My Job Contract Should Have Come With a Warning Label

When I was handed my job contract as director of enrollment at a local high school, it should have come with a big, red WARNING stamped across each page.

The top ten warnings should have read:

1. Warning – You will no longer have only four children. You will gain at least 650 more.

2. Warning – You are not simply enrolling students into a school, you are admitting them into your life.

3. Warning – You will build relationships with said children, and with their parents, grandparents and siblings. They will entrust you with intimate details of their lives. Treat them with care.

4. Warning – When you leave the school campus, your job will not end.

5. Warning – Your private life may not be so private any more. You will see students at the grocery store, the mall, concerts, and even on vacation.

6. Warning – Because your son goes to this high school, you will have students entering your home from morning until evening. Some of them may set up semi-residence.

7. Warning – You will never sleep the same again. Students will infiltrate your dreams and wake you from worry-filled nightmares.

8. Warning – High school students will surprise you, disappoint you and exceed your expectations, often all in the same day.

9. Warning – When tragedy or disaster befalls one of these 650 students, your heart will break into a million tiny pieces.

10. Warning – There is no end to this role. You signed up for it. It will last a lifetime. Long after a student graduates, moves away or passes on, you will find their names engraved into your heart.

The Day Reason Kicked Panic’s Butt

It’s been a seven year tradition: our annual ski trip with two other families. Typically, we ski two days and then visit the local shops or hang out at the rental home one day. This year, we headed into the town of Harbor Springs, Mich., to browse the shops. The first store we walked into was a Paris-inspired boutique with lovely home accessories, clothing and handbags. My friends oohed and ahhed over the cute centerpieces, candles and clothing, while I barely made it two feet inside the doorway. On the table at the entrance was a book titled, “Notes to my Son Before You Go,” by Vesna M. Bailey.

The cover had a beautiful black and white photo of a young boy, standing on some drift wood at the beach. Inside were more stunning photos along with words that the author had both collected from various sources and written herself. Her goal, she said, was to impart wisdom to her son before he leaves home.

My mind went to that place. You know the place. That place where you start to compare yourself on the universal meter of mothering perfection and realize you are nowhere near the perfect mark. You panic, realizing you have not imparted the wisdom or advice that this author has so painstakingly shared with her son. Then a deeper panic sets in when you realize you have only two more years to come up with all of the inspiring, motivating, loving, guiding words to bestow on your child.

And you have nothing. If he were in front of you at that very moment, you would probably stutter or perhaps you might mutter something like, “Don’t forget to put on clean underwear,” or “Treat others as you want to be treated.” But nothing near the definition of wise or inspiring fires across your synapses. And YOU ONLY HAVE TWO YEARS to come up with something good. With words that will really mean something. With catch phrases, meaningful quotes, life-saving advice.

I clutched the book to my heart as I walked, panic-stricken, around the store. I hoped that if I hung on tight enough, the words would pour off the pages and into my bloodstream right up to my brain where I would store every bit of information. Then I would be able to share it piece by piece with my boys. Yes, I would buy this book, read it cover-to-cover and recite the words to my boys until I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were ready to leave home – prepared to be Godly, kind, healthy, well-adjusted, peaceful, strong, joyful leaders of the universe.

Then something happened in between my friend trying on a blue and white striped sweater and her decision to buy a gigantic handbag. I loosened my grip on the book, walked over to the table where I found it and put it down.

Reason had kicked Panic’s butt. Reason told me that I didn’t need someone else’s words to help prepare my boys to leave home. I wasn’t failing as a mother just because I hadn’t written a book of clever phrases or gathered famous quotes.

What my boys needed was what they were getting. What they are getting: Love, prayers, stability (yes, even post-divorce), and tradition to name a few. After I put the book down, I headed to the next store with my head held high. I’m far from perfect in the realm of motherhood, but I am confident that with all the mistakes I make, I’m doing some things right.

Things like providing experiences that will be remembered far beyond the words I may recite to them from a book I picked up one vacation. No, instead I want to impart pictures of grace, love, laughter and belonging in their minds.

So, for example, over Christmas break when they asked to go sledding one night at 9:30 p.m., I said yes. So we donned the snow pants, the boots, the hats and gloves, and threw the sleds in the back of the Suburban. And when the house looked like it had vomited Christmas gifts and wrapping paper after two weeks at home, I let it go until it was time to restore order before heading back to school. And when they asked to take a road trip to the lake with their friends, I set aside my day of reading and writing and loaded the car with warm clothes, junk food and a few friends… because these are the times they’ll remember.

These are the memories we create so that one day, whether any of us actually writes them down, or we simply store them in our hearts and minds, we will write our own book. A book that will serve these boys far beyond the time they leave this home. A book that will not be a generic, store-bought version of nice quotes and generic photos but a book born of personal experiences and treasured stories.

This Is All I Have Tonight

Last week, I witnessed a student lying on the pavement after she had been struck by a car. She is a student at the high school where I work, and she didn’t see the car coming toward her as she crossed the street after school. When I got to the scene, several people surrounded her as she convulsed and then stopped breathing. It was a horrific sight.

 

Knowing she was cared for, I ran inside to have my assistant notify her parents. Then I went back to the scene to comfort her friend, who had been walking with her when she was struck. In the time it took to run back into the school and back out, all I could do was pray. Well, if that’s what you call chanting “God” and “Jesus” over and over, with other words like, “help” and “please” and “save” and “heal” and “comfort” mixed in.

 

Today the student came to school after a miraculous recovery. Not a bone broken or an internal injury of which to speak. She looked perfect.

 

Several days later, I spoke with my friend who needs to make some serious decisions related to one of her children. She was at a loss regarding how to handle the issues she has noticed with said child. She was exhausted, confused and sad. She needed to confide in someone, so she asked if she could share her story with me. For an hour and a half, we chatted. I listened. I offered feeble suggestions, and I cried.

 

Then tonight, a friend texted while I was at dinner with another friend. She told me she was feeling the crushing pain of her impending divorce. I asked if I could come give her a quick hug to which she agreed. When she opened the front door, I was greeted by a heartbroken woman with swollen eyes and a red, stuffy nose. We sat on the couch and I gave her a hug and prayed with her. Her words were so familiar: “I can’t believe this is my story.” I knew exactly what she meant.

 

Sometimes life shoots us out of some mysterious cannon we don’t realize we have even been stuffed into. There we are in the dark confines of a place so unfamiliar. We are oblivious to what is happening to us and just as we see some sliver of light, we realize someone lit the thing. Suddenly we are flying through mid-air, wondering how long we’ll be tossed about, and if we will ever land. And when we do land, we wonder if we’ll survive the blow we will no doubt experience from the force of being fired out of such a dark, narrow space. We wonder how we will explain what just happened to us and how we will go on from this new place.

 

When my friend sent the text tonight, I had nothing to give. I had no flowers or ice cream  or Starbucks. I had no cards or candy or special words of wisdom.  I didn’t even have a single tissue in my purse.

 

All I had was me.

 

That was all I had to give tonight…

and the other day on the phone…

and last week as I ran to see how I could help the sweet girl struck by the car.

And that is all any of us can really give when the obstacles are bigger than we can manage or the outlook seems too grim. When it comes to the lives of those we care for and love, we show up. We hold a hand. We cradle the injured. Carry the weak. Lift up the brokenhearted. That’s all I could do. Just me… and a prayer.

I’m Glad You Called

Sometimes I lie. Most of the time, it’s unintentional. Like the time I said I was pretty sure I would never talk to the the poet I met at Black Expo because my tender heart wouldn’t be able to survive hearing him read his poetry to me. When I wrote that, I had not anticipated a call the next day.

But that’s what happened; Yusuf El called me. And he read his poetry to me. And I survived. In fact, it’s as if I was on a hike, enjoying my surroundings, when I came to a small waterfall. I thought it was just a bonus among the other beautiful landscapes I had seen along the journey. Yet as I approached the waterfall, I was compelled to stand beneath it and let it pour over my hot and tired body. The coolness refreshed me and as a wide, open smile stretched across my face, the water splashed onto my tongue and quenched my dry palate.

Yes, I had been in a lonely place when I met Yusuf, but I wasn’t looking for a new companion or friend.   I welcomed his call anyway because his book had stirred my heart, and as a writer I know the importance of hearing how your work has touched someone. So I picked up the phone and said, “I’m glad you called.” And I wasn’t lying.

From the beginning, even amidst all of our differences – our age, our nationality (which he refers to instead of race, because we are not defined by the colors that others assign us), our upbringing, our faith, etc., our friendship has allowed both of us to flow like a beautiful river, with varying degrees of depth and speed, but always eager to see what’s around each bend.

Yusuf has taught me a lot in the short time I have known him. The most significant is also the most simple. Pick up the phone. In this world of texting, IMing and tweeting, he urges me to speak to my friends and family. As in verbal, audible communication. To give them the attention they deserve. To offer them more than, as he puts it, the LOLs, BTWs and ILYs . Today a couple of friends needed that attention. Thanks to Yusuf, I picked up the phone. I listened to their heavy hearts and told each of them:  ”I’m glad you called.”

 

I Owe It to My Brothers

The Canal

You are going to think I’m a complete klutz. After I shared my Capture-the-Flag mishap, I’m a little apprehensive to write about today’s misfortune. I got up early (for me that means 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday; don’t judge!) and decide to ride my bike to the canal. I figure a little exercise would be a great way to motivate me for a day of cleaning out clutter in my house.

It’s a beautiful day here in Indianapolis with temperatures in the 70s and bright, blue skies. The canal is a gorgeous place to ride, especially on a day like today. So I sail along listening to Mumford and Sons and dart around people walking, pushing strollers and jogging. Now and then I pass another biker. The endorphins kick in, and I am feeling good.

Most of the time, people are conscientious of their surroundings and will move out of the way for one another.

Most of the time.

Just as I’m entering a tight space, I see an oncoming biker. I’m no math genius and I hate story problems but by my calculations, it appears that biker A, traveling south (that would be me),  and biker B, traveling north (that would be a security guard), are pedaling at the same speed toward one another and will end up at a narrow passage between a light post and a wall at exactly the same time.

Don’t worry, we narrowly miss one another as we make it through the space. But just as we smile at one another, someone else walks into my damn story problem. A man on his cell phone, who was leaning against the post, steps in front of my bike. I hit his back with my hand and yell “Shit!” before I hit the brakes and find myself staring straight down at the cement trail. (Let me just apologize now to anyone who is offended by the word “shit.” I mean to keep it PG here, but for some reason that’s what comes out of my mouth, and if I ever die in some sort of accident that will most likely be my last word. It just happens. Ha! See what I did there?)

So I’m staring at the cement as I feel my bike rising up behind me, like a bucking bronco, and then somehow it comes to rest on my leg. A jogger stops to help me, (I hear her say “shit”, too, by the way) and the security guard comes back and the cell phone guy is there trying to untangle me out of my bike. The thing is, I’m not in pain. It’s not the sort of “I’m in shock and this is going to hurt later” type of thing, either. I’m totally fine. I tell everyone it must have looked worse than it was because they are all freaking out around me. My bike is fine. I am fine. The cell phone guy is fine, but apologizes profusely for not looking when he stepped out from behind the post.

With my pride barely intact, I get back on my bike and marvel that I’m really not hurt. Then I think about my brothers. I really owe it to them. They trained me for these sorts of unfortunate events. Had it not been for the extensive indoctrination to pain they gave me as a little girl, I may have crumbled under the duress of getting bucked from my Target-special Schwinn Jaguar.

Had they not chased me up the stairs and pulled my legs out from under me, nearly knocking the wind out of me, I may have cried today.

Had they not hidden under my bed and waited until I was nearly asleep to grab my feet in my darkened room, I may not have been able to handle surprises like someone walking out from behind a post.

Had they not tackled me in flag football instead of tagging me, I may have called for an ambulance instead of getting up and brushing myself off.

And while I’m at it, I should let my parents know I owe them for making me tough, too. When I would come in crying after being tackled in football or from my brothers pushing me on the bed and bouncing on my head, they would say, “Well, don’t play with them then.”

Yeah, right. That was not an option. And they knew it. My parents knew I would go right back out for the punishment because older brothers were cool, and they knew how to make life interesting.

So thanks Todd and Bill, Mom and Dad. If not for you, I probably would have sat there milking the attention, or called for a ride home. But instead, I stood up, put Mumford and Sons back into my ears, lifted one leg over the seat of my bike and enjoyed the rest of my ride.

We Don’t Go To the Zoo Anymore

I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t like we said we’re not going to the zoo anymore. Or that we declared a moratorium on trips to the Children’s Museum or Conner Prairie or Holliday Park. It just stopped. Family field trips were soon replaced by soccer practices, baseball games and guitar lessons. I barely even noticed. Until I heard one of my friends planning a trip to the zoo with her small children. My heart cracked a little when I realized that we don’t frequent the zoo any longer.

Somewhere along the way, my boys grew up. Well, not all the way up. They’re still fairly young. My youngest only recently hit double digits. But when I heard my friend planning her zoo outing, I realized we had stopped doing the “little kid stuff.” It really wasn’t that long ago when we were taking advantage of all our city has to offer families. So, how then, did I find myself being that mom that talks in sentences that start with, “I remember when…” or “When my boys were little…”? When on earth did I become that woman who rushes to the young moms at the office who bring their babies into work for a visit so I can get a few minutes of coveted cuddle time with a newborn?

I should have recognized this shift when I no longer had to stay up half the night on Christmas Eve assembling toy train sets, race tracks or space ships. I should have seen it coming when my boys set up itunes accounts and wanted gift certificates to Best Buy, Dick’s and Guitar Center. But I really didn’t see it coming. One day it was just over. And so here I am in reminiscent mode. In this place called nostalgia.

Even with the longing for what was, I still relish what is now. It’s so easy to get caught up in these recent memories  that we forget to make new memories. We forget that we have the ability to create experiences that mean something, that impact our families, that draw us together.

We had our time at the zoo. We were awed by the lion’s roar, the elephant’s size and the lemur’s antics. Today I am awed by my sons’ abilities to play the guitar, build amazing structures, compete in competitive sports leagues and read entire books in one day.

We had our time at the park. We laughed as we chased each other on the jungle gyms and down the slides. We discovered treasures on hikes to the creeks and through the woods. Today we laugh as we play capture the flag at the neighborhood park, and I fall flat on my face while chasing one of my children (see last post). Now we travel out west and find long-lost mining towns and unearth amethysts in nearby rivers. Or we visit grandparents in Florida and giggle as we jump through waves and play paddleball on the beach.

A photo from yesteryear’s trip to a state park

We had our time at the Children’s Museum. We opened our minds as we tried experiments in Science Works or traveled to far away places in the Egyptian exhibit or excavated for dinosaur bones in Dinosphere. Today we open our minds as we ride bikes in our urban neighborhood and meet people we probably wouldn’t encounter if we still lived in the suburbs. We discover new art every First Friday when we frequent the Harrison Center for the Arts, and then we stretch ourselves as we try new food at one of favorite ethnic restaurants.

Thankfully, every December we still visit the Children’s Museum for an annual breakfast with Santa, as it’s been an extended family tradition for 15 years… and quite frankly we’re all still kids.  I’m sure we will go to the zoo again one day, too. But the regular visits have subsided. And that’s okay; but, I won’t lie. I miss holding my boys close as I lifted them up to see the sea lions diving off of rocks, into the water. I miss seeing their faces light up as they stand at the glass watching the toy train at the museum. I miss the simple days of running through the sprinkler and wrapping them in warm towels as their little lips quiver from the air conditioning when they come inside.

I miss a lot of things. Just as I will miss all of this one day. That’s why I must stay awake to each moment because this is all we have anyway. Right now. Right here. In this place. So right now, right here, I am going to create new memories in the form of milkshakes for all of us. May you cherish your memories and find ways to create new ones, too. Cheers.

Taking One For The Team

I may or may not have a broken wrist. The boys came home from their dad’s this evening, and the first thing they wanted to do was ride their bikes to the park. After a week without them, I wasn’t about to miss out on the opportunity to spend time with them.

Fun at the park

After a  little swinging, a little sliding, and a little climbing, one of the boys suggested we play “Capture the Flag.” I tried to play the Tired Mom Card, but they would have none of it. So my team hid our flag (Eli’s shoe) and the other team hid theirs. As the game goes, we ran to their side and tried to capture their flag before they could capture ours. Asher was well into our territory, and I had him cornered. There was no way out. He was going to be tagged and thrown into our jail.

I took off after him. He ran as fast as he could. I ran faster. There  in my short, flowing, black skirt and flip flops, I reached out my arm to touch his back. I had him… until I stepped onto the concrete underneath the shelter. The smooth concrete is slick enough, but when you step in the one, small puddle that collected on that concrete from today’s brief rain, it’s even slicker.

I fell first on my wrist, then my knees, followed by my shoulder and then my entire side slid across the cement.

“I’m okay,” I told the boys, as I felt hem gather around me. “My wrist and knees hurt but I’m okay.”

I took one for the team tonight. When we hid our flag, I thought about keeping my boys from that puddle because I didn’t want them to fall, but when the moment came for me to catch my enemy, I forgot all about that puddle and that slippery cement and went full force toward my goal.

Sometimes when we live in the moment, and we put all we have in running toward what we want, we are going to get hurt. The hurt won’t last forever; we may have to limp along for a while or take a break to ice our wounds, but the experience of living life to its fullest is definitely worth it. So, take one for the team once in a while, even if it means a broken bone here and there. Bones heal but memories last forever.

A Different Kind of Food

This afternoon, I worked an informational booth at Black Expo. It was the last two hours of Expo and the crowds were thinning out. I was bored and hungry. The woman at the booth next to me was munching on nachos. I wanted to wait until after Expo to eat because I had planned on getting Thai food for dinner. But the more my stomach growled, the better her nachos looked. Finally, I caved and asked her where she bought them.

As I set out in the massive labyrinth that is the exhibition hall in the Indianapolis Convention Center, I heard someone call out to me. A handsome, dread-lock-headed man called me over to his booth and handed me a book.

“Read Page 19,” he said. He told me he was a poet and this was his latest book of poetry. I started to read Page 19, but about half-way through it, I thought I might erupt into a mess of tears.

“I can’t read this right now,” I said. “I might cry. I need to read this in the privacy of my own home.”

He smiled at me as I handed him my credit card. I told him I, too, was a writer. He asked what I wrote. I told him about the corporate writing I had done, but that my heart was in creative non-fiction, and this blog. He seemed mildly interested as he signed a copy of his book before handing it back to me.

“Funny, how I was going to buy food for my stomach, but I have received an entirely different type of nourishment,” I told him, after skimming some of his other poems. “This is food for the soul.”

“Listen, here’s my card,” he said. “You call me up and I’ll read this poetry to you over the phone whenever you need it.”

Words escaped me. I thanked him and got back to the task at hand: finding nachos.

When I returned to my booth, there were only a few people left at nearby booths. Most exhibitors had packed up and headed home. Thai food no longer mattered so I sat down, ate my nachos and read my new book of poetry. This time I started at the beginning.

On Page 9, there was a clever poem called, “Help Wanted.”  It was essentially a want-ad — for a woman. The poet listed the characteristics he wanted in a woman: adventurous, sensual, sensitive, spiritual, loving, kind. And further down, these words: well-read, educated, down-to-earth, drug- and disease-free. The more I read the list, the more apparent it became – he was describing me! I laughed to myself as I continued down the list. Unmarried. Check. Positive thinking. Check. Confident. Uhh, mostly. Pork-free. Dang. He got me there. I like my bacon.

I packed up my things and stopped by the poet’s booth before I left. “I would send you my resume, but I eat pork,” I said.

Yes, I did. I know, I know. Go ahead and say it, “Lynn! Use your filter.”

I suppose I wanted just one more encounter with him because he intrigued me. But mostly I was being playful with  the whole “I eat pork” thing. His eyes met mine as it took a minute for him to realize I was referring to his “Help Wanted” poem. After that, he had me read one more short poem and then I started to walk away. Until he asked for my information. Yes, my in-for-ma-tion. I gave him my business card and then he told me again that he was serious about reading his poetry to me on the phone sometime.

I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen because I’m trying this whole notion of being without a man for a while. My filter was back in place by then so I did not say that to him. I thought it better to walk away, but had I explained why I couldn’t call him, I would have said this:

Yusuf Ali El,  I’m not sure I could actually survive hearing you spill these very intimate words out of your mouth and into my ear. Your poetry pierced my heart today. When I was feeling particularly lonely, your words of understanding and sensitivity jumped off of the page and at the same time both stirred and soothed my aching heart. I hope you don’t mind me sharing your poem on Page 19, the one you must snare unsuspecting women with as they walk innocently by your booth in search of nachos, but it meant a lot to me that someone I have never met before could capture just what I needed.

“O Woman”

by Yusuf Ali El (Joe E. Mitchell)

(Reprinted from O Woman) from the book Raw Tears, copyright 2011, published by Natural Resources Unlimited

O Woman,

don’t feel that you

can only come to me

when things are going well.

I want you to come to me

with your tears, fears,

and clabbered promises

that sat out too many nights.

I want you to come to me

in your head rags and blue jeans,

with an old coat

thrown over your night things.

I want you to come to me

when today is gone, tonight’s too long,

and tomorrow, is too far away.

I want you to come to me

when you need someone to be lonely with

and lovemaking is nowhere near your mind.

Because you see girl, I’ve been lonely too,

and I know that lonely, is as chronic as cancer,

and it keeps no time schedule.

So come to me, and don’t worry

about the lateness of the night.

I want you to come to me,

when it gets to you.

Just come on to me girl,

and I’ll do what I can.

I’ll be your friend.

O Woman.

Faith Like a Child

One morning at the ranch, my 13-year-old, Eli, led devotions on the porch of our cabin. He had us read I Thessalonians 5:16-18 and then, based on a question from his teen devotional Bible, he asked us to list ways God had been good to us. I gave each boy a piece of paper and told them to write 10 things that showed  how God had been good to them.

My youngest deep in thought

I participated, too. My list was made up of bullet points with things like •the gift of my children •the beauty of the mountains •my job, etc. I am truly grateful for every thing I listed, and I believe they are all ways that God has shown me He is good. But I didn’t spend a great deal of time thinking through my list.

My youngest son, on the other hand, thought long and hard as he created his list. There were no bullet points. No sentence fragments. He called me over to him a few times to ask for help, long after I had put my Bible and notebook back in the cabin. One particular sentence caught my breath. He had written, “That we get to see our mom and dad even when they are divorced.”

“Is that okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” I responded. “That is definitely one way God has shown you He is good. Some kids don’t get to see one of their parents when there is a divorce. But you know that both Dad and I love you so much and want to spend time with you. Even though divorce is not what God intended for us, and I’m pretty sure it’s not what any of us truly wanted, God is still showing His goodness through it by the way he cares and provides for you.”

Although I felt liked I stumbled through my explanation, he seemed to agree and went back to writing. Pretty soon he called to me, “Mom, do we have to pay for me to play soccer and baseball?”

I tell him yes and then I hear him say as he writes his next sentence. “That we have enough money for me to play soccer and baseball.”

When I walked over to him a few minutes later, I see how specific he has been in his list. He has mentioned his baseball games in detail, the two families from Tulsa, Oklahoma, that we met in Colorado three years ago and continue to vacation with each year at the ranch, his school and his friends…and then he says to me, “I saved the best one for last.”

“What’s that?” I asked, as I waited for him to write it on his paper.

“That I can be a Christian,” he said with a smile.

He gets it, this child of mine. He understands God’s goodness in every part of his life, even in the pain he has experienced (our divorce). But even more, he gets that being a Christian is not just some label we slap on ourselves. It’s not something he was born with or became just because that’s what his parents are. It’s something he got to choose. And he has chosen it. The evidence of Christ in his life is apparent in the way he loves other and the way he reflects the kindness and grace of Christ. This boy of mine is a constant encouragement to me.

After he finished, we walked back into the cabin together. He tucked his paper inside his Bible, puts it on the table and ran back outside to join his brothers. I grabbed my notebook and opened it up to my list. I added number 11: “I know that God is good to me because I get to witness how He is working in Jaden’s life.”

My Thanks To Marla

I received a text this morning at 6 a.m. That’s right, 6 o’clock in the morning! I am a sleeper. I love naps and I love sleeping in…. especially in the summer, so anyone who texts me at 6 a.m. better have a good reason for it.

Not Marla. She was returning my text from the day before. She just wanted to tell me that Tuesday will work for her and the boys to come over. Really, Marla? At 6 a.m?  Let me remind you, I am not your kind. By the time one of my eyes opens to see the light of day, you have fixed breakfast, packed your kids’ lunches, gone for a run, showered and washed, dried and folded your laundry. So I get that you’re a morning person, but couldn’t you have held off on that text for oh…say, two, three, four more hours?

Well, thank God she didn’t. Had I not woken up to check the text, I wouldn’t have heard the strange sound coming from my window. At first I thought the mice were back, and scrambling across the bottom of the window. My dog, who barks at every person who walks by our house, was sound asleep next to me. He didn’t budge.

I sat up to check it out. That’s when I saw the shadow of someone on the other side of my curtains. I pulled back the curtain and there was a young man on the other side of the window, trying to lift it open. My instincts caused me to hit the window and yell, “HEY!”

That’s right. I yelled hey. Don’t judge. It worked. He ducked down below my window, and I quickly closed my curtain, grabbed my phone and called 911. With adrenalin pumping and fear evident, my voice quivered when I told the operator that a man was trying to get in my bedroom window. To hear myself say those words was shocking. I stayed on the line as the operator asked me questions.

I was too freaked out to look out the bedroom window again to see if he was still crouching down in the walkway between my house and my neighbor’s house. But as I moved into the next room and looked out the back door, I saw him entering the back gate of another neighbor’s house across the alley. When the police finally arrived, they searched the neighbor’s backyard and surrounding area but to no avail. He was gone.

He’s not gone in my mind though. He lingers there. Along with the questions of what he wanted and why he wanted to get into our home. Sure, I am on edge, but I’m not scared. I don’t fear for my safety or the boys’ safety. I don’t have a good reason why, except because of the grace of God, and the fact that I was awake when it happened, all because of a 6 a.m. text. Thanks, Marla. I mean it.