb’s house. Mamaw made funny remarks about everything. I can’t recall many of her sayings except for one, “Hurrah, Bessie!” which she used whenever anyone made a racket in the kitchen or dropped something on the floor. Whether or not the scenario was true, that saying made me envision her sitting on a stool as she milked her cow, talking to the cow as it kicked over the bucket.

I recall many happy hours spent in that den. It was a place where I could go and feast my eyes on the “idiot box,” as my mother called the TV. I watched “The Brady Bunch,” “Petticoat Junction” (Mamaw loved that one), “Dragnet,” “Jeopardy,” “The Beverly Hillbillies” (another of Mamaw’s favorites), “Gomer Pyle,” “The Partridge Family” (while I drooled over David Cassidy), and the nightly news with Chet Huntley and David Brinkley. On Saturday nights my family gathered in that small den to watch “Lawrence Welk” and his bubbles (and the beautiful women who sang; I loved how cheesy it was) and “Hee-Haw” (perhaps a foreshadowing of my future home, Music City, USA).

To this day my husband of almost 30 years doesn’t understand why watching TV is such a social event for my family. He wants to watch a show uninterrupted, and we usually do at our house, except when one of our young adults enters the room and wants to tell us something. (Thank God for being able to record shows and pause them at will.) My family of origin talks through TV shows, making a running commentary on whatever is going on, especially during “Jeopardy!”

Anyway, back to Mamaw. When I was in 7th grade, she and my grandfather were separated into different bedrooms. At the time, I was told that it was because Mamaw was wetting the bed, and Papaw couldn’t handle that. My mother arranged for me to sleep in the same bedroom with Mamaw. (It was only later, when I was married, that my uncle told me the real reason Mamaw and Papaw slept in separate bedrooms. Papaw had a strong sex drive even in his 90s. He was driving my grandmother crazy, and dementia already ran in her family.) Somewhere during that time she had a “nervous breakdown, ” and I’m not sure what came first, the breakdown or some heart problems for which she was hospitalized. The doctor gave her some medication to which she had a psychotic reaction. She never was the same after that, but it was a happy kind of crazy.

Thankfully, I was blissfully unaware of the real reason I was assigned the responsibility of staying with Mamaw. I would slip into my twin bed at night after she’d been asleep in her hospital bed that my aunt bought for her (to keep her from falling out of bed). I’d turn on the lamp on my bedside table, and Mamaw would wake up and talk to me for a bit. Usually I told her whatever was going on with me that day, and she listened and made witty comments. I knew I had talked long enough when I heard this little puffing sound, signaling that she had fallen asleep and was snoring.

I don’t know how I would have fared during my teen years if it hadn’t been for Mamaw’s patient listening, even when she was losing her grip on reality. I poured out my soul to her, and she received my confused thoughts and ramblings as if they were a gift. Perhaps she could relate to them because her own mind was slipping away.

Mamaw lived to be 96. My grandfather lived to the ripe old age of 101 (he died when I was 16). I was married and living in Nashville when I got my mom’s phone call informing me that Mamaw had died. It came during a Tupperware party that I was hosting. John went into the living room and informed our guests of the news I had just received. All I did was weep that night.

When my family planned Mamaw’s funeral, someone asked me and two of my cousins to sing. I said, “I can’t do it.” I know of many musicians who sing at their relatives’ funerals, but I was just too close to Mamaw and emotional about her death that I knew I couldn’t sing without crying. I wound up playing the piano, and that was okay, because I could cry and play at the same time.

One hymn I remember Mamaw singing was “Farther along we’ll know all about it; farther along we’ll understand why…cheer up, my brother, live in the sunshine. We’ll understand it all by and by.” I don’t remember what hymns I played at her funeral, but I can still hear her singing those words.

Rosa Alice Steele. A teacher in her young adult years. Mother of six strong, opinionated women. Humble, patient, hard-working, loving (though underneath there was some rebellion) wife to a demanding husband who was a farmer and ruled his family with an iron fist. Grandmother to 7, of whom I was the youngest. By the way, she was my namesake. My middle name is Rose.

I am so fortunate to have had her in my life.

Savor Today

Today has been a great day…I’m in a cleaning mood, the weather is great outside, and believe it or not, all is right with my world.

“So what?” you may think. Well, I’ve learned over the years to be grateful for the days when I have sufficient energy to do housework. You see, I have an autoimmune disorder, and I never know quite when something will wreak havoc with my body and I can’t function for a day.

One way I deal with this is by thinking, “Things could always be worse.” I know many who are struggling with cancer and other horrible diseases.

I faced my own mortality at the relatively young age of 30. It was a fluke. My liver enzymes were high in some blood I donated to the Red Cross. I got a letter from the RC informing me of that fact and urging me to see my doctor. I followed their suggestion.

My doctor scheduled me for a liver biopsy, which in 1989 was not the most fun outpatient procedure. John took me to the hospital and stayed with me. I got a shot of local anesthetic, and then a nurse came in with a big horse needle (I nearly came out of the bed when I saw it, because I really don’t like needles) and punched it in the space between my ribs.

It felt like what I imagine a horse kicking you in the ribs might feel like (minus the broken ribs). Crap!

After a couple of hours, my doctor came into my room with another doctor and I thought, “Uh-oh. This can’t be good.” My doctor informed me that I had primary biliary cirrhosis. When I heard the word “cirrhosis,” I thought back to my college days and figured that my drinking had come back to bite me. I really didn’t drink THAT much…although sometimes I overdid it.

John and I were at a loss about what to ask the doctor. I said, “So…what is that?” and the other doc, a gastroenterologist explained that it is a liver disease in which the bile ducts eventually become filled with scar tissue. I blinked back tears and looked at my doctor.

Next question: “What is the life expectancy?” My doctor said, “Well, it’s usually found in middle-aged women” ["Middle-aged?" I thought. "But I'm only 30!"] …” You will probably have a normal life expectancy.”

I was still reeling from the news and trying to figure out what this meant for my life. Our son, Daniel, was 18 months old at the time, and we wanted to have another child. I asked the doctor, “Will I be able to have any more children?” He said, “I’ll need to consult with someone about that…and he contacted (later) a liver specialist at Johns Hopkins.

In the meantime, our pastor at the time (Joel Snider) came by to visit. John and I told him about my diagnosis. I remember his saying something like, “This is one of those bumps on the road of life.” At first I thought, “Yeah, buddy, that’s easy for you to say.” Later those words comforted me.

You see, Joel introduced me to a young woman in our congregation who was on the waiting list for a heart & lung transplant. We met at a church picnic. She and I talked about our respective diseases, and after I talked to her, I felt much better. I was shocked to hear, a few weeks later, that she had died waiting for her transplant.

Nothing I have read on the Internet about this disease has been encouraging. Everything sounds dire. I was a member of a Facebook group for people with PBC for a while, and the posts were so depressing, and the people sounded so much worse off than I.

After panicking for a few weeks and thinking, “I’m gonna die!” and worrying about the future of our family, I finally calmed down. Maybe it was the news report of a young pregnant woman being hit by a bus on Church Street (and killed) that got through to me. Or maybe it was the realization, after talking to my doctor in a subsequent visit, that I could take life one day at a time and there were some medications available to help my condition…and best of all, I could have another baby. (I asked him a lot about that. I didn’t want to bring another child into the world if I wasn’t going to be around to help raise “it.”)

I also need to give credit where credit is largely due: God calmed my fears. I gained much hope and comfort from reading the Psalms. When I prayed, I felt like God listened and even had the sense, “It’s all going to be okay.”

Regardless of how things turned out, at that moment I decided I was going to look at life differently. I have read accounts of many people with life-threatening diseases who say they are actually grateful for their disease, that it changed their lives completely.

I know that my autoimmune disorder has taught me to slow down and smell the roses, so to speak. It made me appreciate…so much…my children’s laughter and activity and yes, even the challenges we went through when they were teens. It’s made me feel incredibly lucky to be married to a sensitive man who loves me for who I am and who has stood by me all these years (nearly 30).

So if you wonder why I believe in God, why I think faith is important, why I try to live each day as if it’s my last, now you know the “rest of the story.”

Now to get the bathrooms cleaned and the floors vacuumed….I need to take advantage of the energy I have today! Life is good.

We Get By … with a Little Help from Our Friends

Like many, I struggle at times to know how best to respond to people who approach me asking for money. I am an avid supporter of our local street paper, The Contributor, that supports many homeless persons and gives them a way to earn money and potentially change their lives.

A couple of days ago as I was coming out of Starbucks (I don’t go there very often, just when I need a real jolt to make it through the day), a man asked me if I could spare a dollar or two. He looked me directly in the eye. I don’t usually carry much cash, but I gave him a dollar. I think I have gotten past worrying that he might spend it on booze or something else. He’s a human being, he has dignity, and sometimes we all need a hand.

It seems that such encounters don’t happen just once but several times for me in the same week. Yesterday was a gorgeous day in Nashville that just begged to be enjoyed. I had been in meetings all day (except for delivering Meals on Wheels at lunchtime) and resisted the idea of going back to my office without enjoying some sunshine. Besides, I had this craving for a McFlurry, a decadence I allow myself every now and then.

So off I started to McDonald’s, thinking I’d hit the one at Vanderbilt Hospital. Alas, it has been replaced by a high-end coffee and baguette shop. Ugh. As if we need another around there.

I often walk the Vandy campus, so I thought, “Well, the McDonald’s on West End isn’t THAT far away,” and I made a bee line (so to speak) for 28th Avenue and West End. By the time I got there, I was nearly worn out and considered calling one of my colleagues to come pick me up…I’d just about used all my energy just to get to Mc-y D’s. I got my McFlurry and a cup of water and decided to sit alongside a bed of roses at Centennial Park.

It was such a gorgeous day that the socks and shoes had to come off. As I was reveling in the feeling of my bare feet on the grass and the delicious ice cream mixed with M & M’s sliding down my throat, I noticed the not-so-welcome aroma of cigarette smoke. I scooted a little farther away from the smoke.

Soon I was greeted by the smoker, who told me he’d just gotten out of the hospital, where he’d had seizures the day before. He said his wife was at work at Trevecca (which isn’t close to Centennial Park) and that he was hungry. I looked around and saw 2 cups of soft drinks on the ground beside him.

We chatted a bit. He remarked, “I’m really hungry. I wonder if you could spare some money so I can buy food at McDonald’s.” I told him I didn’t have any cash on me, but I’d be glad to take him there and buy him something with my debit card. He said, “I’m not a drunk.” Then he told me he attended a certain Methodist church in town and went to AA meetings at my church. (As soon as he said he wasn’t a drunk, I knew he was.) I talked with him a little more, telling him about my experience with someone close to me who had been through a 12-step residential program. I finished my McFlurry, which was getting pretty soupy at this point, and he shook my hand and told me his name. Then he pulled out some old pictures he was carrying with him of his wife and then-young children.

This tore at my heartstrings, as it was probably intended to. It also said to me that he must be separated from his family and that his alcoholism had come between them. He said he hadn’t had a drink for a long time, but I smelled booze on him. Still, the man was hungry. And I couldn’t walk away from him knowing that.

I said, “Okay, I’m ready to go back to McDonald’s now. Come with me.” He hesitated. He said, “Do you mind just going in there and ordering something for me?” I said, “Oh, they’ve thrown you out before, huh?” He nodded a little sheepishly. So I went to McDonald’s and bought what he requested: 2 McChicken sandwiches from the dollar menu and a cup of water.

As I gave him the food, I told him, “Keep working the program, brother.” Sometimes I feel compelled to say, “God bless you” but I didn’t feel like I needed to say anything about God to him. If he’s indeed been inside the church he said he attended, he has heard the love of God proclaimed over and over.

I just feel heavyhearted for that man and for all who struggle with addiction. They need to know someone will take time to listen to them. They need to know someone cares. They need to know…oh, Lord, what can I say here? … that they have dignity as persons. I hope this man was uplifted just a little and that he finds the help he obviously needs. God, today that is my prayer.

We’re Not So Different, You and I

“We’re not so different, you and I.” These words were on my mind when I awoke early this morning. In the past few days the song “What the World Needs Now” (is love, sweet love…) has been playing in the background of my thoughts.

The day after my last post, which unfortunately was all about me and the wrongs that had been done toward me (just call me a drama queen), one of my colleagues got fired. Reality check #1.

Reality check #2: Yesterday a dear friend called me out on some comments I’ve made on Facebook. I confess, I have made derisive comments from time to time about Southern Baptists. This friend told me that it sounds like I think I’ve found a “higher way.” Oh Lord. And oh, friends … forgive me. I really do get on my “high horse” from time to time. I really don’t mean to sound as if I have found all truth. I have discovered a few things in this spiritual journey called life that work for me, but I don’t mean to imply that they work for everyone.

I’m not that different from any of you. Pardon me as I launch into a brief explanation of the needs we humans share. (Blame my mom. She was a teacher, and I have inherited her tendency to want to lecture about subjects that interest me. If you want to skip the lecture, scroll on down to the bottom of this post.)

Psychologist Abraham Maslow identified 5 levels of needs (remember that hierarchy of needs from Psychology 101?), and he pictured these as a pyramid.

1. At the base of the pyramid are physical needs such as food, water, sleep, and warmth.

2. Once these needs are met, we move on to the need for security: shelter and safety.

3. Only when the above needs are met do we move to the next level: social needs. The need to belong, the need for friendship and affection, the need for love. Our relationships with our family and friends satisfy part of these needs. We meet our social needs in other ways, such as belonging to civic or religious groups.

4. When we are able to satisfy our social needs, according to Maslow (and his theory is much debated), we move to the next level: esteem needs. These include the need for things that make us feel better about ourselves, such as social recognition and accomplishment.

5. And finally, at the top of the pyramid is self-actualization, which means a person is more concerned with personal growth than the opinions of others and strives to fulfill his/her potential.

Hmmm. I wonder if we all move back and forth between levels in this hierarchy of needs. Sometimes I feel as if I’m on top of the world: everything seems hunky-dory. Then something comes along that threatens my sense of security. Inside I’m really just a quivery mass of insecurity. I think a lot of people are; some just hide it better than others.

Here’s what I dream about/wish for: I wish that we could find more commonalities than differences with our fellow human beings. I wish I would refrain from judgment. I wish I would pause and see, really see with my heart, that person who acts so obnoxious or that person who looks so different from me. I wish I would be quicker to listen and less hasty to react. I wish that we lived in a world that is not so consumed with hatred.

There are many things over which I have no control. Sometimes I despair at the hatefulness I see us all inflict on one another, even in small ways. I wonder, what would happen if we all took responsibility to make our little corner of the world a better place?

This reminds me of a joke my mom used to tell (she had a few jokes, and they were corny, but they made me laugh…and sometimes they had a point). Did you hear the one about the old woman who peed in the ocean? She said, “Every little bit helps.”

So today, with God’s help, I will do my little bit to not spread pollution in the ocean (lame joke) but to “water” my corner of the world. God, help us all to be more loving persons. Help us to have wisdom to know when to bite our tongues. Some things just need to be left unsaid. And help us know when to say an encouraging word to others. We may unknowingly make a life-or-death difference to someone. God, bless us every one. We just can’t do it by ourselves.