I met him two years ago, in Washington DC.  

Within the shadow of our nation’s capitol, the citizens of the First World bustled past, unnoticing.  I was among them.  We moved across the sidewalks and crosswalks as fish swimming in a school, fluid and fast.  He sat against the side of a brick building, alone, clutching a worn backpack.

Our eyes met.  

I stopped.

“Please,” he reached up his hand with a whisper, “I’m so hungry.”

I stopped because he whispered, gently.

“Have you had lunch today?” I asked, reaching into my pocket.

“No, Ma’am. God bless you, Ma’am.”

My own lunch money weighed on me heavily.  I had restaurant plans.  The five dollar bill I handed to him seemed, suddenly, grossly deficient.  I switched pockets, knowing that 5 bucks wouldn’t buy him much lunch at Burger King across the street.

“Where are you from?” I asked.  I was not accustomed to being called Ma’am.  “What’s your name?”

“James. I’m from Mississippi,” he began.  Then came Vietnam.  Then just drifting… I did some coal mining.”  he began to unbutton his shirt, revealing two large, mirrored scars on his dark chest.   “I just got too many problems at once, so I come up here… I got kids, too.  I don’t see them anymore.  I figure life’s gotta be better in the city.”

We talked for a few more minutes.  He told me my daughters were beautiful, just like their Momma.  

I gave him my lunch money.  

And that was that.

It was time to move on.  But before I left, he asked me for something more.

“You pray for me, Ma’am.  And I’ll pray for you.”

“I will, James.  I will.”

Then I walked away.

I walked away, but something about my conversation with James had changed me.  

He was a vagrant.  A miner.  A veteran.  A father.  Somewhere, someone loved him. 

He told me that Someone was Jesus.  “He’s with me, right out here on the street,” James had said.   “He’s the one that sent you to give me lunch today.  He brings me joy, every day.  And he loves you, too.”

Oh, James.  

You; the Forgotten, the Hungry, the Abandoned, the Alone…

You have Joy?

You have Love?

You told me that you also have Peace.

You, James, Unknown Soldier, have the three elusive riches that the Wealthy World strives to find, and cannot.  You have nothing, and yet you have everything.



Well, James.  Today I am back in Washington DC, and I went looking for you.  I wanted you to know that you changed how I see people, James.  You helped me to find Love, Joy, and Peace in my own little world.  I wanted to remember you in a real way, and say thank you, James.

So I went to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.  

I didn’t find you.  But you know what I did find, James?  

I found hundreds and thousands of you…

Your fellow veterans were there for you, James.  They came in massive caravans of motorcycles, swarming the National Mall, slowly making their pilgrimage to Arlington National Cemetery across the bridge.  They rode, they walked, they held each other up as they climbed the hill.  They brought their families.  They brought flowers.  They came with children.  And burdens.  And tears.  

They wore leather, and white ponytails, and grizzled beards.  They wore crisp military uniforms and brass buttons and crew cuts.  They wore baby packs and held on to strollers, walkers, and canes.   

Though they came to the cemetery, they also came to give respect and honor to the Other Unknown Soldiers…to the veterans whose lives are still a living sacrifice.  They honor the veterans who are still fighting the battles of disability, woundedness, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  

Like you, James.  

This day is for you.  

Thank you.

Inspiration backfired on me this week.  

I’m a Mother.  Moms always try to inspire.  It’s human nature.  We want to show our kids the world, see how high they can fly.  Give them the best of times…

Because of this, I limit screen time, take them to the library, pay many fines for late and lost books… The library often backfires on me like that.  

But this week, Inspiration really backfired.  

Here’s the story:

Doug and I have had a two-decades long “discussion” about T.V.s and screen time.  

I grew up without T.V., and prefer life like that.  

He grew up with T.V., and prefers life like that.   


Simple.   


End of story;  who cares, right?  Well, when we became parents, we both suddenly cared.  A lot.

The first decade of parenting, I limited technology (ha! like there even was any technology back then!  We had dial-up internet, one tube T.V. and no cell phones.  That old VCR sure was a threat to creativity and intelligence, eh?  Who am I kidding? - I limited technology because there was none!  We read books, went to the orchestra and theater…they learned to paint and to dance.  They spoke Italian.  We read poetry and ate popcorn together.  It was inspiring!

However, the second decade of our parenting, Doug has made the call.  Technology for one and all.   We packed up Charles Dickens;  put away the clay and the dance shoes.  Instead, now it’s Blender (a 3-D modeling program) digital music, digital photography.  Good grief.  This could be the worst of times… So much of work and school are technology dependent, and now we are, too.   We munch microwaved popcorn while watching Netflix.  

But the battle still wages on between Doug and I.  Which kind of life is more inspiring?  What habits foster creativity more?  Is it watercolors with brushes and paper, or Sketch Up on the computer that will best inspire a kid to do great things? 

Just when we both think our own ways are best, something backfires.

Small One tugged on my sleeve, a questioning look on her face. 

“Mom, can I talk to you in private?”

Uh-Oh. Here we go.   My Mom-Alarm always goes off when I hear these words.  Is it something bad?  Are you hurt?  Or is this a tattling moment?  She pulls me into a room and shuts the door, looking a bit urgent. Then she whispers in my ear.

“I think its very important.  I want to become a scientist.  Is that okay with you?”

I stare ahead, feeling that she is right.  This is important. Maybe all those years of inspiration have really done something!  Maybe she will be the next Marie Curie!  Or she will find a cure for cancer!  I could start teaching her Latin this summer…  

She continues talking.

“It’s very important.  I want to invent things.  
Can I have a hammmer?  And a vaccuume cleaner?  
Then I can become a scientist.”

Whew.  Breathe out.  Let her finish, Mom… Listen to her, Inspire her!

“You’ll see a real scientist tomorrow, Dear.  When you go to the doctor, you can ask her about science.  Doctors are a kind of scientist.”

She shakes her head, messy curls falling into her face.

“Uh-uhn.. That’s not what I was thinking about.  I want to be the kind of scientist that makes something.  Invents something  important.  I am going to need blueprints.  Blueprints and a backstory.  Because Dr. Dufenschmirtz has blueprints and a backstory, every time.”  

Oh. 

Dr. Dufenschmirtz.  

He is a cartoon character.  

Apparently, a very inspiring cartoon character.  A mad scientist of Disney's Phineas and Ferb fame.

Did I mention he is a villain?

Technology wins. 

I think I’ll go pull out my dusty copy of A Tale of Two Cities, and have a cry in my tea.   

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

This week, I realized for the first time that I am married to a Firefighter.

I thought he was a sensitive artist type, but I was mistaken.  

He’s a Firefighter.

The way I see it, Firefighters are always on alert, constantly ready to stop catastrophes.  They see a billowing plume of smoke, and dash out with a big truck, hose and axe to stop the fire and fix the problem.

But my problem is that I am the problem.  

And I’m not on fire.

Being an emotional person, sometimes (okay, let’s admit it.  Not sometimes, but daily…)  I have emotional outbursts.   My billowing clouds of emotion tumble about, rising and falling, blown about by the winds of change.  And they do change.  The emotional clouds change color (from pale, baby blue all the way to darkest, threatening green)  they change shape and size (from ooo, a pretty one - all the way to OMG get out of the way, it’s a funnel cloud!)  But the point is, they are clouds.  Emotions aren’t tangible objects.  They float about, scare people sometimes, and then disappear as quickly as they arise.  They seldom emit downpours, unless, of course, it is Typhoon Season.  Then you’d just better get the heck out of the way.  

Take cover.

Now, all this cloud activity would be fine if I had married an artist, or even a weatherman.  

But apparently, I didn’t.

I married a Firefighter.  

At the first sign of rising smoke (or clouds or steam or even slight vapors) he grabs his trusty axe.  Engines roaring with efficiency and power,  he puts on a self contained breathing apparatus.  He grabs a light and radio, and personal protective gear.  He watches the Emotional Clouds for changes in volume, color, intensity, and movement.  He listens for popping sounds and stressing noises.  He scans the walls for cracks.  He is on the offense, ready to chop down doors and bulldoze firebreaks and blast my Emotional Cloud with 126 psi of water pressure.  

He has one thought only.  Kill the fire.  Quick.

But, as we all know, there is no real fire.  Only my Emotional Clouds.  

The more my Firefighter tries to dissipate the clouds, the more I huff and puff and my emotions blow into tornadoes, hurricanes, thunderstorms, and even an occasional blizzard.  Water doesn’t help that.  His offensive tactics with water only ice everything up.  

And he doesn’t want that.

This whole scenario sounds hopeless…  Stressful!  Whatever can we do to fix it?  How can we get rid of the blasted smoke?

The answer is so easy, it’s magical.  You just need the right person for the job.

Call off the firefighter.  

Call up the sister. 

“Hello?” she’ll say, answering her cell phone at any hour.  

“Hi.”

That’s all she needs.  Just by the tone of my “Hi,” she can assess the emotional content, and she knows what to say, what to do, and how to proceed.  Her response may be a compassionate sigh, an I’m-fed-up retort, or even an all-out laugh.  She has even been known to scold my Emotional Clouds away with an oh-for-heaven’s-sake-you’re-ridiculous response.  Whatever she says, it is usually perfect.  Five minutes with my sister, and the threatening Emotional Cloud disappears, melting into a comfortable summer breeze.  Sunshine, even.  Great weather forecast for the rest of the day!  

And my poor, besieged Firefighter is left standing in his tangled pile of high tech, fireproof gear, without a smoke cloud in sight, wondering what happened.   He has all this power and muscle,  intensity, technology, and testosterone, yet all his best efforts often make that cloud worse.  And while he is baffled by and battling the stormclouds from hell, a tiny 110 pound, middle-aged woman vanquishes his enemy over a cell phone.  

Works every time.  He’ll never really know how or why.  He wouldn’t understand it, anyway.  

But I do.  Firefighters battle fires.  

And I don’t deal out real fires, just Billowing, Blustering Emotional Clouds of smoke.  

And that kind of smoke is best blown away by the soft gentle breeze of a Sister.

Thank God for sisters!  

And thank God for Firefighters, too.  They are overworked and underpaid.  Perhaps they are under-appreciated, a tiny bit, though you'll never hear that from me.  

I love my Firefighter.  

Happy Mother's Day!  
 
I present to you the Ideal Mother:   She is gentle, kind, generous...

Selfless.

At the opposite end of the Mother Spectrum, this is my reality:  

Selfie.  

With kids. 

Good thing I have a sense of humor.  It's one of the best things I have.  Well, besides all those kids.   A bunch of us are in there, somewhere.  Piled up, in each others' faces, laughing and choking together.  Heaven knows we don't have any peace and quiet.  

"Click."  

Say a prayer for all the mothers today, will ya?  Motherhood is a wild ride!

Everything is brand new today.

The world is awakening...

The birds are singing their hallelujah chorus...

Today is a gift of possibilities for you.   What will you do with it? 

Once upon a time, there was a woman.  She stayed home a lot, and the neighbors all thought she did nothing but eat bon bons, because she was quite soft and round.  She didn't have much to say.  Quiet type.  A little on the cranky side.

Once, when she wasn't home, a nosy neighbor peeked in the window, and this is what she found!  So that was her secret!  What a bunch of ugly children!

The nosy neighbor was chased away by an indignant and overprotective father.  Hmph.  He scolded and squawked.  

The parents fed their children a great deal, so they started to grow.  One child sported a mohawk.  He was judged by the neighbors to be spunky and rebellious.  Plus, he cried a lot.  

But soon, those babies grew, as all children do.  They always wanted more to eat.  The poor parents were kept running here and running there, always filling the bottomless pits of their children's appetites.  The parents began to appear a bit old and frazzled.  The mother worried a lot, her feathers grew thin.  The father continued to dive-bomb all birds who glanced anywhere in the direction of his daughters.  He chased all intruders away.  What a guy.  He was no longer considered a sharp-dressed man, now the neighbors rather considered him a grumpy old codger.

I think perhaps his daughters thought the same, though they never said so.   They loved him anyway.  He brought them the best of everything.

Not long after, the Mother found a new home further out in the sticks.  She fancied a bigger place.  More private and luxurious.

The parents worked for days, moving their children.  One after another, the little ones hopped out of the nest, and followed Mom and Dad to the new home. 

Little Mr. Mohawk was far more awkward than his siblings, and he flopped about a great deal.  It took Mom and Dad much cajoling and scolding to get him to move it.

In the end, that family did move away.  

The neighbors had grown rather fond of spying on them, and they miss them very much.  
I do hope they live happily ever after.