Climbing out of the stormy sea

And so I struggle in this world … in this moment in time … with William Booth’s “dark and stormy ocean” and the mighty rock that rose up high above the clouds (http://bit.ly/oNvkoe).  It’s the platform that gets to me actually and those individuals who were able to climb out of the stormy ocean to its safety.

Booth describes how some, from the safety of the platform, industriously worked with make-shift ladders, ropes, boats and “other means more effective,” to help others still in the angry sea.

And I am so bored with me.

And there is so much more that is interesting, more compelling, more inspirational, more real in the dark and stormy ocean.

The stories of others reaching in to rescue another move me because in their darkness, those adrift in the sea often don’t see the hand reaching out to save them. Those being tossed to and fro are focusing instead on the waves – big huge waves. Pounding waves. Cold waves. Waves that crash over their heads and they wonder if perhaps this time they will drown.

Some almost did drown.

But a hand rescued them.

That so brings a tear to my eye still and I have been thinking about this for a ridiculously long time. Why does it still move me so?

But a hand reached down and rescued them. Someone – maybe God, maybe a friend, maybe a stranger, maybe an angel – someone reached down and grabbed their hand and rescued them. From the dark and stormy ocean.

I heard yesterday of yet another amazing rescue, from the dark, stormy, angry sea. As the story goes – in fact for many of us – in one horrific moment my friend’s world crashed. And broke into a million tiny pieces. And laid askew in those million tiny pieces before her. Suddenly, nothing was familiar. Or safe. Or comfortable. Disbelief morphed into denial into sadness into anger into disbelief again and again. And the waves of grief crashed over her head. And she wondered, I have to believe, if she would ultimately drown in those horribly cold and raging waters.

But she didn’t. She made it up onto the platform – a platform she wasn’t even aware was there. The darkness had hid it from view. Her sheer and fading grit helped keep her body from going under, even if just her head bobbed above it just enough to suck in some desperately needed air.

And a hand reached down and rescued her.

And I marvel really because every logical indication said her story couldn’t be so. Every data driven piece of evidence said such a story was impossible.

But a hand reaching down to rescue us from a dark and stormy sea isn’t impossible.

My struggle in this moment is what to do with those who have no need, those who have already been rescued, those who stand squarely on the platform with dry clothes, combed hair, full bellies. How do I fit in with people who seemingly have no need? How do I interact with those who have only answers and no questions?

And should I?

Should I?

Detroit News gets it right with identifying Flint's aura

She's so mean but I don't care
I love her eyes and her wild wild hair
Dance to the beat that we love best
Heading for the nineties
Living in the wild wild west
The wild wild west
         -Escape Club

Well, so it isn't the nineties, but I am telling you I SAW the mean chick and "her wild, wild hair" as I drove down Grand Traverse the other day. I'm telling you, she was packing heat! 

Heck, we ALL are! 

The Detroit News got it right today with their piece, "Rampant crime gives Flint aura of wild West." My only quibble - and I mean quibble - is what took them so long??

Francis X. Donnelly opened her the insightful piece with "Nine abandoned homes were torched Monday and Tuesday, and a dozen burned in a four-hour period last month. The week before, a civil rights pioneer was killed in his upper-income neighborhood. Two weeks earlier, one of the police mini-stations erected as a solution to rising crime was burglarized. 

"Once upon a time, these things shocked residents," Donnelly said.

She got that right!

Yippee ki yea!

We're not shocked any more - most people I know are locked and loaded, no longer waiting for our 124 police officers to respond to our 911 calls for help. Yup, that's 1.2 officers per 1,000 residents.

"Vehicle City, the nickname given Flint as the birthplace of General Motors, has become the state's version of Dodge City," Donnelly writes.

DODGE CITY!! Is that GREAT writing or what??

Donnelly's piece noted, "With all of the other troubles faced by Flint, manhole covers have been disappearing. Some 80 covers have been stolen in the past few months, probably for scrap, police said. For residents, the lowly metal objects are an example of how nothing is safe from thieves. 

"A feeling of lawlessness has seeped into the city's psyche, they said."

It's the seeping that has likely led residents to take matters into their own hands. The Detroit News piece described one man who bought two Magnums, calibers .22 and .44; and owns FOUR pit bulls.

Listen, he's not the only one!

Mandy's in the backroom handing out Valium
Sheriff's on the airwaves talking to the D.J.'s
Forty-seven heartbeats beating like a drum
Got to live it up live it up
Ronnie's got a new gun.

Living in the wild wild west
The wild wild west

What 50 has taught me

At 50, I thought I would understand more than I do. I thought I would finally "get" people and better understand motives and drive and ambition. I thought I might care less for the things that promised so little, see more clearly purpose ... and right from wrong.

And love. and fear. and faith.

And what it means to care.

And care is different from love, you know? It is. I learned that at 50. Just because someone says they love another, doesn't really mean they care - because love can be selfish. We can love others selfishly.

I learned that quite some time ago.

It's the caring that's the revelation.

We have a legal term that defines when someone does not have a surviving parent to care for them - though to say it, for me, feels harsh and unkind and I would hope I would never be so thoughtless or insensitive as to use it casually in any conversation I might have. Just the word orphan pierces my heart.

... does not have a surviving parent to care for them...

In fiction we find that a lack of parents leaves characters to pursue more interesting and adventurous lives, by freeing them from familial obligations and controls, and depriving them of more prosaic lives. Authors create orphaned characters that are self-contained and introspective.


In the non-fiction of my life, however, I see it played out in other ways as there are many moments in our days where we feel as if no one cares. While we would respond wholeheartedly that we are loved, in the quiet of our hearts we all too often wonder if there is anyone who really ... truly ... cares.

I think it's that uncertainty that someone cares that has sabotaged the growth of humanity or community - heck, even our families and friendships and marriages - and how we raise our kids and our pets. How we are churched. How we are governed. It whispers to us when our assessments and achievements of life still feels empty. It lurks on the fringes of our minds and clamors to find a solid place in our hearts.

... But, BUT, does anyone really care?

50 taught me that.

50 taught me that my days suddenly seem and feel more numbered. I have fewer days ahead of me, for sure, than I now have behind me. It taught me that what I might have been even subconciously waiting for should be pursued ... with my whole heart ... because it might not happen.

50 taught me the value of friends ... friends that truly care AND truly love me. Lucky me. Lucky, lucky me.

50 taught me that our bodies really do change - and now it may take work to shape them the way we want them to be.

50 taught me that dragons can be slayed, that forgiveness is a force, that sometimes we have to go back before we can ever move forward. 50 forced me back and now I am moving forward.

50 taught me that fear has kept me from living life fully, that facing people and darkness and pain is better than turning away. That in the facing of fear we discover that fear itself is a coward and cowers when challenged. Sometimes it dissolves before our very eyes. Fear is far weaker than life.

50 taught me that.

And 50 taught me about faith, a life changing faith, an inspirational faith, a non-human powered faith, a faith that says, yes instead of maybe, a faith that takes risks instead of reserves.

I guess it's true then as one author has said, "... suddenly you find - at the age of 50 ... that a whole new life has opened before you."

It has for me. And I suspect it has for you...

In memory of Jerrie Sue...

I started attending church with my husband just before we were married in 1994. At the time, I went to church, went to service, then left. I was overwhelmed by all of the new faces, my new mother and father inlaw, his grandparents, his first, second and third cousins. I felt like everyone knew me – and I knew no one.

Shortly after we had my daughter in 1996, I found myself taking her to the nursery. That nursery on the second floor of the church was where EVERYTHING happened! And I mean EVERYTHING! And everyone who attends that church knows it. If a new initiative didn’t make it past the nursery, it didn’t make it for the church as a whole. Within those walls, holding those sweet tender babies were the strongest women I have ever known.

Of course, it wasn't long after sitting in that room for the first time when I heard a voice that I pray today I will never EVER forget. It was loud. It, too, was strong. And I knew that whomever it was directed at was going to abide by the short forceful command, “STOP RUNNING!” I reached down and covered Isi with what I suddenly wished was a soundproof blanket.

I waited for David to come get us in the nursery that morning … In part because I was afraid… As I left, I peered into every single room up there on the second floor. Across the hall was this sweet looking grandmother, talking to what looked like the Pastor's sons. Surely it wasn’t her. Too sweet. Too grandmotherly.

It wasn’t long before I learned that IT WAS HER! If the nursery and the second floor was command central at that church, I quickly learned that Jerrie Sue was commander in chief … Well, honestly ... Jerrie Sue was second in command behind her mother, Doris, whom I also loved very very dearly. Those two women MADE.IT.HAPPEN.

By the time I had Colton, 15 months after Isabella, I quickly discovered I needed help. My parents and David’s parents were busy. I was overwhelmed with the responsibility of raising what suddenly felt like a family of 10. Jerrie Sue had already grabbed Isi from me plenty of times DESPITE my quiet request that she wash her hands first - and my follow up 20 questions about ALL exposures to ANY illness. I stood in amazement as she ignored all of my requests and inquiries. And I was even more amazed as Isi laughed and cooed at the Commander in Chief. By the time she grabbed Colton for the 25^th time and worked her charm, I KNEW that Jerrie Sue was going to be a HUGE part of our lives. She loved my kids. She LOVED them. And they loved her, despite her sometimes loud barking commands that made ME want to run and hide. When we needed her most, Jerrie Sue made herself busy with us. I will never, ever forget that.

I remember asking the kids one day if Jerrie Sue ever scared them with her sometimes loud and forceful direction. They they looked rather puzzled and laughed at me; “NO! Why would we be afraid??"

After all, who can be scared of Mother Goose and her bag of movies and M&Ms? Who can be afraid of a Grandma who watched them whenever we called for however long we needed her, without hesitation? When we came home, we knew our kids had probably had more fun that evening than we ever had. And we knew that whatever note we had left about feeding them their green vegetables and NO M&Ms had been ignored … especially as we found Dixie cups of M&Ms all around the house. She ignored us – but she never ONE TIME ignored them.

I will close with this. Mother Goose wasn’t all just fun and games - and M&Ms. Also stuffed in her bag was all kinds of educational activities from word searches to math problems. She sat those kids down at some point during her stay and taught them to love learning. Any academic success my kids have today came because Jerrie Sue planted and watered that seed time and time again. Jerrie Sue was a teacher – sometimes whether she realized it or not. Jerrie Sue taught me how to be a better mother. Her long talks with me after everyone else went to bed taught me how to be a better friend. She taught me that sometimes – gloriously – the bark is so much bigger than the bite. That when your heart is in the right spot, nothing else matters. Jerrie Sue’s heart was so in the right spot.

This family will never be the same without Jerrie Sue. She is a part of us now even though she is gone. She is deep in our hearts and every single thought and memory is a treasure.

Rest in peace, Jerrie Sue... You were truly loved

In the autumn of the years...

When I was seventeen
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for small town girls
And soft summer nights
We'd hide from the lights
On the village green
When I was seventeen

When I was twenty-one
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for city girls
Who lived up the stair
With all that perfumed hair
And it came undone
When I was twenty-one

When I was thirty-five
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls
Of independent means
We'd ride in limousines
Their chauffeurs would drive
When I was thirty-five

But now the days are short
I'm in the autumn of the year
And now I think of my life as vintage wine
From fine old kegs
From the brim to the dregs
It poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year

It was a mess of good years




~ It Was a Very Good Year Lyrics
Frank Sinatra

 

Personalities

I woke up this morning thinking about my friends Shari and Diane - well actually an incident with the two of them after Shari and I spent countless hours analyzing our personalities with various tests and charts and readings. Yes, we were totally confident in who we were - every response lined up. Shari ALWAYS responded this way; now we know why. I ALWAYS responded that way and my results said it was an affirming strength rather than the laughable fluke we often thought it was.

But then there was Diane. The tests and charts and readings didn't line up for her. We read the charts again. And again. And again, trying to understand our dear friend who we had known for so many years. Based upon our inarguable results with the two of us, it became crystal clear we did not know Diane. At all. She was not being honest about who she really was deep down inside. Why, oh why, would she not be honest with us?

So we confronted her - tests, charts, readings in hand. "Take this test, Diane. We want to understand you better." She looked at us as if we were once again scheming something bizarre. "Understand me? No one understands me better than the two of you." Shari and I look at each other knowingly; the lies have once again begun. "No really. Take it. We don't think we know you at all. In fact, we think you have been hiding your real person from us - we want to know the REAL you. Take this test. Read this chart. Look at this reading. If this were REALLY you, you would do it this way instead of how you have been pretending to do it for years. Diane, we LOVE you but who are you, who are you really??"

To appease us, she took the tests and Shari and I devoured the results, shifting them through our now expert filters. "See, she's not being honest with us! Her results say this yet she has always said that. Oh no, now what? What do we do?"

New results in hand, we confront. "Diane, your results say you are this and not that. Your results say you like that and not this. We have always ALWAYS thought you liked THIS."

For about 10 seconds she just stared at us with our tests, charts and readings. Then she chuckled and shook her head from side to side. "You guys are nuts. I don't know what you THINK you have discovered about me but, all I know is that I am me, that I have been genuine in showing - especially the two of you - who I am. I am not pretending. There is no one else hidden deep inside. This is me." It was touching, moving really.

Blink, blink.

I look at Shari, she at me.

Blink, blink.

"Poor thing," Shari says. "SHE doesn't even know who she is." I nod affirmingly knowing that the two of us now had a new adventure before us of discovering the real Diane.

Diane abruptly left the room, throwing her hands up in the air in total surrender - to our wisdom we were sure!


I went to bed angry at David last night because I figured out who he really is and HE also rejected my wisdom. He said he was something else altogether. So we went down the tests, charts and readings by every jott and tittle. "Nope, not me," he says. "Not you?? SOO YOU!"
"No way!" "Yes way and sooo way."

He went to sleep angry, contrary to scripture I might add since it says somewhere that we aren't suppose to go to sleep angry.

The tattered and torn heap of tests, charts and readings are lying in a heap in the corner of my room now.

... I wonder if Isi and Colt are old enough ...

Through the darkness...

I'm feeling rather dark this morning.

Trying to make some sense of death - and the end of life. Throughout the night, I found myself tossing and turning as I tried to find comfort physically and emotionally.

I thought of Patrick, my dear friend, my kindred spirit - my laughter for many years - who in the lapse of the busyness of our days, took his own life and I never was able to say good bye. Every sailboat I see - every. single. time. I. see. one. - I think of him and his passion for piloting and crewing graceful boats that glide with the wind across the waters of Michigan.

And then he was gone.

I thought of my father and how my life has never really been the same.
Nor has the lives of Isi and Colt who STILL talk about him - and love him - and miss him.

I thought about Celia who has buzzed around me for years - years - doing and doing, hugging and hugging - and how much I really took for granted that her presence would always be there.

And I thought about Joanne.
After many years, I first observed her again from the pew of our church - stunned really as I had no recollection of her interest in attending such a service. Our history was full of difficulties. As we parted ways many years ago, I breathed a sigh of relief. Our charged and conflicted interactions would now cease. And we never spoke again.

And suddenly, many years later, there she was. Week after week I observed her in church, trying to figure out her true motive for being there. I genuinely doubted it was pure. And I watched as she came in and sat alone, near the front, sometimes seeming to be moved to tears by the message or song. Sometimes we would leave from the same door, a few feet apart but never speaking, never even acknowledging a fleeting and knowing glance.

The Pastor announced from the pulpit a few weeks ago that Joanne is dying.

And I have tossed and turned many a nights now as I think of her.
In that pew, sometimes crying.
I think of what must have been going on in her heart.
And I think of what was going on in my own.

Sleep finally comes when I realize that God is that big.
And that we are that small.
That we can believe we have all knowledge about someone or something, only to be reminded that we have no knowledge at all.



"He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." ~ Micah 6:8

Why I love Twitter...

So many people ask me about Twitter.

Many dismiss it, saying "Who has time??"

I don't have time, yet ... THIS is why I make time!


@tammyphinney - I'm beginning to think that the makers of Xanax should start following people on twitter.

@mjrsting - :+P~~~~~~~~ in reply to EPLisa

@Mike_FTW - The current class of Republican clowns actually makes me miss Reagan.

@travelchannel - Planning a vacation? @ Reply to us with the name of any major city and we'll send you a travel guide. Ex: @TravelChannel Athens.

@michigannews - Ford will offer the 2011 Lincoln MKZ hybrid at the same price as gas model.

@thetallonee - darkness was made so we could see the stars.

@therealisi -Found my mom's check for our tuition in the trash. Thats fan-trash-tic.

@IonBlarg E. V. Lucas - "I have noticed that the people who are late are often so much jollier than the people who have to wait for them."

@harpers - # of stories a New York City cat fell in '94 without sustaining serious injury: 46 - harpers.org

@DalaiLama - The real source of inner joy is to remain truthful and honest.

@Jason_Pollock - Facebook is the people you went to school with. Twitter is the people you wished you went to school with.

@persdevquotes - At the end of the day, the questions we ask of ourselves determine the type of people that we will become ~ Leo Babauta

@PhenomenalLife - He can who thinks he can and he can't who thinks he can't. This is an inexorable, indisputable law – Picasso

@shariv67 - I have over 3300 followers on Twitter & < 300 Facebook friends, proving I am very popular among people who don't really know me.

@bluebirdgardens - "Joy is the best make-up." -- Ann Lamott

@motivation - "If you make it plain you like people, it's hard for them to resist liking you back." - Lois McMaster Bujold

@michaelianblack - How awesome would it be if Lindsay converts to Islam and gets a face tattoo? #iheartmiketyson

@therealisi - You would think the Barefoot Bandit could steal himself some shoes.


C'mon! How can you NOT love Twitter!?

Lovingly,
@frowniegirl

Morning Pages - 1st Entry

             Ok so it’s not morning. It’s 12:57 pm. I’m using a lunch break to complete these morning pages suggested by Julia Cameron in the Artist Way. She says three pages before you get out of bed in the morning. I already said, it isn’t morning … and you might as well know it isn’t long-hand like she says either – in fact, I probably need to change the spacing in order to make it more like long hand  - or I won’t make it on this first time out… Three hand-written pages before you get out of bed…

            And oh, it’s suppose to be free association – just let it flow.

            Isi started this yesterday – woke up at 6 am – I heard the alarm go off. I just rolled over and wished she would turn that darn alarm down. I wanted another hour of sleep. She woke up at 6 again this morning – with the same loud alarm. It didn’t bother me so much today – though I still did not get out of bed. 

            And she went to bed at 9 in order to get up at 6. Hmmm.

            I don’t like discipline. I am doing a discipline exercise myself these days. No sugar. Yup, I know it’s not like waking up at 6 am and writing three pages before I get out of bed, but since Jan. 4, I haven’t had any sugar – excluding the trace amounts in foods not considered sugary – like ketchup – but I haven’t had any ketchup either. I passed on the fruit/yogurt parfait this morning!

            I have to say, I really do like life better without sugar. This is the third time I have done this in my life, all with the wonderful help of Richard Watson and his book called The Philosopher’s Diet. The subhead is How to Lose Weight & Change the World. I like the latter focus. I like changing the world more than losing weight. It sounds better too. So I tell people about Richard and the #stopsugar campaign I started on Twitter. I ask everyone who seems remotely interested to join me. Very few takers. Except for my friend @JJCardinal. She said she is doing it as well. I hope she still is.

            So it appears I am on my second page now. Isn’t that how we think? Well, clearly it is how I think. Where is the goal? What is expected of me? Can I make it up one more flight of stairs? I am always assessing it seems. I wish I could stop. I wonder if I had more time if I could stop? Since I am squeezing this in on a break, that clock is ticking… I don’t think this is exactly what Julia had in mind… Hurrying during an office break to write three pages of nonsense.

            At first I decided I was going to blog these pages. I still don’t know if I will. Perhaps I will post this one and see what happens. I always have as a personal goal to blog more (it use to be journal but the 21^st century changed the terminology). Every single year I commit to that. I think I did a titch better last year.  

            Sooooo …

            ¾ done on the second page …

            Instead of writing this morning, I ended up yelling at Colton. I hate it when I do that. I really, really hate it. He is such a great kid. My sincere desire is to never yell at either of my kids. Why do I end up doing so?? I was thinking of that verse in the Bible when Paul described doing what he does not want to do. And not doing what he really wants to. It seems no matter how hard we try sometimes, we end up doing what we do not want to do. I hate that about life. I hate it when people do it to me – and I especially hate it when I do it to others.

            Which makes me think about this idea of respect. I went to a conference once that talked about man’s greatest need was for respect. While the men attending seemed to let out a big sigh of relief that finally the truth was told or revealed perhaps, I felt confused though I certainly didn’t want to utter it. Then, in many discussions since then, various men have confirmed, “Yes, yes, respect is what I need. I need respect in order to be happy.” Some months ago, it occurred to me, respect comes from within – in fact, the most respectable people I know didn’t demand that others respect them, they possessed it from within. They respect themselves. And because they respect themselves, others respect them as well. It’s internal to external. I suppose it’s where that phrase “no self-respecting person would do that” comes from. We respect those that respect themselves.

            Oops, phone. I’m not suppose to answer the phone am I?

            Almost done with my third page.

            How much time have I been writing?? When is this office break over??

            Wonder if Colton is still mad at me from me yelling at him this morning? I will have to do something especially nice for him tonight to make up for it. He probably spent the day wishing he had a better mother.

            I wish I would be a better mother.

            And a better morning-page writer. (end of page three – whew!!)

Experience the grace you do not deserve this Christmas...

And then I found myself humming...


Amazing Grace...
Amazing, unexplainable, overwhelming, brings unexpected tears to our eyes, constricts our throats, fills our hearts with unexplainable joy. Grace ain't the stuff you can create by repeating, by meditating, by swallowing pills or alcohol. It's uncontrollable. It takes us by surprise ... It reaches into our souls ... and often changes our lives... 


Grace changes our lives forever. 


Grace is friends that show up when you thought you had none. It's a sudden check in the mail when you've just spent your last dollar on food for your family. It's warmth in the cold. It's a problem being miraculously solved by unexplainable means, or zero consequences when we least deserve it ... Grace has nothing to do with rights. It's not about doing right. It's grace, glorious selfless grace...


How sweet the sound...
Grace is something, actually, only our hearts can hear. It causes us to lower our gaze, to bow our heads in shame, to draw slow, heavy sighs of gratefulness and humility ... and freedom ... No sweeter sound ... than grace touching our hearts when we least expect it, when we least deserve it. The sound fills our very being and lifts us to the places reserved for angels and saints 


- and sinners like me.


That saved a wretch like me...
And we are a wretched people indeed, wretched with pity and blame and unkindness to strangers who are carrying even heavier loads than ours. Insensitive to loved ones with whom we bark and snap over misperceived deeds. Wretched with ungratefulness for all that we have, the blessing we've been given, the utter love we have been shown. Even the best of us are wretched indeed...


I once was lost but now am found...
Grace supernaturally reveals our falsehoods, those we live, those we tell others and ourselves, those that fill us with pride when what we should feel is shame. Grace is a mirror, a pathway, a beacon on a hill. It's a north star that provides the only true peace. Grace finds us. It tackles us to the ground. It's charms cannot be stopped. 


Grace has found me.


Was blind, but now, I see...
Grace rips the scales from our hearts, from our minds, from our eyes. Grace moves mountains. Grace calms a raging sea. Grace burns away everything that stands in its way. Ahh to see, to truly see...

T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear...
In the wake of grace, we discover that from which we are saved. Grace reveals that which we deserve - and from which we were spared. Having tasted, having heard, having felt grace, we fear its loss from our lives because now without grace, we can never truly go on.


And Grace, my fears relieved...
No more fears that one day we will be given what our actions, our thoughts and our hearts deserve. Grace, merciful, unexplainable grace, takes away our every fear.


How precious did that Grace appear the hour I first believed.
Grace is pure. It is forever spotless, forever clean, beautiful beyond words. At first and always, at every occurrence along the way.

Through many dangers, toils and snares we have already come...
This is our truth. Life, daily life, is filled with the unexpected, twists and turns that take us by surprise. We lose our way. We lose our joy. We lose our peace. We strive to get it back, toil to have a good life, good relationships. We become ensnared by our thoughts, our actions, our choices, and too many wrong responses that ultimately darken our hearts and our souls.


Because of grace, still we are here.


T'was Grace that brought us safe thus far...
Despite all that we cannot understand about life, the confusion ... We have grace - we are still alive and blessed beyond ... so beyond ... what we could ever deserve.


And Grace will lead us home.
May we cling to grace. May we be grace. May we give grace. It will be a faithful companion. Grace will lead us home.

When we've been here ten thousand years bright shining as the sun...
Grace allows us to be champions, standing strong not in our own right, but shining, glowing, as grateful recipients of grace. By no effort on our own, we shine ... brightly ... as brightly as the brightest star.


We've no less days to sing God's praise then when we've first begun...
My our hearts and our souls be mindful of the grace - any grace - bestowed upon us, from loved ones, from strangers, from ourselves. It is as powerful as it has ever been - as powerful as it will ever be...



"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see."


May you experience the grace you do not deserve this Christmas.

I feel betrayed...

Truth be told, I slept very little last night - and I prayed that President Obama slept very little as well - and frankly, I don't spend a lot of time praying these days. But I did last night, that President Obama would toss and turn at least as frequently as I did.

While the news of President Obama's decision about escalating the war in Afghanistan did not flood the trending topics on the most contemporary gauge of current news (twitter), there is no doubt that thousands of people in this country are dragging themselves out of bed with an all too familiar feeling of hopelessness and disillusionment about our country and the leader of our country.

I am one of those people. When I first heard the news from White House officials yesterday morning, I fluctuated between shock, anger and disbelief at what would be officially announced later that evening. I found myself hoping he would hear of the outrage and change his mind. He could, I kept telling myself. THIS President could.

Please understand, it was his stance on THE war that was my deciding factor in strongly supporting him as a candidate. His consistent language and stance was anti-war with only an occasional tip towards the real war Afghanistan, and usually a dig or taunt at Bush and his considerably bad decision making. Let's face it, much of the campaign was about the war. Obama very frequently repeated claims of being the only candidate to vote against the war, etc., etc.

To those who today say that his criticism was for Iraq not Afghanistan - those who believe he told Americans he would continue fighting in Afghanistan - I say ok, technically, you are right: I did find a quote where he said, in fact, that he wanted to end to the war in Afghanistan. That quote did not say he wanted to escalate it - nor did it say the escalation of 30,000 more soldiers would be announced three weeks before Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza, a time most Americans reserve for reflection, for hope, for thanksgiving and good will.

President Obama's escalation will bring the total number of our people in Afghanistan to 100,000. That's nearly the entire population of Flint, MI, the fourth largest city in Michigan. Afghanistan is a country where conflict has reigned supreme since the late 1970s. We've been there in full force since the 2001 US-led invasion toppled the Taliban government.

And we are still there.

I voted for Barack Obama because he gave me hope that real change could happen - that real change would happen. I firmly believed he would do things differently than W regarding the travesty of ALL the wars. It's no longer about 9-11 to me. The horrible truth is that more than 250 times as many people have been killed in Afghanistan and Iraq than in the ghastly attacks of September 11, 2001. More than 20,000 people have died in Afghanistan alone including more than 700 of our own troops. Another 50,000 people have been injured.

That's too many people - way too many people. How many people is enough?

Since the election of Barack Obama, I have felt a freedom from fear. I have felt that decision were being made with intelligence and accurate information from good-hearted people. I have been proud that we no longer lived by the whim of a cowboy president spoiling for a fight based upon his whim or any of his hawkish advisors.

President Obama invited that fear-based decision-making back into my life last night.

Finally, as I tossed and turned last night, I kept envisioning a somber President Roosevelt on that black and white tube television telling the country that America was at war with Japan. I remember hearing and seeing footage of how the country gathered around the television sets to hear what the President would tell his people. He delivered the news - from the White House - perhaps even from his office. It was not a show. He didn't fly anywhere to get the perfect backdrop. He showed us - true or not - that he was taking time from his very serious work at the White House to deliver news that would forvever change the world.

I am troubled that President Obama used the members of his administration to leak/provide HIS troubling news many hours prior to his speech that night. He had members of administration deliver the news. I believe he should have shown the leadership and responsibility in providing news of this magnitude to his country - if not the world. Instead, like W, he chose to float it to test public sentiment, to gauge support, to determine what should be said rather than speak from his own heart.

I expected more.

I have always considered Barack Obama to be a man of intellectual courage and integrity, fearless in the face of his enemies, hopeful even when the days were dark - a protector of the dreams for our country. He should have been the one to deliver the news to our country. No leaks. No embargos. No one but himself facing the cameras as he told the country his decision we all must now live with.

I am disappointed. I feel betrayed.

And I wish I didn't.

What is Right With This Wronged City

The following was created and originally posted on the blogsite of the Flint Institute of Music (http://www.flintinstituteofmusic.org/fim-blog), 11.2.09. It was great fun to be asked to submit a piece for the site. I love FIM and the whole Cultural Center. If you haven't experienced it lately, make it a point to do so over the holidays!



Having lived in the Flint area most of my life, I can recall with uncanny clarity conversations with a number of transplants, all who came here due to a job transfer or married someone from this apparently shrinking quasi-metropolis. Each time, I was feeling rather sheepish as they described their circumstances. I nodded reluctantly, ready to begin my apology for their unfortunate circumstances.

Granted, I was young, and had spent a great deal of time humming Tracy Chapman’s song about climbing into “a fast car … We leave tonight or live and die this way.” After all, who would want to stay in Flint?
To my surprise – shock the first couple of times – those transplants weren’t hanging their head. In fact, they looked me square in the eye, smile on their face, and shared utter elation about having moved to a city that the world clearly misunderstood. A former colleague moved from Toronto – Toronto! – and explained that he liked living in Flint so much more than his life in the cultural, entertainment and financial capital of Canada. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. What he and another transplanted co-worker shared with me on separate occasions is their dismay of the negativity associated with the fourth largest city in Michigan.

In both cases, and all the other similar transplant conversations I have had since, the Cultural Center tops the list of what is right with this wronged city. From the landscaped pristine presence to the truly vast residential offerings of the Sloan Museum, Buick Gallery & Research Center, Longway Planetarium, The Whiting, Flint Youth Theatre, Flint Institute of Arts and Flint Institute of Music. What’s not to like, the happily transplanted ask?

It’s in those conversations that my mind wanders back to Flint’s reality – a long line of celebrities who have graced the stage at Whiting, from Joan Rivers to Capt. Stubing (sidenote: The Captain - Gavin MacLeod – gave me his pin from the Great Wall of China! I had admired it on his hat, he took it off and gave it to me! Ya can’t get that in Toronto!!) The beloved field trips to Sloan and the Planetarium, my own children performing ballet and on instruments on the stages of the FIM. The lines aren’t New York City long nor is the instruction inferior to the Famed School of the Performing Arts.

It’s all right here.

It reminds me of the old television episodes of Mork calling Orson (Come in Orson…). A seemingly normal creature – ok, somewhat normal! – lands on earth and begins walking among the humans, learning their ways, studying their habits. The creature interacts with all sorts of characters – be it grumpy old men, a hip old lady or a young woman wishing for something more for her life. The expectation is that Mork will discover that earth is an inferior world to neighboring Orc. His reports to his boss, however, describe just the opposite. Mork, in fact, likes earth more than he likes his own home planet – and he doesn’t want to leave – much to the chagrin of Mindy who really would like nothing more – at least until Mork lands on the scene.

Daryl Hannah once said, “It's not necessary to go far and wide. I mean, you can really find exciting and inspiring things within your hometown.” And while it seems strange we would take to heart something from someone who once played a mermaid, sometimes the Good Lord uses what He’s got in his medicine bag to heal blind eyes to the truth.

Thank God for the mermaids, the aliens, and in my case, the transplants who just may have been sent here to slap the blinders from our eyes and teach us something about ourselves!

And then it hit me...

Gotta get off, gonna get
Have to get off from this ride
Gotta get hold, gonna get
Need to get hold of my pride

When did I get, where did I
How was I caught in this game
When will I know, where will I
How will I think of my name

When did I stop feeling sure, feeling safe
And start wondering why, wondering why
Is this a dream, am I here, where are you
What's in back of the sky, why do we cry

Gotta get off, gonna get
Out of this merry-go-round
Gotta get off, gonna get
Need to get on where I'm bound

When did I get, where did I
Why am I lost as a lamb
When will I know, where will I
How will I learn who I am

Is this a dream, am I here, where are you
Tell me, when will I know, how will I know
When will I know why?

                 --- Lyrics, Valley of the Dolls

Who knew?

Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.

- Willa Cather

Isabella's interview on TV5

Feuding on Facebook

I just finished reading a private message from now a former Facebook friend who cease and desisted me due to an apparent feud he had over political views posted on his wall and the wall of at least one other. He was thoughtful in his shut-off notice, citing the all-too-common position we all find ourselves in when getting requests for friendship from folks we don't really know, have rarely if ever spoken with, and may not recognize when passed on the street. Do we confirm or ignore?

We don't want to be rude.
Confirm or ignore??
We truly don't want to hurt anyone's feelings.
Confirm or ignore??? C'mon, make a decision!
How can we ignore a request for friendship??

It's really all about high school, isn't it? I mean this whole idea of accepting or ignoring friendship, of counting how many friends another person might have listed on their profile page, of fishing their list of 5 - 300 friends to catch someone not listed on ours.

I'm not dissin' my high school days, mind you. LOVED them - no, I mean, I LOVED THEM and anyone associated with them. I am quite confident that heaven for me will include that large and wonderful cast of characters walking the high path and the low path between the two Grand Blanc High Schools.

But I digress...

My initial entry into Facebook came with great enthusiasm. I suddenly found people I have not seen nor heard from in many, many years. I found family members. I found former colleagues. I found parents of my kids' friends. I found old crushes. I found my kids' teachers. I told people Facebook was like a great big party where you could dip into conversations at any time on the homepage or slide off into a more private conversation from your profile page. Shoot you could have completely private conversations on the balcony of Facebook by sending a direct message from the inbox!!

Nothing but love, and more love... Love, love, love ... What a great world... Thank God for Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg, YOU ROCK!

What I failed to consider while hangin' 10 on the love wave was that people are people, even in this wonderful love bubble of Facebook. After all the virtual huggin, poking and looking at family photos, we settle back into the unfinished business that sometimes separated us in the first place. Family members ask questions of those that may have unknowingly hurt them years ago. Old high school friends finally tell how ignored they felt as others passed them in the halls. Former crushes of days gone by become dangerous flames that can threaten the stablility of our day-to-day lives.

And that is just the unfinished business!

What of politics and our passionate support of issues that sometimes spark just as passionate responses from others attending the party on the Home page?? What of issues of faith, and religion and morality? Yes, we have been taught to avoid discussions of such in public; should the same rules of civility apply to this sub-reality of fb? (I think the power users simply use fb for Facebook!)

I am beginning to realize that perhaps Mark Zuckerberg has not so much created a utopian cyberworld as much as a cybermirror of life and the souls of those of us who use it. Of course there is going to be hurt feelings. Of course there is going to be anger and disrespect. Of course there is going to be friends deleting friends over something someone posted on someone else's wall.

Of course.

So why do I feel so hopeless for mankind?

In the fb world where we very actively pick and choose to accept or ignore our friends, where we publicly engage in discussions for those accepted friends to see and read...where we can literally surround ourselves with handchosen friends and family ...

In the same fb world where we can literally ignore those who might hold opposing or troubling views that are different from our own...

there remains fighting and bitterness and division...

We needn't wonder of the wars being fought in other countries...

Dark as it may seem, I suspect the problem won't go away with a more judicious use of the ignore button on fb.

We. Just. Can't. Get. Rid. Of. Everyone. Who. Disagrees.

DANG IT!!
Believe me, I've tried!

But we can - but I can - become more tolerant of those who don't agree with my "obvious wisdom." (joke, it's funny, laugh. Please laugh.) Why can't we let Crazy Aunt Sue be crazy, act crazy, say crazy, write crazy without risk of being cease and desisted? Why must we shut off the voices that are different from our own? So what if it gets a little personal? Who doesn't like a little spice with their Chimichanga? (def: dish typically prepared by filling a flour tortilla with a wide range of ingredients, most commonly beans, rice, cheese, ground beef.)

It was the spice that made me love high school. It's the spice that makes me still love living in Flint, MI. It's the spice of my 10 friends left on fb that keeps me coming back to the party, dippin into conversations where I learn more about my friends and family, to be sure,

...but also about life.

Party on, Wayne!

What's it really like growing up in Flint, MI?

My daughter has started her own blog. She's 12 and spends most of her time writing anyway - no, seriously. We have three or four computers in this house and in total, she probably has 100 unfinished stories - and that is not counting the many, many spirals she has filled with her thoughts, her opinions, her fan fiction, her teen romance marvels. It's incredible. I keep pushing for her to get even ONE of them finished so we can sell it. There is little doubt in my mind that she will earn FAR more money as a writer than her mother ever did.

Her blog, "Growing up in Flint, Michigan," will likely feature many thoughts very normal for a soon-to-be teen in any city in America. I suspect she'll mention Glee and the brothers Jonas; she'll likely yap about school though keeping location unidentifiable.

And friends.

And love.

And maybe that will be the most telling thing about her blog, that kids growing up in Flint aren't necessarily experiencing the shootings, the crime, the drugs - the fear that too many adults have come to accept after hearing the news or the gossip at the Rite Aid down the street.

Not that she or any of her friends are unaware of the dangers. They can't help but hear the sirens throughout the night, learn of the double shootings just 10 miles from their homes. My daughter doesn't exactly live in the war zone of some of her friends; some of her friends undoubtedly hear gun shots regularly at night. In fact, it's fairly certain that some have suffered some form of emotional and/or physical abuse in homes where families are losing medical insurance, jobs and homes. At her young age, she already has learned of two others her age who have taken their own lives.

Living in Flint, Michigan, ain't your Father's Oldsmobile!

I guess that's why I think she has something to say that is quite likely different from what Michael Moore has said, as an adult, drawing from the memories of when he was 12 instead of being 12. I don't fault his memory, mind you, I just think the potential for a new fresh perspective from the mind(s) of our youth could be telling, if not interesting, if not helpful ... if not fun.

I'm looking forward to reading her thoughts - and helping her spend her money if she ever finishes even one of those blasted stories eating up space on my computer!

Just who is Sam Riddle anyway?

I have Sam Riddle’s phone number stored in my cell phone. I just double-checked after reading the Free Press story about him being arraigned on multiple felony charges in connection with a corruption probe in Detroit.

I have never met anyone like Sam Riddle. But I did meet him.

In fact, I talked to him at least once on his cell phone.

There is no doubt that Flint has a cast of characters, especially in political circles. It isn’t long before even a novice can name the players and the wanna-be players. Don’t ever forget, Flint’s a small town. Anyone who is someone knows everyone. Kevin Bacon’s six degrees is too many in this made-for-tv reality.

And Sam Riddle is in the cast, frequently sauntering in as if he was the lead actor.

Apparently, Sam grew up in Flint, though no one could ever tell me where he lived or what school Sam attended. When I asked why he left Flint, no one knew. No one knew where he moved, where he worked, if he worked, if he was married, if he had any kids. They didn’t know how he made enough money to make regular returns to his alleged hometown, though someone did tell me once they thought he lived in Vegas. I then wondered if he was a professional gambler!

After every single conversation I would have about Sam Riddle, I always had more questions than answers – and I always seemed to be the only one who was interested, or curious, or perhaps stupid enough to care. Everyone else just seemed to accept his presence as an actor in our reality show.

I have to tell you, there is something unmistakably alluring about Sam Riddle, and maybe the interest was fed because of the air of mystery that seemed to surround him. He is tall, good looking, certain to draw attention whenever he entered a room. People always listened to him as he spoke, not because he is necessarily charismatic, but he exuded a confidence, a relaxed style that seemed to put people at ease.

One day, I just stopped asking questions about Sam Riddle.

I was surprised when the always-logical Sam joined the always illogical Williamson camp; horribly disappointed as well. It was then that I considered that Sam’s Flint appearances may have more to do with the color green than warm feelings for his hometown. Regardless, knowing Sam, his political acumen undoubtedly led Williamson to victory.

Sam Riddle apparently is the leading character of many different reality shows, a fete unto itself. The man obviously gets around – and not in an old beat up Buick either. His associations and influence goes well beyond the now cancelled Flint series. Yes, he has close ties with state reps and the Detroit City Council, if not a direct link to Kwame.

There is no doubt that Sam Riddle knows a lot about a lot of people. He won’t go down without a fight, without dragging others down with him.

I’m starting to think the Detroit show may soon turn into a blockbuster movie with none other than Sam Riddle starring in the leading role.

I still don’t know who Sam Riddle is!

But I have his cell number … maybe I should call him and ask…

Dear Julia Cameron; first entry

I read a book – The Artist’s Way, The Writer’s Way (or was it the Way Artist Write?). I didn’t get very far frankly. Yes, well, I read past the first chapter anyway … Julia Cameron wrote about the importance of journaling … Every morning, before I get out of bed, I should write at least a page of free association – whatever is on my mind. I remember committing myself to the exercise but coming up short since I had picked a not-so-great-time to begin. Try as I might, waking up before the cries of the cribbed beings in the next room thwarted
Every.
Single.
Effort.

Today, no cribbed beings and I have some time. The Mother’s Way is giving way to at least that first chapter of Cameron’s admonishments … Well, sorta… I’ve been up for hours. And I am not hand writing in a journal as she suggests. I have to tell you, I can no longer hand-write anything of meaning. Sit me down with a pencil and a clean paper and I … go blank. Even when I push through, I get distracted by the way the pen loops my l’s or end up disliking where I dotted my i. I cannot get past the way the individual letters or words or paragraphs actually look on paper. So forget about what I might have wanted to write (Please note: you should read that last sentence with that Godfatherish accent “Forget about it…) It is ONLY when I sit down with a computer that I can honestly put any thought in sentence form. (No distractions with the letters since they all look exactly the same!) My J-school profs would be proud … as would all my editors from every writing job I have ever had (Though they wouldn’t like me ending that sentence that way!) For years I have merely pounded it out on the computer screen … me, the keys, the thoughts – well, you get the picture.

So Julia, I apologize. I am not the best student, but at least I am trying…

I feel funny doing this ... I just write anything?? ... Hollister is crying. I should let him in. (Lame-O!) Hollister is my dog. His actual name is Samwise Hollister aka Snoop Dog. No, I am not joking. While I am a little embarrassed about the long disjointed name, my embarrassment is quickly replaced with good feelings that everyone in the family got to name him something. David wanted Samwise from the movie Ring Lords (that’s funny!). Isi wanted Hollister, for obvious reasons. Wait, Colt didn’t get a say?? I think DAVID picked the last name also - Snoop Dog though the dog’s rap sounds more like a whine (haha, another funny!!) And, I’m just now realizing, I had no say either. I just wanted everyone to be happy…

Happy … *pauses to feel the breeze, look at the lake*


Happy… Why is that italics coming on??? See, I get distracted by the letters!!! DANG!


Happy … Nothing… I got nothing…

Why is the floorlamp on the table? Oh yes, unfinished puzzle. Wonder if Colt has hurt himself yet at camp? He will … or at least he likely will… He may be a bit more careful or aware now that he was in that ATV accident in Pennsylvania. I knew that ATV accident was going to happen. I hated letting him ride that thing alone. Of course, the last day, I begin to let my guard down, every so slightly, and the kid barrel rolls it! I heard the crash, the screaming, saw him rolling on the ground, ran down to find him completely FREAKED OUT. He was stammering that the wheel rolled over his head. I wasn’t sure I could believe him SINCE HE WASN'T DEAD! Looking closely, the red marks across his face did look a bit like those knobby tires. It was the worst moment of my life … it still scares the be-Jesus out of me to think about it… (What is be-Jesus??) I remember looking in his eyes wondering, honestly wondering, if he would soon be dying of internal injuries or that if he slept, he would never wake up … like that actress who died after falling while skiing on the bunny hill or Billie Mays who hit his head during a rough landing! Neither of those two had an ATV roll over their head!!! (I guess since then they discovered that Billie had a heart attack?) I told Colt to get up – I needed to see if he could, desperately needed to see if he could. He did. And he walked with a limp – no dizziness – to the cabin. David’s brother John is a doctor. He checked him over – and rechecked him over – and said he would be fine. I sat on the couch all night with Colton. I got up in the middle of the night to make sure he was breathing. I would never want to live without him… I hope he is ok now… Should I go look??

No, he’s ok. I bet he is fine…

I’m hungry … what time is it? Do I trust the kitchen clock? It has said 11:20 all day… No, of course not, I trust the computer clock. I love computers. I am so glad I live in this century.

I hate ATVs though.

* Ah, what a beautiful breeze *

Amish people aren’t suppose to have computers, at least I don’t think so. I saw a lot of Amish in Lancaster last week. Fascinating in many ways: they must be continually hot in the summer with their long clothes. Everything is covered. I was thinking that the young girls had it especially bad since they were always in dresses. But then I thought of the boys in the dark pants and long sleeved shirts and black hats...

I don’t think I would make a good Amish ...

We went to an Amish bookstore. The lamps were gas-powered. We stopped at a bake sale. The little girls wouldn’t speak to me – very shy. Food was good. Simple. Maybe the best simple Suzy-Q dessert I've ever had.

David was thinking we should take an Amish buggy ride. After looking around a bit, I decided I would rather stay with our mode of transportation. I couldn't get past the idea that if we crawled up in that box, without windows, and was trotted around Amishville, the Amishers would stand around gawking at the good fortune of the family who caught the not-so-bright "progressives" who paid a handsome fee to be driven around in their buggy. I couldn't shake the image of us being paraded around like circus animals - caged monkeys or the world's tallest white dude, or the fat lady who looks like she has been stuck in the car all day.

I said I think the Amish aren’t suppose to have computers because I saw many interesting things I think they weren't suppose to have. I don't want to be a narc, but one Amish dude was using a cell phone, and it looked like a nice one. As a buggy turned the corner next to us, rather fast I might add, the Amish boy driver was swatting a Monster drink.

I'm just saying!

I’m thinking they have computers stashed. Nice, bright shiny 17-inch MacBook Pros. And that they download songs from iTunes. Better yet, they hit Limewire! (What would an Amish listen to?? Gangster’s Paradise??? Fergie's Glamorous?

(... Ok, not so funny.)

What is funny … funny…?

Camp kids are jumping on the blob, this big air-filled mattress on the lake. I saw Isi out there earlier. Wonder if this is Colton’s group … I hope he doesn’t do it. I don't think he will ... He might ...

Good Lord, I have to go check and see…

I don't think I like journaling...

This blog post is not about Michael...

"Do You Remember
Those Special Times
They'll Just Go On And On
In The Back Of My Mind"
-Michael Jackson

Ok, straight up, this post isn't about Michael ... Though, given the last few days, everything seems to come back to Michael.

This post is about life, my life - and fears, and death and life, and the passage of time. In a strange discordant of time, I left Flint on Thursday having valiantly outrun one or two storms that pushed through town. Within 15 minutes on the road, I was flippin on my headlights and hitting maximum wipe with the windshield blades. All that avoiding and I still ran smack dab into the mother of all storms.

I was heading to Diane's birthday weekend, celebrating 50 years, as hard it is to believe. I met Diane when I was 16, maybe 17, making her and Shari my longest, closest friends. On the way, I was stopping to pick up Shari, with barely enough time to make it to the first event. However, Mama Storm had other plans. The black clouds and accompanied downpour followed me the whole darn way.

I don't like storms. I don't like driving in storms. But this storm seemed different. I wasn't afraid. Rather than concern myself with something I could do nothing about - the high winds, the flash floods sweeping over US23 - I thought a lot about the friends I was about to see, our histories, the so-many laughs, and the too-many cries. Despite the rain, the thunder, the lightening, the flash floods, the vehicles stopped all along the road - I was at peace, a strange warm peace that seemed full of reflection and anticipation of truly good things to come.

For the record, I always get a little melancholy at the end of a school year. It seems I'm always pushing to get there - as if it is some glorious finish line - but once I cross over, I quickly turn around and see all the wonderful things now behind me. So much seems to happen on the path between September and June, between toddlers and teenagers, between 1959 and 2009...

And, frankly, at each bend in the journey, I look back and fear the ride will never, ever be that great again...

But I digress...

Shari says she "lives in the moment" and resents it when I check my txt messages, especially when I am driving. For the record, I do not think it is dangerous to check your txt messages while stopped for a train. She does apparently, and grabbed my phone. She looked at it and queried, "What is this anyway? CNNBRK?" And the phone goes dark. I ask her to give it to me and I will tell her - she says no and hides it. (As if THAT isn't dangerous considering my "attachment" to my phone!) In my mind, of course, I know I received a tweet about some national breaking news. As a worried mother whose two children were left in Flint, I immediately ponder if it could possibly involve my only daughter or my only son.

When Shari steps out of the car to check into the hotel, I grab the phone to discover the breaking news was Michael Jackson's cardiac arrest. At the time, it was unclear if he had passed. Great! Now I had to tell Shari who just happens to be the most loyal MJ fan you can imagine. She stuck with him through every allegation, through every marriage, through every even-stranger story. Now I had to tell her that he might not be sticking with us...

By the time we arrived at Diane's, the breaking news had gone from bad to worse. We rushed into her house, barely hugging the birthday girl, her two beautiful daughters and/or husband. We flipped on CNN and sat glued to it for the next hour (or was it two?). At one point, I glanced up at my longest, closest friend and apologized. It wasn't exactly the way I had planned to acknowledge her 50th birthday, especially since Jackson was 50.

Gulp.

The passing of Michael Jackson has raised many different emotions in me. It's difficult to watch the clips of him as a youngster, full of life, growing to be a man with throngs of people following his every move. His fall. The allegations. I remember living through all of that. We all did. I sat glued to MTV time and time again to watch "Thriller." A boyfriend teased me all the time with "Gotta be Startin Something." My cousin and I loved to sing about the rat named "Ben." I remember watching "Do you remember the time" and being fascinated.

While Farrah Fawcett may be upset with the timing of Michael's death, Diane has showed no signs of disappointment in having to share the spotlight with a same-aged icon who happened to die on her birthday weekend. For me, when all is said and done, I think his passing added even more meaning to Diane's celebration. We are reminded our lives pass quickly - so quickly. That life is truly a gift. That when we think the world has turned against us - like Michael most likely believed - they probably haven't.

I hope he is able to see that he made his comeback after all...

Ok, so I guess this post was about Michael...

"Those Sweet Memories
Will Always Be Dear To Me"