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Graze review

I have recently tried several new delivery services that I have received as gifts. I thought I might review them here.

First up:  Graze
Graze will deliver a snack box to you each week. You can customize it somewhat, particularly if you have allergies.  

Overall impression:  it’s exciting to get the box each week. The snacks are surprising and unusual combinations.  Many are interesting trail mix type combos or granola bars with a twist. My favorites have been any of the “Flapjack” items: gooey but hearty bars of various flavors.
Pros: 
Trying new snacks
Reasonably healthy ingredients
Yummy!
Cool/unexpected flavors
Sensible (tiny) portions
Here is one snack next to a lime for scale.

Cons:
Seriously small portions – not a bargain
They bombard you with email “deals”
Too much sugar/carbs
Not customizable enough
I would like to see them have a high-protein, low-carb option.  My first batch had a couple of options that contained nuts, which upped the protein and crunchy salty stuff that balanced out the sweets.  This week’s delivery was all sweet, no savory. 
There do appear to be options on the site for customization. But if you already placed your order, it seems difficult to alter what they are sending you. Maybe you can but the site is not super user-friendly.  
Would I buy it for myself?  Probably not, largely because I can buy larger quantities of healthy snacks at many stores for less money.  
Now, I would say it makes a great gift for someone. A new mom who is going to be stuck at home, a college student or someone who is expanding their diet to include more wholesome snacks.  At $7 per box, with each container holding approximately a handful, you are not getting a good deal. If you buy the larger snack boxes, the price, of course, goes up but you definitely get more bang for your buck.  It’s more of a luxury/gift item .  
Bottom line:  Giving a girlfriend 4 weeks of yummy deliveries is a good way to spend $30.  If you’re feeding yourself, take the $30 to Trader Joe’s. 
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Why I "tri."

When I finished chemo in 2014 for stage 3b colon cancer that I had been diagnosed with 5 months before, I did a lot of thinking.  I’m not unique in this.  I think a lot of people get cancer or have a brush with death of some kind, and they decide they need to turn over a new leaf, change how they live, stop doing something, start doing something, repair a broken relationship or begin living more gratefully.  You know, don’t sweat the small stuff kind of thinking.  My own version of newness was this:  
 
My cancer has a high rate of recurrence.  I know, we all want to believe that it’s gone forever, I “beat” it and it won’t ever come back.  But I hear every day or so about someone who got cancer once, had a time of remission, and then their cancer came back and killed them.  I know, it’s morbid and negative and upsetting to think that way – try living it.  But rather than dwell in the fear of recurrence and death, I’ve decided to let that possibility impact my life in a positive way.  And I have a specific goal.  Since I live with the possibility that cancer could come back and kill me, I think about what is most upsetting about that – what is the most unfair, heart wrenching part about that?  There are many things, but the biggest is this:  My daughter is only 5.  I know she’ll be ok.  She has people that love and will take care of her.  She’s smart and resilient.  But will she remember me?  I don’t remember much about being 5.  So I think, what is most important for me to leave for her?  That I love her, of course.  But that’s well established.  What I really want is for her to have strong memories of us being together and having fun as a family, but also for her to have memories and evidence of her mother doing difficult, challenging things.  I want her to be deeply aware that she comes from a woman who didn’t back down from challenges, that didn’t let fear and doubt stop her.  Now, look.  I realize that this is a little Lifetime Movie-esque.  I’m not trying to be overly dramatic.  There is a perfectly good chance I will be alive 40 years from now.  But when you can name the thing that is most likely to kill you, you have the right to move about defensively – both in fighting it (nutrition, regular check-ups, exercise) and making some decisions about how your legacy might look, whenever that time comes.   
 
If I die early from cancer  it can’t be helped that she will have memories of a sick woman struggling for breath.  Memories of watching me get sick and frail will flood her brain for a while – hell, that will probably happen if I make it to 90.  That cannot be avoided.  But what I can do is show her how to fight now.  Show her how to overcome challenges.  Show her how you make sacrifices, tape up that ankle and get on with the damned training run.  Show her how organized and dedicated and disciplined you have to be to accomplish something big.  How you have to have your swimsuit, your goggles, your hair band, your special socks, your phone armband, your sports bra, your bike helmet, your biking gloves, your cold weather stuff, your warm weather stuff.  Show her how you have to eat the right things for fuel, how you will get really sick if you don’t hydrate. 
 
I can show her how you wear a wet suit in public even though you look like an oompah loompah.  I can show her how you swim in deep, open, choppy water, fighting waves, arms, legs, wind and the alarming tightness of the wet suit.  I can show her how you pass the jerk in front of you who kicked you in the head.  I can show her how to strip off that nasty, confining wet suit and throw on a t-shirt and get on that bike and ride, and to just keep pedaling, and when the hill becomes too much, how you get off and walk, pushing that heavy less-than-optimal bike, putting one foot in front of the other.  Literally saying to yourself “I think I can.  Just keep going.  I think I can.  I know I can.”  I can show her how walking your bike isn’t quitting, it’s using all of the tools in your tool box.  It’s ditching pride for functionally, dragging yourself and that heavy, heavy bike up that hill so you can mount up and sail down the other side.  I can show her how you don’t touch those brakes on that downhill because even though 38 MPH on a winding, gravelly, country road that is not closed to traffic is terrifying, and how you just have to believe that a deer won’t jump out and kill you, or a rabbit for that matter – because you need every bit of momentum.  You can’t afford to let fear make you hit those brakes.  You have to choose to be brave.  And, if you can shake the fear, it kind of makes you believe you can fly.  I can show her that when your chain pops off, you don’t cry; you just jump off and fix it.  I can show her that when you start that run, your legs feel like dead tree trunks.  So you walk slow to get them going.  Then faster.  And even though it seems impossible, like REALLY impossible…and, ooh, there is a lady holding an iced tea….you want that iced tea.  You want to stop and sit down and drink that frosty iced tea and say “eff this race.”  And you feel sad because lots of people are done.  Like, they not only passed you on the bike, they have also finished their run.  They are, like way, way faster than you.  And they are eating pizza and drinking iced tea.  And you are just starting your run.  But there is she.  That little sprite of a girl, with her light brown hair messy and her knees dirty.  Cheering you on.  “Go mommy.”  And you cry.  Because you know you already did it.  You haven’t finished this race yet – you WILL, dammit.  But you have shown her.  She knows.  She knows what this takes for you.  She cheers because she knows this is hard.  She’s seen you struggle on the bike.  She’s seen you chug along slowly, running, just barely.  Head down, get it done.  She knows.  Her 5 year old heart is proud.  And you know, that even right now if you get hit by a falling tree, you’ve done it.   She will remember you strong and whole and healthy and badass.  And so you begin to run.  And you just make it happen, even though the tank is empty.  There is nothing left but sheer will.  You run and you finish.         
 
It meant EVERYTHING to me that my daughter was there to see this.  For a while, it seemed like that wasn’t going to work out. It was a busy weekend and it really wasn’t anyone’s fault, but I was devastated.   I had a time of panic and frustration and even deep heartache.  This was so important to me.  And I tried reaching out for help, which I really hate doing, but it was this important.  Is there anything worse than asking for help and being rejected?  Ugh!  What a horrible feeling.  This is why people don’t ask for help, because no matter what the reason, how not personal it is…when the stakes in my crazy head are this high…it feels like a rejection of me.  And I couldn’t expect anyone to understand why.  But then someone did.  My wonder friend Mitzi just reached out and fixed it.  She said “Cass will sleep here and we will bring her to come and see you.”  Not only that, but she took these amazing pictures that I will always for the rest of my life be grateful for.  Whether I die when I’m 40 or 70 or 90, please remember me like this.  Because this is who I am.  

A lot of people got me here – an online triathlon group I’m part of, friends and family, especially my husband for helping me train and others, like my mom for watching Cass when I trained as well as the race organizers and volunteers who cheered me on.  It means the world to me.  

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

 

  

 
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The secrets you don't know about

In the work I do, in helping homeless people overcome addiction, we talk a lot about wearing masks.  We wear masks that communicate to the world “I’m fine.” We do this because saying “I’m not fine” well, it doesn’t usually produce the best results.  We almost immediately regret it and, though exhausted from keeping up the charade, we reach for the “I’m fine” mask, give ourself a pep talk about how our feelings don’t matter, we’re being a baby, we’re being selfish, we should grow up, get tougher, not be so sensitive.  We shake it off and press on.  

But we’re kind of dying a little bit inside.  More and more convinced that no one really knows us, no one understands and no one cares.  We are sure they don’t like our sad, scared, worried selves. We are, when overcome by those less fun, positive emotions, it seems, alone.  We really aren’t acceptable unless we’re functioning, helpful, happy, funny, easy-going, thankful and easy to be around. People seem to love me when I’m in Wonder Woman mode, when nothing can stop me.  But when I’m in “I’ll probably get cancer again in two years and die and my daughter will barely remember me when she’s an adult” mode…yeah, I’m not fun. I’m weird. I’m probably terrifying.  
So, we isolate.  But we want reassurance.  Comfort.  Some signal from the outside world, far away as it feels, that we still matter.  So, we reach for these phones in some feeble effort to connect.  We send a feeble text.  Maybe just a “hi.”  To someone we really want to be safe.  Or we call.  The voicemail we leave (or don’t) is upbeat.  Who wants to call back a giant loser who feels sorry for herself today.  “Just wanted to say hi!” But our hearts sink.  Why isn’t this person answering?  Did I do something wrong?  I thought we were close.  Maybe we aren’t.  Our suspicion that we kind of suck is growing.  
We look to Facebook for, what? Evidence the world hasn’t forgotten about us?  The unlikely possibility that someone said something nice about us today?  Posted something cute or funny to our timeline.  Only to find that a couple of our friends have gotten together for cheesecake without us.  They know I love cheesecake!  What. The. Hell.  We invite someone else to lunch.  They can’t go.  We feel like we’re drowning.

Our interactions become less confident.  We withdraw.  We second guess our every move.  We seem to leave disaster in our wake.  No wonder no one wants to be around us.  It’s actually kind of funny when this happens to me.  I swear it just gets worse and worse.  Since everyone hates me, I consider moving to Nebraska – people seem nice there.  Maybe I should become a monk or a nun.  In one of those cool mountain top places where they make beer, maybe? 
This happens to me about twice a year.  For about 2 days.  I convince myself I’m toxic and unlovable.  I take everything personally.  I resent everyone and I sit and pout like Jonah after the whole whale incident when God has compassion on the people of Ninevah.  As Jonah is pouting, God provides a branch leaf thing over his head for shade.  It’s a whole metaphor where God points out Jonah’s lack of compassion but I like the branch.  It’s this glimpse into who God is when we’re, as Jonah says, “so angry I could die!”  Don’t you relate to that?  My final straw is usually following a series of interactions that deflate me, the deodorant breaks into 12 pieces and falls on the floor or I get 17 red lights in a row when I’m already late.  Usually my shade branch leaf thing from God comes in the form of one really understanding person.  And it’s usually someone who feels like this pretty often.  For me, it’s like I’m off my game.  For them, it’s a constant battle against depression, anxiety and crippling insecurity.  I’m not talking about attention seeking, overly needy, constant drama llamas.  I’m talking about the people you generally enjoy, respect and care for.  Some of them are secretly really sad.  Or anxious.  They have counseling appointments and prescriptions.  They have secret, huge, overwhelming problems. And they spend a lot of time saying “I’m fine. How are you?” 

Do you know these people?  No?  Umm.  I have to tell you something.  There are people, friends of yours, who would never tell you they’re hurting.  Would never trust you with their pain.  Because you don’t seem like you want to know.  They tell you a little and you move away instead of closer.  

We’re so self protective when it comes to other peoples’ messes. Is it because we’re too busy?  So tired from the 37 things we need to do before bed?  Or maybe we’ve finally got our own mess under control for the moment?  We only like people when they’re fun?  We’re scared of other people’s pain.  

If all of this is foreign to you and especially if you want to dismiss it, then you should probably acknowledge that people don’t trust you with their pain.  

I have a couple of astoundingly emotionally intelligent people in my life that if I give them just enough of a peek into my momentary mess, they know what to do.  The empathy just floods the place.  Just from that step of them moving closer instead of backing up and  slinking out the door…just by staying with me…this reminds me of what’s true.  That I’m God’s kid.  That I’m loved.  That I’m ok.  That I’ll get my mojo back.  That I’m still lovable when I’m a mess.  

I want to be this for others, too.  I succeed occasionally – have glorious moments of getting to love someone well in a time of grief, fear or shame.  But I  mostly fail.  I slink out the door, sometimes, too.  It’s tempting to try to control things so that your mess is the only one you have to deal with.  It feels overwhelming to invite more messes in.  

But it’s one of the great paradoxes.  Mostly, dwelling in the collective messiness together helps all parties involved.  Now, if you’re codependent and constantly running toward every mess, that’s a different problem – I’m talking to the rest of us.  The isolators, the people with boundaries a mile high.  Those whose first thought is “not my problem.” 

The best thing I’ve learned about the “I’m fine” mask is this:  if everyone loves you when you’re fine, when you’re the best version of yourself you can muster – if they only love you when you’re wearing your mask, you have to be really honest with yourself about something. They don’t love you. They just love the mask.

Can we try to stop requiring people we claim to love to wear masks?  Can we welcome an occasional breakdown as a moment of authenticity that we’re honored to be a part of? Can we try to create conditions that really invite people to be themselves?  Because that, I’m convinced, is what really helps heal people.  

The work of people like John Lynch, (grace) Dr. Brene Brown (shame, blame, belonging) and Dr. Henry Cloud (healthy relating, leadership) can help us get better, healthier and more authentic.

Here are some good books:

SAFE PEOPLE by Henry Cloud

DARING GREATLY by Brene Brown
THE CURE by John Lynch and others 




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Marathon Weekend 2015


 

https://scontent.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xaf1/t31.0-8/s960x960/11169623_956777608488_6214708022428244432_o.jpg

 

What a weekend!  We are all exhausted, including my daughter who was a real trouper – she walked almost 4 miles with me downtown on Marathon Sunday!  I am thrilled to report that I
met my 2015 fundraising goal of $5,000!  I
currently have raised $5,660.  The race
went well on Saturday – we had gorgeous weather and I finished the 5K with a
personal record of 41:15.  I actually beat last
year’s time by over 2 minutes!  It was a
difficult race – about half the time, I was saying to myself “I’m never doing
this again!  Why do I think I can do this?  I can’t!”  But crossing the finish
line is such an incredible feeling, it erases those feelings of doubt and
fear. 

 

In related news, Kevin finished the full marathon (his
first ever!) in under 4 hours, with a time of 3:56 – this put him in the top
25% of finishers.  What an
accomplishment!  Squeezing into a spot
along the railing and standing on my tip toes waiting for him to come around
the bend on Smithfield Street, and then seeing him and cheering him on with our
five year old, Cassidy, was a major highlight. 
Last night I asked her what her favorite part of the weekend was, and
she said “Sitting on that newspaper stand, watching for Daddy!”  There is something amazing about watching
people run by so close to the finish line. 
The look of exhaustion and accomplishment on their faces is
inspiring.  One trio went by at a snail’s
pace, two women nearly carrying an injured male runner.  I wondered if they all knew each other and
were determined to finish together or if two strangers sacrificed their timing
goals to help a fellow runner cross the finish line.  I immediately teared up at this, and nearly
lost it completely when a mom and son (I assume) ran by, the mom bursting with
pride for her young running partner. 

What a journey each person takes to make it to that final mile.  All of those training runs, injuries, forgoing other activities, giving up hours of sleep, pushing through pain, boredom, (running can get boring after a while!) inclement weather, the dreadmill, (treadmill) – it’s a huge deal to prepare for.  I know how I feel when finishing a 5K – I can’t even imagine how exponentially overwhelming it is to conquer a half or full marathon.        

 

If you haven’t been involved with the marathon weekend, I
encourage you to come down and support a runner, volunteer with the event or even run one of
the races yourself – we would love to have you run for Light of Life- is this
your year to commit to doing your first 5k? 
Message me about running if you want to get involved next year.  I swear, if I can do it, you can do it!   

 

I am celebrating, but also looking ahead to May 31st,
my triathlon!  Don’t worry, I’m not
fundraising for that.  J  But I would love to have your encouragement
and prayers – I am VERY intimidated by this upcoming event.  I am training hard but not knowing exactly
what to expect is nerve wracking! 

 

We are still accepting donations (just FYI, Team Light of
Life is VERY close to overtaking the Animal Rescue League to be the #2 charity
in all of Pittsburgh for this event!)  https://www.crowdrise.com/lightoflifepittsburgh2015/fundraiser/jessimarsh

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Remission continues…

I saw my oncologist recently and he noted that in a few months, I would be “Two years out from diagnosis – that’s good!”  It is good, indeed.  Here is what has happened recently:

I had excellent blood work – no detectable presence of cancer

Mort the Port (the device they implanted in my chest to deliver chemo) was successfully removed.  RIP, Mort.

I started training for both a 5K race and a triathlon (1/4 mile swim, 14 mile bike and 3.1 mile run.)  It is both difficult and exhilarating.  It also has almost entirely replaced my social life – so hopefully I will see my friends again once this is over!

Remission continues to be a source of gratitude and a major challenge.  Every day I hear of a cancer survivor who gets cancer again.  It is indescribably difficult to live with that uncertainty.  It requires a daily refocusing, and reestablishing of my trust in God.  I find that brief moments of focused meditation are helpful.

While a cancer diagnosis and treatment are an emotional roller coaster, so can be remission.  Some days, I find myself one minute basically forgetting I ever had cancer, and worrying about something shallow like something someone said about me (I have learned it is a luxury to be grumpy about something so silly!) and the next minute thinking about dying.  One minute I’m thinking about adding more to my 401K contribution (operating out of the assumption I’ll be around in 30 years) and the next imagining how I will react when my cancer comes back.  I know, it sounds crazy – imagine living it!

Most of the time, I am living in the present, looking optimistically toward the future, dealing with the pesky irritations of trying to live life in the presence of other humans, but experiencing deep joy, and observing and moving through life with a special perspective that comes only through knowing how fleeting life can be, and how fundamental trusting God is.

A longtime friend and I were having a discussion of a theological nature, and she said she likes to think about this question:  “What IS this?”  Like….what is this whole thing…this world, this life, our purpose?  It’s popular to believe that “it” is whatever you think it is.  But, it has to, like, be something.  I think it’s God’s creation, for our enjoyment – an environment in which we can seek Him, or not.  And while there is great mystery and only dim, vague understanding, there is an occasional glimpse of His glory.  I’ve seen it.  A tiny bit.  I’ve felt it.  A tiny touch.  It comes in the form of grace and hope.  In the form of love.  And when we trust God – with our health, with our jobs, with those we love, we are free to operate in a less controlling way.  We don’t grab hold of things and people, and squeeze them until their eyes pop out.  We hold them with an open hand, and we love and serve and provide care and embrace support and watch the glory unfold.


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RIP, Mort the Port

I spent the past 17 months with a compass sized contraption in my chest.  It looks like this:

That long tail thing that goes into the jugular vein freaked me out a little.  It hurt a lot when it was installed and it took some time to get used to the idea.  But I understood that it would be my chemo delivery system and I should make peace with him.  So I named him Mort the Port and considered him an ally.
I recently got the news that my oncologist doesn’t think I’ll need him anymore.  This is huge.  The idea that your conservative, careful cancer doctor doesn’t think you will need any more chemo for the foreseeable future is a big deal.  A break in the clouds.  A bright sunbeam of happiness!  
So two days ago, I went to the hospital.  And I looked like this:
And then they put me out with some heavy drugs and scraped out Mort.  So I liked like this:
Cute, huh??  So Kevin took me home and let me rest with a cat on me, like this:
I got a little more energy from snuggling with this little bug:
I got brave and took off the bandages yesterday.  Eeeek:
It’s so swollen, it looks and feels like Mort is still in there.  But I know he’s not.  It’s a new era in my journey.  So many prayers have been answered.  Since we got that awful news, literally from that moment, everything, while difficult and painful at times, has gone with perfect precision.  This blessing does not escape me.  I am so grateful.  
I met a Brazillian faith healer by a river in Oregon, who talked to me half in Portugese and half in English. (Yes, I know this sounds made up.  It’s not.)  So I missed a lot of what she said. And she said a lot of strange things to me (including the f-word every sentence or two and that dogs cure cancer) but she grabbed my hands and urged me to trust in my having been healed by God and to be fearless.  Interestingly, the same day, I went to this bakery and had a cookie so delicious I’ll never forget it.  
Live fearlessly, my friends.  

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Hope realized.

Last week I had a doctor’s appointment where my doctor analyzed the results of my latest CT scan and blood work.  He deemed my results “excellent.” Relief and gratitude washed over me.  As you can imagine, waiting for those results is maddening.  It’s like balancing on a fence for a week, being told you may not hop down.  One one side of you is a fluffy mattress, puppies, a massage therapist, a nice Malbec, endless episodes of Parks & Rec and like, George Clooney or Ryan Gosling, I mean, my wonderful, handsome husband whom I love very much.  On the other side of the fence is fire, spiky things, expense reports, your 7th grade math teacher, Mrs. McKinney, who was void of soul and mean as the day is long, humidity, spiders, pop-country music, scratchy wool sweaters, pantyhose, mayonnaise just lying around in glistening, awful mounds and a cloud of farts.  Broccoli farts.  

While on the fence, so to speak, for one week, I was basically a crazy person.  My head was cluttered with all kinds of worries.  Each day, I would have to bring myself back to sanity. I busied myself with work stuff, prayed and played a lot of Trivia Crack.

When the time came, I got tipped over into the wriggling sea of puppy kisses.  I feel like I’m sane again.  I feel like I have been given, for now, a wonderful gift.  I know it isn’t a gift everyone gets.  I know some well loved friends that are still on their journey of actively battling cancer. I know some dear people who have gone to be with The Lord after fighting a long time.  I worry that my victory, my blessing, my gift is painful to those who are missing someone whose story ended with this battle.  I am careful to recognize the need for utmost humility as I celebrate this battle won.  
Additionally, cancer never goes away entirely.  Even if it truly dies within you, you fear it’s return and who it will attack next.  
Trusting God, as always, is paramount.  I have shifted from praying for healing and am focusing on praying for wisdom.  Like serious, deep wisdom.  I can’t think of anything more important to ask for.  The wiser someone is, the more they seem to trust God.  Having that trust and understanding is more important than what the circumstances are.  You can have health, admiration, financial stability, even love.  But those things, valuable as they are, do much less to help you feel strong when you are weak.  To have peace when you are afraid.  
So Mort the Port comes out next month! This is A Big Deal to me. For one, this foreign object has been in my chest for a year and a half. It has helped to save my life. I have become accustomed to it. It makes blood draws a snap! Letting them take him out means that I submit myself to that whole vein hunting, pricking nonsense.  You get spoiled with a port.  But it’s exciting to close that chapter.  I may even have a little Bon Voyage party for Mort.  He’s been a good ally.  
I’m off to California in a few weeks and Oregon after that.  (Work trips.)  Then my surgery to say au revoir to Mort.  I’m happy.  I’m grateful.  I’m excited for the present.  
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Frustrated? Maybe this one is for you.

There is a phenomenon that abounds which puzzles me.  I see it in the grocery store, on Facebook, in traffic and on the faces of people I encounter here and there.  It is the sentiment of “others have made me unhappy!”

Let’s consider some examples.  The person beeping their horn in traffic and visibly raging to the point where I wonder if they will have a stroke.  The person who is offended that someone doesn’t emphasize Jesus quite enough in their Christmas card/lawn display/holiday greeting, etc.  The employee who got passed over for the promotion.  The relative who feels slighted because no one asked her to make her famous cookies for Christmas dinner.
Life, your life, is basically the current result of your choices.  Do some things happen that are outside of our control? Of course.  You’re talking to someone who was diagnosed with colon cancer at the age of 36.  Pardon the expression, but shit happens, right?  Maybe I ate too many Ramen noodles in college or put too much Equal in my iced tea or something.  But probably we can agree it wasn’t clearly “my fault.”  So I’m not saying that everything is within our control. That is certainly not true. However, most things kind of are. Even if they aren’t completely within our control, we have plenty of opportunities to influence any situation we are involved with.
Think of it. In the vast majority of situations, you have endless options.  You can choose to do so many different things. You can choose to be generous, or stingy. You can choose to be patient, or agitated. You can choose to be understanding or critical.  Someone says something insulting to you at a party. What can you do about it?
Laugh it off
Walk away  
Thank them sarcastically
Gossip about them in the corner
Say something equally insulting
Say something vastly more insulting
Do a groovy dance
Punch them in the face
Change the subject
Slow clap
Reach into the pudding and hurl it at them
Pinch them
Hug them
Lick them
Discreetly smear the pudding on their rear end
Light their hair on fire
Ask them sincerely if anything is wrong
Steal money out of their purse
Decide that you deserved it and move on
Mail them a bag of dog poop
Complain to your spouse briefly and then get over it
Flirt with their significant other
Make a joke and smooth it over
Never speak to them again
You could really change the course of the relationship (and party!) depending on what you choose to do. You could make it a big something, a little something, or nothing. It could be something no one remembers after five minutes, or the story people talk about for the next 10 years. Depending on what you choose to do!  Obviously some of these choices are kinder, wiser, healthier, etc. than others.  I’m not suggesting these are all good choices.  All I’m trying to illustrate is that we have choices. Lots of them. Probably an infinite number.  But we act like our first inclination, our natural response, is our only option.
The choices we make, the responses we choose, are the things that reflect our character.  And I see more and more people whose character is defined by blame, bitterness, and frustration.
I can fall into that type of thinking myself. People do things all the time that puzzle me, frustrate me, and hurt my feelings. Sometimes I have to have a little powwow with one or two of my favorite people to blow off a little steam. But it’s really important that I get over things and move on or forge peace with the person who upset me by talking to them. 
I have to understand that other people see the world very differently than I do. They have different priorities, interests and goals. Different things make them happy. I might not be as important to them as I would like to be.  And I can get upset about those things and stew in those things and decide that because they have not met my needs or expectations, that this means they are a bad person. 
But I know it’s not right. It’s not acceptable. I am responsible for just my own choices and responses. I cannot control other people. It is not their job to meet my expectations unless I have communicated them clearly and they have expressly agreed to them. Anything outside of that type of transaction, is just me making assumptions and having expectations that are probably unfair.
I am learning, little by little, to meet people where they’re at, and not judge that point along the path they are currently journeying along.  I know some people who appear to me to be astoundingly selfish. But I have choices. I can never talk to them again. I can still have them in my life but criticize and judge everything they do. Or I can spend limited time with them and enjoy the parts about them that I find pleasant and interesting.  That works for me.
Think the decision makers in your office are a bunch of jerks?  Try talking to them, asking questions or imagining what it’s like to be in their shoes where their decisions affect people’s lives.  
Offended by those who seem to have forgotten “the reason for the season?” If you’re such an expert on the reason for the season, go be the hands and feet of Jesus to the people who don’t seem to get it. Cook them something. Bake them something. Walk their smelly dog.  Write them a caring note. That’s what Jesus would give you a high five for.  Not your uppity Facebook post.  
In the grocery store line, I can fume that the person in front of me is paying with three different transactions. I can freak out that the cashier doesn’t seem to care that I’m in a hurry. I can be grouchy that the person in front of me has 13 items in the 12 items or less line.  Or I can consider that the reason I’m in a bad mood is because I am afraid I’m going to be late, which is because I didn’t leave as early as I should have. I can pick up a trashy gossip magazine that I would never purchase and indulge in the guilty pleasure of “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” I can text the friend I know isn’t doing so hot.  I can pray for the elderly woman in front of me who I hope isn’t alone for Christmas.  
My problems are because of choices I have made. And I can do all kinds of different things to fix or improve them. Or I can accept them as my current reality, and be content.  Blaming them on other people, and marinating my heart in the juices of bitterness doesn’t help anyone. In fact it makes everything worse. 
Let’s all agreed to quit making everything worse, okay?
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Ferguson, etc.

Black men keep dying at the hands of law enforcement.  There are a lot of people who are better informed on these issues and a lot of people whose opinions on this matter a lot more than mine.  But I have a few things to say, for what it’s worth.

I’m extremely sad that this happens, regardless of the individual circumstances regarding each case.  Even if someone threatened the life of the police officer and the officer responded according to protocol, I am still so sad.  Any of this “he deserved it” nonsense is pretty heartless.  
I’m frustrated and grieved that my friends who are raising black kids have to consider this whole other danger in the world that I pretty much don’t.  Even though I have met a couple of police officers who weren’t very nice to me, I still see the police as someone who would help my daughter if she needed it, and not someone to fear.
I worry about my friends who are police officers.  I know how hard they work, how much they care, what good people they are.  They are moms and dads cheering on their kids at soccer games where little moppets of many races happily run in laregly aimless packs together.  They give high fives and hand out orange slices.  They’re not power-hungry jerks who hate people of color.  I know cops who have been assaulted on duty and were reluctant to even adequately protect themselves out of concern for injuring the individual.  I’ve seen the bruises.  I know some who care about the homeless, who have served their country in the armed forces and who have responded kindly to requests for help.  
I feel confused about how a group of men can accidentally kill a young man begging for his life.  I feel outraged.  I feel helpless.  How would I feel if I resembled the person that happened to?  What if my child did?
I hear people I care about expressing fear, anger, frustration and a sense of hopelessness.  I hear grief.  I hear a yearning to be heard and acknowledged.  I want to stand with them and say “no more!”
And I want police officers to know I appreciate them and am grateful for those who do a tough job well.  That I understand the significance of their willingness to place themselves between people and danger.  
I am sad that people I love have reason to fear how they will be treated by an armed law enforcer.  The very worst thing on my mind if I get pulled over is “Kevin is going to be so pissed if I get a speeding ticket.”  Cops don’t hurt white ladies in their 30s who wear glasses and drive light blue SUVs with a car seat and Trader Joe’s bags in the back.  
I know that my whiteness buys me a lot I’ve done absolutely nothing to earn.  
Just the other day, I watched a police officer pull over a woman of color driving her car. The woman was young, and she seemed confused about where she should pull over. There was no shoulder to pull off to.  She was definitely not ignoring him or trying to get away. She just didn’t know the best place to stop. But he responded as if she was doing something very wrong. Lights, siren, zooming up aggressively next to her.  He ended up partially blocking traffic in both directions in order to pull her over in a parking lot.  When he got out, he just seemed so angry.  I pulled over nearby to watch what happened, because I really was worried for her. I didn’t know what I would do if things escalated. Would I have intervened?  I don’t know.  Maybe take a video with my cell phone, or…what? Call the police?  
He glanced at me watching.  I tried to look concerned without looking like I was trying to start trouble.  I wanted him to see me, but not see me as a threat.  I guess I wanted him to feel accountable to someone.  
The thing is, I don’t get stopped.  I fit the profile of “Boring white girl with slightly memorable hair probably not doing anything wrong.”  But when I very rarely do, they are either nice or jerks – but they don’t scare me.  One time, a cop was mean to me, and I considered the ways I could have addressed it. Called a friend of a friend.  Lawyers.  Politicians.  Other police officers.  I didn’t do anything.  But I could have.  
Lots of people can’t.  Lots of people just have to sit there and get yelled at, and know there’s not a damned thing they can do about it.  Now or later.  
That girl didn’t get arrested.  I think she got a ticket but it might have just been a lengthy lecture.  She drove away in one piece.  I hope she saw me waiting.  I hope she knew I wanted to make sure she was safe.  That she mattered to me.  
I can’t fix this problem.  I am one person.  And it’s not a problem that can be fixed by one person.  But I am wired to seek out what tiny bit of influence I can exert on even the biggest, most insurmountable of troubles.  I can’t do a lot.  But I can listen.  I can be present and see and watch and care.  I can share how I see it respectfully.  So can you.  
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A year ago, tonight…

I was thinking about going to bed early because I had to get up so early to get to the hospital to have major surgery to have my tumor and about a foot of my large intestine removed.  I didn’t know at all that it was cancer, not to mention an aggressive, advanced stage cancer, but I was worried it might be something at least a little bit bad.

I was actually more worried about the surgery.  Funny how, now, that surgery seems like a walk in the park compared to the bomb-drop of my diagnosis and five months of chemo.

That surgery started this journey.  This tough, scary, exhausting journey that has taken so much time, energy, money, emotion, comfort and the general sense that all is well.  And, that surgery is part of what’s kept me alive this past year.  So I think of it with mixed feelings.
Anniversaries can be tough.  Tonight, I’m a little unsettled.  Some days I almost forget I had cancer and other days, it seems to be lurking nearby, waiting for my guard to be down so it can pounce.
But I’m also grateful.  Awed by the kindness of my family and friends.  Humbled by God’s grace.  Thankful for the gift of the past 12 months.  Glad to have been blessed with a tenacity and grit you can’t get along an easy, uneventful life path.  I’m a little aggressive sometimes.  Sorry.  I learned to fight with all I’ve got and fight to win.
It’s ten days away from the anniversary of my diagnosis.  Interestingly, in between today and ten days from now marks another anniversary.  18 years ago, in a dorm room at Ohio University, I made a conscious decision to follow Jesus.  Exactly half my life.  I’m so, so thankful for the people who had a part in that.  It’s fun to think of you as your younger selves.  I long for the innocence of those days!  When the days stretched out so far, and there was enough time to do almost anything.  And we loved each other and were in such fresh awe of God’s love for us.
I’ve needed every minute of those years of growing faith, built slowly, brick by brick, each one added by moments of love, grace, forgiveness, lessons learned, reconciliation, prayer, worship and serving together to get through the past year.  What a journey.
So thankful to have been anchored firmly in faith of God’s power and goodness.  It overcomes so much.  Thankful that light chases away darkness.