Do You Know Who You Are?
Today I had to go to Salt Lake. On the freeway, I nearly ran into a bird. On the highway in the country, a person expects to see birds, but in the city on the freeway, birds are a rarity–especially in the case of this particular bird.
The poor thing was flying for all he was worth, dodging in and out of the traffic, trying to fly ahead of the car speeding along behind it. For all his efforts, it was only a matter of time before he and a windshield met in an intimate sort of way. “Don’t you know who you are?” I shouted at the bird (’cause I’m weird enough to talk to birds on the freeway).
He’s a bird! He has the amazing gift of flight and wings. All he had to do was fly up. Once high enough, he’d have been able to see beyond the distractions around him. He had the ability to move beyond his present circumstances, but didn’t because he’d apparently forgotten who he was.
All this happened as I was driving to my oldest brother’s house. He’d had a really rough day. He wasn’t home and hasn’t answered his cell phone. I wanted to talk to him today and tell him he was loved and worried about. I wanted to give him a hug and let him know that things were going to be okay. I wonder if he feels like that bird dodging in and out of traffic, trying to outrun the things that he fears and worries over. If he only knew how much potential he has. If he only would fly up and see beyond the distractions, he’d be able to see how to move into better situations.
How often do we all wing blindly in and out of traffic, just trying to survive and not get run over? And don’t we know who we are? Don’t we all have the ability to rise a little higher so we can see above and beyond whatever it is causing us grief?
So many of my friends are amazingly . . . well . . . amazing. Yet there is a common thread of worry and the downplay of their abilities. I want to shake them sometimes and scream, “don’t you know who you are?”
This post is a backwards way of telling all of you, my dear friends, I appreciate and value the people you are. I am grateful for all the kindness you give me and if for a moment you could see yourselves the way I saw you, you’d not only be able to rise a little higher, you’d be soaring.
Struck by The Lightning Thief
I admit I am arrogant enough to say I write great books. But every now and again, I run across an author that turns me ten shades of green (the envy kind).
My middle son wasn’t fond of books. His dyslexia put him behind in the reading area for a long time. We led him to graphic novels, which he seemed to do better with and every month he became a stronger reader, but he still didn’t enjoy reading. It was a source of agony to me, a writer, to have a child who doesn’t love reading like I love reading.
I decided to start reading aloud with him to help him along in school last year and we picked up the Lightning Thief (yes, I know we’re behind the times and should have done this three years ago). Most of our out-loud reading involved only one chapter a day. Time is a commodity and my voice doesn’t hold out for too long.
Then one day he came home, found the book, and begged for three chapters. He said, “Please.” He offered to mop the kitchen floor, clean his room, and go to boy scouts without complaint.
A chapter for each “chore” and he used the word please.
This is nothing short of miraculous. When we finished the third chapter (this is after chores were done and after dinner), he scampered to bed with the words, “You’re the best mom! Tomorrow we can do four chapters. I’ll even clean the bathrooms so you have more time.”
I was all astonishment. My child was doing chores and loving reading. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Something as miraculous as this needed to be shared, so I wrote the author, Rick Riordan, to let him know how fantastic he is. And do you know what? He was as kind and funny and gracious as an author ever could be. I hope when I write books cool enough to be chore-worthy, that I can behave like Rick.
I know it’s been a month, but . . .
I’ve been incoherently busy this last month. With work, several tradeshows for my store, and random writing and editing that had to be done, I can’t believe I found time to breathe. I wrote nearly 20,000 words which is no record breaking number but is still progress towards a completed novel.
It all comes back to normal life monday afternoon. I am in Vegas right now. Last week I was at the LDSBA in Salt Lake City. I had a great time at that convention hanging out with good friends. It was fun to get to see Michael McLean and hear the Tabernacle Choir resonate throughout the Tabernacle in downtown Salt Lake. Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing brought me to my feet as applause thundered all around. What an amazing performance.
My release for the novel, Eyes Like Mine, has been pushed back to July. It’ll be better for sales in the long run, but it is sooooo hard to wait that long.
It’s been a trying month as a mother. I’ve spent several nights staring into my sleeping children’s rooms and wondering if I really wept for all those years I thought I was infertile. Beyond the regular drama that comes with parenthood, the dog got hit by a truck. It isn’t just any dog, it’s Rae’s dog. My nephew was staying at my house and came in while I was packing to tell me that the dog had been hit. I ran outside to a horrible scene. My thirteen year old daughter cradled the limp bloody body of her dog in her arms as she screamed, “My dog! my dog! They hit her! They killed her!” In my entire life, I have never heard anything more jarring and disturbing as her shrill screams.
I took the dog from her to hurry and assess the situation. The dog didn’t move, but she was stil breathing. I kept assuming that each breath was the last. There was no way an animal bleeding so violently from the mouth and so limp in the body could survive.
But I looked up at my daughter as she chanted, “Fix her!” over and over again. How it reminded me of all the times when she has come to me throughout her life and demanded I fix something that I just couldn’t. The cookie that broke in half when she dind’t feel like eating a broken (and therefore less-than-worthy) cookie, the doll missing a leg due to puppy chewing, the glass tinker bell that fell and shattered.
Meeting Rae’s eyes and seeing the trust she placed in me to fix this, to make it better, to bandage it, and kiss it and make it all okay was more than I could handle. I looked back down and found that the dog was looking at me with the same demand as I’d found in my daughter’s eyes. “Fix it! Fix it!” I went in and called the vet with absolutely no hope that the dog had any chance to live, but unable to handle the insistence of both child and animal. After a few moments on the phone with the vet (who left me with even smaller hope that the dog would live) I decided to take the dog in.
I made Rae go with me.
And it turns out the dog was fixable for a very high price tag, a tag I couldn’t see how we’d be able to pay. But there was my daughter and the dog staring at me with those demanding eyes. There were the shrill screams still bouncing off the insides of my skull. I consented to the surgery. Copper (the dog) gave me a feeble flick of her tail in gratitude. Later, Rae hugged me so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. “Thanks for making it better.”
By saving the dog, I saved my daughter’s faith in me, for a little while longer, that I can still make the world better. That’s something I can’t put a price tag on.
Recent Comments