I was young once. Some days it feels like a long time ago. Others… Like it was yesterday. My view of the world seemed small. Yet I often felt like there was so much out there and so much I could do. I remember a conversation once in my kitchen. It was after dinner, and I was probably a freshman in high school. We had just started to clean up and Jeopardy was on TV. We played every night, my mom, my dad and I. Mom got the ceramic match stick holder off of the stove to keep score. If you got the question right, you got a matchstick to keep track. I did well that night, beating them both. This wasn’t normal, as they were pretty smart at that game most nights. For some reason, I can clearly remember mom talking about my history grade that night. I had a big test the next day and she was telling me to go study right when Jeopardy was over. I sat there hoping for it to be extra long that night, or to find something else to do, clear the table, help with the dishes… anything so I didn’t have to go study. I hated that class. Hammurabi and his code, the Babylonian King from 1700 B.C. who wrote one of the first lengthy writings in the world. Funny that I still remember that all this time later. But at the time, I really didn’t care about him or what he had to say. What mom said that night hit me though. And it may not have then, but it really does now. When I was asking her why she was on me about studying, she simply said: “Don’t settle for less than what you deserve. That goes for anything in your life. But right now, this grade… You should do well on this test because you can. You can study and you can get the grade you want. Don’t settle.”

 I think I could probably quote that word for word all these years later.
I got up from the table and found my way to my room, my books sitting on my bed. I sat and opened them. In that notebook, on the inside of the front cover, I wrote… “Don’t settle for less than I deserve.” I flipped to the section and started to study the stuff I really wasn’t interested in. Mom knew this was a hard class. It was honors Ancient History with a very tough teacher. He didn’t settle for less than. I knew I couldn’t either.
The next day, I got up and could hear her voice in my head all the way to school. Don’t settle.

 I still hear that voice. All these years later, even when I can’t hear her voice physically now. I hear it in my head. “Don’t settle for less than I deserve.” I want to live by that, but so often it’s hard. We question what it is that we deserve. We get it confused. The young girl who was quiet and shy often doesn’t think she deserves more than she has or wonders if this is all she will ever need.
At some point, someone has said these words to us all, and at some point we have all questioned what the answer to the riddle really is. What do I deserve? What does that really even mean? Have I done enough to get what I have? Have I don’t too much and not gotten?
I have resigned myself to just doing. But maybe I am learning more and more that I would rather figure out how to be instead of do. To be thankful and of gratitude for the life I do have. But to always remain hungry. Never satisfied with mediocrity. Mom wouldn’t buy that. But it never really mattered what the answer was. All that mattered I think is that we did the job, or put in the work. We would get what we deserve in the end.

 I got an A- on that History test. It was like pulling teeth that night to stay up and study everything I needed to remember. I learned a lot more than Hammurabi’s code of laws in the process. I learned that I get out what I put in. In one night of Jeopardy, I learned more than all the questions and answers I had earned matchsticks for.

 And maybe it was enough. Maybe even though some days that little undeserving girl still comes through, I understand what she was saying. Don’t settle for less than…  

You can fill in the rest. And when you get it right… don’t forget to get your matchstick. We’re keeping score.

Today is Tuesday, the day I usually go visit mom. My aunt comes to feed her lunch on Tuesdays and my sister came to town this week to visit as well. Today was Tuesday. But it wasn’t like other Tuesdays for some reason. Something happened for me today that I am not so sure I can explain. Something in me today saw things differently.
Mom was good today. She laughed at our jokes, listened to our conversation. And when I left her, I kissed her on the cheek as I always do and told her I love her. She responded. Not in words, but in sounds. I know she was saying she loves me too.

Mom had a roommate for a while in the beginning before she got her own room down the hall about a month ago.  She is a very petite little bit of a thing who still can walk, zipping around on her walker that doubles as a seat when she feels like sitting down. Eleanor is the nicest little old lady I think I have met in a very long time. She just adores mom and always comes to check on her now that they are not living in the same room anymore. Today, she saw us all in her room feeding her lunch and popped in to say hi. She told us stories of her weekend with her family. Eleanor is lucky, she is able to leave the home for holidays and spend time with her children for a cookout at their house. She told us how great the weekend was and of her double manhattans that had her feeling fine. She had us laughing. She even had my mom laughing. We can tell my mom knows Eleanor’s sweet little voice. It was when she was turning to leave that I had a moment that has lingered with me all day. I don’t remember who said it, but someone asked her if it’s hard to come back there after spending time with her family. She said it was and that she has been there too long, even though it’s only been 7 months. Then she quickly took away any feelings of sadness or sorry by saying this: “I’m not lucky…. just blessed.” I smiled. Immediately counting on my fingers the five words she just threw at us and walked away. What did that mean? I didn’t really get it until my sister shared a story of cute little 95-year old Eleanor’s life. See, she actually was praying about a year ago for God to take her, that she was done and just wanted to die. And then…. she changed her mind. And as she puts it… now, she is actually living. She is enjoying every day, making friends in the nursing home, enjoying the time she has with family and her new friends. She blew my mom a kiss when she was leaving and said twice, “Oh, bless her heart, she’s laughing.” She’s 95 years old, with a mass growing inside. But Eleanor is blessed.

I left there today feeling a deep feeling that I couldn’t explain. Came home and just kind of sat on my couch for a little bit unsure of what to do next. I felt like I had a lot to do, but wasn’t sure why I felt drained. Or maybe even a little bit melancholy. I was feeling, that’s why. Feeling things about life and death and questioning all of it. I get deep sometimes, wondering about my purpose in life, about my own existence…. asking if I am fulfilling my calling in the best way that I know how. I often ask questions to the universe, to God, asking what more I can do. And then it hit me again, an opportunity that I missed that I still can’t get out of my mind.

I was driving home from NJ the other day and passed a woman probably my age in a minivan that looked like it just got sideswiped. The side mirror was dangling and there were big scraps down the side of the van. She looked to be crying on the phone, shaken up. No other car was around so I would assume it was a hit and run. I tried to get over off the ramp where she was but cars were flying right behind me. I couldn’t stop or I would have gotten run over. I wonder how often in life that happens and we don’t even know it. We don’t stop even when we see something around us that is going on. Or, how often we “pass” things in our lives that we don’t even see, therefore could do nothing about.  I can’t get that woman off my mind. I wanted to stop and help, but wasn’t able to. It still bothers me 4 days later. I don’t even know what I could have done to help, but perhaps it was a moment of just letting her know she was not alone.

I recorded Oprah’s last show last week and picked tonight for some reason, to watch it. It was always my desire to go to see her show live. On my 127 things to do before I die list, I actually wrote “Be invited on Oprah with my book”…….. I think there was a small piece of me as I watched this last show tonight that saw that dream die. I know that is no longer an option. It was weird how that actually was a sad moment for me. But the show itself moved me in ways I cannot explain. I feel shaken. Not in a bad way, but in a way that almost felt like an awakening. So much of what I have pursued so far in my life has come from little moments of inspiration here and there from the people I respect most. She is high up on that list, and honestly, like the Oprah show or not, she has done some amazing things for this world and the people in it. And her challenge for all of us has always been, to live the life we were called to live… and to be thankful in that blessing.

Her last show was extremely moving. It was my reminder today of why I was feeling the way I was. She said that we are here ”To live from the heart of yourself, knowing what sparks the light in you, so you, in your own way, can illuminate the world.”  I am very thankful that I watched that show tonight. Three times.
“Everybody has a calling…. DO not get it confused. It doesn’t have to be something… that makes you famous… You carry whatever you’re supposed to be doing, carry that forward and don’t waste anymore time… Use your life to serve the world…. Your being alive makes worthiness your birth right. You alone are enough.”

I can’t tell you how many times I rewound and listened to those words tonight. Thinking about about Eleanor wanting God to take her…I wonder how often my mom thinks and feels the same. She just can’t tell us that. I think about all the times that those around us are suffering, often quietly. Often alone. Feeling incomplete and empty, ashamed and unworthy. I have felt all of those things too. Some days I still do. We all DO just want to be validated. We all just want to be heard. What a lesson today. What a feeling of gratitude I have for feeling. I so much want to make it my calling to listen to those around me so they know what they say matters.

I heard these words on pause and rewind. Letting them sink in.  They hit me hard. I watch my mom in her chair, not able to communicate almost at all. I watch Eleanor get around great, sharp as a tack at the age of 95. I watch a woman on TV share with the world, 30,000 guests, thousands of shows, those simple words I wrote above. Yes, Oprah… everyone has a calling. Everyone has a purpose. And sometimes gratitude, reaching out to help others, understanding our common connection, just our need to be heard and validated is what our calling is. And maybe some days I am not so lucky. Maybe some days I don’t bring the best energy to myself. But just like 95-year old Eleanor, I am blessed. And I am willing to take responsibility for my own energy. And I am not waiting for anyone to fix me, inspire me, or complete me. I am all of those things. Thank you to the three women who reminded me of that today. I’m not lucky… just blessed.

 There are a handful of people in my life I would trust to hold my rope. If I were dangling from a cliff, and the only thing that would save me from my death was a rope and the people who were holding it….I would choose carefully. 

We read this thought to our team before most of our games. We talked about how holding the rope is about doing your part, no matter how big or how small it is. It’s about allowing those around you to trust you enough to give you a spot on the rope. And that no matter what, you will not let go, gripping tightly, perhaps sometimes until your hands are raw. But at the end of the story, we all hold the rope for someone. 

My team faired well this season, learning what it was like to step up and grab the rope at different times. It was a season of ups and downs with our bats, with our health and with our toughness. I was so proud of the way those girls battled, finishing third in the conference tournament.  They found at times, it was harder to hold on. Having a team always makes it easier. It’s not one person’s job to hold on…. it’s everyone’s. They did a nice job at that. 

The night before we left for the Conference Championship, we had a pasta dinner at school. We sat in a circle and talked about all the things we did well as a team this season. Our focus was in the right place. Then I handed out 2 foot pieces of red rope. With it, everyone got a word. As they got up one by one when they felt it was right, they were to explain how their word fit with the team and the word previous to it, and they tied their piece of rope to the person who just went. At the end, we had a long rope, tied together, that we weaved into the fence in the dugout. At times, coaching third, I could look over and see various people in the dugout with their hands on the rope. Holding on. Being a team. It was a beautiful sight. 

In my eighth grade gym class, we had tug o’ war contests quite regularly. I loved it. I knew I was a strong kid, usually one of the taller ones in my grade. I usually could knock off the girls pretty easily and then I would be paired up with the boys. Sometimes we did teams, but most often, it was a shootout. One on one…. til the last boy(or girl) was standing.
It became a big deal to me, I like to compete. I like to win. But most importantly, as a tall, strong sometimes awkward kid, it was something that boosted my sometimes very low confidence. 

Growing up, my mom used to leave me notes on the kitchen table every morning before I left for school. Often they were reminders to take out the garbage or run the dishwasher, but they always ended with something like “I love you bunches” with a funny looking picture of flowers or a smile and signed “mom”… As if I wasn’t sure who wrote them. The writing remarkably resembled that of the tooth fairy I remember from a long time ago. Nevertheless, I would stuff the note in my pocket and make my way out the door for school. She was with me all day. 

On the morning of the school Olympics, I was chosen as a member of the girls tug o’ war team for my grade.  Mom left a note about the weather, that I probably don’t want to wear my suede jacket in the rain and about not forgetting that it was trash day… But the ending of the note is something I remember: “Hold onto that rope and pull like hell.” I did. I also beat all of the boys in our single tug o’ war matches in gym class. I have never been afraid of calluses. 
I look back now and see all the times that mom held the rope for me, for us, my family, her friends and community.
I kept those notes, stuffing them in my desk drawer when I came home every day. I am so glad something made me cherish that. I still have them, and could honestly say they are one of my most prized possessions. She taught me how to hold the rope. Strong, and with no fear. We hold the rope for her now. 

Life sometimes gives us opportunities to hold the rope for someone who has held the rope for us our whole lives. 

What a great honor.
I will hold the rope.

So there I was, the last leg of the relay team, just about to blow the times we previously set out of the water. I can see the third sprinter coming around the turn. My heart started to race. The adrenaline was flowing freely through my veins. I was so ready to have the fastest time of my life in the 4×100 relay.  My teammates built a substantial lead. We were right where we needed to be, now all I needed to do was bring us home. Around the turn she came. I started to move, proper form, hand out and wide open, ready to receive the baton. Clean pass, no contact, I was off. I felt great. I could see out of the corner of my eye the rest of my team coming across the field screaming, jumping up and down as they were running. This was in the bag. We would take the gold medal. And right then, as if the hundreds of fans surrounding the track could have heard as loudly as I did, A gun shot. Right to my groin. Pop. Pop. My right leg felt like it was five meters behind me, dragging along, trying to keep up. After about three more steps the pain took over and I started to hobble. I was three quarters of the way there. But the finish line could have been a mile away for all I knew. The pain was unreal. I heard the gasps around me. All in a few steps. Pain. Noise. Gasps. I was going down. But not before I threw my body over the line.

I just. Have. To. Get. There.

It was the only thought that consumed my mind as I watched the team to the right of me fly by me, then the left. Just need to finish. If we don’t finish, we don’t move on.

Finish. The. Damn. Race.

It’s all I could muster up. I saw the trainer and coaches all pile around the finish line as I came hurdling across in such a non-graceful fashion, literally collapsing as I did. Groin muscle. Need I say more?

That would be the last time I ran track.

I think of that moment in eighth grade when I could fly. I was fast. I was strong. I was voted by my peers in our yearbook that year as most athletic girl. But I was hiding. Most people knew of me as the athlete. I managed to get good grades, took accelerated classes, honors and was in the gifted and talented program in the school system my whole life. But did they really know ME? Did I, for that matter? Really know ME? WOW, there was so much more. I was an insecure kid. Quiet, shy, afraid I wouldn’t fit in. Funny, I think we all have moments of that awkward eighth grader in our lives at some point, even when we are 37. Perhaps even when we are 67.

However, what I have found is so much better than that scared, imperfect little kid.  Every day we stretch ourselves, every day we push our limits, every day we find new ways to be ourselves. We thrive. In so many ways, so many opportunities, we get better. And we realize quickly that regardless of what we accomplish, we are that much wiser, that much older and that much more able to understand each other. And the truth is, that is what’s most important anyway. That quiet scared kid… the one who everyone thought was confident all her life? Yeah, she’s still here every once in a while. I love that though. I will never forget where I came from. But for where I am going?
Let’s just say I’m closer today than yesterday.

I walked into the lobby of Berks Heim as mom napped, on my way out after feeding her lunch. She wasn’t awake for long, so I figured there was no reason to sit and watch her sleep some more.
There they were. Always there, on the couch in the front foyer of the main entrance. Like on prom night, cuddled up together in each other’s arms, gazing into each other’s eyes.
They are a husband and wife spending every moment together in some amazingly real love cocoon. Every time I leave, they are there, holding each other. Just sitting, staring in the same direction. I smiled at them today as I always do. The older gentleman smiled back and said hello. “How are you today?” I inquired. “Oh, just fine,” he smiled back as I walked past. One of them lives there from what I can tell. The other comes to visit daily and they spend their time pinned together on that couch. Like they own it. Like no one else could do it justice.
I doubt anyone could.
I smiled and fought back a tear as I walked out to the crisp, cool March afternoon. The love they have between them is an amazing picture of beauty, of being at the end of life and holding on to what’s perfect.
Resilience isn’t in everyone’s vocabulary. Some people find the breakdown easier than the rebuild. There seems to be solace sometimes in the letting go, the falling apart…. the excuses and reasons to just give up in that moment. We all have them, we all do it. It’s human nature to feel sorry for ourselves sometimes. And those moments are probably just as important so we can thrive in the triumph over adversity, in the beauty of turning the bad to good.
My team has had its fair share of adversity, of the hard and the bad…of the loss and the injury, on and off the field. And through it all, I have watched some amazing things happen.
What excites me the most is the fact that there is solace and peace even in losing. And I am not even talking about on the field. We have gone through so much off the field, in our every day lives, that I realize softball is secondary to what is happening here.
Life is unfolding in ways that sometimes we just don’t even understand. We fall down. We get up. We find the courage to do it all over again, regardless of how many times it takes, how many scrapes and burns we tend to. We build stronger bonds. We find ties that we can’t unravel. We hold the rope. For each other and ourselves. We make the mistakes count. And we stop counting the mistakes. We fall down. Again. We get up. Again. And through it all, we find a beauty we can’t match in anything else we do.
We look for it, but we just don’t see it in others.
The times of real gentleness are the ones we grab hold of. We don’t let go.
We, too, wrap our arms around each other and smile. We are more than “just fine” today.
We bounce back, stronger, better, and with more love in our hearts than before.
We welcome it. We don’t back down when the fire gets hot. We hold the rope. We hold the rope.
We hold the rope.
There’s a beauty in resilience.

Today is my favorite day of the year. Not because it’s Valentine’s Day, but because it is the day pitchers and catchers report to spring training. It is my anticipation that keeps me going through the winter and I literally count down until today comes. I woke up this morning and immediately felt like a kid at Christmas, knowing the day was finally here. I know that sounds absurd to many of you reading this, but from the time I was young, my love of baseball would never waver. It is a day for all baseball players across the country to tie up the cleats, break in the gloves, and put in the hard work it will take to succeed. That’s exciting.

I remember when I was young, my mom used to decorate my bathroom, put red streamers and heart decorations on my door when I was sleeping and leave a nice card for me on the kitchen table for Valentine’s Day. I always thought that was sweet. She made me remember all the ways she loves me. And it was always a few weeks before high school ball would start. I was always excited during those few weeks, counting down the days until I was feeling the dirt under my cleats.

This time of year has always been about anticipation. Living in the moment, but wanting so badly to be in another one a few weeks ahead. I find that happens often, I work so hard to be present, in everything I do, but I find myself peeking at the gifts before it’s time. I find myself not wanting to wait for the good stuff.

I was in the Akron airport yesterday, on my way back from a weekend session with the Maddogs of Ohio, a softball travel organization that has been around since 1990. They were awesome. I loved meeting them and spent time in the “Billy Dome” which is a pole barn with dirt inside. How cool that they can play in dirt all year round, snow on the ground and all. I was jealous. Just walking in there felt good. It was exciting to think that a few short weeks and I will be standing on a field in Florida with UC softball, beginning our season.

The anticipation is killing me. However, one thing that I am working really hard on is to love February 15th just as much. I want to love the day for itself. Not for anticipating what is coming. I often overlook today, Valentine’s Day, because I am too close to spring and am really just thinking about all that lies ahead. But today was a really good day. I enjoyed the moments I spent doing what I had to do TODAY, and not really looking too far ahead. I was present today, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Pitchers and catchers have a long spring training ahead before they start the real thing. The days are long, the work is hard, but that part of the journey is just as good. The reward we get for the here and now is the fact that we can actually take a minute and enjoy all of it, not just the idea that the payoff is ahead. What if we actually enjoyed the work today? Reminds me a little bit of process vs. outcome. I think the whole is the sum of its parts. I can certainly be excited for opening day, but I think I am learning to love the now.

Happy Valentine’s Day. Happy Opening Day of Spring Training…
Happy Monday.

UC Softball started yesterday, first practice of the “spring” season. It’s hard to call it spring when the ice storm was all anyone talked about this morning. But here we are, nonetheless, starting our practices for our trip to Florida that will be upon us in 5 short weeks. I have to say, I am very excited to have a new start, a new season, a new team and a lot of talent. I am looking forward to the love of the game pouring out at every turn.
I have some goals for the season, just as I do for my business career, my writing, my personal life. I have chosen to immerse myself in the process, leaving the outcome to fend for itself. I am looking to focus on the little things, the things that sometimes we overlook. I was thinking about this on my car ride home tonight from practice. If you have ever read the book “The Tipping Point” by Malcom Gladwell, you will understand. One small thing, can certainly start an epidemic. One person can actually change the world. So often we look at the negativity around us and think…. “Nah… there is no way it will ever change.” And those who think positively are being totally unrealistic. Well, That may be. We may not be able to really change everything by ourselves, but what if we focus on the things we can change?
I am working on that. I am working on doing my part, in my little corner of the universe, to focus on my process. To not do work that is not excellent. To not conduct a practice I am not prepared for. To take time with my loved ones to share a little bit of me every day. To spend at least five minutes petting my dogs. To put my dishes in the diswasher EVERY time, not some of the time. To really focus on the things I can control. The little things. The things that could make a difference.
I watched the girls hit tonight, paying attention to little things. Not being content with just ok. Working hard, seeing improvement. The goal is that every day, we get better than yesterday. While we can’t be perfect, we can strive for perfection in what we do. We may never get there, but slowly, surely, if we focus on the right things, on the little things, we will find our way. We will find ways to win games that maybe we otherwise would not.
Do I think we are perfect? NO. And I am very happy about that. The process is the best part of the journey.
And, if we do all that we do as best we can, we will get better every day.
And that’s all I could ask for.

I woke up on the couch, supposed to be writing a big paper for my class. But something woke me up with this thought in my head. It forced me to write. I have no idea where it came from or why I was thinking it, but here it is. People often ask where my ideas for my blogs come from, what my blog schedule is, and I always respond the same… Random. I write when I am moved to write. I don’t think it’s me writing most of the time, it’s something that speaks through me. I am just the messenger.

I spent a lot of time this past week in my house. I was sick and snowed in. Got a lot of work done, a lot of sleep caught up on, and a lot of time with my dogs. I read, watched TV, slept and was able to eat very little for most of the week. I spent a lot of time alone, thinking, reading, planning. I like those opportunities sometimes, I feel I get a handle on it all again. Life gets so hectic, we often forget to do that. We need to take time to just breathe. I feel better now. I feel clear and ready to take the next step. Wherever and whatever that is.

One of the things I have been reading on and off is the Tao. I have spent some time learning, undertsanding and reflecting on how living connected to the Source, whatever your Source is, can be a very enlightening process. I have always been a spiritual person, I believe in God, I believe in the goodness of people to the core. I was raised in a rectory five houses down from the church that my dad was the rector of. Yes, I was and am a preacher’s kid. When my dad was elected Bishop, little changed. We were not forced to go to church once we were old enough to make our own decisions. For the most part, I enjoyed it. I felt connected.

I think a lot about our connectedness. How everyone is connected to something. We all live on this planet together. We all are connected to the Source, regardless what or who we call it. There is an energy about giving back that moves us to always look for opportunities. I am always looking.

On Wednesday, when we got hit with all of that snow, both Laura and I were sick and had no clue how we were going to shovel the driveway. I could barely stand up for more than a minute, let alone lift a foot and a half of heavy snow. A friend came and started to shovel for us. After he had to leave for a little bit, I looked out the window and there were two of our neighbors, one with a shovel and one with a snowblower, not at all asked, just showed up and started to dig out the rest of the driveway. Just because. They didn’t know we were sick, they just saw the snow still blocked the garage, so they did it.
I spent today making gift baskets and delivering to them to say thank you. It meant a lot. It may not have been a big deal to them, but it was to us.

When I see and feel that connetedness, I feel like we are one. We share the same world. And, at the end of the day, the solitude we all have is also one of the biggest things we share. We are one. Alone, and together. And that bridge between us is something I honor and respect.
Let it be for you today, that maybe one little thing, one word or act will connect with someone too.
Because even when we feel we are just one, we are all one together.

It’s not easy to watch the news on most nights. Tonight was no different. I watched the update on the shooting of the Congresswoman in Tuscon and an entire apartment building burn to the ground while the residents stood there, watching it happen. Some people, like congresswoman Giffords’ intern, move into immediate action toward the scene. Others go away and get help. And still others are in too much shock to do much of anything. It is not until tragedy happens in your own sight that you really know how you will respond. I can’t say I have witnessed a shooting, but I have been at the scene of accidents, a robbery at gun point and even a bad sports injury where the victim lost consciousness. I have seen what I do in a crisis situation. I am content with my response.
The truth is, after watching the news tonight I sat again and contemplated about my own life. I watched those who lost their homes to that fire talk about how they lost everything they had. No insurance, no chance of getting it back. In the blink of an eye… it was just gone. And no one can change that. One guy even talked about how he didn’t even take the time to grab his wallet because he was too busy worried about finding the cat. No identification, no money, no access to his accounts. Nothing. Just a body in jeans and a sweatshirt. That’s all he has left of his life. Thankfully, he has that.
No one can explain why these things happen to certain people and why others are the onlookers, rushing to their aid or running to get help, or watching in shock feeling helpless. We don’t choose these events. They choose us. I talk so much about choice because I believe there is a lot we choose and a lot we can change or affect. But the sad reality is that there are things in life we don’t have any control over. They just happen as they will and we move with them to accomodate. We carry on.
Some days I wonder when the next “non-choosable” event will happen in my life. I wonder what it will be. I know my mom didn’t choose this awful illness any more than she chose to have blue eyes when she was born. My friend didn’t choose to have a cancerous brain tumor. My uncle didn’t choose his heart disease.
And yet, through it all, we choose to laugh anyway, in spite of our non-choosables. It’s one of my mom’s best qualities.
I remember one day laughing with her while I was visiting. It was a good day. She seemed happy and content. I smiled at her at one point and told her she was silly today. She managed to somewhat understandably infer “Well, what choice do I really have?” And at that point I realized that even through the “stuff” that life gives us, the “stuff” we don’t choose… we have a choice how to react to it. My mom laughs. I can’t thank God enough for her ability to do so now since she has very little ability left to do anything else. Regardless, I think she navigates well. She grows stronger in my eyes every day. I respect her for that.
I pray hard for that laughter to continue.
I add the Congresswoman and the people who lost their homes to that list tonight.
I remind myself to choose my responses with my heart.
Life happens as it will.
Carry on. Navigate well. Pray hard.

1991, I was a freshman at the University of Delaware. Colleen Webster was my E110 teacher. E110 is a freshman english class that all first year students must take. I actually entered my first semester as a psychology major. I was ready to take on and fix the world. Then, I met Colleen Webster. She was a grad assistant professor finishing her doctorate at UD, teaching Freshman English. She was one of the best teachers I have ever had. I respected her so much for the way she taught, the way she allowed us to creatively write and express ourselves. The way she taught us to see things from every perspective, how the written word can be so powerful. Toward the end of the semster, she asked me to stay after one day to talk to her. I was nervous. SHE wants to talk to ME? Either I did something wrong, or she really likes my work as much as she tells me she does. I will never forget that day. Because the next morning, I walked over to the Admin office to change my major to English. She told me I should be writing, that anything else would be a waste of my talent. I believed her. Or, more importantly, she believed in me.
Sometimes, I have learned along the way, that it only takes one. One person to believe in you, one person to reach out and motivate you to be something more than you thought possible. One moment that changes a life.

One of my last essays that semester was to be about a time when you were younger and you accomplished something that you never thought you could. My essay was titled “Cleanup is a woman’s job.” I remember her face when I handed it in. She looked puzzled, almost surprised coming from a liberal female with a social voice like my writing portrayed. I smiled at her and walked away. I figured I would let her read it for herself.

I was 7 when my dad and I walked into the Tenafly Public Library for Little League signups. Back then, there was no softball for girls my age. Softball started in sixth grade. If I wanted to play ball, it would have to be with the boys. I didn’t think twice about it when we walked in to put my name down and pay my fee. My dad didn’t either. He was always very supportive of me and always told me I could do anything a boy could do as an athlete. I believed him. And more importantly, I knew he believed in me. A few weeks later, the season would start.

I can still remember pulling into the parking lot at the field downtown that first time, sitting in the car, looking across the way at all the boys gathering on the field. My dad looked at me and smiled. “Are you sure you want to do this? You can always back out if you don’t feel like it’s for you, or you feel uncomfortable at any time.” I looked at him, then across the field. I remember opening the door to get out and not saying a word. My dad followed my lead. I got my bat and my glove out of the trunk of our light blue Buick Century. It squeaked as it closed. I started the walk across to the other field, my dad in tow. I was quiet, shy and a little bit awkward in situations that I was unsure of. But something made me walk over there. I saw a couple boys I went to school with and felt a little better. They were on my team. That would hopefully be ok.

As the first few weeks of the season wore on, my dad started to help out as an assistant coach. I loved it. I started to play better every week, and by mid season, decided I wanted to try catching. My dad was a little worried, as this was probably the most dangerous spot on the field for a girl to play. I convinced him to let me try. I put on all the gear and with my long pony tail sticking out the back of the helmet, and the little rosebuds on my underpants that you could see through the light grey baseball pants, I made my way behind home plate.

That year I hit my first homerun. I made All Stars. I batted cleanup. I was one of the best players on my team…. and I was a girl. At first, the boys didn’t know whether to slide into me, run me over, or avoid hurting me at home. I wasn’t afraid. Not for a minute. I just wanted to play.

One game, at the end of the season, a young umpire showed up right before game time. It was his first season. We went out for the first inning, me in my armor walking to the plate, when the umpire stopped me before I started warming up the pitcher. “Excuse me… Are you wearing a cup?” The kid in blue was dead serious. I looked at him confused and answered… “Ummm No.” He then proceeded to tell me that I needed to wear a cup. I thought he was joking and ignored him for a second. My dad came walking out sensing there was an issue. The umpire then turned to him and said “If she wants to catch, she needs a cup.” He chuckled and told the umpire he couldn’t be serious and was about to walk away when the umpire responded. “It says in the rule book that all catchers must wear a protective cup. If she wants to catch, she needs to wear a cup.” At that, I stormed over to the equipment bag and dug through it until I found what I imagined was a cup. I picked it up, shoved it into my pants and walked back to the plate. “There,” I said, “Are you happy? I am wearing a cup. Let’s play ball.” My dad was trying to get me to come out and told me that he would put someone else in, but I refused. Besides it being a tad bit uncomfortable, I wore the cup because I just wanted to play ball. I didn’t care that I was the only girl on the team. I didn’t care that I had to wear a cup to catch. I just wanted to play.

My parents often told me stories of when I was 5 years old, how I would sit on my great-grandmother’s back porch with her on her green metal sofa and listen to a whole Phillie’s game on the radio. We would both stare off into the back yard and just listen. She would live to be 100. No one was a bigger Phillie fan than my great-grandmother, Annie Palmer. But the real story in my parents’ eyes is how a 5 year old kid could sit still for that long and LISTEN to a baseball game on a radio with a little old lady who could barely hear. My love of the game would never be challenged.

I played with all my heart. Every day, every game. I took it seriously. And I proved to all the boys in town, the coaches, and even the umpires that cleanup absolutely is a woman’s job. Even Colleen Webster had to agree.