Ordinary Courage

Just after I filed for divorce in April of 2009, we went as a family to Casa Manana to see the scheduled show on the season subscriber list. I was excited about seeing A Year with Frog and Toad because I was and always will be a fan of the Frog and Toad books. I credit Frog and Toad for keeping me grounded during a chaotic and dark period of time.

I was enraptured with the performance and the music. I downloaded the CD onto my phone on the drive home. (As I write that, I marvel, yet again, at technology. It's remarkable that I didn't have to wait more than the download time to hear the Broadway original score.) I also bought the CD because I had this feeling I'd be downloading it more than what iTunes would allow. I've burned countless copies to give out to both grateful and skeptical friends. I suspect that the CD player in my minivan broke because of the constant play of the CD. There are treasures within the lyrics and music: enduring friendship, problem solving, tenacity, adventure, sacrificial love, frustration with friends, transformation, and courage. The genius is that it's hilarious and great fun to sing along with whether you're 5 or 55.  

I've been thinking about courage so much lately. My wise friend, Gay has told me for years that I had courage. Mostly I just disagreed internally and said a polite, "Thank you," externally. I think I began understanding courage that Spring. Gay planted the seeds. Toad helped me harvest them. (which, by the way, would segue way nicely into the song, "Seeds")

Toad is hosting Christmas Eve at his home and Frog is late. He begins imagining all the horrific things that could have and most certainly did happen to cause Frog's delay. The scenes he conjures become increasingly more perilous. The fear in Toad's voice is apparent. The line that I found myself singing, quite badly, and with passion, so often, was, "I----- am not afraid!!   (long pause) ........ well I am, but I'll be BRAVE."

Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is the willingness to look straight into the face of something daunting and do it anyway. We so often get the image of massive firefighters or soldiers with guns when the word courage is mentioned. Courageous is used at funerals to describe a person's battle against cancer. Those are all acts of courage and I do not intend to minimize those. What I'm thinking about lately is ordinary courage. 

I started an online course two weeks ago with that title, "Ordinary Courage".  It has been an amazing study and my mind has been on overdrive thinking about courage. Brene Brown and Jen Lemmon are co facilitating this class. Brene defines ordinary courage as the willingness to "speak from our hearts--to tell our stories." Sounds so simple on the surface. It's easy to speak from our hearts when our story is admirable, brimming with optimism, and punctuated with flawless skin, size 6 jeans, and high SAT scores. But, what if, you're me? A 46 year old, divorced woman who wears a size 18? I color my hair, use wrinkle cream daily, speed up at yellow lights, and every once in while, wear Spanx--which inevitably leads to gas. Do I have the courage to be that?

Facebook reconnected me to a choir buddy from high school. We were great friends within the walls of the choir room at Kingwood High School. As adults we're forging a deeper and more intimate friendship because of that shared history. She came up from Houston to Dallas to attend a theatre production. Our planning conversation sounded like this, Me- "Hey! I'd LOVE for you to come up on Thursday night! Annie Beth will be with her Dad." C- "I WISH I could. I've got this mother/daughter cheer event on Thursday night at the JV football game. I dread it! We'll be out there with our darling little daughters the whole game--in front of everyone!"

When Christy got here Friday we went to get pedicures. The salon was full and we sat at the end in the last two chairs. She started telling me about the cheer event. It was part of a breast cancer awareness night. It was entirely possible that she would tell me she hated every minute of it. I knew that was not the story, though because I had seen three of the pictures on my Facebook news feed. I had commented and told her she MUST use one of them as her profile shot--pure joy on the faces of Mom and her mini-me. She pulled out her phone to show me the rest of the shots. When we got to pictures of she and her friends' herkies, we both were truly laughing our heads off. We cackled so much I had to pat my face to calm myself down. I commented on the shot and told her friend that I want to be her when I grow up! I really want that woman to use that picture as her profile shot. Shoot! I might use it as mine. 

How come? Because it explains ordinary courage better than all my words on this page. I can't even remember this brave woman's name. I can tell you a few things about her, though. She went to high school. She knows what adolescents say and do at that age. I'm guessing she was a cheerleader based on her perfect herkie. This is an educated guess based on cultural norms, but I'm guessing that she knows she's not Playboy centerfold material. She is mother to a gorgeous, talented, blonde cheerleader. She loves her daughter with great passion. She doesn't want to get breast cancer. She doesn't want her daughter to get breast cancer. She knows how to laugh, too. She is a woman of ordinary courage. 

I do know Christy well and this is what I can say about her ordinary courage. She knows herself. She knew beforehand she had anxiety about jumping around. She understands gravity and what happens with stomachs that aren't flat. But, just like her friend, she loves her daughter and wanted to make memories that would last a lifetime. So she loaded up the blue face paint and insisted on painting every mother's face and one very courageous father's. The one who only wanted it on her hand didn't get her wish. (Just another reason to love Christy.) She knows that laughter is a great equalizer. She uses that power to enable others, who have eyes to see it, do the same. She had the courage to push past the anxiety and enjoy every minute of being a 45 year old, overweight Mom who for one night was a cheerleader extraordinaire alongside her darling daughter.

PS How I wish I wasn't alone right now and I could take a picture of myself doing a herkie! I never, ever could do one. I'm convinced it would be worse than my best 6th grade effort. Darn.

In the meantime, Go Christy! Go Christy's friend! "We are the Cham-pions, my Fri-ends!" Here's to Ordinary Courage.

Last Times

This past week I finally took the time to move a wall full of junk in the garage so I could attend to a water leak. What was supposed to be an hour project ended up taking several days of clean up and the services of a plumber. It's not even over because an entire wall will need sheet rock. Looking on the bright side, it helped me begin the task of purging and reorganizing life.

The garbage collectors hauled away several industrial sized bags of mere trash. And, to my great sadness, four items I never intended to part with.

In 1996 I founded Giggles and Glamour. It was a dress up and tea party business. It combined everything I loved:  little girls, sewing, dress up clothes, sparkles, shopping, laughter, people, and serving others. I sold my creations at craft shows during the Fall. Year round, I loaded up my beat up blue suburban with tea party equipment and delivered and set up parties for little girls all over DFW. I was named by a dear friend who said, "You make little girls into Cinderella every weekend. You ARE the Fairy Godmother of DFW!"

My tea parties were exquisite. Everything, from the dresses to the name card holders, was child sized. I bought every child sized chair I ever found at a garage sale or thrift store. I fashioned chair slipcovers with giant tulle bows from a fabulous rose print fabric that was truly wrinkle free. Finding tables that were durable, portable, and large enough was vastly more challenging. I finally found some particle wood tables from a catalog. With the patient help of my Dad, I cut them down to size, painted them white so that they'd look better with the plastic Battenburg lace tablecloths I'd bought. (It sounds way tackier than it was. They are surprisingly plastic!) Those were the two primary tables that helped hundreds of little girls celebrate being female for many, many years. I'd venture to say that I've easily assembled those tables at least 350 times. I cannot even recall when I set up the table the last time.

When I rolled away the larger item covering the tea party table tops, I could instantly see that the tables were swollen with water and mildew. I'm rarely reduced to instant tears. This was an exception. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I rolled each one individually, an efficiency trick I'd learned a long time ago, out to the alley for Friday's garbage collection. The hoarder in me was tempted to keep the bases to the tables. They were unscathed. My inner sage simply said, "It's time to let go."

I began thinking about the garbage man or the dumpster diver that frequents my alley. They'd have no sense of the loss involved for me with their dutiful collection of my tables. They'd never know or care about the miles the tables have traversed or the importance of those tables to help pay bills and buy meals during a very lean period of life for the Clarks. They would never give thought to the last time the tables helped bring joy and laughter into the lives of little girls--so many of those little girls now in college, like Molly and Hayley. They would never know about beautiful Paige.

I'll never forget watching four year old Paige in her spectacular pink princess dress. I made it and gave it to her for that special party. It had yards and yards of tulle and a bodice of pink lame. She was royalty. Only the people attending would know that her body could not withstand the cancer within.  We pulled out all the stops to host a perfect party for her. We even talked about doing another one because it had been so spectacular. More importantly, Paige was so happy. Looking back now, I think we all knew something that we couldn't admit that day. Paige would never attend another tea party. Ever.

What held her family and friends together? Grace. What allowed us to laugh and smile and enjoy a perfect Spring afternoon? Grace.

Grace allows us to be fully present in the moment knowing we live with the very real possibility that this will be the last time. Endings remind us that it was grace that held us when we unknowingly made up a child's bed, cooked a meal for a spouse, hugged a beloved teacher, or stroked a pet's fur for the last time.

Grace is always present. She appears in the last times of things that might not seem meaningful or important to someone without our personal knowledge--even to us at times. I can't even remember the last time I loaded up those tea party tables and assembled them. I never considered it was my last time because my intent was to keep them, well, forever. My forever was interrupted.

Forever, is terrifying outside of grace. Grace is forever, and that in the midst of sadness brings me enduring hope--hope that can help me complete the most mundane of tasks. Hope that by washing the clothes and putting them away my child will have a good life. Hope that she will one day lovingly care for others despite the commitment to monotony that it requires. Hope of eternity helps me manage the knot that gets bundled up in my throat every time I hug my 98 year old Memo goodbye. I could choose fear. I've done so unsuccessfully so many times. I'll admit openly that I'll do it again too--maybe even tonight. For this moment, I choose grace. Only because of  grace do I get to make that choice. What a marvelous conundrum.

Today I'll cherish each moment for what it is. I'll be grateful for the gift of life and love. I"ll embrace the loss that comes with loving. Grace makes it all possible. I do long for the day when there are no more tears and no more sorrow. I welcome the last apology needed, the last divorce decree signed, the last buried pet, and the last load of laundry ever needing folding. Even so, Lord, come.