mini-me

There were many times before having children when my mom would assure me that someday I'd have a child that was just like me.  She was sure of it; and it was always said with a bit of a smirk.  And I would smile back and assure her that I would be able to handle a mini-me.

Yes, I had heard the stories.  I recall very little, but I had heard the stories throughout the years - running away when I was three, cutting my sisters hair (entirely) off, being called a juvenile delinquent as a toddler, and, unfortunately, the list of stories go on.

When Ella was born, I prepared myself from day one.  I knew there was a chance she would be the one.  The payback....the mini-me.

My husband assured me over and over again that I was wrong.  She, he was convinced, was a mini-him.  And he was right.  Ella was calm, introverted, quiet, and helpful.  She was not my mini-me; and I was grateful.

And so when Jrod came along, I was sure he would be it - my wild child, my payback for giving my mother gray hair at a young age.

For four years, I staked my claim.  I told my mother:  "See!  I can most certainly handle a mini-me!"  I got through poop smeared walls, powder bottles dumped, and dirt galore.  I had succeeded!  I had done it!  I had survived another me.

I was wrong.

Lily was born in 2008.  I didn't prepare myself, due to the fact that I thought I already had a mini-me.  I was geared up for an easy number three.  A number three that you hardly knew was there.  A number three that was everything that I wasn't.

Lily has always been....different....from the other two. More dramatic (telling me that she has never in her entire life had a more difficult mom), more mature at a young age (explaining to her brother and sister that she's never getting married because she'll never, ever kiss people on the lips for long times), and has been a deeper thinker (asking us if she can live with her favorite Dentist when we die).  

So, in the last couple weeks, I have slowly come to a difficult realization, and several events have led up to this enlightenment: 

Recently, I was playing piano during a worship service, leading the congregation in singing.  With no warning, Lily ran up on stage during the middle of a song:  "Mom!  Mom!  I need a mint really bad!"

Seriously?

After telling her firmly to go back down, I thought I had gotten through to her.

I was wrong.  She ran up a second time - this time crying:  "I don't want to sit in my chair anymore!"

We finished the song acapella.   

And I began to wonder.....could she be my mini-me?  Nah.

And then a few days later, I ran into Lily's teacher.  Lily, she explained, asks for food often, and while they usually ignore her frequent requests, her teacher told her the other day that she'd get lunch when she got home from school. 

"But that won't happen," Lily explained, "my mom never, ever feeds me lunch."

I laughed.  And then...just to be safe....assured the teacher that I feed my child.

But it was Sunday when this particular realization became clearer than ever before.  On Sunday, I noticed lily holding herself all morning -as if she needed desperately to use the bathroom.  I finally took her into the corner at church and inquired:

"Lily, do you have to use the bathroom?"

"No."

"Is something uncomfortable?"

"No."

I went with my motherly instinct and looked under her dress.  My child had hidden graham crackers and other goodies in her underpants.

I didn't even know what to ask.  What would I ask?  Why are there sweets in your underwear?  Should that have immediately come to mind?  I just looked at her.  And she answered:

"I just was making treats appear.  I can do magic, mom."

That was it.  I knew right there and then.  She is my mini-me - and before long, my brown hair will begin to gray.

Standing in the corner with my daughter, I started laughing uncontrollably.  And I have a feeling that won't be the last time I laugh.  There may be many tears along the way (I deserve that), but there will also be many, many laughs.

I love you, Wilbur.  My little mini-me.

Memories

 We've been going to the same place for vacation each summer for about 25 years.  It's a beautiful beach spot filled with many, many memories. 

Twelve years ago, Chris and I took a picture on a particular couch at this vacation spot.  We've taken the same shot every year since. 

The above picture was taken twelve years ago - on the night of our engagement.  He thought I was surprised (and I didn't let on for about five years that I knew what was coming), but it didn't matter; that night was one of the happiest of my life. 

I will never forget getting up from dinner and while my whole family was headed out to play the card game Skip Bo, Chris asked if I wanted to go for a walk. 

"No." 

I wanted to play Skip-Bo (one of my favorites), and (I will never forget) there was key lime pie involved.  There was no way I was taking a walk on the beach. 

My dad whipped out the video camera and put it in my face: 

"You really should go for a walk, honey, it's a beautiful night.  Just go ahead." 

And then I knew.  Dad, good ol' dad, giving away the entire thing.  My entire family stared at me.  Did they seriously think I wasn't picking up on anything? 

I then agreed to the walk with the promise that they'd save some key lime pie.  My sisters just giggled. 

My family cannot keep a secret. 

As we were walking toward the beach, my dad video taping the entire thing, I heard my little sister whisper: 

"Do you know what is about to happen?!?" 

And then it was confirmed.

But I kept my cool, even though I was excited myself about what was about to happen. 

It was dark when we began walking - very dark.  In fact, there were no lights anywhere near our part of the beach.  I didn't know it at the time, but Chris was trying to find light. So, he was incredibly distracted as we walked.  Regardless, I tried to make conversation. 

"Don't you think it would be awesome to be a lifeguard at a place like this?  I mean, what a job." 

"Uh-huh.  Awesome."  He was looking all around, and I had no idea for what - fireworks, a plane, a person.  I decided to not try and guess but to keep talking: 

"That's got to be a job that has very little stress.  Don't you think?" 

"Uh-huh.  You should move to Florida." 

For real?  Then we got into an argument over whether or not he wanted to move to Florida. 

We quickly ended up right back at the place where we started. 

I didn't need fireworks, planes, people; I didn't even need light.  All I needed were the words that Chris said to me in the next five minutes. 

It was one of the most memorable nights of my life.  And I even got my key lime pie.  It was March, 2000. 

The 2001 picture is missing, but the next ten years are accounted for and are pictured below. 

I share these with hesitation since Chris and I have gone through many different.....awkward.....phases when it comes to fashion and hair, but they're worth every single memory.  Each year is filled with so many, but here are just a few little snippets:

 2002. Sweet little Ella. Easiest baby ever.  It's a good thing she was the first; if Jrod or Lily had come along as number one, there would have been no number two.  

2003. First year without my dad on vacation, but a sweet time with the family.  Life was still easy as can be with only one.  

2004.  Jrod.  Jrod.   And we moved to St. Simons.  I also remember telling Chris I would never teach again. 

2005.  I went back to teaching. 

2006.   I quit teaching.  

 2007.  We moved back to St. Louis.  And, we decided to try for a third child with the expectation that after Jrod, surely we'd have a calm, laid-back child. 

2008.  The year I gave birth to the least calm, laid-back child I had known thus far.   

2009.  The year we both gave up hair - I chopped mine, and he shaved his.  

2010.  

2011.   All three kids in school and mom went back to working part-time, but not as a teacher. 

2012.  And here we are.  

God is good.  

All the time. 

Past, Present, and Future

Our family spent some time up on Lookout Mountain in Georgia on our way to Florida this past week.  Chris and I both graduated from Covenant College, so we were eager to show the kids around; maybe share with them a little bit of our past.

We had a captive audience, and my husband was the first to take advantage.  He brought everyone up to the second floor of the infamous Carter Hall ready to show the kids his first dorm room.  

He opened the door and declared the room like a new father declares the name of a new child.  I could see the memories flooding back, and admittedly, it was hilarious.  

The kids were unimpressed by the 10 by 12 foot room with just enough space for the necessities.  And so we moved on.  

Chris spent most of his time at Covenant on the “Ghetto,” the hall where many of the soccer players grouped.  Our entrance into the Ghetto was one of the doors opening to glory, but still, the kids were unimpressed.   “And this is the room we would gather in, and this is where I slept, and this is……”  He was reliving glory days.  

“So, like in college do you have to go to school all day?”  This is the kind of important information Jrod wanted to be clear about.  

Chris explained that you go to class, but then you’d have time in between to sleep, or play sports, or eat….

…..or study; my boring contribution.  

We ventured up to my old hall.  I walked down the hall unassumingly, sure that I wouldn’t fall into the same time warp where my poor husband found himself.  

But then there it was:  my old dorm room.  I lapsed worse than my husband, explaining who lived in each room and how I had my room arranged.  The kids stuck with me until I pointed out which sink I used.  The eye rolling began except for little Lily who told me how cool my sink was.  

Thanks, Lily.  

At this point, my kids were still trying to grasp the whole concept of college, but I didn’t leave much room for questions – I was on a roll pointing out the dining room, the mail room, the Resident Director’s apartment, and the laundry room.  

   

“You mean you have to clean your own clothes?”  

I was immediately grateful for the ten years that Jrod has left at home. 

 

My kiddos followed me out of my dorm like little tourists.  And so on we went.  

I pointed out my favorite class - Shakespeare at 7:45 in the morning, explaining that I would have gone to that class at 7:00 A.M, it was that good.  

“But who would wake you up?”  

Again, we’ll need all ten years with Jrod.  

Of course, then, I couldn’t just show them where my favorite class was held, we had to walk over to the class I used to dread.  

And I thought Chris’s doors into “Ghetto glory” were a little much. 

I didn’t care.  I took them into the dreaded math classroom.  It was in this class that I decided I was going to major in something with the most amount of reading and writing and the least amount of equations and problems.  

Both Ella and Jrod acquired my math skills, or lack there of, so both empathized with their mom in this department.  I thought it was funny that they actually felt bad for me; forget what mom does all day for us on top of otherwise full days, but a math class…..poor mom. 

   

Chris and I took them to the chapel.  I began playing the piano up on the stage, recalling the first time I played up there as a short lived music major.  

I was asked to accompany the student body in singing the school’s hymn.  Nerves rose up in me like I had never experienced before, and I plowed through that hymn so fast that it was literally un-singable.  So, the lecturer stopped me and the rest of the student body and asked me to play it at a more reasonable tempo.  

I switched my major to English, promising myself I would never accompany anyone again. 

The irony is that I lead worship on the piano each and every Sunday, and I absolutely love it.

 

Next, I took the kids to the building where I had an in depth conversation regarding my Senior Integration Paper with two of my favorite professors.  I pointed out the exact room where this meeting took place. 

I distinctly remember one professor praising the subject matter and the detailed research that was done.  My writing teacher, the other professor present, discouraged the actual writing of the paper, explaining to me that even after five drafts, it was simply “a mess.”  

I had the option of writing another draft, correcting the enormous amount of grammatical mistakes, and receiving an A.  But, I was a senior, and all that was standing between me and graduation, plus my impending marriage to my best friend, was that paper.  So, I settled (with no qualms) for a C. 

Again, the irony is that almost exactly one year later I was hired to teach high school grammar and writing.   My first year students, quite unfortunately but rather obviously, learned very little as I spent most the year trying to understand it all myself.  

Embarrassingly, a student would at times correct my pronunciation of a particular vocabulary word.  Instead of admitting my blaring error, I would suggest that perhaps there were other ways to pronounce such common words.  

I mean really. 

After that first year, the light went on.  I suddenly became a grammar fanatic (please don’t hold this blog to that fact); I began seeing grammar errors everywhere and writing became to me, for the first time, a new part of life.  I enjoyed it so much that I spent the next several years trying to spark the interest in as many students as possible. 

Several years after I had left the school, I received a letter from one of my former students who had taken the time to explain to me how thankful she was for my class.  In particular, she mentioned how grateful she was for all the grammatical markings on her papers.  It helped her later in her schooling to really “get it.”  Oh, the irony.  

Before we could conclude the tour, Chris and I knew couldn’t leave without the kids seeing the gym.  Athletics were a big part of our lives in college, and the kids couldn’t wait to see it.  They were particularly enthralled with the fact that there was still P.E. available in college.  

“P.E. and lunch are my favorite subjects!”  

That’s my boy.  Even as an eight year old, it’s only taken him a few months to get through five books of Harry Potter, and yet he is adamant that his gifts are in the area of lunch time.  

Chris pointed out each and every trophy that he and his soccer team received during his four years at Covenant.  The kids were super impressed, to say the least.  

“Mom, where’s your trophy?”  

“Well, Jrod, mom didn’t get trophies, but I can totally show you where I tore up my knee during a basketball game.” 

They were totally un-impressed, to say the least, and had no interest in my play by play commentary of this particular moment in my life.  

I was almost back to our present reality until one other place caught my eye.  I walked over to a large tree outside of one of the buildings.  The kids were ahead of us, so I just shared the memory with my husband, the only victim left on my prolonged journey into the past.  

I explained that this was the tree that I knelt under pleading with God not to take my dad’s life since only moments before he had called with the news that they found a rare kind of cancer in his liver.   I stayed there weeping bitterly for a long time.  It was one of the times in my life that I remember undeniably feeling the comforting presence of God.   

In the midst of twists and turns, laughable irony, and deep personal struggles and sorrow, God’s Grace in my life and His sovereignty over it is remarkable to me, and sometimes that reality strikes me deeply.  Our short journey into the past was one of those times.   

As we were leaving the campus, we told the kids we would take them down the mountain to one of our favorite restaurants for dinner– one that I frequented during college.  

And then it was Ella’s turn to ask a question:  “You mean, you’re allowed to leave campus when you’re in college?”  

I’m glad that we have several years of parenting before a college future; my need to be in the present is a grateful necessity.  And yet today, I am truly thankful for my past.   

A Time to Laugh

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven….a time to weep and a time to laugh.

Ecc. 3:4

It's good to laugh. Great even.  It's been said many times, "Laughter is good for the soul."

I wonder sometimes if God laughs.   The Bible is certainly not without frequent use of irony, whimsy, word-play and puns.

When my mother talks about my childhood and the terror that I was for my parents, wandering away from home a number of times and causing my mother panic attacks, I consider my youngest, Lily, who has herself wondered away twice in her four short years of life, and then I think, yes.  Yes, indeed.  God most surely does have a great sense of humor.   

In the last week week of school, my eight year old son was involved in a poetry reading.  Thirty friends and family were all packed into a classroom to hear their budding readers and actors share what they'd been learning. 

After each student recited a poem, they surprised their teary-eyed, prouder-than-ever mom with a poem that was written specifically for them:  "mother:  kind, loving, beautiful, good cook, a great mom. My mother."

This was very typical of the poems that were read to the adoring mothers. 

When it was jrods turn, cameras were out, and he was ready.  To be honest, I started welling up with pride.  What amazing lyrics had he come up with to declare to this room full of mothers just how awesome of a mom he thinks I am?  I couldn't wait. 

"Mother," he began.

"Black hair.  Lots of white teeth.  Very sweaty.  My mother."

Yep.  That's my boy.

And I'm his sweaty mom.  What else can a mother do but laugh. And laugh I did.  Along with all the other kind, loving, beautiful, good cooking, (non -sweating), mothers in the room.

These are times when laughter comes more easily.  But what about when trials which come knocking at the door?  Is it appropriate to laugh in their face?

I remember my dad coming home from work one day while he was in the midst of treatment for liver cancer.  I was home from college and was sitting at the kitchen table working on a paper when he came in elated. 

I asked him what he was so happy about.  He told me his story. 

He had been pulled over by a cop for speeding.  My dad racked his brain for every excuse he could think of to get out of it, and then, as the cop approached the car, it came to him:

"I pulled the cancer card!  It was brilliant!  Just told the cop that I had 'chemo brain' and he let me go without another word."

I sat there in the kitchen laughing with my dad.  I laughed hard.  Especially at the absurdity of my pastor- dad who was so proud of himself for getting out of a ticket due to "chemo brain." I mean seriously. 

And yet, for just a few minutes, we had a moment of pure joy between the two of us in the midst of the drag days that were common as he fought this disease. 

A couple of weeks ago, I met a couple at work who had this same view on life.

A beautiful woman was strolled back in a wheel chair, pushed by her husband.  He laughed as he worked hard to get her up and onto the dental chair, which was clearly not easy for either of them.  And she laughed at the fact that her legs were unable to help him at all. 

Once he got his wife into the chair, he warned me to not tilt the chair the wrong way once he left the room.  "Then she'd be your problem to get back up!"  They both laughed.  They were light hearted and open about her condition. 

Before he walked out, he looked at her and said, "I love you."  And there was absolutely no doubt about that. 

After twenty plus years of dealing with MS, and slowly experiencing the deterioration of her body, she said to me, "You have to laugh at this crazy disease."  She and her husband laugh together in the face of this tragedy.  They laugh at the absurdity of facing challenges as a couple, as a mother, as a human being that so many others are free from.

She didn't choose to tell me about all the difficulties, which were clearly plentiful.  She instead told me that in the last four years as the disease began to affect her legs, she has been so thankful for her husband and her son.  "Most men would leave a person like me." Sadly, she is probably right. 

Several minutes later, I watched her husband help her back into her chair.  "Well, come on! Jump in." They both laughed.

And I laughed with them, even through blurry eyes.  I was so touched by his love for her.

And I was moved by their ability to laugh. 

Pets

I grew up with many pets.  As a kid, being around animals was completely familiar - all kinds of animals.  We had dogs, cats, birds, hamsters, snakes, lizards, and iguanas, just to name a few.  There were two factors that went into the various pets that became a part of our family:  first, my sisters and I were pet lovers.  In looking back, however, I must add that we were pet lovers who did not treat our pets, well, "normally." 

Ozzie, a dog that my parents bought in '87 when the Cardinals clinched the pennant, was like a little sister to me.   The problem was that Ozzie was a guy.  Regardless, I dressed him up in tutus and even put bows in his hair.  I loved that dog, but as an elementary school girl, I was slightly disturbed that my parents would bring home a boy, so I tried to ignore what was glaringly obvious.  I even made Ozzie a pink canopy bed and would, at times, call him, "Ozzette."   Poor guy. 

Whitten the Kitten.  Erin, my younger sister, will argue tooth and nail that was the best cat ever.  He (she?  I really have no idea) wasn't.  That cat was demon-possessed.  That cat hissed at me every single time I got near him (her?).  That cat hated everyone and everything.....except for Erin, and this was something that I will never understand, seeing that my sister tortured that animal. 

Erin put Whitten in the freezer.  Why not, right?  "I just wanted to see what would happen," she said.  Erin hid that dumb cat in cabinets, only for us to open them and experience Whitten's demon hissing.  Erin threw Whitten into the pond in our back yard.  Why?  "I just wanted to see what would happen," she said.  Of course. 

 Erin would play basketball with Whitten.  How?  I don't know.  Somehow they had this game and Erin claims to this day that he (she?) was so good at basketball.  In fact, just recently Erin and I went down memory lane, reminicing about Whitten and his (her?) basketball skills, and Erin sentimentally exclaimed, "Oh, sweet Whitty...." 

Oh brother.  Demon possessed is what that cat was.  That cat hissed, scratched, bit, and hid from everyone.....except Erin.  Truly remarkable. 

We had birds that ate themselves to death.  While my dad had a special affection for the many....many....birds we had over the years.  He failed to ask directions on how to care for them.  So, when we left for vacation for a week, dad left the bird with a weeks worth of food in his (her?) cage.  We didn't want him to starve, right?  I mean what family wants to come home to a starved, dead bird?  A food exploded bird, on the other hand, was slightly traumatic for a child to see, in case that was in question. 

My dad was also certain that he could clip a birds wings by himself.  Easy enough, right?  I remember him saying, "It's like giving a bird a trim."  I was there for this experience as well.  I remember very distinctly, though, that my mother was not because for an hour after the attempted clipping, my dad was frantically trying to clean up all the blood that covered our floors and walls while the bird flew around the house totally out of control.  A blood covered kitchen from a poor innocent bird was also slightly traumatic for a child to see, also in case that was in question. 

I had hamsters.  I remember the day I brought the hamsters home. It was the same day that the pet store owner told us to not put the hamsters in the same cage.  It was also the same day that my parents put the hamsters in the same cage.  I was so excited about those little rodents.  I kept them in my room and named one Katie and the other Ellie, named after my fourth-grade best friend (although looking back, I don't think they were both girls.  They were older; perhaps the opposite sex?  These are the things that apparently my family did not concern themselves with). 

 The next morning, after bringing home Katie and Ellie, I remember going to their cage to check on them before school.  Here's what I found:  Ellie had essentially bit off the head of Katie.  The pet store owner told us she had never seen anything like it.  Yep.  Neither had I.  And, in case it was in question, seeing the severed head of a beloved hamsters was definitely traumatic for a child. 

But there is yet another another factor that went into the various pets that we had in our household.  My parents could not say "no," when it came to pets.   And even though we had disaster after disaster with various pets, we kept asking for more. Thus Natasha, our snake who ate frozen mice and fish and who was strong enough to push the lid of his (her? it's?) cage open.  There were many times that as children we were told, "Do not tell the company that the snake is loose.  Do you understand?" 


We also had chameleons and Iguanas (why the heck did we have an Iguana?) and other various, less "typically" pets.  They looked interesting to us as kids, we asked, and my parents got.  It was a done deal almost every time. 

Now I have kids.  And a husband.  And we started out with no pets.  The problem, however, is that I have carried with me all these years two *hereditary* family factors when it comes to pets. 

So, when Ella was born, I just felt as if something was missing in her life.  She needed a pet.  My husband, though, did not feel the same way.  He simply did not understand my sense of urgency for my poor baby who lacked a pet in her life. 

I bought my sixth month old a hermit crab.  And, typical to my families history, I let that poor crab die of thirst.  I blame my terrible mishap on being busy with a new baby.  You can only imagine the look I got from my husband.

 I promised him no more pets.....for the time being. 

But then when I had two kids, and I brought them into the pet store to see the dogs, and they saw the gerbils.  They promised to take care of the gerbils.  They promised to feed them, love them, and play with them.  I couldn't say no.  It's hereditary. 

So, when my husband came home from work that day, I simply told him that we had a new addition.  He looked panicked.  He knew what I was capable of when it came to pets.  I assured him that we would be responsible for these new members of our family.  And besides," look at how much the kids love them!"  While I looked over at the scene and saw Norman Rockwell, my husband saw two rodents and two young, irresponsible kids who would out the gerbils to have free reign of our house in a matter of hours. 

They were gone within twenty-four.  For days we found "clues" of where they had been, but couldn't find them.  The day they were finally caught (by me, for the record), they became a nemesis.  The wheel kept me up, the smell drove me crazy, and I was suddenly seeing bits of Whitten in their personality.

My husband said this was all due to the fact that they missed their freedom.   "Wouldn't you," he asked,  "if you were cooped up in that smelly cage?"  He had a point.  For most of their existence, all they knew was the vast terrain of our house.  So, my husband set them free into the forest.  Yes, he actually did that.  And yes, I still swear I see the ghosts of those rodents coming back to haunt us when I sit in the back yard. 

I promised him no more pets.....for the time being.

But then I had three kids, and I brought them into the pet store to see the dogs, and they saw the rats.  "Mom, the rats are discounted!"  Jrod was certain that would make all the difference in pushing me over the edge.  I can't say it didn't help. 

So, when my husband came home from a long day at work, I simply told him we had a new addition to the family.  He just shook his head and started listing off various animals that it could be.  A rat wasn't on the list of animals that came to his mind.  Because of this, he was taken a bit off guard.  I told him the rat was discounted; it didn't help him like it helped me. 

Not to worry. 

The kids promised to take care of the rat. They promised to feed it, love it, and play with him it. I couldn't say no. It's hereditary. 

I watched as Jrod began to "train" the rat using incentives such as "time on his pirate ship" if the rat did what he wanted.  I watched Lily squeeze the rat as she tried to catch it, and I sighed when Ella began holding the rat like a baby.  And all my childhood pet memories came rushing back. 

The rat needed a name. HER name is Fiona.  Fiona the rat.  And only a few times has "she" been referred to as a "he." 

My husband promised me the rat would be loose several times within twenty-four hours.  It's now been four days.  And she's only escaped once. 

We All have a Story

Everyone has a story.  Everyone has a story, but more often than not, most of us don't have the time or the interest in finding out these stories.  For me, this is particularly true when it comes to the people that I just don't know well:  neighbors, acquaintances at my kid's schools, the guy at the checkout counter who is consistently there, and the woman at Starbucks who seems to mess up my order every single time - I mean, a tall, non-fat, no whip, half-calf, two pump, caramel latte isn't that hard to get down.  This is my argument.  My husband refuses to ever order for me and has all the sympathy in the world for the Starbucks lady. 

We may develop a quick opinion of who these people are and what they're like, but rarely do we find out their story.  Who has the time?  So, all too often, I know I let my superficial opinions of people suffice, and walk out of Starbucks sure that I've got that lady figured out.    

About ten years ago, I was spending a great deal of time in the ICU at St. Louis University Hospital where my father was battling cancer.  My oldest, Ella, was only a few months old at the time, so I would pack up her stroller each day, and since children were not allowed in the ICU Rooms, I would spend the majority of the day with Ella in the waiting room.  I would stroll her around the halls while she fought sleep and although it was cold outside, if the crying was too much, I'd bundle up my champion sleep fighter and we'd stroll around outside until she finally dozed off. 

When she was awake, I would sit her up in the stroller and play games with her, feed her, and do anything I could to keep her entertained so that she would remain happy enough for me to stick around.  And then for a short while, my mom would come out and play with Ella while I went back to the room to be with my dad.  Ella and I kept this routine for weeks. 

On one of these routine mornings, I arrived up at the ICU shortly before Ella's nap time.  I began strolling her around and noticed another woman sitting in the corner of the waiting room.  She was clearly agitated and became more and more so the longer I strolled. 

And then she couldn't take it anymore.  "Do you really think the ICU is a place for infants?" 

What could I say?  Too exhausted to tell my story, I got on the elevator, headed down, and began crying.  As I was bundling up Ella to stroll her around outside, one of the nurses from the ICU came off the elevator. 

"Hey.  I'm a mom myself, and I know how hard it can be with a baby.  I've been watching you each day....Why don't you just go ahead and take your daughter up to your dad's room." 

I told her I understood the rules and that I could wait. 

She went on to tell me her story:  "My dad died before I had children.  To this day, I wish  he could have held them before passed away.  Why don't you take your daughter up and let your dad hold his grand baby while he still can." 

She had a story and she shared it with me because she took the time to observe mine.  That one way conversation, due to my tears, is one of the most beautiful I have ever had. 

Last night, we had the opportunity to experience a five course dinner put on by John Perkins and his awesome team of chefs.  We sat at a long table, mostly filled with strangers, and all with a story. 

At the end of the table was a completely bald man, sporting a very long and very bushy beard and his entire right arm was covered with an eye-catching tattoo.  He was a former New Yorker and owned the coffee shop where the dinner was hosted.   

A former New Yorker who now had a coffee shop in St. Louis, MO.  I was sure that I had met people like him before:  someone restless who likes a challenge;  perhaps he doesn't mind change (that had to be true to move from New York to Saint Louis), and noting the size and intricacy of the tattoo, I figured he probably didn't mind standing out. 

But then something remarkable and quite humbling happened.  I found out his story. 

"So," I began, ashamedly nearing the end of a three hour long dinner," what were you doing in New York?  Did you own a coffee shop?" 

He laughed.  "No, no.  I was a lawyer." 

Wow.  A former New York lawyer now coffee shop owner with a bald head, bushy beard and tattoo.  Maybe he was laid off. 

"So, why did you move to St. Louis?" 

His eyes filled with tears.  "My brother became sick, and so I moved here to help him." 

He quit his job and moved to St. Louis to help his ailing brother.  So different from the story I gave him. 

I was taken back by his reason for moving, but for no apparent reason.  After all, I was simply hearing his story. 

"So, how is your brother now?" 

"He passed away."  The pain was so evident.  His face, his voice, and his tone all painted a picture of a tight bond that was pulled apart all too quickly. 

After several moments, a friend inquired about his tattoo that clearly covered a good portion of his right side. 

And here was his story: 

"It was so hard for me to watch my brother go through such painful treatments and not be able to help him.  I felt as though I wanted to endure something painful in order to empathize with what my brother was going through, even if in a very small way.  So, I decided to get this tattoo for my brother, and I thought of him during all thirty six hours of it." 

Now my eyes were filled with tears.  Oh, how I empathized with this man.  Over the past year, I've watched my own sister face cancer and the torments of chemo and radiation and have been able to do virtually nothing but pray her through the treatments. 

I looked at this man as he talked for several more minutes, and suddenly I saw him in such a different way.  Why?  He looked exactly the same as he did when the evening began; the difference being that I heard his story. 

We all have one.  And maybe, just maybe, if we're willing to listen, we may even find that someone has one similar to ours.  And when we hear them, the world curiously turns into a smaller place.  After all, isn't this what Jesus did for us?  He shared HIS story so that we can have our own. 

I hope to run into the Starbucks lady in the near future.  More than likely, she has story that needs to be heard.