Traveling Mercies

In August 2003 the kids and I vacationed in Hawaii. During the prior 15 years of my marriage, our family had vacationed once. Anything else resembling a vacation was usually when we would tag along to a conference or convention. In 2000, even though my marriage was deteriorating, I made up my mind that my family would not; and I began planning annual vacations. The kids and I had some prime vacations ideas, and Hawaii was at the top of our list. We planned, we saved, we negotiated a great deal, and we made it happen.

After ten days in Hawaii, our return flight from Honolulu left mid-afternoon and was scheduled to arrive in Los Angeles that evening. I believe the actual flight time was about five or six hours. We had been in the air for several hours. We had been served a meal, and an in-flight movie was playing. I was reading a book, rather than watching the movie, when the stewardess made some announcement about a lost camera. Well, I knew I hadn’t lost my camera, so I didn’t pay much attention to that announcement. Less than five minutes later she made another announcement--asking passengers to please check bags to ensure that someone had not lost a camera. I disregarded the announcement, but I noticed that the folks who were watching the movie were getting annoyed at the announcements interrupting the audio in their headphones. At least five more minutes must have passed when the movie stopped, the cabin lights came on, and the stewardess said, very sternly, “I want everyone on this plane to get up and check your bags to make sure that you have not lost a camera. This means everyone!” And, this time, I could tell by her tone that we were dealing with something more important than a lost camera.

All three of us had cameras of some sort—underwater, disposable, digital—so I got up to check the bags (even though I knew the cameras were there) and found my camera right where I had packed it. The kids were sitting a few rows up, so I motioned for them to check their bags as well, and we all confirmed that we had our cameras. This exercise went on for a few minutes until everyone on the plane, it seemed, checked their bags.

Passengers were starting to whisper and there was a defined tension in the air. That’s the first time I heard someone say the word “bomb,” and it got my attention.

It seemed like a lifetime before the next announcement, but when the stewardess finally started her next announcement, she had our undivided attention. She reported that no one had claimed the camera, and it had been found on the plane after takeoff. She said, “This causes us great concern. The pilot will be speaking with you in a few moments.”

While we waited to hear from the pilot, a few stewardesses collected all the blankets and pillows and took them to the back of the plane. (My seat was approximately 10 rows from the back, so I could hear a lot of activity back there—and a lot of whispering.) The best I could ascertain, some type of emergency plan was being implemented. Meanwhile, other stewardesses came down each row to make sure that families were seated together. The folks beside me knew that I had two children on board, and they were gathering their personal items—preparing to move—before the stewardess even made it to our row. It only took a few minutes, and our game of musical chairs was complete.

The pilot explained the situation to us very candidly. All airlines had been made aware of heightened terrorists threats in the recent weeks. I think he even said, "As you may have heard on the news...." Well, we hadn't heard anything on the news because we had been on vacation for ten days, so this really was news to me. One threat included a small explosive device that could be activated via any electronic device, like a disposable camera. This explosive device could automatically be activated when the plane reached a certain altitude and detonate on descent. Because no one had claimed the “lost camera” there was no way of knowing whether it was simply a lost camera or an explosive device. At this time we were approximately two hours from LAX or moments from death.

The stewardesses did a great job of going row-by-row to answer any questions from the passengers. They were calm and professional, but there was also an air of concern.

So what do you do when you know you could be living your last hour. Of course, I prayed, but it wasn’t a rocking-back-and-forth-dear-Lord-spare-me kind of prayer. Ironically, even though I was concerned—especially for my babies—I was remarkably calm. (I guess that’s why He’s called The Prince of Peace.) I remember I basically said, “God, I am yours, you know my heart, and you know the number of my days. You know where I am in the middle of the air, hovering over a great big ocean. I am asking for your protection, especially for my children. Keep them safe and do not let them be afraid. Help all of us to trust in you—especially since that’s all we’ve got to hold on to right now. And let me be a witness to anyone here who might not know you. Amen.”

I didn’t want to get upset; I thought that would upset my children as well as others. After praying this prayer quietly to myself, I then leaned over and asked the kids if they would pray with me. I basically prayed the same prayer substituting “our” for “I” and “us” for “them.”

You could hear passengers whispering, but the movie was done for the flight—out billed by our own unscripted real-life drama. I wondered whether I should call my mom or let the kids call their dad; I remembered how people cherished those sky phone calls that they received on 9/11 from their loved ones. But, I was really afraid that if I made such a call, I would lose control, I would choke up, I would cry, and I just felt like it was very important (for everyone) that I maintain my composure and not needlessly heighten the fears of the children. I also looked around, and no one else was making calls, so I decided not to as well.

The pilot made a few announcements about what would happen when we landed; I liked his optimism of “when,” and not “if.” At first he said we would go straight to the terminal and remain on the plane while the federal agents boarded the plane; later that plan was changed and we were instructed to leave the plane as quickly as possible when we got to the gate. It was the first time I ever remember that we weren’t told to “stay seated until the plane has come to a stop.” One time we were told we would exit through the emergency chutes, but later that was changed to exiting through the front door. I’m certain there was a lot of activity on the ground at LAX and a plan was being developed for every scenario. I didn’t mind that the plans were changing. I wanted them to develop the best plan possible and just let me know my part in that plan.

All air travel into and out of LAX was stopped, awaiting our arrival. If the “camera” hadn’t detonated during our descent, perhaps it was supposed to do so during the jolt of landing so that the terrorists could make a spectacular display of carnage on the tarmac. At least, that was one theory.

As we approached the runway, there were flashing lights, fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances for as far as we could see. You could also see that the entire terminal had been cleared. That plane taxied to the gate faster than even I thought was safe, and when the doors opened, we were all ready for the quick exit.

All passengers from our flight were ushered to a secured area for identification and questioning. Our wing of the airport terminal was like a ghost town—except for law enforcement, fire, and rescue. Federal agents and a bomb squad boarded the plane. After about an hour, an officer told us that the “lost camera” turned out to be a “lost camera” indeed. In addition to dismantling it, they had been in contact with the crew in Honolulu and confirmed that a “clean sweep” of the plane had not occurred prior to takeoff. The “clean sweep” is the procedure where they search for lost items, but also ensure that nothing is on the plane that doesn’t belong there.

The kids and I headed to another terminal to catch our next flight. Fortunately we had about a two-hour wait. The kids seemed okay; and I seemed okay. We boarded our next flight as if nothing had happened (although I did do my own “clean sweep” of my area of the plane before takeoff). We survived the bomb scare and had another great story to add to all the others about our Hawaii vacation.

I am reminded of this story as I prepare to leave for Greece tomorrow. This is my first European trip and my first international trip. Needless to say, I am so excited about visiting this beautiful place that I have only seen in pictures. But the excitement is tinged by the reminder that there are evil cowards in the world who use innocent victims to promote their agenda. I do not desire to be one of those victims (seriously, who would?); but, if I let these cowards dictate my passions, then am I not already their victim?

Should some evil befall me, I will miss this life and possibly regret that so many dreams were left undone; but my dreams pale in comparison to God’s plan and His perfect timing. My children know that I love them; I could not have ordered two greater kids. They are smart, kind-hearted, hard-working young adults who make me smile at just the thought of them. And the circle of friends and family that surround me makes me one of the richest people in the world. The only thing better than this life is the next; and while I am balanced between the two, I am going to Greece. God speed!

Mom's Quotes

After a summer with my mom, I have collected quite a few of your quotes. Some are priceless, some are humorous, and some just leave me shaking my head in disbelief. My mom doesn’t have the greatest sense of humor--especially when she is the butt of the joke—so I’m hopeful that she doesn’t find out about this posting until long after my funeral is paid in full. Enjoy a glimpse into living with Ivisbelle…

THE AWARD: Stupidest Question Ever!
THE SETTING: A discount department store where mom has several outfits picked out.
MOM’S QUOTE: Do you think they’ll let me try these on?
MY REPLY: None. I just bit my tongue.

THE AWARD: Stupidest Question Ever! Runner-up
THE SETTING: A Chinese restaurant that features a nightly buffet.
MOM’S QUOTE: Do you think they have a bathroom?
MY REPLY: No; it’s against their religion.

THE AWARD: Geriactric Ebonics
THE SETTING: Prelude to a shopping trip.
MOM’S QUOTE: I need to go to Starburst to get a gift certificate.
MY REPLY: Would that be Starbucks?
MOM’S REPLY: I don’t know.

THE AWARD: Credit Card Stroke
THE SETTING: Same shopping trip…trying to find mom some Rainbow flip flops. I had told mom that Rainbow’s are the best, but I had forgotten to tell her that they are also pricey. So, we find ourselves in this really hip store, and we are the oldest people within a quarter mile, when the clerk totals mom’s purchase of one pair of Rainblow flip flops.
THE CLERK: That will be $52.50.
MOM’S QUOTE: Say what?
MY REPLY: That’s ok.
MOM’S REPLY TO ME: Say what?
MY REPLY: Hysterical laughter.

THE AWARD: Motherly Proverbs That State The Obvious
THE SETTING: Anywhere, anytime
MOM’S QUOTE: If you’ll go ahead and do it, it will be done.
MY REPLY: Genius!

THE AWARD: Best Hick Translation of The Bible
THE SETTING: Mom studying for her Sunday School lesson—conveying the topic to me.
MOM’S QUOTE: God’s on top of the man and the man’s on top of the woman.
MY REPLY: Unspoken for fear of blasphemy

THE AWARD: Recliner Martyr of The Year
THE SETTING: I have come to mom's house to watch a baseball game. In mom's living room, there is a full-sized couch, two recliners, a bench, and lots of floor space; and all seating faces the television. Mom is sitting in "her" recliner, and she is the only person in the living room as I walk in and she says:
MOM'S QUOTE: Do you want to sit here?
MY REPLY: I don't think that recliner can hold both of us.

More to come....

Tuesday is trash day.

Who says you can't go home again? I returned to the great State of North Carolina on Sunday, May 25, in order to work as a law clerk for the summer. To say that my mom was thrilled to have me home would be an understatement. Mom is a bit overbearing, at times; she means well, but her good intentions can drive you crazy. So, within a few days of my arrival, I was thrilled to be able to move from the spare bedroom at my parents' house to the rental trailer that is adjacent to their lot. As I've mentioned before, it's not the greatest place on earth, but I have tried to focus on the positive aspects of my humble abode, e.g., it is rent-free, it is quiet, it is peaceful, and I am not living out of the spare bedroom of someone's house for an entire summer.

Once I had set up house, mom came over on Monday, June 2, to inform me that "Tuesday is trash day," which meant that I needed to take all of my trash to their receptacle. My mom moves the trash receptacle to the side of the house on Monday afternoon when she gets home from work—the side of the house being about thirty feet from the back of the house. Why does she move it there? I don't know, unless it is to serve as a visual reminder to my stepdad to take it to the curb. Week after week, mom only moves it to the side of the house, and my stepdad takes it from there, down the sixty feet or so to the end of the drive. Well, on this particular Monday, I had only been living in the trailer for a day or two, so I hadn't accumulated enough trash to warrant a trip to the receptacle, but I was glad to know about trash day.

The next Monday, June 9, I came home from work, and immediately started changing clothes in order to go exercise, when I heard my mother banging on the door and calling to me from the front porch. I threw on some clothes and hurried to let her in. “Tomorrow is trash day,” she said as I opened the door. “Ok,” I replied, and then we both just stood there staring at each other. “Do you have any trash?” she asked me. “I don’t think so,” I said. And, after a few other pleasantries, she walked away empty-handed, heading for the trash receptacle—moving it around to the side of the house.

On Monday, June 16, mom called me on the intercom. (Yes, we have an intercom system between the two houses.) “Remember, tomorrow is trash day,” she said. I pressed the intercom button and said, “I know that!” and released the button. “How in the world have I functioned as a normal adult without my mother around to remind of such important events as ‘trash day’? I have married, divorced, birthed and raised two stable children, moved to another state, and gone to law school, yet she feels the need to remind me on a weekly basis that ‘Tuesday is trash day.’” All of which was said after the intercom button was released.

For the record, I have not been accumulating trash like some Howard Hughes recluse. I regularly take the trash to the large trash receptacle located behind mom's house; but I just don't do it on Mondays. I may do it on Thursday afternoon or Saturday morning. Since the trash is picked up on a weekly basis, I just don't see the urgency in making sure that all of my trash is in the receptacle by Monday night. Should I miss this trash day, another one will roll around in a week, ya know? Do I really need to explain this to her? I don't know. What I do know is that this was the third week in a row that I had been reminded about trash day, and it was getting on my last nerve!! But this story only gets better!

On Monday, June 23, mom comes over after work to visit. She sits down and we chit chat for a while. I know that she is here to remind me about the trash, but I play it cool. When she gets up to leave she says, “Well, I’m going to go. Why don’t you let me take your trash for you?” And as I reply, “I don’t have any trash,” my mom starts heading for the kitchen trash can. “Jackie this trash can is almost full,” she reports to me (as if I didn’t know). “Leave it alone,” I say. But she’s already on her way to the bathroom, and she yells to me, “This trash can in here needs to be emptied too.”
“Leave it alone,” I say louder.
“I can take it with me,” she persists—still yelling at me from the bathroom.
“DON’T TOUCH THAT TRASH, WOMAN!” I yell back. I am already envisioning the 9-1-1 call and the deputy’s incident report that reads, “Violent domestic disturbance between mother and daughter about trash.” Back to reality, though, there is silence in the bathroom, followed by her footsteps coming back down the hall. Fortunately for her, she is NOT carrying the trash bag. She walks right by me and says, “Well, just call me if you want me to come back after it,” and she leaves.

Is this how people go insane? Is it the slow, methodical chipping away at their intelligence until all that is left is the hollow shell of what could have been but for “trash day” reminders? I don’t know; but I think it warrants investigation.

Do you think I’ve heard the last of trash day? If so, you are mistaken. Last Monday, July 7, as I walked into the house after work, I just stopped and stared at the kitchen trash can. It was empty. The bathroom trash can was too. All that was left was the empty container. My trash had been stolen or else I am one step closer to going insane.

The shower sequence

This summer I am staying in a rental trailer owned by my parents, conveniently located on the lot next door to their home. The trailer life is the closest thing to camping that I have ever been associated. I do not camp. In my adult life, "roughing it" meant that the Hilton was booked and we had to settle for Comfort Inn.

This trailer is the perfect rental for a starving college student or a migrant worker family. But, if I were in the market for a rental home, I would not have included it on my list of options. That being said, my parents have offered it to me rent-free for the summer, including utilities. Even better than it being rent-free is the fact that this humble abode affords me a little bit of peace and quiet. I would certainly rather live in the migrant-worker-trailer than in the spare bedroom at my parents' house--especially for an extended period of time. While the migrant-worker-trailer ain't much to look at or brag about, it does provide me with a quiet place where I can live alone. I can call it home and do not feel like I am a perpetual guest in someone else's house.

After spending a summer in the migrant-worker-trailer, I realize I have accumulated quite a few stories that I must share. Once such story is about the morning shower routine. If someone were watching this morning ritual, they would get quite the laugh out of it. First of all, I never go anywhere in the trailer (not mobile home, not modular home) without flip flops. So, at shower time, I completely disrobe and prance to the shower in my birthday suit and flip flops. I then back up to the shower, leaving my flip flops in the perfect position for me to step into when my showering experience is complete. The shower head is the perfect height to hit me with a blast of water square in the sternum. Any body washing or hair washing above my chest has to be done w/ me poised at a 45 degree angle. Once the water is on, my first move--in this morning ritual--is to move the blast of water from my sternum and point the shower head at the shower curtain in order to thoroughly wet it down. Otherwise, the shower curtain blows w/ the breeze and usually "mats" to my left leg. At the same time I have to balance my stance so that I am standing perfectly in the middle of the shower--an equal distance from the shower curtain and the shower wall (neither of which I ever want to touch). This shower would be the perfect size for a 4' tall kid; but even the average-sized person wouldn't have more than a three inch clearance between shower curtain and shower wall. (For the record, I am not an average-sized person.) When the shower curtain wraps around my leg, I instinctively move to the right, only to bump into the shower wall, which further grosses me out! I do not know how I can feel so icky while trying to get clean. When the shower is complete, I have to remember to move as far back as possible in the shower (i.e., two inches at the most) (without bumping into the shower wall or striking my shoulder on the shower head)--while opening the curtain--in order to avoid it, once again, wrapping around my leg. I didn't do a good job of that this morning and literally squealed when it came in contact w/ my skin. I felt like I was in the middle of a Lucy and Ethel skit...sans Ethel. Usually the cat is seated at the doorway watching this entire scenario unfold each morning. Today I thought I heard him mumble, "What in the hell is her problem?" before he walked away. If only there were a video....

Great quote

I am a quote-oholic. Love those people who can take the most complicated of ideas or ideologies and summarize them in one thought. Here's one that I heard this morning, from St. Augustine, that I immediately jotted down to share with you (and keep for myself): God never pours his grace into anything but empty hands.

Turning 100

What a difference a day makes! My life has changed in the last few days….100 of them, to be exact. But, “changed” isn’t descriptive enough. It would not be an exaggeration to say my life has been transformed in the last 100 days. I am not the same person that I was 100+ days ago. And, ironically, I don’t know if I’ve ever been this person. One hundred plus days later I can glance in the rear view mirror and clearly see what a difference a day makes.

My head is clear. My heart is clear. And I see things with a completely new set of eyes. I am more concerned about the long-term, rather than the quick fix. I have discovered that there are great fault lines in my life that I, alone, cannot fix. And I have confessed that I cannot fix all of my problems, or all of my kids’ problems, or all of your problems—which is quite the confessional for a control freak like me. In 100 days I have learned lessons about trust and faith. Words like "hope," "good," and "great," are part of my vocabulary--and not just part of the sarcasm. I have learned what a horrible mess I make of things when I demand to be in control--because, what can I really control anyway?

After the past 100 days I feel more alive than I have in years. I am actually concerned about what I am feeding my body and what I am feeding my soul. After 100 days of reflection, study, and prayer, I can see that there are bigger and even better things on the horizon. In the past 100 days I have been awakened with excitement about the plans that God has in store for me. Even on this 100th day I was reminded to “dream big.”

Where would you like to be in 100 years? Wherever that might be, it’s only possible when you commit to the journey today, and then tomorrow, and then the next day. One day becomes two, then ten, then fifty, and a hundred. If you can’t imagine 100 years, then catch a glimpse of where you could be in 100 days. I am living proof that anything is possible 100 days from now. One hundred days later I am more excited than ever about this journey called life.