Parable of the Ice Cream

As educators, we know that some days are more challenging than others and sometimes we need some inspiration just to get through the day. As Catholic educators, we are called to teach as Jesus taught, so I’d like to share a parable. Probably one you haven’t heard before. It’s the parable of the ice cream.

A few years ago, I set out to perform community service at St. Vincent’s Day Home. This historic pre-school had served disadvantaged families in Oakland for decades. However, it was pretty much the last thing I felt like doing that day. Behind in my work, I was looking forward to taking the day to catch up on the emails that had accumulated in my in-box. The Campus Ministry team explained that we all needed to model service to our students and that my presence would send an important message. I remember sighing at the driver as I climbed into the van that took us to the school.

I was placed in a classroom of four-year olds. A feeling of panic swept through my body as they escorted me into the room and closed the door behind me. I sort of forgot what four year olds were like as it had been years since I had spent much time with preschoolers. As soon as I sat down, I was peppered with questions with little opportunity for a response, “Hi, my name is Gerard, what’s yours? This is my teddy bear. I brought him for show and tell. Do you have kids? I have a cousin named George but he got in trouble the other day…” Gerald had a unique gift of combining separate sentences into one long question, without taking a breath between his thoughts. I smiled quietly and followed Gerald’s directions more so than the instructions from the adults. Gerald and I become fast friends as he introduced me to his classmates and showed me the ropes including proper cubby use, potty location, and the butterflies they painted the day before. It was a busy classroom and I longed for nap time after only an hour.

Soon, we lined up to move outside to the playground. As the designated ball monitor, I felt compelled to initiate a basketball game. I realized that I had overestimated the eye-hand coordination of my young classmates. Throw the ball…and they miss…throw the ball and they miss…throw the ball and they miss…pretend to throw the ball—place it in their hands – and everybody celebrates.

After our basketball game, Angela, a shy diminutive girl with a crooked smile and fluffy pink jacket, assertively took me by the hand and informed me that we were going to play house. She guided me away from the crowd and over to the corner of the yard. We sat on a low stone wall that looked like something out of a storybook illustration. She announced, “You’re the mom and I’m the little girl.” I said “OK.” Then she just stared at me and I stared back not quite sure where this game was going to take us. I smiled, she smiled. I scratched my head, she scratched hers. Then, I asked her if she wanted a bowl of ice cream. She skeptically peered into my eyes and answered with confidence, “sure.”

I positioned Angela in front of me and asked her to show me her bowl. Again, her eyes pierced mine as I helped form her hands in the shape of a pretend bowl. Her tiny hands cradled her bowl as she anticipated my next words. I asked if she wanted chocolate or vanilla ice cream and she answered, “Chocolate,” her voice rising at the end of the word as if she were asking a question. I flatly responded “OK” and then leaned over to scoop the pretend ice cream from the pretend carton. Angela watched intently as I dropped each scoop of ice cream into her bowl. I paused and then looked at her and inquired if she wanted chocolate syrup. She nodded and watched as I drizzled it dramatically into her bowl. I continued by asking if she wanted sprinkles…whipped cream… and a cherry. With each inquiry, the delightful little girl with the fluffy pink jacket nodded with a smile and analyzed each move. I scattered sprinkles, shot whipped cream in circles over her bowl, and topped the dessert with a cherry. I told her that I was going to give her an extra cherry since she had been so good. She snuggled closer to me, started eating her ice cream, and continued chatting with me as if we were dining together at an elegant creamery.

Gerald approached and asked Angela what she was eating. She responded, “ice cream,” her words jumbled as if her mouth was full. With his hands at his hips, Gerald watched as Angela continued chewing and he asked “where’d you get it?” Angela nudged me without looking up and said, “Lisa gave it to me!” Gerald moved his stare to me and asked if he could have some too.

So, I lined Gerald up in front of me and shaped his hand to form the bowl. I asked him what kind of ice cream he wanted, and he asked if he could have a scoop of each. I agreed and continued asking him for his order. I offered him syrup, sprinkles, whipped cream, and a cherry. With each topping he shifted his look from me to Angela as she dipped her spoon into her bowl and seemed to enjoy each bite more than the one before.

When Gerald’s order was finally complete, he took his bowl and his excitement and sat next to Angela on the stone wall. The two of them continued chatting as they consumed each bite and I smiled as I watched them in all innocence truly take pleasure in the moment.

Soon, my reverie was interrupted by another child asking if she could have some ice cream. Again, I helped her to form her bowl and offered the same options as the first two. As I continued with this routine, I looked up to see a line of four-year olds standing patiently waiting their turn for ice cream.

On about the sixth order, one of my previous customers tugged on my coat and sadly looked down at her bowl of ice cream. She informed me that I had forgotten to give her sprinkles and asked if she could have some. I apologized, scattered her sprinkles and gave her extra whipped cream for the inconvenience. The happy customer strolled back to her place on the wall.

I continued scooping up ice cream until every customer was served. The amazing sense of patience among these small children impressed me. The line was long, but each child waited quietly with anticipation of their special dessert and each taking their place on the storybook wall to share in the ice cream experience.

When I had finished scooping, I again sat next to Angela on the wall and she simply looked up at me and smiled as if she knew all along where our game of house was leading. I glanced down the wall of children, swinging their legs, chatting with friends, and engaging in a joyful experience that would give pause to the most serious of adults.

In my reflection, I longed for those days of innocence and simplicity. I appreciated the challenges that these children would face in their lifetimes, and wished that ice cream could fill those days with hope.

I thought about the wonder of imagination and the all too often absence of that magic in our adult world. At that moment, my preschool classmates had taught me the lesson of a lifetime – It takes a leap of faith to appreciate the vision.

During the times when I doubt myself, I think back on that day on the storybook wall serving ice cream and watching a line of four-year olds taking a leap of faith – and I smile.

Obstacles to God’s Friendship

I stared at the box sitting in the front passenger seat. I wondered if I needed to fasten the seat belt around it. Then I simply shook my head – as if in disbelief of the situation I was facing. In slow motion, I gently leaned in and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. It had been a long five days. As I squeezed my eyes shut, the scenes that would change my life - quickly flipped through my mind.

The Davis Volleyball tournament had started. I laughed when I arrived with the team to spend the long weekend. The dorms where we were staying looked exactly like the ones I lived in when I was in college – so after getting the girls settled - I called my old college roommate and we giggled about where I was staying and about the good times living in the dorms. I knew it was going to be a great weekend. After the first day, the team had won two out of the three matches and I was responsible for helping get the girls to dinner and to bed on time so they would be ready for the early wave of play the next day. The coach gave her pep talk, and then we all puff painted the ribbons they were going to wear in their hair – I smiled as the girls talked about how these ribbons would intimidate the other teams. I remember thinking that this is what childhood should be about – competitive hair ribbons and good 8th grade volleyball. Life was just about perfect and I was pretty lucky.

We were scheduled to leave for the gym at 7:00 am so I got up about 5:00 to shower and get everything ready for a long day in a hot gym. I was packing up bottles of water in the ice chest when the coach stepped into my room and told me I had a phone call down in the main office. I looked down and realized that I hadn’t plugged in my cell phone. I knew that my husband would want to know how the girls played the day before and I had forgotten to call him. I thought to myself – for God’s sake – did he really have to call so early to get the news from yesterday? As I walked down the stairs to the dorm office – I was thinking about how I would best frame the fact that I had failed to call – “We were really busy” I thought to myself – and come on – he had no idea about how much time that ribbon project took last night.

I picked up the phone and the student at the desk stepped away to give me some privacy. Mark’s voice sounded tired. He said he had bad news and I could hear him take a deep breath. He told me Jim died last night. I leaned against the wall and said “Oh no. Was he killed in a car accident – I always worried about him making a long drive for work sometimes.” Mark said he would tell me about it when I got on the road.

Jim was one of my best friends. I have a lot of friends – mostly women – but Jim was one of my only real guy friends. He talked me into coaching soccer after I was ranting that there were no female coaches – of course I had never played soccer or really even seen a game before – so he was my “assistant coach.” I blew the whistle and he coached and taught me to love the game. The week before he died – we were standing in church together – our kids were altar serving so it was just the two of us in the pew. He leaned over and asked…”Do you notice something about the drape on the altar?” He pointed to the long drape that was beautifully arranged around the crucifix and flashed me his mischievous smile. I glared at him because I knew he was going to say something that would make me laugh and … we were in church. I looked up at him and he said “check it out – it looks JUST like the MTV logo – get it – the cross is the T.”

I called Mark when I was on the road back home and asked him what happened – Mark knows me too well – I was not going to wait to hear the story of my friend. He said that Jim had not been killed in a car accident. “Lisa – I’m going to tell you this so you will be prepared when you drive up to the house. I need you to listen – but drive carefully. Jim took a rope and hanged himself. I’ll fill you in on the details when you get back – it’s been a long night and the family needs you. Please just concentrate on driving now and I’ll see you soon.” With that – I hung up and started thinking random thoughts. It’s funny how when tragedy hits – your mind wanders in so many directions. My first thought was – there was some mistake. My second thought however was – “How could God have let this happen?” That sort of became my refrain as I drove home.

I drove up to Jim’s house and there were several friends milling around the front yard. Everyone seemed to be in a daze. Mark looked like he had been hit by a train. The hug he gave me felt desperate. “I’m glad you’re here” he whispered in my ear. We walked away from the crowd and he started explaining what happened. “I got a call from Paulette around 2:00 am – she blurted out that she thought Jim had killed himself.” Mark went on to explain that Jim sent email messages to his wife Paulette, his dad, and a friend from college last night. It sounded like he was despondent and she worried that something had happened. She told Mark that Jim had gone to work and that she needed him to go to the office to see if he was OK. When Mark arrived - the street was filled with police cars and emergency vehicles. They couldn’t tell him what happened but that Jim had been taken to the hospital. When Mark and Paulette arrived, the doctor told them Jim was dead. The police filled in the story. Jim had called the police to report an intruder in the office – the officer explained that often happens when a person does not want family or friends to find the body. Jim was smart – he figured he had about 20 minutes before the police would find his office door --and his body -- so he rigged the rope and hanged himself before they arrived. Mark continued to let me know about the rest of the night – telling the kids, calling Jim’s parents, informing our friends, managing the gossip, and notifying the parish priest. He was right – it had been a long night. I was suddenly a long way from puff painting hair ribbons … and my lucky life.

Mark was spent - and I knew that it was my turn to move into crisis mode and help with all the details that come with death. Unfortunately, I had experience. My sister-in-law had died from cancer six months earlier and my grandmother had just passed away as well. I made the funeral arrangements and gave the eulogy for both services so I knew what the next few days were going to be like. But this was different. Jim had chosen to leave us and I didn’t know why.

I negotiated with the funeral director, picked up Jim’s personal belongings at the morgue, wrote the obituary, selected the readings and the songs for the memorial mass, pasted the collage of pictures together, and continued making phone calls to Jim’s friends and relatives – and I didn’t cry. I really didn’t have time – but the anger was growing inside – not at Jim – but at God. This really wasn’t fair and something was terribly wrong.

The day before the memorial, my friend told me about the song she was going to sing at Jim’s mass. She explained that the “Litany of the Saints” calls to all the saints to pray for us. She looked at me and softly said – it can be an emotional song. I thought to myself – OK – I’ll humor her and let her think that it’s emotional – when it’s really just a roll call of the saints. Sort of traditional – not really my style - but I figured I wasn’t going to argue with her and then we proofed the mass program and moved on with our discussion about arranging dinners for the family.

It turned out that the song was a pivotal moment for me. When she began to sing I realized that she was really calling on God to help us through this difficult situation. She called each saint by name and repeated the refrain “…pray for us… St. Peter and Paul…pray for us…St. Theresa and Mother Mary… pray for us…” The song seemed to last forever - and it was the first time I cried. I cried because I missed Jim and felt abandoned – but I also felt betrayed and abandoned by a God that I thought was there to protect me – and my friends. I saw a new face of God – and I changed.

So there I was…sitting in the car wondering if I needed to fasten the seat belt around the box that held Jim’s ashes. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I yelled at him in the car that day. Staring at the box, I told him how disappointed I was and asked how he could do this to all of us. He didn’t answer. And then I felt sorry for him. For the hurt that he must have been feeling for a long time…for the pain he was in that we didn’t know about…for the sadness he must have felt in those last moments.

So it wasn’t his fault – the new face of God I saw was one that didn’t care to help him when he needed it most. I thought of the “Litany of the Saints” and how silly it seemed to call on them after Jim died – where were they when he needed them – in those final moments.

I started feeling like a jilted lover. One that put all my love into my relationship with God and he left me…left me cold and alone. God had broken my heart and it was a pain that couldn’t be soothed.

Over the next few months, I was in a difficult position. Sitting in church with my family - feeling like a total hypocrite - was probably the hardest thing for me. I had lost my faith in God – lost the friendship that I had enjoyed with God all my life. I was looking for answers everywhere and trying to explain. I wanted to be free from this religion that seemed so cruel. I felt a loss of innocence. Everything I thought I knew had changed…Life – and religion – was not as simple as I once believed.

My faith journey after Jim’s death was a long one. I slowly began to realize that God had not left me out in the cold alone. He was there listening and supporting me every day. I relied on prayer to bring me back to my lucky life.

Prayer is where I found peace – prayer is where I learned to forgive Jim. Yes, my faith had changed – I had changed.

Jim had been suffering for a long time – turning my anger to God was a way to ignore my guilt about not recognizing Jim’s pain before it was too late. God had not jilted me – God had guided me to a new freedom – a freedom to view my relationship with Him in a mature way.

I’ve come to realize that God isn’t managing us in everything we do all day –he gives us free choice – he allows us to make mistakes – some more painful than others – but the choice is important because it opens that path for us to explore a deeper and more meaningful relationship with our God - and - the opportunity to grow from our experiences.

So now I see the face of God and love – as a package deal…and I found the answer looking in the eyes of God.

…and…yes – I can tell you everything about living free.

My Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

So I know that I stole the title from a children’s book that I read to my kids when they were little. But after the day I had, I couldn’t think of anything else.

Sonora was my daughter’s rabbit. She had bought her on a whim and loved the fact that the bunny kept her company in her small college apartment. She was white, fluffy, and sort of mean. I soon realized that my daughter knows me too well.

When my daughter was heading off to study abroad she admitted that she had a problem concerning the rabbit. I received a phone call one day and she explained that she couldn’t get anyone to watch Sonora while she was away so she was just going to sell her on Craig’s List. Outraged, I immediately reminded her that our family did not sell pets on the Internet and that we would care for the rabbit. She knew I would have that reaction.

We dropped our daughter off at the airport to launch her study abroad adventure and our rabbit responsibilities commenced.

We moved to the country about three months before and I was excited to have what I considered a farm animal. My husband and I ventured to the Feed and Fuel store on Main Street to purchase the necessary food, rabbit treats, and hay. I soon discovered that Sonora loved to hop around outside so we would leave her in the yard and she would nestle under a small bush and enjoy the warm sun on her back. Catching her became quite a challenge when it was time to get her back in the cage – but who could blame her?

One weekend in mid-September we were excited to host our nephew and his girlfriend for a few days. Early Sunday morning I let Sonora out to roam and we made coffee for our guests. The weather was beautiful so we decided to take a long walk and I headed out in the yard to catch the rabbit. She was nowhere to be found. I gathered the troops and we all started looking and calling for Sonora (I don’t think she knew her name – but somehow it seemed to make sense at the time). After about 10 minutes of searching, my husband pointed down the road to the two little girls next door. They were carrying Sonora back up to our house. I shouted down to them “Hey, how did ya catch her?” As the words were still hanging in the air, I realized that Sonora wasn’t moving as she lay in the oldest child’s arms. I strolled down the road to meet them and one of the girls stared at me with a stunned look and said that they had found the rabbit in our yard. I looked down and Sonora was limp. The girl continued by explaining that they had taken the rabbit home to their mom and it had died in her arms. Their mom then told them to take the rabbit back to me.

Whoa. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond other than the fact that I couldn’t believe that any mother would instruct her child to bring a dead rabbit back to the neighbor’s house. So I gently took the lifeless rabbit into my arms and looked up the hill to my bewildered husband and guests and announced that Sonora was dead. We all stood around and evaluated if the rabbit was actually dead by moving her limp body and calling her name (Again, the name calling wasn’t helpful but what the hell did we know – we were city folk). My husband reminded me that we now lived in the country and things like this happen all the time. We gently placed her in a bag and decided to go on our walk.

Of course we spent the better part of our stroll discussing how the rabbit must have died. Did it have a heart attack in our yard when another animal approached? Did the girls take it back to their house and let it play in their yard with the other animals? Ironically, the girls next door had a rabbit as well but we all agreed that Sonora was more of a Paris Hilton sort of bunny than a country rabbit and hanging with country animals would have indeed been dangerous. We also had to make a pact that no one would tell my daughter. I figured that since she was living in Europe for the semester that we would wait to tell her until she arrived back home. No need to share news that would make her sad so far away.

Our walk took us about two miles away from our house. In the midst of our conversation I swatted what I thought was a fly and caught it in my hand. Unfortunately, the fly was actually a bee and it stung my finger. I know that I have a low tolerance for pain, but it really, really hurt. I felt a little faint as my husband instructed me on the proper method of caring for a bee sting. I disagreed and just squeezed my fingers as hard as I could – cutting off all blood circulation to my hand and brain – but it seemed to curb the sting. I tried not to cry when I realized that I was going to have to walk the two miles back home. I grumbled that I was OK and that we just needed to continue. Everyone had a suggestion for how to stop the pain – which just got irritating after a while. What seemed like a two hour sojourn, we arrived back home and I iced the finger and my hand for another hour.

Clearly by this time my husband started feeling sorry for me. The rabbit under my care was dead, I had to strategize on what and when to tell my daughter, and my finger was swollen with a damn bee sting. He announced that we could go to the Feed and Fuel store to see if there were any rabbits for sale. We agreed that we wouldn’t purchase one that day, but that I could hold the baby rabbits to make me feel better. I agreed that was a good idea – we really should never rush into a pet decision but I needed something to lift my spirits.

The Feed and Fuel store had a limited number of rabbits but we quickly found ourselves holding two very cute black and brown baby bunnies. As we were holding them I kept scratching an itch that had been bothering me for the past 30 minutes or so. I asked my husband if there was anything on my cheek and he sheepishly looked up at me trying not to make eye contact. Actually, he said “Yea, I’ve been watching it for about 20 minutes and it seems to be getting bigger and bigger!” I think he was afraid I was going to explode. “It looks like you might have been bitten by a spider.” He quickly tried to move the conversation back to the cute baby bunnies but to no avail. “Are you kidding me?” I shouted as I could feel my eye start to swell shut. “Uh, no,” he responded and then gingerly signed to sales girl to help us put the bunnies back in their cage as he quickly ushered me out the door and back to the car.

Well, I eventually survived. We told our daughter about the fate of Sonora when we visited her in Spain and we bought two new rabbits (one for me and one for our daughter) that never wander outside on their own. Now I’m just waiting to get some chickens.

Bodega Babes

Eight girls sat nervously on the side of the bed waiting for my mother to enter. My parents had driven a carload of girls up to Eureka, California to cheer on the high school football team and we were staying in a hotel room on our own. We had been warned to keep all boys out and we had clearly violated the rule. Moments earlier, the hotel room in Eureka, California was filled with nearly 20 boys who were also visiting town for the game. When my mom stopped by to check on us, the look on her face was nothing short of complete distress. She stood at the door in her robe and slippers and pointed to the boys to leave. There was no way out of the situation. We steadied ourselves in preparation for the tongue lashing we anticipated and deserved.

When the last boy cleared her post, my mother quickly crossed the threshold and turned to us. She stared in our eyes for a brief moment and then leaned over and started laughing. Between giggles she exclaimed, “That was so embarrassing!” At that moment, we all started laughing.

Little did we know that we would be telling and smiling about that story thirty years later.

We all need friends in our lives who knew us as kids. Those friendships remind us of a humble beginning when we weren’t quite sure of our destiny. Somehow, when I get together with my high school buddies, I become 16 again – with all the freshness and excitement of a less complicated time. We play songs from 1978 and miraculously know all the words. We laugh about high school dances, boyfriends, and teachers we didn’t like. Pages of yearbooks are examined and we wonder about faces we knew and haven’t seen in many years. Reminiscing about the past seems to bring the present into focus as we realize the irreplaceable value of those life-long friendships.

Three years ago, my high school friends decided to rent a house for the weekend in the tiny harbor town of Bodega Bay on the Sonoma coast. Our teen years were spent driving to the beach for a variety of celebrations so it seemed like an appropriate venue. We hadn’t really seen much of each other in the years since graduation. While we had occasionally met for dinner or a holiday celebration, life had kept us all busy and this was our chance to catch up.

The weekend turned out to be a remarkable journey. We laughed until we cried and re-enacted stories from years past. The joys and sorrows of our current lives emerged as highlights in our conversation and a warm embrace seemed to fill the air. Life had delivered significant changes in the decades since those carefree days of our youth - some more painful than others. But something important had remained steadfastly intact – our commitment to one another. As giddy teenagers, we trusted each other with our deepest, darkest secrets. In Bodega, we realized that nothing had changed. That high school friendship had just matured into something much more meaningful and significant. Years of experience had brought new insight, advice, and support. We learned how to tell each other to forgive and forget and how to comfort and congratulate. Friendships can be complicated, but at that moment in Bodega, the true essence of friendship was absolutely natural and complete.


The Bodega babes continue to get together to share stories of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. We have however all promised to censor the pictures that we share with our family from our weekend retreats!

Cactus Taqueria

Everyone seems to have a favorite neighborhood Mexican food restaurant. Judging from the long lines at the cashier, Cactus Taqueria is a popular favorite. With a blend of typical Mexican dishes like burritos, nachos, and tacos mixed with a variety of specialty dishes, Cactus Taqueria seems to offer something for all the individual eaters in our family. My all-time favorite is the order of crispy shrimp tacos. When I’ve experienced a particularly challenging day, I think about the crispy shrimp tacos. The traditional “comfort foods” such as chicken noodle soup, warm stew, or mom’s apple pie reassure some but the Cactus Taqueria crispy shrimp tacos give me the comfort I need at my neediest times. My friends know it. My family knows it. When I grouse about a bad day and swear at the empty refrigerator again, it’s time to get some crispy shrimp tacos. Life is pretty good again as soon as I take the first bite.

At the time, the impending crossroad in our life was slowly emerging. My husband’s long commute - college choices for our youngest daughter – and a job that had its own challenges - all seemed to be pointing to a new direction in our lives. The unspoken fear of the empty nester syndrome and the tension of two tired professionals negotiating through modern parenthood contributed to uncertain times. Those romantic days of gazing into each other’s eyes seem to be faded memories. Life had become complicated and the college sweethearts needed to face a new world of demands.

It became clear that we needed a Cactus fix. My daughter ordered her usual nachos without jalapeños and I ordered the two crispy shrimp tacos this time, as did my husband. All delicious choices and when our order number was called we brought the tray back to our table and began eating and talking as we always did. Chatter about the week’s events and highlights for upcoming plans filled the air. As the meal rounded to a close, and I had inhaled my two tacos, my husband had one more taco left on his plate. We both politely stared at the remaining tacos on his plate and the emptiness of mine. Without saying a word, I glanced up into the eyes of that college sweetheart of mine and he offered to share his last precious taco with me. He rolled his eyes and we both smiled and began sharing the last remaining taco.

Our daughter watched us intently as we nonchalantly finished the taco together and continued chatting. At the moment of the last bite, she announced, “Now I get it…it’s all about sharing the taco!”

Of course we laughed and agreed that “sharing the taco” should be the motto for good marriages, true friendships, and a life of reaching beyond ourselves and into our community and our world.

I Love a Good Day

Marriage is full of joys and challenges. Children fill your life with love and challenges. Careers fill your days with growth and challenges. Friends come and go in your life. Even pets leave a mark on your heart. As I approach the mid-mark of my life, I spend more and more time reflecting on the joys of my life and the times that make and made a difference.

I don’t remember much these days but I am starting to care less about impressing others and more about the simple joys that life seems to bring every now and then.

Last spring I was organizing my life’s possessions when I came across a note that my daughter wrote when she was young. “I love a good day” was scribbled across a page in all capital letters. I’m sure she was trying to write, “I love you and have a good day” but somehow, reading that note all these years later, loving a good day seemed like a middle-aged woman’s mantra. At the time, I had spent about three weeks preparing to pack up the house I had lived in for nearly 20 years - raised my two daughters, and witnessed some of life’s most precious gifts and experienced difficult times that would leave an indelible mark. I suppose I wasn’t just saying good-bye to a building – I was bidding farewell to a lifestyle - A lifestyle that included friends, neighbors, career, and a history of experiences. The neighborhood I lived in was rebuilt after the Oakland Hills fire in 1991. We moved into one of the first homes constructed after the fire and our new life reflected the metaphor of the phoenix rising theme that emerged after the devastating disaster. We were building a new life as a young family much like the neighborhood reinventing itself.

As I shifted through an attic worth of boxes and separated the goods into piles of save, give-away, and throw-away, I felt a wave of melancholy flow through my body. At that instant, I faced a moment of truth. Had I made the right choices in my life? How in the heck had I gone from a care-free cheerleader to a middle-aged wife and mother cleaning out a house and getting ready to move to a completely new community without friends or family? Had I peaked with my accomplishments or was the best still yet to come? It sounds so cliché, but you just never seem prepared to face the reality of aging. I certainly wasn’t. Preparing for the move had become my perfect storm.

My two adult daughters had moved out of the house. My husband was working an hour away and was anxious to move closer to work and I was leaving what seemed like a lifetime of memories. More importantly, I was approaching my 50th birthday and seeing the signs of aging daily.

So there, I said it. It really wasn’t about the move, the memories, the family or friends. It really was about the aging process and all the seemingly traumatic emotions that come with it. As I packed the boxes, I realized that the move represented just another one of those life choices…all along life’s very long journey. We’ve heard the phrase that life is short. While it’s difficult to believe that the mid-mark of my life is quickly approaching, ironically, I’m also realizing that life is really, really long. Since it’s so damn long, we need to learn from our mistakes and make life choices that truly give us happiness. Now, that doesn’t mean that life is one big happy party or that we will never experience loss, regret, or challenge. I suppose it’s all those things that make life complicated that shouts out to us that we can’t do it alone.

Through my reflections recently, I’ve realized that to truly enjoy a good day – to make it through this long life - you have to reach out to others to share in the joys, heartaches, and triumphs.
I received an orchid as a going away gift when we moved. Miraculously, the blooms stayed on the stems for over six months. Quite an accomplishment for someone who struggles to keep even the most drought resistant plants alive (OK, I admit, I didn’t water it much – my husband took loving care of the plant). When the last bloom dropped to the floor, I decided it was time to truly start the next leg of this journey.