Author: Amelia

Heart Holes

~ Amelia ~ 1 Comment

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It’s impossible for me to suppress feelings of grief or loss. Even if the losses seem irrational, unreal or invisible. I don’t believe that it’s a healthy habit to smooth over or pretend hurt doesn’t exist. Can you grieve the loss of something that you crave so desperately but that you’ve never actually had?

Well I do and I’m certain that I’m not the only one. It can be a complicated and isolating type of grief. Most people typically don’t dive head first into the deep end of life’s sad realities. When your grandmother dies, and you’re grieving, it’s perfectly acceptable and understood that those around you will outwardly express their sympathy with hugs, cards, tears, and conversations. However, when some life event or experience sparks the brush pile of your invisible loss, the hidden flames of sadness often have the fuel to grow pretty quickly.

Only those who know you in the most vulnerable way may ever recognize the flames. Perhaps nobody will ever know.

Sometimes specific settings or conversations or experiences can shake you up. It can feel like you’re driving over a giant pot hole. You can prepare yourself beforehand, but you know that it will inevitably jar your spirit and temporarily hurt. Always. Just like a familiar pothole on that street that you have to drive through. The feeling of bracing yourself for the broken road doesn’t go away. Maybe ever.

In humans, like me, it feels more like a heart hole.

On some bright and sunny days, you can maybe handle one of the heart holes. You might swerve around it to avoid it. Maybe leave the room at the perfect time or don’t ever walk into the room where that routine casual conversation is not so casual for you. Because it hurts. Because you have an open wound that’s tender, and perhaps it won’t ever heal. You can try and plug up heart holes, but it’s only a temporary fix. They always come back.

Grief hurts. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Hurt slowly burns. Then, it can leave your eyes dry and your heart and body all sore and achey. When my husband opens his arms and holds me and let’s me cry the tears, my real tears, mean a loss is a loss. His presence tells me that it’s okay to feel the invisible weight of hidden or invisible losses. I don’t have to justify them to anyone to know that my pain is real. Validated. Visible. Even if I have never received sympathy cards. And most likely, never will.

I don’t want to take my pain or losses out on anybody else. That’s one of the reasons I write and how I experience the unfathomable joy of this world along with the deep pains too.

I can sit with my son as he draws a “ginormous smile” on himself in his picture. The green marker smile goes off of his stick boy drawing and around and around the scene because “he’s that happy.” And so am I sitting next to him. Then as suddenly as a car shifts into second gear, I can drop him off at preschool and then switch gears and cry until I reach my husband’s embrace. There’s something so healing in these kind of tears. I can cry some more because he understands my grief. Because of how deeply he cares for me, my struggles become his struggles too. He rides over the broken parts of the road, sitting right next to me. And this makes me cry all over again. Grateful tears for his endless love for me.

I am aware that I am not the only one who grieves the losses that nobody ever saw. I know this. So, I share to let another know that it’s okay to hurt. And it’s okay to cry. And it’s okay to be upset and grateful and joyful. We are beautiful, complicated beings. Why would our emotions and feelings not be overlapping, entertwining, connecting and complicated in the same way as our physical bodies?

Ready or not, here I come. It’s a bit like hide and seek grief. You may unexpectedly stumble upon one of your losses hidden away in the closet or the cabinet up high. Or perhaps somebody else will unintentionally reveal one of your hopes, dreams unfulfilled or losses. I hope you will give yourself permission to grieve. And I hope you will let another share the extraordinarily heavy weight of your invisible loss so that it may become more bearable.

Five Forever

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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As my legs pushed his lanky giggling body into the air, he glanced down at me. The gentle breeze swayed the branches on the trees and rustled the gorgeous fallen leaves back and forth. I stared up at his freckled nose, his bleached-out hair and I asked him an important question,

“Will you stay five years old forever?”

In the overwhelmingly beautiful and perfect moments of motherhood, I want to freeze time. I want to run around the back yard laughing as we have stick fights. I want to “bahmember” as he says, his sweet voice forever. I want to capture the simple ways that he looks at the world through his giant, greenish brown eyes. I want to always be able to snuggle him tight after my legs give out from “rocket launching” him into the air. I want him to always ask me to push him on the swing.

I want to never forget the sound of his voice, “Mama? Where are you?”

He’s so breathtakingly perfect in these unexpected moments. The surprise gifts of uninterrupted time together. He notices the tiniest things like bees pooping or the sounds a bird makes. He laughs nonstop when a bug lands on my nose. He thinks the moon sometimes goes to visit other houses too. He unknowingly teaches me how to happily live in the present moments. He helps me forget about a stack of bills, a dead vehicle, and a dirty house.

“Yes.” He answered me. Afterall, he doesn’t yet know what it means to grow up.

And so it’s a Monday mother-son deal. For today, he will stay five forever.

Round Table Discussion

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to talk about living with Crohn’s disease in front of a small group of young adults in their twenties and thirties. I attached the link below to the discussion.

I have found a sense of hope and healing in sharing my story with others. Although it can be difficult, it’s quite therapeutic to talk about the journey including overcoming obstacles, my faith, the low moments,  my coping mechanisms, etc. I thought Chris asked great questions throughout this round table discussion. He sympathized with me, yet also encouraged me to share about how having this disease has changed me and affected me in positive ways.

I’ve had several friends who hoped to come to the discussion but weren’t able to. I thought if you wanted to to listen to me share a bit of my nineteen year journey with Crohn’s disease, you can click the link. I told Chris that he “went all Barbara Walters” on me when he asked me to talk about one of my lowest moments. Spoiler alert: it’s sad.

Even if you don’t have time to listen, I thought I would emphasize the enormous value, for both parties,  in sitting across the table from someone who truly wants to listen to your story. Whatever your story may be. We have so much we can learn from one another when we take the time to hear, see, and feel life from another perspective. We welcome the opportunity to grow intellectually, but more importantly, we invite in beautiful real-life moments that can change our hearts.

https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B3iCHKad_tV_a3NnaVhPNnFidzQ

Universal Welcome Feeling

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I’ve gone to several new places over the past few weeks where I have been welcomed in an unforgetably good way, as a newcomer or stranger, kind of an outsider. I’ve been welcomed in that genuinely awesome sort of way that makes me want to go back. If you’ve ever gone to events or places before and felt awkward, out of place, or like you didn’t belong or weren’t supposed to be there, it can be one of the worst feelings. You definitely remember it. It grabs a hold of you and can take you straight back to the lunchroom or halls of middle school. You typically will not throw yourself into that environment again, if you don’t have to.

Maybe it’s just me.

However, if you’ve ever had that out-of-place feeling, you can truly see or relate to others in a similar situation. You may be able to read a person’s body language or if they’re like me, they may just flat-out tell you, “Oh, man. I’m really uncomfortable here. I actually prefer wearing scrubs instead of a formal gown.” Been there, said that. I have awkward extroverted diarrhea of the mouth, self-diagnosed. All of this to say that I have gone to enough uncomfortable places that I know how to appreciate a genuine, honest welcome to a new place with unfamiliar faces.

The first new place I recently went was an urban, predominately African-American church. My husband and I drove out of our neighborhood to be a part of a forum entitled, “The Racial Divide” in Kansas City. Two of the largest local Methodist churches came together to discuss some pretty heavy issues regarding race. Our church participated and is located in the suburbs of Kansas with a predominately white congregation and the host church is located on the outskirts of downtown Kansas City with a predominately black congregation.

From the moment we drove into the parking lot, my husband and I were greeted in the most genuine, helpful and friendly ways by one after another after another of this church’s members. I was pretty convinced before walking in that this is where I want to go to church. The welcoming smiles and greetings were off the charts.

The two pastors, one white and one black, lead the discussion and spoke honestly in regards to their own experiences growing up and currently with racial issues. After they spoke, they would ask the audience, all of us, to engage in discussion with our neighbor. The ushers had spread members of the home congregation, black people, with those from the visiting congregation, white people. It was truly a privilige to have honest, open discussions with each other. I’m pretty sure God strategically put me next to the most amazing woman, who happened to be a hospital social worker. It was my birthday and I have been missing my social worker friends in a desperate way. A night out with my husband and the conversations I got to have with this woman stirred and filled my heart in an awesome way. There couldn’t have been a better birthday present.

Fast forward a few weeks to the second new place.

I was graciously invited to attend an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. A dear friend of mine was speaking at the meeting. I was honored to walk in, albeit a bit awkwardly, because of my high heels and the new environment. Within moments, I was welcomed, with hands outstretched and I was greeted by a room full of people who didn’t know me, but seemed like they genuinely wanted to. As I sat in that room, I began feeling completely grateful for the lives I surrounding me, even though I had just met most of them. I was in a room full of people on a journey. Together. I laughed. I cried. There were moments when I felt a stabbing pain in my heart. I wanted to do more. I witnessed that people can change. It’s extremely difficult and hard to explain but I witnessed transformation. I was introduced as the “normal” one although I quickly defended myself and said, “I’m really not that normal.” But, once again, I received the gift of trust, unconditional love, and friendship.

I think we all crave the feeling of being important, loved, and overwhelmingly welcomed into a room. Like we truly matter. And I think we want to be sitting in a room with people who truly want to be near us. People who are seriously stoked and want us to be sitting next to them. We want people to listen and hear our story, our whole story, and we want people to love us through every chapter, especially the painful ones.

I will be the first to tell you that I regularly lose my temper, spill drinks, break glasses, mildew laundry, get pissed at my husband, and frustrated with my kids. I have a ton of imperfections or scars, physical, ones on the outside and emotional ones, the inside kind. I share them because I want you to know that I’m like you. You’re like me, too. We all have our scars. Some seem easier to talk about than others. Some seem more socially acceptable. But we all struggle. With some things.

Here’s another time. Another place.

I will never forget one specific time that I sat in a hospital room with a curled up, sleeping boy. His mother had to go to the bathroom. She didn’t want to leave him alone. I entered their room and introduced myself. I explained my job and said that I would stay with him. It always seems like a long time when you’re waiting an unknown amount of time for somebody to return. I didn’t want the boy to wake up and be scared since he had not met me. So, I sat quietly waiting. Minutes passed. And more minutes passed.

His mother walked back into the room and thanked me. I said that I was happy to help, that it was my job.

Then she said, “Sorry it took me so long. I have this bag.”

She lifted up her shirt to show me her colostomy bag.

“I have one too.” I replied, as I looked down and pointed in the direction of mine.

I thought it was a really brave thing for her to do. I don’t normally share my medical history with random people but I do when I feel God tap me or elbow me, like I’m supposed to.

“You do?” She asked, as she looked a little surprised.

“Yeah. How long have you had yours?” I responded.

“Since April.”

“How long have you had yours?” She asked me.

I said, “For about eighteen years.”

“I still cry.” She said.

“So do I.”

Every day in each and every place, we welcome each other in a million different ways. Simple ways, like smiling or saying “hello.” Or bigger ways like pausing to talk or listen or sit with someone who looks like they need another human being to recognize that they have been sad, frustrated, let-down, or upset. Every time we stop and break past these barriers, we open ourselves up to love each other more deeply and recognize how very similar we all are.

It’s as if we all put our hands together, bringing and sharing our struggles, joys, and pain
with one another. We recognize that we all so different but we are also so very much alike. We feel the weight of one another and we work like the most efficient and beautiful team to get through this life together, strangers, friends and family alike.

Homemade King Cake

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Due to a bit of a scheduling glitch, or a general lack of a sense of meaningful or important dates, I’m getting scoped the day after Mardi Gras. Which means I’m on clear liquids today, Fat Tuesday. Dangit. It’s really not too big of a deal. I’ve learned to go without food on many occasions but it’s kind of a bummer. I told my husband yesterday that I was going to make a homemade king cake. He asked me if I wanted him to go ahead and pick one up at the grocery store too. Just in case. He was being a funny and thoughtful punk because he knows me. Pretty well. I laughed and was determined to make a better cake than the grocery store could.

I’m a strong believer that rarely will we be able to avoid the difficult, painful or even, sad times in life. I have learned its best to lament a bit, to feel the weight of it all, and then figure out how these times can strengthen us in some obvious or hidden way as opposed to weakening us. I’m no expert. Sometimes I’m just downright pissed and moody and I want to go to a “used body” shop and trade mine in for something better. Not flashier, but less problematic. One that will require less specialists’ care. Maybe I could even just swap out a few parts. Since this is not really an option, I’ve had to figure out how to be grateful for the body that I have. It’s all about choices. Even though I sometimes feel like I have none. I will always possess the choice of my attitude. Be it pissy, grateful, optimistic, realistic, pessimistic, narcissistic, or any combination of these and so many more.

When I walked my boys home from school yesterday, the cold, bullying Kansas winds blew right down to the bone seemingly freezing our faces off. My boys’ cheeks looked pink and chapped from the five minutes they stood outside of school waiting for me. And they were a little mad at me for not picking them up in the warm car. They complained and complained and near-cried as we trudged along up the hill.

I requested for them to stop for a brief talk, well, more like a mom lecture. I got down on my knees. I talked to them about how they have a winter coat. How they have a short walk, not a long walk. How they have a warm house to go home to with a bed. And food. Then, I talked to them about the people, especially kids, who don’t have any of these things. I told them that they will always have a choice in their attitude. They will always have an opportunity to complain or be grateful for what they have. I realize that they are just seven years old. But, I think they got it. They stopped complaining and picked up their paces to keep up with mine.

As I told my husband this morning that I can’t eat Mardi Gras food, I realized that I knew all too well that I have a few choices today. There was a lecture that was recently opened, still at the top of my inbox. I realized that I have access to doctors who can help me. I have the privilege of knowing countless inspiring, loving, and amazing people. I have pretty decent health. I should be grateful. I have the helpful and constant distraction of a loving family and thoughtful friends.

For today, I have clean, clear liquids.

I’ve also got a king cake to make. For the first time ever. And bonus, I won’t even have to eat it if it’s disgusting. Happy Mardi Gras!

Freed

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

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It’s a bit of a frustrating process to get life insurance when you’ve got medical issues. Not huge ones, but chronic ones. It can feel like complete crap calling doctors offices to get diagnosis dates and other details that an underwriter needs for research to determine what an appropriate annual rate will be for someone with your history. Fixating on all of your body’s problems can be a real buzz kill. I understand though. I’m a hot mess on paper.  It’s a risk taking on someone like me. My husband says that my medical history can make me look pretty bad but in person, He’s like “Damn, girl.” I paraphrased him.

I don’t think the average person would listen to my medical history and current conditions and feel like I have been “healed.”

Here it goes….a clep blog version.

I had a benign hip tumor surgically removed in high school. Two reconstructive ACL surgeries in college. Total colectomy with ileo-anal pouch anastomosis the summer following my freshman year in college. Countless failed surgeries for fistula repairs. Guinea pig much? Three different states by three separate surgeons following college. The “best surgeons” in the field. Two of which did unethical things to my body, without my consent.

I have a micro tumor on my pituitary gland that can cause some real problems, despite its itty bitty millimeter size. I’ve got junked-up, scarred lungs that struggle to get mucous out on their own. There’s a disease for that: bronchiectasis. A tricky one to spell. My lungs need a little love from albuterol and the acapella valve from time to time. And no, it doesn’t sound like sweet non-instrumental music. I will take instruments, please, any day of the week. It sounds more like Darth Vader’s wife.

I don’t have my large intestine anymore. Yes, you can live without one. Unlike a lizard’s tail, mine has not magically grown back after being surgically removed for being straight-up diseased. Dead. Unresponsive to meds, beyond resuscitation. I do miss it from time to time, when I’m going to the bathroom ten or so times a day. Especially in the middle of the night during one of those rare good dreams that you want to hop back into. But ughhh, you can’t.

I guess, selfishly, I have hard time spiritually processing things when I hear of people being miraculously or momentarily “healed” or cured. In God’s name. I guess I get a bit pissy and confused because I’ve said about a million prayers. Not just for me. And I’m pretty sure those who love me have said more. It makes me feel pretty damn unimportant. And I think, “why not me?” Or why not the starving kids, abused kids or women being raped? Victims of brutal genocide. Especially the littlest ones. Cancer patients. Or the millions of other afflictions that just flat-out suck much more than mine.

Well, let’s analyze it. I’ve done my fair share of bad stuff. Rebellious stuff. Ungodly stuff. But still, I’ve never wavered in my faith in God. Or his love for me. I love Jesus. I get Him. He gets me. He knows my heart the best. He understands me. He searches me out and always finds me. Wherever I am, be it on the bathroom floor or next to the kitchen sink. In my closet. In a hospital room. In my car. He’s kind of like a crazy never ending Dr. Seuss book. I can’t escape him. He throws a crud-ton of grace down on me. Constantly. And forgives me all the time. I believe this.

I think he welcomes my doubts and fears and all of my hurts too. My humanities. He recognizes the many different kinds of tears that trickle, stream, sneak and flood down my face. Most importantly, he holds me accountable. Picks me up off of the bathroom floor, most times, in the form of my husband. He shows me a glimpse of my potential. He expects me to do more, persevere and grow. Love harder, and never settle for convenience, complacency or boredom. He instills an infinite supply of hope inside my heart. My mind. And my soul.

I’ve actually got an ongoing list of questions for God to answer. Not that God needs my list. But I do. One day, I hope he will answer all of my random ones, like “what’s up with moths eating all of our sweaters”, or “Why I am I wide awake after having sex but my husband falls into a coma-like sleep state?” There are the deeper, more complicated questions too, like “why do kids have to die? Ever.” Or “why did soooooo many of my surgeries fail?”

I often start deep sea thinking and praying like I do. When I’m vacuuming. Or driving. Or in the shower. I’m typically trying to work things out with God. Let it all out. Like a true intro-extrovert. Or maybe it’s God trying to soften my heart and strengthen my faith, despite human beings’ attempts to destroy it. I’m attempting to move outside of the anger. The sadness or resentment. And the unfairness and the hurt. Somehow, I’ve got to see through it, past it, over it or under it. But it’s a stumbling feeling. Awkward like my feet have fallen asleep. I can’t move. I’ve got to shake them out, wake them up, even perhaps crawl on to reach the hope.

The good.

The beautiful.

It’s there. I know it. It can be sneaky. Even hidden. But it’s always truly present. And although I may not be Steve Martin in “Leap of Faith” kind of healed, I think I’ve been freed of a lot of suffocating, life-stealing things.

I’ve been freed from the illusion of perfection. Nothing and nobody is perfect. My body will never be perfect. Ever. In a ton of ways. I will always have big feet, a big nose, freckles, and scars. A lot of scars. And if I want to be naked, totally naked, I will always look down and see the bright red flesh, the part of my small intestine that’s been pulled from the inside out of my lower abdomen. To save my life. It won’t go away. Ever. No matter how many prayers I could say for the regeneration of my colon, it’s not happening. Save your breath.

My diseased body will always present obstacles and physical limits. I’ve come to terms with this over the years. It’s hard to be different, but I am. I think we all are. I have had to worry about deep things most women don’t have to. And perhaps may never ever think about, especially not on a daily basis.

It’s not that I believe that God doesn’t possess the power to do mind blowing miraculous things. He could regenerate a healthy colon for me if he wanted to. Or heal my scarred lungs. But there’s bigger more important lessons I’ve learned through the pain, frustration, disappointments and failures. I believe he’s surrounded me with people who tell me they love me, despite my missing parts. So, I pray instead for God to change my thinking, change my eyes to more readily see those around me and make me proud of who I am and all that I’ve overcome. Through Him. Proud, not ashamed. I pray that God uses me and my experiences to encourage others in an honest, transparent and freeing way. And guess what? Miraculously, these prayers have been answered. Time and time again.

I’ve been truly honored and humbled and a little overwhelmed by the love. I’ve been grateful that friends will openly share their struggles and experiences with me too. The other day, one of my friends confided in me telling me that she pooped her pants In the night and I told her “That’s not a big deal. So what? You know how many times and places I’ve shit my pants?” She told me that she knew I would be a safe person to tell, that I wouldn’t judge her. (I would only blog about her. With her permission.)

It feels a lot better knowing that it’s ok to shit your pants. That somebody else has done it too, you know? I’m truly grateful for all of the hard things that I’ve felt in my life(that’s what she said…I couldn’t help it) They’ve given me the ability to truly feel and understand a little bit more of what others may be going through. Pain is pain. Physical, mental or emotional. Isolation is isolation. And loneliness is loneliness. Don’t even get me started on shame.

God has strangely and miraculously shown me and taught me so many more meaningful lessons through the awful and painful parts of my life than I’ve ever learned through the blue skies and rainbows. I feel like through all of the hard times, I’ve been humbled, dependent, and gratefully aware of what’s most important in life. I get this awesome privilege of experiencing the beautiful parts at an insanely heightened level. I constantly encounter these most inspiring, sacrificing, loving, and genuine people. The ones that doubt and fear, laugh and love radically, outside the norm. I get to meet people that don’t shy away from the hard places, the ones who put themselves out there knowing they will be affected, mocked, bruised, and knocked down a little or a lot by life’s hurts. And they will be changed. Transformed in a caterpillar to a butterfly kind of way. Once you grow wings, you don’t want to go back to squirming around on a tree branch.

I’ve been picked up by these best kinds of people time and time again. They matter the most. And they are who I want my kids to be like when they grow up.

They may or may not know it, but they are real-life people living out the type of love Jesus talked about. The sacrificial. Seemingly crazy. Hard. Relentless. Inconvenient. Inclusive. Sacred. Beautiful love. The kind of love that never, ever fails. His love never fails.

If I have had to experience hurt and pain to be hyper sensitive to the beauty and love that exist despite it, I will get up and experience it all over again. That’s how I’ve been healed.

I’ve been released. I’ve been freed.

You don’t need to ever pity me. I’ve come a long way in my journey. And you don’t need to feel sorry for me either, okay? Unless you feel sorry for butterflies too.

Michael Phelps’ Mom

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

 

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Congratulations, Michael Phelps’ mom. You can officially retire. You can finally rest easy knowing that your work is done. You are never going to have to run out to Target again to buy your son a new pair of goggles. You know, to replace the nine millionth pair of goggles that have broken, leaked, or that your son has lost. Yet, somehow, it’s all your fault. How could you have ever expected your most decorated Olympic swimming son to jump into a pool of chlorinated water without protecting his precious abs? I mean eyes. His eyes. With a pair of Speedo goggles.

I’ve watched the Olympics differently this go around. I’ve looked on as a mother. I’ve bitten off nails. I’ve jumped off the couch and stared at the screen, anticipating the moments where your son adjusts, then readjusts his goggles. I’ve never doubted his swimming talents. We’ve all been mesmerized by his dolphin-like ability to glide in and out of the water. So beautifully. Like some sort of waterproof robot. A robot that desperately needs those Speedo goggles to stay in place.

That’s where you and I share a special bond, Michael Phelps’ mom. I have three sons that swim too. Not quite at the same level as your son. Nonetheless, they need their goggles just like your son. When it’s time to jump in the pool, the pressure is on. It’s all on me. I’m sure you remember the days. I’m there semi-willing to adjust. Readjust, then SNAP, break the crap out of their cheap ass goggles. Because let’s face it, Michael Phelps’ mom, my son’s Speedo goggles are not like your son’s. The Target employee kindly gave me the cartwheel discount for my sons’ goggles, but it was all downhill from that point on.

A casual day at the pool turned into a sad broken goggle fest. Come on, Speedo, for crying outloud…we can’t all be Michael Phelps! Why, oh why must non-Olympian kids risk getting red, itchy eyes accompanied by all the tears and the repeated exclamations, “MY EYES. MY EYES. Mommy, my eyes hurt SOOOO bad.”

“Well, boys, that’s because Michael Phelps’ mom bought all of the good googles.”

I’m sorry, Michael Phelps’ mom. My irrational response never works to soothe their zombie eyes. But somehow it makes me feel like a better mom in the heat of the moment.

“Cheer up, kids. Wasn’t it cool how he won all of those gold medals? That’s because Speedo sold all of their cheap and poorly made goggles to kids like you so they could spend all of their time working on Michael Phelps’s precious golden Olympic medal googles.”

There. There.

So, now that your son is done swimming and your grandson will surely never so much as dip a toe in a chorinated pool, because well, that’s a lot of pressure being Michael Phelps’ son, can you spare a few pairs of the good Speedo goggles to a fellow mom? I promise I won’t sell them on eBay.

And if I did, it would only be to buy more cheap ass goggles. From Target.

Fortune Non-Business Cards

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I reached into the right pocket of my jeans, the pocket that I thought I had placed two wadded up bills in. I borrowed some cash from my husband for parking. It turned out that I didn’t need it. I looked down. I accidentally had pulled out the twenty dollar bill. I knew that it was a lot of money. A grueling hour of work. An hour exposed to hard stuff or even laughter. An hour of time spent away from my family.

The homeless man told me five different stories in two short minutes. He couldn’t get into the shelter. It was full. He needed to get to St. Louis. Somebody stole his bag. He needed a blanket. He was hungry.

I handed him the twenty dollar bill. Not because I believed his stories. Not because I thought he would go buy a decent amount of food with it. But because I stood there looking at him and I felt sorry for him. For his lies or for his truths. For what I could see and for all that I couldn’t. He asked me what my name was. I told him. I asked him his. He thanked me. I thanked him.

I regret not giving him one of my new non-business cards.

I really don’t like flinging myself into uncomfortable situations. With new faces, often the kind with a lot of make-up on. Perhaps trying to elbow in and impress people or be somebody that maybe they are. Or maybe they are not. I hate pretending to be somebody that I am not. I’m just no good at it. I’m better at saying inappropriate things at the least appropriate time.

So, as I entered the room by myself, I asked the bartender for a beer. Yep, just in the bottle. That way you don’t have to wash a glass on my accord. Next, I walked over and put some food on my plate. As I awkwardly held my drink in my large hands, I almost dropped my beer and my plate. An employee watching the appetizer table walked up and asked me if he could hold it, I said, “Yes. Thank you.” I proceeded to tell him about the jar of spaghetti sauce that I had dropped and broke in Target a couple of weeks ago. I thought I didn’t need a basket. Or a cart. See, I learned from my mistake. He and I began talking about how hard it is to keep milk in the house. I learned all about this strange non-powdered, unevaporated milk that has a long shelf life and “really tastes just like milk.”

I thought I should explore the place. I walked outside and looked at the Kansas City skyline. With my beer and my tiny sandwich. And my cookie.

I reassured myself that even if I gave the homeless man an hour of work in the form of a twenty dollar bill and let somebody help me while learning about this new milk that I could call my evening a success. Honestly, I had wanted to park my car downtown, put a few quarters in the parking meter and sit there while I finished reading my book. But I didn’t. I just couldn’t.

I walked inside. Running late. As I am always. I went to the event with nobody there that I truly knew. I purposely put myself in an uncomfortable position. Was it a successful night? Who knows. But I did it. I won a door prize, most likely for being so late that my name was on the top. Little did that door prize know that it positively reinforced my future tardiness.

I decided I just can’t give out non-business cards about my blog, unless they maybe have a fortune on them or something else helpful. Maybe a measurement converter like how many ounces are in a cup. That seems dumb. Maybe a useless fact like, “did you know that you can find out the sex of a guinea pig by pushing on its belly?” Beware, a tiny penis may pop out though. And no, I just heard. I haven’t tried it. I should probably research some other useless facts.

Speaking of business cards, one time I was at a concert and a woman complimented me on something, I think my really high heeled shoes. She then proceeded to hand me her business card and tell me about some skincare line or something that she was selling. Keep in mind, I didn’t know her. Apparently, upon meeting me, my face bothered her enough to want to change it. With some products. It was probably my freckles. Which I happen to purposely not cover up. Sadly, she abruptly had to leave after she jammed her foot in my door because Rick Springfield had taken off his shirt and she wanted to go try and touch his sweaty middle-aged body. Even though she had done it before at another concert and her husband had been mad about it. Really. This is a true story. This is actually a true story of how not to give someone your business card.

I don’t know that giving my non-business card to a homeless man would have been any better. He probably wouldn’t be able to access my blog. My card would have probably ended up littering the downtown sidewalk, but I’m sure, like me, he has had something burn somewhere before. Perhaps in his mind, in his heart or in his pants. Maybe the food or alcohol he went to purchase would burn his throat and help him remember and feel alive, like he mattered. Like he was important. I know it may have been more wise to have given him food or a blanket or something besides cash, but I didn’t have anything else except my jacket that would have been too small for him. And I really do like that jacket.

Later on, when I got home, I found the dollar bill in my other jean pocket. The left side, the one I didn’t reach into. Maybe the homeless man needed that twenty dollar bill more than me. Actually, my husband since he loaned it to me. Or maybe he just needed someone to look him in the eye and talk with him for a few minutes. Just like I did that night.

Guest Post: “My Everything”

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

My friend, Taisha, and I share many similarities. Our friendship goes way back, almost twenty years. We played basketball together in college. Back then, we spent hours hanging out in each other’s dorm rooms. We both love laughing, dancing, and meeting new people. As we moved out of the dorms and years have flown by, we have become  mothers. We now share many of the universal thoughts and feelings that accompany motherhood. We each have three sons and love them with an overwhelming, protective, intense and unconditional love. We have countless hopes and aspirations for our sons. And we also have worries and fears related to our sons’ futures. My fears as a mother of three white sons are not the same as my friend, Taisha’s. This reality sickens, saddens, and infuriates me. I asked Taisha if she would share her thoughts and perspective as a mother of three black sons. She graciously accepted. I’m honored to have my dear friend as a contributor to my blog’s first guest post. -Amelia

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In the wake of senseless violence, many injustices, and racial tension at an all time high, I pray and I plead to the Lord. I pray my sons and/or loved ones NEVER become a hash tag, the face on a t-shirt, or a reason to protest in this world!! I just can’t!!

I am an African-American, proud mother of three black sons. My sons are Tavares (15), Trevon (8) and Trenton (6 years old). They are my heart, my love, my world, my joy, and absolutely my everything.

I will focus on my oldest son, Tavares. I’m sitting down on the couch watching t.v., I get a tap on my shoulder. “Mom, ma, mommy, mama, mommia, mom, mom, mom.” Here we go, the scene from Family Guy!! I turn around and he says hello. Not just a regular hello, an Adele hello,

“Hello, It’s me!”

I have to listen to him sing this song until the beginning of the second verse, where I can usually cut him off. Then, he sits on the floor in front of me so I can twist and play with his hair. Most of the time, you can see him doing the latest dance moves to the latest songs with the biggest grin on his face. Although a typical teen, Tavares stands at 6’5″ and is still growing. He loves basketball and is a member of the Varsity basketball team. He aspires to play college basketball at Auburn University. He loves nature and farming. Although he is an upcoming Junior in high school, he is also a Sophomore in college as a dual enrollment student. At his high school graduation, he will receive an associate degree in Agri-Science.  He participates in many school programs, clubs, and associations. He plays trumpet for the marching band and French horn for the concert band. At church, he is a member of the junior usher ministry and a member of the junior choir. He loves God, church, and his community. This is not the totality of my son but a glimpse of his many awesome attributes!!

It scares me that some portions of society feel fear, anger, and violence, or see a thug, a menace to society, an inferior being, without even knowing him. Every person has a story.

Every and any mother has a hope for her child to have the opportunity to live and fulfill the life God has for them. I just want Tavares to have that opportunity. My prayer is that hate doesn’t win, if he is ever in the face of hate. No one, I mean absolutely no one, has the right to take his life or that potential from the world.

Someone will take one look at him and assimilate every stereotype that may or may not be applicable to him. Someone will validate their own negative experience and paint him with the same broad brush. Someone may look at him with fear embedded from the perpetual, violent images of black boys his age, and not from his/her personal experience. Someone will never give him the compassion of humanity because of the pigmentation and hue of his skin. Someone will base their dialogue to remain true for all people and hate my son just because. My fear remains that someone could possibly rob my heart, my love, my world, my joy, and absolutely, my everything’s life, only to memorialize it with a hash tag, t- shirt, or protest in this world. I just can’t!

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5 AM Birds

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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Don’t get me wrong, I do love the birds, but just not at five in the morning. What are they doing jabbering away so much this early? It’s still dark outside. They’re persistent little pip squeaks. Maybe they’re begging for the sun to come out so they can eat their breakfast with the light on. They’re only bothering me because they highlight the fact that I can’t sleep. My guts hurt. And I can’t do much, but think and think because everyone’s asleep in my house.

I can’t stop worrying about how I need to get so many things done. Just in case I have to go to the hospital. Then, I start crying in the bed. Lying on my side to help with the cramping. Shhh. My quiet left-sided tears travel over the bridge of my nose and join up to make a puddle in my right eye. I don’t want to go to the hospital. There’s never a good time.

My four year old just woke up saying,

“Mama…..Maaaaaaaamaaaaa……..mama?”

So, I tip-toed into his room to snuggle him back to bed. I can’t do this when I’m in the hospital.

Yesterday, my bigger boys and sweet niece begged me to play “Monster” outside, a game where I chase them around the yard. I did it even though I was hurting and my mom told me to stop playing. Because I knew I would be bummed if I said no and then ended up in the hospital, stuck in a drab room, unable to chase them around in the grass. I also jumped into the freezing cold pool. That’s what this disease does to me. It makes me overthink things sometimes. It makes me not want to miss out on or regret an opportunity gently tapping or banging on my door. I hate it sometimes. But I guess it makes me different. In a good way.

I watched a video of our Florida trip tonight. My husband put it together using photos and video clips of our boys. It’s beautiful. My boys. The ocean. Breathtakingly gorgeous. Truly. I couldn’t believe how much my sweet beach loving boys have grown in a few short years. Time constantly moves on, whether we acknowledge or accept it or not.

I will make it through this phase of my disease acting up. I know it. God always carries me though. I’m not strong enough on my own to make it through the pain, all of the unknowns, and let-downs, that’s for sure. He also gives me people that love me in crazy, feel-good-despite-the-yuck ways and he steadily holds my head to focus in their direction to help me see them.

I’m impatient, I just want to feel better. Now. Right now. And I want to make sure and remind my future healthy self to remember this unprompted five am wake up call.

“Dear Future Amelia,

Be grateful of your sleeping, your eating, your dish loading (meh) and your playing. Be grateful for each day, especially those awesome moments, because they’re all a gift, even if it was a crappy day in the grand scheme of days. You got one more. Embrace the love and the life that surrounds you, even if it’s those hyper morning birds. They can’t help it if they don’t like eating in the dark…

love,

Presently Flared up Amelia”