It’s a whole new year. So much is still the same. So much is different. I am learning to adjust as my life shifts. I used to think I needed to stand on the rock and let the world adjust around me. Now, I understand it doesn’t really work that way. I need to work on being more pliable, more flexible. I have been reading the Tao Te Ching again and while I love to learn about spirituality and religion, I don’t claim to understand all thoughts and beliefs. I am intrigued by a lot of what the Tao talks about however. In it, it says that when you are born, you are pliable and flexible and when you die you are hard and rigid. And the process of growing older in between, we change states often. We grow less flexible with change, we learn to be set in our ways. I am working really hard to reverse that in my own life. Habits are hard to break. Change is hard to accept. So, I don’t like to look at it as change. Instead, I look at it as different. I had a conversation about this concept the other day with a close friend. She asked, “what’s the difference between change and different then?” I replied, “Good question.” I sat and thought about it for a bit and realized that, my definition is this. Change requires action. Different is just a description. It just… is. I feel there is a lot lately in my life that just… is. Neither good nor bad. Just different.

I have had many people ask me this past week how the holidays were. Standard question this time of year. I keep answering the same. “Different.” This is the first year that my mom wasn’t at home with us. But I have to say I felt a love in my family this year that was heightened because of it. So it wasn’t a good feeling not having her there, but it wasn’t as bad as I guess it could have been because of the love that I felt that day.

One of my favorite memories growing up was our New Year’s Eve ritual as a family. We often spent it together. Most of my friends would be getting together and I was home with my parents, and most of my siblings and their families. We spent all of our holidays together. We didn’t know anything else. At midnight, we would share champagne, hug and kiss each other (which in a family as big as mine often took quite a few minutes) and then carry on with the snacks and drinks until close to 2am. The part I loved the most was going outside just after the hugs and kisses subsided with mom and her pots and pans. I LOVED to make a lot of noise as a kid and standing on the front steps of the house, as many of us as possible, we would bang the pots and pans as a fun ritual. Mom always says it was good luck, to keep the evil spirits away from the new year. I just liked doing it because I was allowed to make noise that late at night.

To this day, I still go outside with a pot and a wooden spoon just after midnight and I bang the heck out of the pot, just for a couple seconds. I do it because it makes me feel closer to my mom.
This was the first year I wasn’t able to call and hear her voice at midnight. So making a loud noise on my front steps I guess was my way of wishing her Happy New Year from here. It’s still the same tradition. Even though I am on different steps with different pots, and my mom isn’t by my side. It’s different, but it’s very much the same.

Starting a new year is sometimes a daunting task. We are often so bombarded by the questions and the ads on TV about what our New Year’s Resolutions are. We feel we need to have them. We need to satisfy a tradition. Or we need to make ourselves feel like we are going to change something we don’t like about ourselves. This year, I didn’t make resolutions. I just didn’t. I made a decision that I am going to just start living the way I want to live every day instead of waiting for January 1, which only comes once a year on my calendar. I always have goals. I believe in making manageable objectives. Instead of beating myself up for the weight loss and the make more money, and the spend more time with family resolutions that grace most our lists, or maybe it’s finish the project you started or go back to school or….you get my point.

We wait for things to be perfect to start something, or we wait for the right time to work on what we “should” be doing all along. So much of life we can’t control. It just… is.
This year, I choose to take “different” head-on.
And I have decided that I don’t hate it.

I’ve known a seven year old with only one foot. A mother, blind and unable to see the beauty in her newborn’s face. A man with no limbs who continues to teach the world that it is the soul that is most important. Homeless, no food, no clean clothes, no shoes, perhaps no love. I have seen it. But I don’t live it. I have all my limbs, I have a home, food, the ability to walk to my basement whenever I want to wash my clothes. I have love in my life.

Virginia Woolf once said, “Arrange whatever pieces come your way.” And often, I can do that. Some days, however, my headache takes over, my neck hurts, my knees ache and I just don’t feel like it. Some days, I find every excuse I can to NOT walk downs stairs and wash my clothes or clean the bathrooms or put laundry away. I just don’t feel like it is always good enough.

Then I think about the man I passed last week on the street in town with all of his belongings in a shopping cart, looking for a warm place to lay for the night. And I think of how blessed I really am. And I thought about who I am, and who he is. And then I realized that perhaps those belongings don’t make me who I am, and the lack thereof doesn’t make him less than. We find ways to forget. Somedays, I think we really do. We take for granted what we have and who we have to give us reassurance, love, keep us safe and warm. We don’t remember to say thank you for the little things. We assume they will be there. I am really learning how not to do that as my family navigates through the last portion of my mom’s life. How much the little moments mean. How a hand to touch her and eyes to see her are so very important to me now. My awareness is so much richer, so much deeper. I am thankful to have those when I normally would take them for granted.

I was eleven when my first nephew Tyler was born. I was the “cool” aunt, always just a little older, but not so old that I was far from understanding. Tyler was the one who named my mom “gummy”, we think trying to say Grammy, but just never really getting it right. So Gummy would stick, and even to this day I have to smile as I hear all three of those boys, tall and handsome men in their 20’s call my mom “Gummy.”
My second nephew, Ryan, who is now 6’5″, 24 years old and coaches basketball at his former HS, is one of the nicest guys I know (In fact, they all are… and I’m not just saying it…They truly are amazing young men.)

Ryan couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6 at the time, when he was playing in the living room in the house I grew up in. My mom had been known to collect antique tea sets. In fact, there was one that we all put money together to buy her for Christmas one year that was hand-painted and signed by the artist. At the time I didn’t really get it, I mean, it was pretty and everything, but seemed to me a little crazy to spend that kind of money on a tea set. What did I know? I was a punk just going to college who didn’t really care about tea pots and sugar bowls I guess.

All of a sudden there was a loud crash. We all went running into the living room, and there, with huge eyes, was Ryan staring at the pieces of a sugar bowl on the table. Big huge tears started to well up in his eyes. I just knew this wouldn’t be good. My sister immediately grabbed him and with that “motherly you are in really big trouble mister” look, she asked what he did. Right away, without blaming someone else, or saying the dog did it… he just looked up at her, scared to death, and cried. All he could get out was that he was sorry. No excuses. Just that he was sorry. And it seemed sincere. My sister immediately scolded him, saying loudly, “YOU BROKE ONE OF GUMMY’s POSSESSIONS!” Ryan replied through his sobbing tears, gasping for air: “I don’t even know what a possession is…” And in that moment, it seemed like all was forgiven. The horrific thought of breaking a piece of china that belonged to my mom was all of a sudden a little silly. A possession? Really? We are all that upset over a piece of clay? A little super glue and it would be back to normal. My sister felt horrible. My nephew balled his eyes out for being human, and my mom got over it. We laugh now at the possession comment, but I really think it was a deeper moment for all of us.

We all make mistakes. We all mess up big stuff, and have a hard time finding enough super glue to put it all back together. Some things end up cracked and flawed, but we still love them anyway. Even after trying to arrange all the pieces that have come our way. Sometimes, I think we arrange perhaps too much, instead of just letting things be. Sometimes, it’s ok for there to be pieces as we navigate through. Life is messy, and often too much for super glue to handle. The excuses are what keep those pieces from even being whole again.
And then, we remember the guy who was burned almost to death and lost the use of his limbs almost totally, no longer even having hands. Yet, he still plays the drums.
We remember the surfer with one arm after a shark attack, who went on to win high level competitions.
We remember. And then we make a choice. We forget the possessions, and focus on the heart and soul that truly measures us, or we make excuses about why we can’t.
I think I am going to stop the excuses. I have laundry to do tomorrow. And I will thank God for giving me the legs and arms to carry it down the stairs.
I am living this day without excuses.
Only using the super glue for the big stuff.
And arranging whatever pieces come my way.
One at a time.

The Latin word for heart is “cor.” The word courage originally meant to be able to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart, and with feeling. We each have a story. From where we were born and grew up, to what led us to where we are today. Everyone we pass on the street, too, has a story. We may just never know what it is.

So I realize now that it’s not what we look like, it’s not what we do for a living, the color of our skin… but our ability to tell the story of who we are, openly, with nothing to hold back, that separates us from each other. It’s our story. It’s our heart.

I talk to a lot of people in my travels, some naturally more talkative than others. Some guarded and quiet. People tell me I am easy to talk to. They ask me what I do to make it easy. I always say I don’t know… I just invite others to talk to me I guess. But I get it now… My first job in my profession is to build trust. As I do that, I realize that most of the time, I share my own story with my clients. I relate in any way that I can to show my human side too. I share my heart.

One of the stories I use often in my work with softball teams is a personal story of striking out looking in a big game. Being human is the easiest way to build trust. I have failed, I have fallen, I have been hurt and have hurt others. But one thing will always remain true. My heart tells my story. I know anyone can relate to that.

I was in the nursing home on Christmas visiting with my Mom. I always take time to watch, to listen and to try to share some conversation to a few of the regular talkers, those who clearly just like to be heard. There is one gentleman in particular that I often see. His name is Stewart. He is quiet. Doesn’t say much. But this night, he seemed to gravitate toward our table. We were feeding mom her supper and visiting with dad. Stewart wheeled himself over to me and looked at me. With a stern face, he said nothing. Just looked. We laughed and continued on…telling mom silly jokes or something corny my dad undoubtedly said. He was right next to me all of a sudden as I looked over. He said quietly, looking at me sternly, “It’s not funny.” I was caught off guard for a moment and then turned back to him. I smiled politely and just quietly replied “Awww, yeah it is. If we can’t laugh what good are we?” I looked back at my mom and continued to feed her the chicken corn soup left in her bowl. People were leaving for the night, clearing out. The caretakers were putting the food trays away and one by one, wheeling the residents to their rooms for the night. We carried on. Laughing and talking about the impending snow, then laughing some more.

I saw one of the younger men on his way to bed stuck at the door, the wheels of his chair hooked onto another chair and he couldn’t get unstuck. I got up quickly to go help him out the door. He thanked me after he was done with his little outburst… “Cracker, cracker, cracker,” he said in frustration. We managed to get him pointed in the right direction. Just then, walking back to my mom’s table, Stewart was in my path. He looked at me with his arms folded. He leaned over and in a quiet, dry, husky voice… like one that hasn’t been used in quite some time, he said “Do you think it will get better? Because it may not change you know. Does it get better? In here?” I looked closely, wondering what he meant by this. I saw his hand pointing toward his chest. I questioned quickly, did he mean in HERE? Like, the nursing home? In here, meaning the room where they eat, I mean I hear the food isn’t THAT bad, but maybe not to his liking… or was he really pointing to his heart…? In here, meaning inside. SO many questions, all in a matter of a second. I answered quietly. “Yes. Stewart, It gets better.” Not really sure what I was answering, but thinking it was the best option. He wheeled away as I wished him a Merry Christmas, and for the first time I saw a smile peek through his sternness as he rode off to bed.

I think about that a lot. My sisters and I have talked about it too. All of the people in that place… they all have a story. They all have heart. They live it every day. Some were doctors, some were teachers and business owners, and homemakers, and counselors. They all have a story.

We often talk about athletes having heart. We say those who play hard have it and those who loaf… well I guess they don’t. But the truth of the matter is, everyone has heart. It’s those that have the courage to show it and to live it fully in the face of others, those are the ones we celebrate. I have watched athletes come up short, but give all they have. Not afraid to share their story with the world. Courage of champions or something like that…Heart is a choice. It always is.

I have met a lot of Stewarts in my life. Quiet, don’t say much, but when it’s time, they remind us of their story. I think I have been Stewart on occasion. At times, I don’t think I have the right things to say or the right questions to ask.
“Does it get better?” I venture to say it does. We have a choice in that.
And I choose to let my heart lead the way. I choose to let my heart tell my story.
My heart will always separate me from others. As will yours.
As will Stewart’s.

Sometimes the moon keeps me up at night. Or it’s my heavy brain, working overtime and I like to blame it on the moon. It’s so bright tonight, racing through my curtains, falling right across my face as I lay buried under my covers in the cold winter chill that seeps through the old window panes. Like it needs to get in because it has something important to tell me. I spend extra time these nights by the door as the dogs are outside, amazed at how the night sky lights up like the dawn. It’s 1:16am and it’s one of those nights.
Bright like the dawn.
Or maybe my mind just won’t turn off, like usual. Wanting to sleep, but filled with so much thought. Sometimes I see or hear something during the day that won’t let me go. I am my father’s daughter. Awake, thinking, feeling.
I watched a story of a family on the news tonight who lost their house last week in a fire. All of their belongings, gone. I often wonder what that must feel like, losing everything to something you can’t control. Another family’s car was broken into while the father was having surgery for cancer. Their son had paid a high price in Iraq, almost dying in combat. His health and way of life is forever affected. Their Christmas gifts were stolen from the car, the window shattered. They have no money to replace the gifts, only the window to keep out that cold winter chill. I wonder if the moon shines as brightly over their house tonight. And if it doesn’t, maybe they could borrow mine. I want to help. I wrote down their address in hopes that I could shine even a drop of light their way. To let them know that the hope they are searching for is still there.
I also think about those people who I have lost along the way, those people who have made me who I am. Perhaps they have something to do with the moon. Perhaps they are the reason it shines so brightly just when I need it to most.
I question the moon tonight. I ask it to give more light. Maybe it’s just not enough. There are people out there who need it. People who are searching for any light at all…Hard times, uncertain futures, love lost, sickness, fear, loneliness.
Maybe if I could shine as brightly, I could help the moon. In some strange way, I think we all do. We all give an energy that shines for those around us. And maybe, right when they need it most.
Some days, we could be the one to change a life. We may never know it. But we keep shining.
In the little things we do, we could give someone hope in a moment we may not even understand.
Giving that light away seems like the only logical thing to do then.
I choose to reflect the moon. I choose to give what I am given.
So go ahead moon, shine with all your light.
I can close my eyes now.

I spent the afternoon with my mom. She was good today, laughing at times and actually getting a couple words out. She looked at me across the table at one point and actually said “My baby.” That meant the world to me. She really has no ability to say much of anything that we can undersand. That gift today was a little miracle.

I sat and watched her as my aunt fed her lunch. Just being in the room made me feel an energy. I needed that. She reminded me of the importance of miracles. Her strength, her love, her ability to laugh in the face of her horrific disease is truly amazing and empowering to me. We sang Christmas carols and laughed. I walked out this afternoon loving my mom more than ever. She’s my miracle.

I got back from Tennessee on Sunday night after spending Friday night in Chattanooga at Fury Academy for a mental toughness seminar for players and coaches, and Saturday and Sunday in Knoxville for the UT Christmas Camp. Hours of talking about the mental game. I was in heaven. I can tell that I have a passion, when I realized after 14 and a half hours of speaking about the mental game in 2 days, I could have still talked about it, if my voice had held up. I spent Saturday and Sunday with 435 softball players, 12 different sessions, ages 8-18. I got through Saturday with the older groups. Had some great conversations, heard some really smart kids give some really good insights. Then Sunday came, and I started to think about how difficult talking to 8 year olds about the mental game could potentially be. Especially when I would be getting them at the end of a long two days. I braced myself for what could potentially be a rough day.

My sessions covered the make up of a champion. Four “C” words covered most of it. I spoke about Consistency, Composure, Character, and Confidence. I asked what each word meant to each of my groups. I heard some really great answers. My favorite came in my 10th session, with the youngest girls all day. Her name was Brittany. She was eight. Wearing her softball uniform proudly, her hand went right up when I asked what the word “Character” means. I looked over to my right and saw her eyes looking back at me, almost like she had an answer but wasn’t totally sure about whether or not she was right. I called on her, walked over toward her and was not even close to being prepared for what I was about to hear. I said, “Yes… what do you think Character means?” She looked back, slowly putting her hand down and responded quietly yet deliberately: “When you see a piece of trash…. you pick it up?”
I was quiet for a minute, not really sure what just hit me. My heart felt so full. I smiled back, walked a little closer and immediately gave her a high five. I was amazed at her poise, at her honesty and thought process. I said, loudly… “YES! That is perhaps the best answer I have ever gotten to that question.” Thank you Brittany for teaching ME that day.

I believe strongly that every day brings us small miracles. Miracles don’t have to be a blind person seeing, or a mame person suddenly able to walk. Miracles sometimes come in small words, or moments that remind us of what our hearts feel and what they are capable of feeling. This time of year we often talk about miracles, about believing in the magic of the season. I think it is so much more than just this one time of year. My mom’s beautiful voice, trying to sing along to the songs we were singing, even without the ability of words. Little Brittany’s courage to give an answer whether it was right or wrong… the beauty of these moments will live on in my heart always.

I watched a little boy on the airplane on my way home Sunday night bring joy to everyone close to him. He sat in the row next to me, on the other side of a business man who was doing work on his laptop. The little boy was probably no more than 4 years old, blonde hair, big blue eyes. He was adorable. His mom was sitting next to him holding his younger brother. We were about half way through the trip when the younger brother started to get fussy. Mom was getting a little flustered trying to tend to him, and also making sure that the older boy was ok. After a couple of minutes, the older boy turned to his mom and with the sweetest, most loving voice spoke. “Mom, it’s ok. He’s probably just tired.” Mom looked at him and couldn’t not smile. The business man looked over at him and told him he was a pretty good big brother. Just then, we both watched as the older boy stroked his brother’s head so gently and sweetly. He started to softly sing to him. “Twingle Twingle Widdle Staw.” I saw the businessman crack a huge grin as the younger boy quieted down. Mom was smiling now. We were all smiling. It was a wonderful moment.

Miracles really can be just the smallest, most wonderful moments in life that we often don’t have time to see or hear or even recognize. They are about being the right person… about recognizing love and allowing the small moments to be just enough.

So I ask of you now…
Do YOU believe in miracles?

I was looking at a few of my bank accounts the other day. Closing one down, moving some things around. And there it was… the big decision I had to make. Eighty-six cents. Hardly worth keeping the account open for. I can transfer it to another one, or just… well, it IS eighty-six cents. That buys….. ummmm I don’t know… besides nothing? Perhaps a half of a cup of coffee? However, I am not quite sure where you could actually buy a half a cup of coffee.
What is that worth? I transferred it into another account, closed it and moved on. But to someone who has nothing, eighty-six cents is a lot. It’s half way to a hot beverage to keep them warm in the 19 degree weather. It’s a lot. Maybe I should reevaluate.

I just got back on Sunday morning from my trip to San Diego for the National Fastpitch Coaches Association (NFCA) Annual Convention where I got to spend some time with some pretty amazing people. The best coaches and players to have ever been a part of the game. And I sat among them. Like eighty-six cents. I don’t mean much to them, but It felt like a lot to me. Listening to people like Sue Enquist, Dr. Dot Richardson, Carol Hutchins, the coaches and players I have grown to love and respect because of the worth they have given the game of softball. This time was a little different for me. All the coaches clinics and conventions I have attended over my past 8 years involved in coaching softball, this time I was among the best, taking the same notes, feeling the same passion, wanting the same things for a game we all love. Friday night was the Hall of Fame Banquet, and in honoring the game’s best, three new coaches were inducted. Listening to their stories, hearing their passion, understanding their value, I felt a sense of belonging. I felt a new drive and desire to carry on a legacy. I spent some time reflecting that evening, reevaluating what I am worth. Maybe it’s about being a part of something bigger than me. It’s so much bigger than eighty-six cents. When it’s all counted together… it’s a lot. And no one cares whose pennies are whose.

So often it feels like I sell myself short. Like I am not good enough to be in the presence of the best. I bow my head down and feel inadequate. I surround myself with all of those who have gone where I want to go, and I still sometimes feel like that eighty-six cents. Not enough to stand on it’s own… but maybe could add to something else. I think it’s a choice. I think it depends on who’s hands those eighty-six cents fall into.
I question myself. I wonder if I am on the path to be able to give back as much as I want to. I fall down, I get up. I think that maybe sometimes, I don’t know what I am doing. Sound familiar? This is my realization of being human. Of being eighty-six cents. And it feels good. I have made some tough decisions lately. Closing the doors of a facility, reevaluating why I have done everything I have done up until now. Laying it all out and asking what is best for the people I serve. I have asked the hard questions, and taken time to hear the sometimes hard answers. I have sat with the thank you’s and the praise and the phone calls and emails, and sometimes have forgotten about those while being fixated on the one negative someone feels or says. I forget sometimes it’s about the sum of ALL of it, not just some of it. And because I can’t please everyone, I need to focus on doing the best I can to give what I promise to give to the world. And that doing this, always, is enough.

I don’t sleep well on planes. I spent my 5+ hours out west last Tuesday writing my goals and plans for the next six months. I spent my time reading over my notes from the week on my way back. I saw something interesting at 3 in the morning, when the whole plane was sleeping. I was the only light on. I was taking the time to digest what I just learned. I was thinking about how some of these things fit into my plans and my life. I started to understand how I live and how coaching isn’t just a career, it’s a lifestyle. I felt a sense of pride to do what I do. It’s an honor. It’s a privilege. It’s always been a part of me. I get it now. And in that moment, I realized that eighty-six cents is a lot when you are counting pennies.

When I heard his voice at the other end say hello, I smiled. My heart sped up. I felt so happy to reconnect. “Maurice?” I said hoping it was really him. “Yes… who is this?” he responded hesitantly. “Maurice, it’s Jen. Jen Croneberger.” I could hear a second of silence, then a sound of joy/emotion/pure love come through the phone. “JEN, Oh my goodness. Is it really you? I can’t believe it’s you.”
I couldn’t stop smiling the entire 14 minute conversation on my ride home from from West Chester this afternoon. I found him. My long lost friend that I had not been able to locate a phone number for for over a year and a half. Our connection, so strong and pure that we talked like we had just talked yesterday.
Maurice is like family to me. He and his wife lost their daughter to a stray bullet aimed for someone else 7 years ago. I sat in the Wilmington courtroom every day during the murder trial as the court saw an innocent family lose an innocent daughter, the mother of two innocent young boys. Maurice and Narda would now have to raise them. They lived in a tough neighborhood, struggling to get by. Life had not been easy to them, they lived paycheck to paycheck for most of their existence. Maurice was battling health issues and couldn’t work much. They did without what a lot of people would think are non-negotiables. There wasn’t a time during these past 12 years that I doubted Maurice’s faith. Our conversations were often about how good God is. Never doubting, never questioning. With very little of what most people would see as necessities for a good life, Maurice and Narda’s cup was, is and always will be full. They don’t want for much. In all the years I have known Maurice, I have to say that he is probably the most positive, full of hope and faith human being that I have known. The only thing he always talked about was being able to one day buy his family a house.
It was maybe a minute into our conversation today, when he told me he was calling all the numbers he had for me but couldn’t find me. He could not wait to share the news. He and Narda had bought that house he had been talking about forever this past year. They moved into a nicer, safer neighborhood for the boys, and he told me, as always, how blessed he is and how good God is. I couldn’t stop smiling. He told me he wanted me there for the housewarming party but couldn’t find me. He told me I would be so proud of them. I smiled ear to ear. I WAS proud. Maurice and Narda are like family to me. The one dream they have had for 30 years has come true, I couldn’t help but cry as I sat at the red light at Bondsville Road by the Turkey Hill. I am so happy for them.
We promised I would come see the new house over Christmas, and I could see how big the boys are getting. I miss them too. He told me that they still play the game I got them for Christmas a few years ago. But now, it’s different. Now, they can sit together around a table and eat dinner and play games as a family. They never had a dining room table they could sit around before. He made sure he mentioned that to me. That is what he is most thankful for. A table to be able to sit around all at once.
I hung up, remembering my love for this man and his family. Feeling it stronger than ever. Knowing how much he contributes to the world by just being him.
Then I started to think about what it says in the Tao. “When your cup is full, stop pouring.”
We so often want more than we currently have. We make lists of all the things we don’t have that we feel we need in order to live the life we want. We buy more clothes than we can wear at any given time. We fill our closets until they are spitting things out. We have an excess of… stuff. We buy bigger houses, fancier cars, we think it means something. We want more. Always searching for more. Thinking these things will fulfill us.
But do they? Does another pair of shoes make us feel better about ourselves? When we think about it, we can only wear one at a time. The others just sit there. And of course, there are those who have none. We keep pouring. And our cup overflows. We waste. We mop it up. And we pour some more.
Maybe we should just stop. All of us. I am just as guilty. Overstuffed closets, more books than I could ever take time to read again. When really, what I want my cup to be full with is the feeling I had during those 14 minutes on the phone today. Of a faith and a love so strong that it lasted all day. Of a reminder that life really is good, regardless of the things we go through. That love is enough. We don’t need much more.
And what a more perfect day than today, December 1st, to spend some time with this on our hearts. Today is World Aids day. A day that we remember those who have gone before us, those who suffer silently and not so silently with this fateful disease that we still battle on this earth. Today also happens to be “Pay it Forward Day” in the social networking world. Today, we take a moment to maybe think about those around us in ways we have maybe neglected. We give back by giving forward. We do something random for a stranger, even a smile that maybe brightens their day. We give. Whatever it is. Today also begins seven days of the “Love is Louder” project which reminds us that love is louder than any negative that anyone could say or do to bring us down. We rally together for these next 7 days to remember those who maybe feel like they don’t fit in, or they are bullied, made fun of or made to feel small. We give. Whatever it is. December 1st is a great day to begin a new journey then it seems. To give back, to say thank you, to stand up for those who are scared or silent, to stand by those who are affected by AIDS and HIV, to hold the door for someone, to pay it forward. To stop pouring in our own cups that are overflowing, and turn and fill someone else’s. What a great day to be on this earth.
My cup is very full. I am ready to share. Are you?
Yes sir, my brother Maurice. God is good.

I had someone ask me the other day how I know what to write about… how my blogs come to be. I thought about that and answered with one word. Awareness. I think maybe I travel through life with my eyes wide open. I allow the things I see and hear around me connect to my mind and my heart. I challenge how they relate to life. The little things especially. They are my favorite moments. You can learn a lot about life by watching a small child in a grocery store.
I was standing near the blueberries, when a little girl, maybe 5 or 6 was standing tall in her pretty red dress and black patent leather shoes. Daddy was starting to walk toward the checkout lanes but noticed she wasn’t following him. She was standing there staring at the caramel apple kit and asking “Daddy, Daddy… I want this, I want it.” “Let’s go Maddy, we need to get home, we are already late” he replied in a hurry. She wasn’t budging. I put some berries in my cart and started to turn around when her shrill got louder. “DADDY, What is this? Is it the same thing?? I WANT SOME!” Daddy stopped the cart about 10 feet away, turned around and walked over to her as she was getting louder and louder shouting “Daddy” about 5 times a second. He smiled as he passed me and said… I should have been ready for that. She LOVES caramel apples. We used to make them at Grandma’s house when she was still alive.” I smiled and I think I let out an “Awwww” as he passed me. He knelt down to Maddy’s level and told her they were going to be late and that they already had something to make special apples at home. She smiled at him with a huge, tearful smile and put her arms up to him to be picked up. He was gracious, kind and loving as he lifted her into the cart. Off they went, late for wherever they were supposed to be.
I smiled quietly and walked toward the registers myself.
Expectations can be tricky. As an athlete, it can be damaging to your confidence levels during play. The issue is that when we expect something to happen and it doesn’t, we are disappointed, or we see ourselves as a failure. Expectations set us up to fail. One of the factors that help us build confidence is preparation…being ready. I talk to athletes all the time about this. And I realized in the Giant the other day, that dad understood the concept. I noticed he didn’t say anything about expecting little Maddy to throw a fit because she wanted the caramel apple kit. He said… “I should have been ready for it.”
We never know how those we love will react to news we tell them, good or bad, or when we do something they may or may not agree with. If we expect something and we get the opposite, we are often disappointed. When we are just there, accepting of whatever the response is… ready to hear it, regardless of what it is… we will never be disappointed.
I have learned to really make that a way of life. No expectations.
But I am ready.
As is Maddy, to make those special apples.

Today, my eyes opened at 7:48am. I looked at the clock, then closed them again and said “thank you.” Today was a normal day… like so many others, starting the same. With my eyes closed, I said a prayer for my mom, my family and my friends, that today will be a day of health and strength. It’s my first thought. “Thank you.” I live in abundance. Even the things that are missing in my life are not missing at all. They are there… they arrive just as I need them, and go when I am finished with them. Even if I don’t understand the timeframes… they come and go just the same. I say thank you for the negatives in my life, for the storms I have to learn to weather. I am not always sure how or why, but I know I am to learn from it. And from those I have watched close to me as they lost people in their own lives. Sometimes it is harder to watch someone else go through it than it is to do it yourself. There are often no words you feel are good enough to share your love and light in times of such darkness.
I sat beside Laura and her family as they went through some of the darkest days they had known just 4 years ago when she lost her father. During that time, I remember walking into his hospital room, as he was being kept alive by machines so the organ donation could begin. I was alone. It was just me and him. I touched his hand and said goodbye. I shared my love for him and thanked him for being in my life. I was a witness to that moment in my life where I understood what it was to see pain, to hold it in my own hands, and have no words to make it go away. I grew through the darkness and found light within the tragedy. I learned strength, I learned gratitude. I learned a deeper love for all that is unanswered along the journey. I am thankful for Dad M. in my life. I am thankful for being a part of the process. I don’t take that highest level of learning for granted anymore.
I have countless times attended a funeral… saying goodbye to loved ones, wondering how my friends and family members who were directly affected on a daily basis could be so strong. I learn from all of them. I accept that loss is a part of life. I just struggle with the extreme pain some of us have to hold for as long as it takes. A high school friend just recently lost her husband, the father of her child, to a car crash. Another lost his father, and another her favorite aunt all within a few weeks of each other. I sat by helpless again as one of my players lost her best friend, someone she gave her heart to. She is too young to know how to lose the one she loved. That kind of pain is hard to justify. I feel badly that I am so helpless. Through the pain, we send love, and light, and hope, and prayers. It’s what we do for each other. It’s how we feel better about the fact that we can’t change it, we can’t bring them back. I don’t take love and understanding for granted anymore.
There are times when I think about picking up the phone to say hi to someone I haven’t spoken to in far too long. I get busy, and often forget. Life goes by and soon enough, it’s years since we have talked. And then, we realize that we have nothing to talk about anymore. So we just don’t bother. And that becomes ok. And really, it is. As people and places come and go in our lives, we find ways to move on to something or someone else. Sometimes situations that once were everything to us just don’t serve us any longer. Most importantly, when we continue to be flexible and malleable in life, what we really find we can’t take for granted is the safety and comfort we feel we need. Things change. People come and go, both to death and to choice. It’s a part of the giant life cycle we are somewhere in the middle of. And instead of doing, maybe if we just start being, we will embrace the changes as they happen. And then, only then, we won’t take anything for granted anymore.
Happy Thanksgiving… Every day.