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.

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.