Do something you are proud of

Over 30 years ago, my aunt gave me a calendar for Christmas. It was the kind you keep on the refrigerator, and each date contains a simple instruction, that if followed, will improve your mental health throughout the year.  Put out by the Mental Health Association of Oregon, the calendar was evergreen — as applicable in 1978 when it was published, as it was some years later when I posted it eye-high to my children. Then we would look at the calendar together and see what we were supposed to do for the day. And try it. 
Here's a sampling from January:

• Enjoy Silence
• Answer a letter

• Break a habit

• Get to know a neighbor's dog

Who couldn't (or shouldn't) do things like this every day?
Eventually, I packed it away in a drawer, thinking I'd pull it out again if I ever have grandchildren. 
A few weeks ago, in the middle of a day-long winter cleaning frenzy, (sort through things, I think was the task of the day) I found it again. And I posted it on my fridge in the middle of the clutter there.
I wish I could say I have followed the instructions this year. I am re-reading a classic (Jan 16), have fed the birds (Jan. 8,) try to get some exercise (Jan. 27). But I have not lost a pound (Jan.6), imagined myself living 100 years ago or really looked at the sky. (Jan. 20)
Today's entry, for Jan. 28 says this: Do something you are proud of. Well. When I read that last night before I headed to bed, the corners of my eyes got just a tad bit damp. It is my son's 23rd birthday today. And he is easily one of two things I ever did that I am most proud of. (The other, of course, is the Princess Pea.)
Graham was born a year after the explosion of the space shuttle. I remember, watching that launch with a friend as our toddler daughters scurried around us, wondering where I would be when that sad anniversary came around.
I was, in fact, scurrying around my house in my bathrobe with my alarm clock in my pocket. My daughter played in my closet, trying on all my high-heeled shoes, as I wiped up the floor in my bathroom and changed the sheets on the bed.  My mother would be coming, and everything had to be clean for her!
By the time my favorite soap aired at 3, I was heavily in labor. I remember worrying that I would not have enough love in me for another child, I loved my daughter so much. And then, there he was, a slick and wiry boy whose feet reached over half the length of his tiny leg. And my heart burst, making room for him in it.

We brought him home — already nuzzling a blanket that is now simply yarn — and brought him up, all 6 feet 2.5 inches of him, if he is not stretching (Jan. 1) to be a young man with integrity and a biting sense of humor, a guy who can fix just about anything he sets his mind to, and who can at least help bake bread (Jan. 31). A man who is a loyal friend, and he can even eat with chopsticks (Jan. 29). He is often the silent, but creative type, who sorts through things (Jan. 9,) and much to my frustration, does not always share his thoughts — or life — with me.
Oh, but I am proud of him. Fiercely so. 
One of my favorite comic strips is Zits. About a mother who drives her son crazy, and a boy, all arms and legs and angles, with his own peculiar view of the world. This week I cut a strip out and handed it to him, about mom asking son his plan for the day, but he didn't have one. This is so us. Hits a little too close to home, as my son reads the want ads (Jan. 24), and I share in the task (Jan. 14) scouring the web hoping to find just the perfect fit for him.

He tolerates me. I sing to him badly in the morning if I wake him up (not on the Jan.calendar, but it should be); I can't hear anything he says; and I play with his hair (another thing not on this month's list, though the princess pea loves that.) We are alike in some things. He looks like me (isn't that supposed to be good luck for sons?); neither of us give away things we don't use (Jan. 11). We both love to nap. We can take a pretty good picture when we feel like it (Jan. 26), those his are way better than mine. Neither of us is without fault.
And we are both ponderers. I just share my ponderings much more often than he does.
Mothers know their children's gifts, I think, and we don't do our job if we don't encourage them to daydream (Jan. 12) about what they might be when they grow up, to imagine their corner of the world in 100 years (to rephrase Jan. 3). I am trying to do that with him, and even though he is as resistant to my nudgings as he was to my rendition of Happy Birthday Baby this morning, I am trying to resist the temptation to criticize. (Jan. 22).
My wish for him, on his 23rd birthday— though to him the future might not look so bright right now, economy being what it is — is that he spend some time enjoying the silence (Jan. 2), and really, really look at that sky.

Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday baby, I love you so!
sbr

Read More

Grace happens

I work for my church. Most people who belong to any church do work for it, but as of a couple of years ago, I have been employed by the parish where I have been a member for 20 years.

This new job came with challenges, not only professionally, but what I call parishioner-ally... learning how I might draw the line between me as a parishioner, seeking a place to connect with God—and me as professional, using my expertise as a writer/communicator to help others find a place to connect with God. (not to mention learning that my parish friends are now my employers....)

It has not been an easy transition from parishioner to professional, but on some days, like today, the two collide/connect in ways that show me full well that God is the best communicator of all.

We are an Episcopal church, and anyone who has grown up in one knows that we are challenged to tell people about ourselves. Everyone should already know, we think, that we are the frozen chosen, and if you don't, well, it is your loss. Our joke is that if we invite someone to church once every five years, we get credit.

In my life, I'll admit that I don't invite people to church very often. In my job, though, it is my mission to bring people into our midst. I am not always comfortable with this role as Episcopalian/Episcopal communicator. I have grown up with the Book of Common Prayer, but doesn't everybody know it by heart? If they don't, us cradle Episcopalians think they should.

One of my church friends says she loves it when God is obvious, shows us that we are not in control. Today — case in point:

A young woman came into our lobby today, seeking a labyrinth, which our parish installed in the last year. She'd read a newspaper article in our local paper today about another labyrinth in the area, and because she was a labyrinth walker, she was seeking others closer to her home than the one she had read about.

An internet search led her to our website (which I maintain, however imperfectly), which let her to us. (A confession: it took me four tries to find it on our site myself today. :)

It has been a cold day today, and we are in the midst of construction (I know, I always write a long story)... so I offered to don my coat and take her to our labyrinth, now secluded behind construction and shrubbery.

On our short walk, I learned that she and I had once shared the same Georgia town (me 30 years ago, she not that long ago) and a profession — writing/editing and the like. She seemed stunned that I knew her former city, her profession, and as I questioned her, I found as a single mom she had not been well welcomed at some area churches here. I will tell you that this broke my heart. Twenty years ago and new to our city, I came to our church, and though I was not a single mom, I didn't feel welcomed, either.

Funny now, but it is my home.

I invited her to walk our labyrinth privately, then to return to the lobby, where I would be waiting. Awhile later she came, and I took her to see our children's chapels and gave her information about who we are,and what we are about, so she can decide if she'd like to come back. (I do confess, knowing she is an editor, to cringing about the fact that our most recent monthly newsletter has TYPOs!:)

"I never knew you were here," she said upon leaving.

"I hope you will come back," I said. And I have been thinking her since, how today, she was in search of warmth she hoped a labyrinth would bring on a frigid day — and though she had walked one often, she had not done so in five years — and somehow by Grace she found it.  I know she was searching for more, too. And I hope by Grace, she has found that as well.

Read More

2009 — Late, as usual

I wasn't always late with things. I learned early (from a teacher of mine) that I should be on time every time and the only time not to be on time is to be ahead of time — a favorite saying she required anyone late to class to copy off the board 100 times. Though I don't recall ever having to write it myself :), I memorized it, repeating it to myself these days when I find myself scurrying to get somewhere when I should have been there by now.

A childhood friend of mine used to be so perpetually late that when we planned to take her with us somewhere, we told her we'd pick her up 30 minutes  — sometimes an hour — earlier than we actually planned. Sometimes even then she would be late.

About 15 years ago, this same friend sent me one of those Christmas newsletters we all hate — the ones about children who play the violin with Isak Perlman or who write best sellers at age 8. That year, angered by all the bragging, I put together my own little newsletter, Vol 1 of which promised to be "The only one!"

"And then there are the Rountree," I wrote in 1994. "Stumbling and fumbling along, our story is one of generally average kids, extremely minor achievement, tepid success and quite boring activities in keeping with our average pedigree... though we did remove the overturned, abandoned car and refrigerator from our front yard this year." Our children, then 11 and 8, "spent much of 1994 doing average kid things like burping at dinner and fighting over the remote control."

A year later, when Christmas rolled around, one person ask us to do it again.  And anyone who knows me at all knows that I will write anything for a fan, and so the tradition continued. 2009 was our 15th year in the lampoon business, and reading through the old copies today gave me a pretty good glimpse of my life and a mother, wife, writer and dog owner. If I couldn't laugh while life was happening, at least I could when I remembered it in writing. For those of you not on my snailmail list, I'm including a copy of this year's edition. Your job is to find all the typos!

Read More