Nothing about this scene is normal...

So you already know I was a fairly big chicken on our recent vacation out west.  "Mom," the kiddo said.  “What's your problem?  I mean, seriously.  How can you think this is scary?  It’s cool!"

Yes, it was cool.  So very cool I'm not sure I can explain it.  But it was also scary as hell. Let me tell you why...

People are scary.  I'm probably going to offend half the population with this post so here goes.  People are crazy.  On some of the highest trails and catwalks in both the grand canyon and Bryce canyon I saw people taking selfies on out-of-bounds ledges, kids running, scads of hikers in flip flops and sandals, many with heels, and I even saw two women with umbrella parasols. On walkways barely passable if you turned sideways!  I’m just going to come right out and admit it to the world--I trust myself but I don't trust y'all!  Add a stiff breeze whipping all around into the mix and it just got all up and weird at 9400 ft.

Me, clutching a tree...

There’s nothing about the situation that's normal.  Nothing.  When you're standing on a precipice staring at a landscape you're having a hard time believing is real, everything around you becomes surreal.  In both the GC and Bryce at elevation, my peripheral vision couldn't take in the scenery fast enough as the views were very nearly 360.  At times I felt like I was floating and it was a bit of a struggle to focus on what was right in front of me or at my feet as I took tenuous, baby steps.  Zion National park was the easiest for me as it's a slot canyon and we hiked the lower levels.  Mossy Cave at Bryce was also a canyon-up hike--yeah!

Everything I love--my whole life--was on those catwalks.  Both of my boys were fearless and were way out ahead of me at my request most of the time.  Grief sake!  If I went down, I didn't want to take them with me!  But as I stood back and watched them disappear around curves or rocks or ledges, I held my breath, praying I’d see them again.  My whole life was suspended on a narrow piece of rock contained by chain link fencing that looked like I could compromise it with a butter knife numerous times during our trip and I'll be honest--I didn't like it.

I hiked all of the low canyon passes and 60% of the upper elevations.  We shared great laughs as a family and was able to laugh at myself as I hugged trees near ledges and found big, flat safe rocks to park on while waiting for my dare devils to return from their near death experiences.  And I discovered what I already knew but am quick to discount--nothing else matters but the welfare of my family.  The job, the housework, the errands, the budget?  The regrets of the past and dreams for the future?  None of it matters without my boys.

A Music Lesson for Friday...

If you know me at all, surely you know by now that music is a huge part of life in Buehlerland.  You’ve either heard me singing, seen me singing in the car, sat beside me at church or had ringside seats to the many jam sessions, sing-offs, dance-offs, and rap-offs that take place in this house.  If you were at the mall yesterday, you might have seen my mom and my son dancing in the Lands End section of Sears.

I’m the daughter of a man that can play anything with strings and the granddaughter of a woman who played open-hand rag (ala Jerry Lee Lewis) on a piano that would have made you cry.  I grew up with music (insert the Mills Brothers, Patsy Cline, Jim Reeves, Fleetwood Mac, Bob Seger, The Eagles, and the Amazing Rhythm Aces here).  And I was determined that my son would grow up with music, too.  Before the kiddo took his first breath, there was music in his life.

I knew as he grew his preferences would stray from those I introduced to include music I don’t really like (insert ColdPlay here), to music I really can’t stand (insert PSY and Sia here).  His choices are no different than those I made at his age and my mom can attest (insert The Thompson Twins, Duran Duran and ‘Til Tuesday here).  Even now there are days we take turns playing “our” music while the other groans and rolls his/her eyes.  Such is the rhythm of life with a teen.

When the kiddo got his first turntable last summer, his dad pulled out Elton John and Billy Joel while I reached for Michael Jackson and The Police, handing the vinyl over with a smile all the while wondering if he’d ever make it back to the music he was raised on.  I know that sounds funny given he’s only fourteen and it’s not like he’s out the door tomorrow or anything but still, you know what I mean.  A mom wonders these things…

So imagine my surprise when I return home from running errands this morning and open the door only to be hit square in the nose by Allison Krauss and Jerry Douglas tearing it up on We Hide and Seek.  Yes, indeed.  The kiddo was listening to AKUS (Allison Krauss and Union Station), and dobro and fiddle were flying through the house as loud as the Bose could broadcast them. 

“Hey, mom?  Tell me about these guys again?  I remember this stuff!  I found this video on YouTube but don’t you have more on your IPod?”

“I sure do, sweetie.  Go grab my phone,” I smiled.

“Let’s break it down like we always do,” he added, referring to the way we listen to most songs several times, first to identify the instruments, then for story and harmony and so on.

These are the moments in the middle of the mayhem when I don’t doubt myself.  When I know that my soul has been shared and a part of it is lodged deeply within the heart of my precious boy.

Pops (with my Takamine), Brad and Braden @ 11 mos.

More days, please!

It’s fitting we’re talking about summer plans this month because I’m the Chic that’s already been quoted as saying she wants to cancel summer.  Just this past Friday I called the hubster at five minutes til 5pm and told him I was done.  That I wanted off the ride.  I begged him to please cancel summer before we got too far down the road to turn back.  How sad is that, right?  Especially given summer isn’t even truly here yet.

I’ve had a feeling about summer floating around in my brain for a few seasons now that I haven’t been able to fully understand.  Given I’ve been uncertain about this feeling, I haven’t been able to put it into words and share it with anyone.  Until Friday.

Let me explain—my leading role is that of mom to a fourteen year old.  On top of being extremely gifted, said kiddo is equally regimented and sensitive.  My kiddo is an Aspie, which is to say he’s on the Autism spectrum.  Although his particular diagnosis is very mild, his Aspie is alive and well and never is it more on the scene than during the summer.  My kiddo thrives on routine and only seems to have two modes:  school and home.  While I realize that’s true of every child, they have time at school and time at home, for most children the two bleed into and out of one another without issue.  Homework, that is schoolwork that’s done at home when needed, is normal.  School activities taking place outside of the school day are understandable.  Not for my Aspie.

While I won’t speak for every Aspie out there, I’ll share with you that my kiddo doesn’t like to mix things.  To my kiddo’s way of thinking, schoolwork stays at school, even if it means we rush to get done before the final bell and leave a few points on the table here and there.  And we don’t like to attend school related functions after the school day.  So here’s where the trouble meets the road…

When you’re little, summer equals down time.  For most of the children I know, kindergarten through 8^th grade comes with summers that are large in part free of scheduled work, or comprised of decided upon camps and activities that the children look forward to and might even consider special.  And while there might be sports and a few extra outdoor related chores to tend to, there are still ample amounts of free time and summer feels like the much needed break from school that it is.

But what I’ve learned, what I think I’ve sensed nagging some remote corner of my brain these past couple of summers that I haven’t been able to put into words, is that summer changes when you start high school.  And here we are—73 days away from the first day of high school and change has hit this house bringing with it a stark realization:  there are no more summer’s off.  No more summers that equal freedom and down time. 

With an impact comparable to that of a hurricane, my kiddo, the regimented Aspie that only equates summer to freedom because that’s all his brain has known to this point, suddenly has a summer schedule that’s quite busy.

There will be 42 days of summer school this summer so the kiddo can get P.E. and health out of the way before his first day of freshman year.  That’s 42 days complete with a mid-term and final.

He’ll work 24 days at his karate dojo teaching lower belts necessary skills so they can advance through the ranks.

The kiddo will attend his own karate class twice a week for a total of 24 sessions before school starts again.

He’ll attend 11 band camp sessions lasting four hours each.

The kiddo will be gone 7 days on an inner city mission trip to Memphis where he’ll roof houses several hours a day.

And of course, we’ll manage to sneak in a six-day vacation the day after summer school finals are complete.

By my count we need 114 days to get all of this done unless we double up, and many days we’re actually tripled up and I’m driving car pool to boot.  It’s a first for us.  Last summer we only had the mission trip and karate class to deal with.  To say that change isn’t coming easy is an understatement.

So it’s true, last Friday when the kiddo and I sat down and wrote out his summer schedule, I was near tears and by the time we got to August 13^th, he was fuming.  It’s the end of an era around here—those lazy days of summer when I didn’t even have to look at the calendar, let alone set multiple alarms throughout the day so we don’t forget something.  Those days when a little boy got to play from sun up to sun down with no thought of forgetting to tend to something important.

Just this morning leaving church, the kiddo watched a toddler run unabashed into the arms of his mom complete with toy in hand, his face laced with not a care other than playing with her.  He sighed as he looked to me, his face a mix of wonder and resignation.  “Where does the time go?” he asked, a phrase that broke my heart for me because I know he gets it, that things have somehow changed and the clock has started ticking toward manhood.  “I don’t know, babe.”  I shook my head.  “I truly don’t know.”

Councilman-Wonder

Today’s the day so let me ask you…  Have you voted yet?  I just left my local polling station and as I walked back to my car after placing my votes, I felt grateful that I live in a country where I can vote in a clean, safe place of my own free will.  Yet I also felt saddened by the fact that we live in a society where everyone feels entitled to their opinion yet so many seem to do so little to earn it.  Let me explain.

When you do a bit of homework and go to the polls to vote, be it for President or city councilman, I believe you earn the right to have an opinion about how things are going in your neck of the woods.  Take me for example.  I’m loud and outspoken and I have an opinion about most everything.  If you ask me, it’s highly likely I’ll have an opinion about the things going on in my community.  But I’ll also be certain to tell you that I voted.  Why?  Because I know my vote is my voice.  You won’t ever hear me say one of the more common excuses I hear like “why bother” or “it doesn’t matter, they’re all crooked anyway,” or the famous “I don’t have time.”  Voting is too important for a lame excuse.

While today’s vote in my city for mayor, city councilman, treasurer and school superintendent might seem like small potatoes to most, it’s a big deal to me.  I live in an amazing community, one of the best in the great state of Indiana.  Great schools, plenty of city services, good roads, safe neighborhoods, thriving free market economy, clean streets…  But we still have our problems.  We actually have a few BIG problems and we have a few things that need to be addressed that have been overlooked in recent years.  So I vote.

This morning I got to meet the very city councilman that belittled my husband and I in email over an issue set to take place near our neighborhood last year.  The project has since been completed and it’s plagued with unresolved issues.  When I asked Mr. Councilman-Wonder how he felt about his former projections regarding the project now that it was complete, he had no choice but to admit there had been oversight and mistakes were made.  You betcha there were mistakes, buddy. 

So I did what any good voter should do…  I smiled and shook Mr. Councilman-Wonder’s hand and said “good luck.”  He’s going to need it.

WIP Wednesday

As many of you have probably heard, Denisea Kampe and I are resurrecting our characters from a previously published anthology we wrote with a few other friends which is no longer available. We never managed an ending to the sordid tale of the MARSOC team we created in our imaginations and after much brainstorming, we came up with a plan. We’ve been at it for several weeks now and we’re coming into the home stretch, so for this week’s WIP Wednesday, Denisea thought she’d share a bit of what she wrote this week from our joint project, Rogue Nation. Enjoy!

“Fifteen minutes early for everything,” Alli mumbled, making her way to the answer the door at straight up ten forty-five the next morning. “I’m getting way too used to civilian life for my own good.”

After she’d texted back a mere two words, yes, Gunny, Alli hadn’t heard another peep out of Brogan. With her jeans still unzipped, no shirt on, and one earring still in her hand, she peered through the peephole to confirm whoever had knocked was indeed Brogan. She couldn’t help but grin. There he stood looking straight at the peephole with his signature bright smile and a fresh haircut. Then he did the damnedest thing. He backed up a few feet and spun with his arms out giving Alli a full view of his tight ass draped in snug denim and biceps bulging out of the sleeves of his polo shirt. When he turned back facing the door with his hands in his back pockets and winked as if he knew she was checking him out, her middle twisted in a knot and her heart fluttered.

“You’re early,” she said, pulling the door open and waving for him to come in, vulnerability swamping her as his eyes roamed her half-dressed state. If the burning sensation fluttering over her skin was part of intimacy, she’d take it.

“Habits, babe.” Brogan came within inches of her and ran a finger along her jaw then down the side of her throat, and when she thought he’d trace a path down her breast bone, he instead reached up and fingered the delicate gold hoop hanging from her earlobe. “Don’t take it as a sign we have to hurry. We have plenty of time.”

“Foooor…” Alli raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

“Not a chance.” He chuckled and tapped the end of her nose. “Not showing my hand that easily. Go finish getting ready.”

A few minutes later, Brogan handed her into his Rover and they were on their way. To where, only God and Brogan knew and neither of them were telling.

“You look nice,” Brogan said, pulling onto the freeway and heading west. “I think you’re finally gaining some weight back. Healthy looks good on you.”

“Thank you,” Alli said over a smile. “You look nice, too. Don’t you think leaving before noon is a little early for dinner reservations? How far away is dinner?”

“You really need to brush up on your interrogation methods. Subtlety goes a long way.”

“I’m a pretty straight shooter. I thought you were, too. Why skirt things when we can cut straight to the chase?”

“Touché,” Brogan said, reaching down to switch the playlist on his iPod. “Straight to the chase it is. You all but told me I’m an anal retentive ass. No reservations. I’m winging it here. It’s giving me heart palpitations, but I’m trying to let go of an inch. Give or take.”

“Ah, I see. On a solo without a flight plan. I’m intrigued. Any clue as to how you’re going to fill the next six to eight hours before you figure out where the dinner is you ordered me to attend?” Alli kicked off her wedge heels and drew one leg under the other, turning in the seat to face him, then reached out and ran her fingertips over his freshly cut hair.

“I know where the dinner is.” He reached up and tugged her hand down, entwining their fingers. “And we’re headed in the right direction.”

“Well, at least we’re not lost.”

“Oh, I’m lost alright. You have no idea how damn lost I am.” He drew her hand up and planted a kiss on the back of it then held it there for several minutes as a gentle quiet fell between them.

27 things...

I recently read an article that talked about the 27 item challenge in terms of spring cleaning.  The theory goes every room in your house has 27 things you no longer need, want or use that should be purged.  27?  Per room?  Surely not. 

This big purge concept isn’t new to me.  Over the holidays I read about the 40 hanger closet challenge and honestly, don’t laugh but I don’t even own enough clothing that warrants a hanger to need 25, let alone 40.  I smiled as I read the article and let pride unabashedly roll over me.  “Don’t need that bit of advice,” I scoffed.  

But when I read about the 27 things per room?  Ugh.  That was more like a sucker punch to the gut for me because as I sit here now just looking around my desk, there are at least a dozen things I no longer need, want or use that should be purged.  Just this morning I opened my vanity drawer to reach for the hairbrush and got assaulted by several items I bought thinking I’d use that are just cluttering the space:  hair clips too large to hold my still growing out style, two headbands that give me a headache when I wear them, an expired tube of Neosporin…  You get the point.  

There are days I look around the space my family occupies and I see the clutter, those things I don’t need, want or use, and the decisions seem easy.  But there are times when I feel frustrated, sad or worried that I tend to hole up—to cave myself in so I don’t have to make hard decisions.  For a fast moving, type A personality like myself, I liken this feeling to a slight paralysis of sorts.  We don’t sit still.  Type A’s like motion.  We’re quick decision makers that thrive on forward progress.  I was all set to charge ahead with reckless abandon and turn my house upside down making such progress the afternoon my phone rang. 

As Chic Denisea shared earlier over at our Script Chics blogsite, she’s gone through quite a battle with the big C and she’s come out the other side feeling better, miles healthier and sporting the peach survivor’s ribbon with pride.  That afternoon it was her on the phone. 

For those of you that don’t know Denisea personally, let me assure you, you will most likely never meet a smarter, more determined, and faith-filled woman this side of heaven.  I’ve been honored to call her a friend for nearly five years and I’ll go further to say she’s been a very close friend for the last several of those.  Throughout the journey she’s walked, I’ve been amazed that she’s never once waivered in her faith.  In fact, on days when I would send an encouraging text or silly sentiment to let her know I was thinking of her, she usually ended up cheering me up in some way.  That’s totally Denisea to a T!  

The day of her second surgery, the big one as I call it, I decided to clear my calendar and set aside dedicated prayer time for her.  I hesitate to even write about this because I think I had a couple of social media related things to do while covering for her (she’s the real techie—don’t let her fool you).  I promise, Denisea—I still got my work done that day!  Anyway, as I was praying over a particular worship song thinking I was doing a good turn for Denisea, she was actually doing the good turn for me. 

In the time leading up to her surgeries, Denisea and I talked a lot about our goals for the year, both personally and professionally, and I could tell she was really starting to get a grip with the concept of a more complete balance in all of the areas of her life.  Instead of manically working in one area then jumping to another, which is something my ever moving, brute force type A is prone to do, Denisea had a much calmer, more balanced approach.  It was this concept that hit me full force while I was praying for her on the big one day.  Some things matter in this life and quite frankly, most things don’t.  This is true of the mental clutter I tend to carry--the stress, the worry, the fear, and it’s true of the dozen or more things on my desk that I don’t need, want or use anymore.  I love my life and frankly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.  I remind myself every day that life would be boring without the push and pull. 

While the 27 thing premise might seem overwhelming at first as it relates to the physical clutter in your home, when you boil it down, the notion isn’t really that profound.  

There are 23 rooms in my house (including closets and pantries) that need purged and I’ve given myself two weeks.  27 items times 23 rooms means there are 621 things under this roof that won’t be here come Easter Sunday.  As of this writing, while Easter has come and gone, I’ve been through eighteen rooms and filled nine bags/boxes.  My item count stands at 428 and the Salvation army is scheduled to be here Thursday at 8am.  I'm determined to see that truck back into the drive and I seriously want to to find just that one more thing to push my total to 622.  I can't wait to stand in the door and wave when they drive away.

How many rooms are in your house?  Don’t know?  Then why don’t you grab a laundry basket and start counting?  If you want to live a more balanced life, the truth is there’s some junk that needs to go.

The Other Direction

Jesus didn’t have to go to the cross. 

For some of you this may not be new news but to me, it’s both fresh and profound and exactly what my soul needed to hear.  Jesus didn't have to go to the cross.

Let me explain…  Jesus knew his coming death was the fulfillment of prophecy.  When he went to the garden of Gethsemane to pray, he asked God straight out—if there’s any way you can let this pass me by, please do so.  And he was told flat out he would be betrayed by one close to him and that he would carry his own death piece, the cross, to the hill where he would hang.

Let’s be honest.  Jesus wouldn’t have been the first son in the world not to do what his father asked.  He wouldn’t have been the first person to disagree with authority and he wouldn’t have been the first person to experience a fear-based response and run from danger.  He wouldn’t have been the first person to take the easy way out.  He had a choice. 

To my way of thinking, the garden was middle ground.  When Jesus looked out over the city in one direction, he saw a land filled with people that would betray him and lead him to his death.  But I what I didn’t know, what I learned just this week (I’ve been a Christian for forty-five years mind you), is that if Jesus would have just turned around and looked the other way, he could have easily slipped into the Judean wilderness and disappeared.  He could have walked away.  Prophecy unfulfilled.  Destined changed.  History altered forever.

When the call comes and it’s not a favorable diagnosis, it would be easier to run.  When the conversation starts with I don’t love you anymore, it would be easier to run.  When there was nothing else we could do is all that’s left to be said, it would be easier to run.  When we watch the people we love struggle and resist help, it would be easier to run.

Have you ever wanted to disappear?  Have you ever thought about just chucking it all and running?  I often joke that I’ve thought about running away far more as an adult than I ever did as a kid.  I think most of us have felt that way.  There are days it seems life is made up of a thousand flaming arrows headed straight toward our hearts.  If we responded how we wanted on those days, the freeways would become a parking lot as we each tried to flee to Anywhere. But. Here.  Yet for the overwhelming majority of us, we don’t run.  Why don’t more of us run?

In my opinion today marks one of the most crucial moments in Holy week.  It was tonight, Thursday night, when Jesus sat down with his disciples and shared what would be their last meal together, Jesus’ last meal on earth.  To set the scene, you’ve got men from all walks of life who’ve become best friends.  While being called together for dinner probably wasn’t unusual, as Jesus begins to explain what’s going to happen and what he expects from those that choose to follow him in the days to come, it’s obvious this meal is like no other the group has ever attended.  In today’s terms the last supper is much like the final meeting before the team is dismissed and the real work starts.  The events that will unfurl over the next few hours will blow apart this close-knit group and life will become anything but ordinary.  Some will doubt--I don’t believe what I’m hearing.  Some will stand in dismay--why is He washing my feet?  Some will deny--I never knew him.  One will betray—it is he.  To think it could have all been avoided if Jesus would have only turned around and headed less than an hour the other direction.

Jesus knew there were flaming arrows aimed directly for his heart.  He knew his place in history was to obey his Father’s will and take the hit.  If ever there was a one-for-all moment, surely it was when Jesus decided not to turn and go the other way.

We’re all going to face days when the arrows come and we find ourselves asking exactly the same thing Jesus did--if there’s any way this can pass me by, please let it do so.  Doubt is going to creep in.  Dismay is going to come.  Denial is going to settle deep and betrayal may befall us.

Tonight when we set down to dinner and talk our way through the events surrounding the last supper, I’ll use words like integrity, loyalty, responsibility, honesty, hope, faith, and love to tell my son a few of the reasons I don’t run, even when it would sometimes be the easiest thing to do.  I’ll plant these seeds deep in his heart and pray when the arrows come his way he'll follow the ultimate example, that of Jesus, and decide to stay instead of running.