Love One Another Well Today

I woke up yesterday morning and didn’t want to get out of bed. Not because I was tired or lazy (which, I’ll admit is sometimes the case) but because my heart felt too heavy to move. This past weekend was a tough one and I found myself lying there, thinking of nothing and everything all at the same time.

I stand by the convictions I held throughout this past election season and don’t regret the decisions I made. I did my best to do so without posting anything polarizing on social media or saying anything that would offend those I care about that believe differently than I do. 

I was raised to treat others as I would like to be treated and while I failed miserably as a child and teenager, I'm pretty confident I’ve done better as an adult. I don’t want to be told what to believe and so I won’t tell others what to believe. It seems simple to me. 

The point is that I felt I’d made it out of this season relatively unscathed. Until this weekend. I won’t get into specifics, but some things happened and conversations took place and at the end of it all I felt the most disheartened I’d felt in a very long time. 


For the most part, I see my Facebook page as being a safe place for people. I want my family and friends to know they can “visit” my page and not get attacked or experience a rude encounter or see something that is overly offensive. (Disclaimer: I love Jesus and post things about Him often, so if you find Him offensive, 1, this is your head’s up and 2, we should probably talk because I’m not sure we know the same Jesus.)

There is a time I would have retaliated to someone's unkind or accusatory posts in rash words, without thinking, without praying, just eager to get my point across and have my voice heard. It has been a weakness of mine. But something I learned over the weekend is that even when we don’t notice it, God is working to change our hearts. 

And so I didn’t react. I waited and I prayed. And in my weakness, I found His strength. 

This is my response to the world around me right now. My prayer is that you look past the words you might disagree with, and listen to hear my heart behind them… 

To everyone reading this, know that I see you. I hear you. I love you.

I don't say those words lightly. Because sometimes it isn't easy. Sometimes I hear your words and I want to scream. I want to yell at you for making assumptions about me, for trying to tell the world I'm someone that I'm not. I want to chastise you for appearing hypocritical in your approach with those who disagree with you... and I want you to stop talking and start listening. And not just listen to retaliate, but listen to understand.

But I know if I reacted that way and said some of those words, I'd be guilty of the same thing and all that would do is leave us in this never ending cycle of hate. And that's not what I'm about, and I want you to know that's not what I'm about.

So, what do I say?

I say we do better to love each other well today. Yesterday is gone. What we did, what we said, we can't take back. But today is new and tomorrow newer and we can do better now. We can stop letting the hateful actions and words of others determine our own. We can decide right here, right now, to listen to hear people's hearts, even when we don't agree with their words. Because just as strongly as you believe what you believe, there are people out there believing just as strongly in something else.

Hateful words, dismissive attitudes, and acts of violence will never unite us. Nor will blaming an entire group of people for the actions of extreme individuals. We need to stop listening to retaliate and begin listening to understand. Only then will we create a safe space to voice our differences.

It's possible to have different opinions from one another without tearing each other down. Stop making assumptions and start having conversations... preferably in person. And when they can't happen in person, don't let the tempting convenience of hateful words typed on a keyboard determine your character.

It's one thing to know this, but putting it into action? I just confessed to you how tempting it is for me to want to do the exact opposite. I don't always want to love the difficult people in my life. Why should I sacrifice for those who are rude to me or don't care one way or another about me? Why should I show them kindness when they are hurtful and cause pain?

I need only travel as far as the closest mirror for my answer. I am messy. I am stubborn. I am selfish. Sometimes I annoy people, sometimes I have a short temper, sometimes I say the wrong thing and hurt people I care about. Sometimes I'm jealous and and at my worst I know I can be just plain mean. I am often full of pride and full of sin, usually showing up as one in the same...

BUT Jesus loves that imperfect person staring back at me in the mirror and He offers me grace... daily.

And we can do that for one another. Because Jesus says we can. He calls us to love people. And not only that, but He calls us to love people just as He loves people. He gave us so many examples of what it looks like to not only love the people in our lives, but to love the difficult people in our lives.

He healed the high priest's servant who came to arrest him, knowing this would not sway the outcome. (Luke 22:47-51) He asked God to forgive those who'd just nailed Him to the cross. (Luke 23:32-34) And he was always seeking out those who society had cast aside as insignificant, as enemies, or as simply different.

In short, He repaid hate with love, kindness, and forgiveness. His love is not limited to those who love Him back, but extended to the the very people who hated and continue to hate that He walked the earth.

That's the kind of love He has for us and calls us to show to others.

Jesus is and will always be the perfect response to hate... to fear... to disunity. And if He can love me... surely I can do the same for others.

When my feelings are hurt, when I am judged for my beliefs or for my politics, when I am cut off in traffic, when I get the short end of the stick, when people's words make me angry or afraid, when I feel misunderstood or beaten down... I can respond with love. I can remember that in my weakness, He is strong (2 Corinthians 12:9). In the moments I am quick to anger, His response is always patience and grace. And it is through Him I can love others well.

Of course He's the perfect response... the perfect word... He's THE Word. It is because of Him we have hope, we know love, and there will be healing.

All of this brokenness, the anger, the frustrations, the tears, the divisiveness. It's all temporary. But if that remains our focus... we've lost sight of what's permanent. What's eternal.

And here's the thing. There are likely some of you reading this who don't believe in Jesus. Maybe He's not your word or your response. Maybe you've been burned by people who claim to love Jesus, but they've failed to show you who He truly is. Please hear me because I'm speaking to you too. No matter what you believe, it's a lot easier to love than to hate and our world will be better for it. People will be better for it. You will be better for it.

Whatever your religion is, whatever your race is, if you're gay, straight, democrat, republican, male, female, transgender, or in the middle of figuring out who you are, whether you love me, like me, or despise me...

I still see you. I still hear you. I still love you. And there will be times I mess up... respond too rashly, say the wrong thing... but you have my word I will own those moments, apologize, and always try to do better.

I promise to try and hear your heart, even when I disagree with your words.

I promise to not let the words of others nor the extreme actions of a few represent who you are.

And on those occasions we can't find common ground, I promise to be kind and gracious while you stand yours and I, mine.

Let us all make a greater effort to be the bigger person. Let us stop pointing to the wrong actions and ill-spoken words of others to justify our own. Let's do better to love each other well.

And know I am a safe place to voice your opinion... even if it's different than mine.

Love you all!

Xo,
Lauren

 “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another."

- John 13:34

Walt Disney World 10k

I’ve watched and admired my sister for the past eleven years run the Half Marathon in Disney World. Her very first one was a little over a month before our brother James died, and she’s continued running in his memory every year since. Often I’ve been able to go and cheer her on; usually around mile 5 and then we find her again at mile 13 for the finish line.

There’s nothing like it. It’s hard to put into words what it feels like to stand there cheering people on, reading signs they’re carrying (or wearing) telling on lookers who they’re running for. Everyone is running for someone. Some military men and women run in full gear, same with firefighters and members of our police force. Others run the entire way pushing those in wheelchairs who can’t do it on their own.

I’ve seen men and women in their 70’s, 80’s, and even 90’s running and walking for loved ones, fighting for every step they take. I promise you can’t go and not shed a tear at some point. Several years ago a military spouse had organized a half marathon to take place simultaneously halfway around the world where they were serving. He wanted to surprise his wife who would be running in Disney World. She didn't find out until she crossed the finish line. Her husband getting to watch as she did... and then video conference with her. They talked about how proud they were of each other and he told her he'd be home soon. There weren't a pair of eyes watching, not filled with tears.

There’s this kind of camaraderie that exists among the onlookers. The ones who aren’t running, but are doing their best to encourage those who are. A knowing that passes from one set of eyes to the next as we shout, blow noisemakers, and ring bells. We all end up cheering for each other's runners.

Last year several of us decided to sign up for the 10k which usually takes place on the day before the half marathon. If you know me, you know I’m not exactly the athletic type, but I figured a whole year was long enough to prepare to get through 6.2 miles. I'd never done a 10k, but I’d walked a few 5ks as a kid. How different could it be? Plus, as long as we weren't in the last coral, I'd have plenty of time.

Well a year turned to half a year, which turned to a couple months, and then suddenly there I was, a few days before the main event. Despite the not exactly regular trips to the gym, and the occasional outdoor hike in the hills of Tennessee, I was exactly where I was a year ago when I signed up. Go figure.

To say I was nervous was a bit of an understatement. It wasn't so much the 6.21 miles so much as it was the time limit attached to them. I kept picturing getting dragged off the course by the pace police with one of those hooks they use to take those humorless comedians off stage. All while someone's yelling “you’re too slow!” from the sidelines.

Early morning at the hotel
before heading to the buses!

Whose idea had this been again? Maybe I should sit it out. I kept saying I didn't want to start unless I knew I could finish. I realized that often that’s my approach to life. How often do I avoid doing something because I don’t know how it’s going to turn out? Too often. I decided I didn’t want that to be my story anymore. I was going to do this.

As we were getting ready the night before I asked a crucial question. Should I wear my regular headphones or the wireless ones I’d gotten for Christmas? The consensus was the regular ones. This will come into play later.

The morning of the race we woke up at around 3:30 so we could get on the bus that would take us to the starting line. It was myself, my parents, my sister Nora, my cousin Jonathan, and his girlfriend Anna. There was a kind of energy among those heading to the race... my confidence was once again growing. I could do this.

Still in that naively sweet excitement
stage before the race!

We spent a fairly large portion of the waiting time talking strategy and how we would stay together and try to get to the front of the coral at the starting point to maximize our time. Anna and Jonathan had graciously hung back a few corals to wait, but were planning on running the whole thing. Fireworks went off as portions of corals A-E crossed the starting line. We were in F... the last coral. Our time was coming. I got my headphones out of my pocket, plugging them into my phone and and conveniently tucking the buds into the collar of my shirt so I could continue to follow the conversation taking place around me.

We had a plan, we were together, we were excited, this was going to be great! Finally, they removed the gates from the front of our coral, ushering us forward.  That was about the time I remembered I'm not really a fan of crowds. I kept getting jerked back like someone was pulling my jacket… and I’d turn around to look for the culprit, but no one was there. After the third or fourth time, I looked down and saw that my headphones had fallen to the ground and were dragging from where they were plugged into my phone in my pocket. By the time I rescued them, they were crushed and completely useless.

I wanted to cry. I’d spend hours determining which songs would get me through those moments when I felt I wouldn’t be able to take one more step.

While I was distracted by my headphone trauma, we found ourselves at the starting line. In the few minutes since we’d left the coral we’d managed to all get separated. So much for our strategy.

Let me pause here. I said I’d never done a 10k. That didn’t stop me from thinking I pretty much had the rundown figured out. It was going to be exactly like the 5k's I'd done, except longer. You know, those chill, local, community gatherings, complete with small kids riding in wagons kind of 5ks. Yes, we were in Disney. Yes, there were thousands of people participating. But we were in the last coral with all the walkers. Low stress, smooth sailing, it was going to be fine.

So... I was a little wrong. The start gun went off and cue the chaos. EVERYONE took off in a mad dash. I had not been expecting this. Not wanting to get trampled, I started running as well, all the while looking around trying to find my parents and Nora.  I mentally waved goodbye to Jonathan and Anna as I caught a glimpse of them already yards in the distance.

I'd like to take this moment to provide you with a visual.

Lauren's 10k start experience... (click here)

In case it wasn't clear, I'm Simba.

I panicked a little... there was no way I could run for the next six miles. This was how I was going to die. Instead of running from the pace police, I began thinking of subtle ways to "accidentally" get picked up by them. A pain in my side? A sprained ankle? I really wish I'd taken the time to perfect fainting in my acting class all those years ago.

About a third of the way through our first mile we all found each other again. Nora and my Dad paired off and I stuck by my Mom. My sister checked us out on the pacing app she'd dowloaded. I won't get specific but it didn't look good and this of course had my Dad in stitches for a moment. Everyone was super focused and didn't really feel much like chatting. This made for a very quiet start to my music-less self.

About two miles in, I'd found my mantra... "Don't stop moving." About 2.3 miles in, I remembered reading something about ridding your vocabulary of all negativity, so I shifted my mantra to "keep moving." Nora and my Dad were in the lead... my Mom was just ahead of me... which if you did the math, know that left me in last place. I was clearly the least prepared of all.

I'd be in step with my Mom, fall behind, jog a little faster to catch up, then inevitably fall behind again. It became a pretty steady pattern. Right around mile 3, my Dad had to use the restroom. We tried to get him to go in the woods, but it was a no go. As he got in the 20 or so people long line, we kept going. He promised to catch up.

I should say here that at the time my bladder also could've used a little relieving, but I also knew that I would not be able to catch up and would 100% get hooked by the pace police. I should also note, I'm not really sure they are called the pace police.

Just as we hit mile 3 my Mom and sister became a bit more chatty. We were also about to head into Epcot at the World Showcase... I was hoping this would be an energy booster. I'm a firm believer there's no such thing as misery in Disney World. It's the happiest place on the earth!

My Dad caught up and we were ready to conquer this thing. We even played it a little dangerously and stopped for a picture. No sign of the pace police. Phew. As we speed walked through the countries, seeing characters, and hearing music... I felt ready to kick it up a notch and started jogging. I was, dare I say it, enjoying myself.

Jogging our way though China!

All we had to do, according to what I thought at the time, was round the World Showcase, make our way back out of the park and cross the finish line. Easy breezy. I wasn't taking into account we'd only just about gotten to mile 4 which left an additional 2 miles. Also turns out I'd been basing that knowledge on the 5k map. Just as I thought we were getting to the home stretch... I looked ahead to see a whole lot of people running in the opposite direction than where I thought we were supposed to be going.

I really wanted them to be wrong. Maybe these were all the injured people, jogging off the course... like those injured football players that still want to save face. No such luck. They were heading for the back entrance to the park which opens up into the another huge lake surrounded by three hotels, all of which we had to run by. It meant bridges which meant hills which meant... this thing was far from the home stretch.

I tried to suck it up and kept moving. At one point we passed someone holding a sign that said "touch for power." I was skeptical, but my eternal five-year-old self was not going to miss that opportunity. I should of known... we were in DISNEY. It totally worked. A little over one mile to go and I was cruising. I'm talking Rocky theme song. (Just in my head because if you'll remember... no headphones.)  There's a strong chance I was just delirious.

I guess I got a little ahead of myself because suddenly I wasn't with my family anymore. It was about then I heard the first and only person update us on pace... we were 30 seconds ahead. I couldn't bring myself to turn around. I'd seen the medal at the expo and it was so cool. I did NOT get to mile five just to not finish. Not going to happen. I picked up the pace and called my sister.

I'm going to be real. I was facing a moral dilemma. I didn't want to leave my family behind, but man I really wanted that medal. My internal struggle could be seen outwardly as I found myself running in circles below the Epcot ball while on the phone with my sister trying to figure out where they were.

My dilemma was short-lived as I was overestimating the speed at which I was jogging. Turns out they were right behind me.

We were still in the game.

It was right about this point we saw a guy standing up out of his wheelchair in a full body brace. He wanted to walk across the finish line. And he was doing just that.. step by step surrounded by people helping him and cheering him on.

I no longer felt like I'd done anything special. It didn't matter if I finished... medal or no medal, that moment made the whole thing worth it.

There we were... yards from the finish line. My parents held hands and reached out to my sister and I. In that moment we were thinking of James. How could we not. He'd been the reason my sister started running years ago and he was the reason we were all doing this now.

We did it!

Got Our Medals!

Hand in hand, we crossed the finish line. Just beyond it were my aunt, uncle, cousins, and Anna cheering us on. Emotions were high. Thoughts were on James.... and my mom. She was feeling the side effects of the oral chemo medication she is still on. It wreaks havoc on her joints and she felt every step of the last .2 miles. But she did it. We all did. And we were all pretty proud of her and ourselves. 

I gladly and graciously accepted my medal as someone placed it over my head. And silently wondered how my sister did twice this every year... and if I could pull off an additional 7 miles for the Half Marathon next year.... ;)

Xo,
Lauren

One More

There are some people out there who are brilliant gift buyers. They always seem to get the most perfect thing for whoever they’re buying a present for. Even on those occasions it’s for someone they don’t know particularly well.

I am definitely not one of those people. I always get stressed out and end up frantically searching the internet, often begging Pinterest (and my Mom) to help me.

But… today I would welcome the stress if I could. The frantic search, the self-inflicted pressure, the anticipation as I watched him open it to see if he liked whatever I would've picked out for his 28th birthday.

Eleven. That’s how many it’s been. That’s how many times I haven’t had to pick out a birthday present for him. That’s how many times I haven’t picked up the phone to call my mom and ask her if she had any ideas about what James might want for his birthday.

If I’d known the last time truly would’ve been the last gift I’d ever be able to get him for his birthday, what would that gift have been? I’m not sure I have an answer.

I was supposed to go back to Tennessee today. (But in true Lauren fashion, those plans changed.) I always “need” one more day. This season felt so rushed. I’ve also never not been with my family on his birthday and this year didn’t feel like the one to change that. I wanted to be home. I wanted to be with those who remember his smile, his laugh, his voice, his love of the life he lived and the people he filled it with. I had an answer ready for whoever asked why my plans changed. Maybe I always need one more day because I remember what it felt like to not get one.

Last month I was talking to my Grandma on the phone and I asked her what she wanted for her birthday. Her response, laced with humor and a chuckle was, “when you get to be my age what you usually want for your birthday is another one.”

Maybe that’s my answer. I wish I could’ve given him another one. Just one more. And of course on his next birthday, another one, and on the next, another... until we were old and gray and had more birthdays than we wanted to count.

I'll settle for the silver lining. Knowing my brother is celebrating his birthday in a place where there is more joy than we could possibly imagine. Today we'll raise a glass to my brother as we celebrate him on our side of heaven, knowing it's one birthday closer until the day we celebrate on his. 

Happy 28th Birthday, James. I love and miss you more than I'll ever be able to put into words, and sending more hugs to Heaven than you'll ever be able to count. 

Xo,

Lauren 

God, Make Me Brave (Part 2)

I’ve been haunted by the word brave all week. It was as if the moment I wrote about it, that cat leapt right out of the proverbial bag. Suddenly, I was watching the movie of my life play out, each scene devoted to a different moment in my past. I was watching how brave had looked different at various times in my life.

I saw myself as a child being left by my Mom at Montessori. I watched as I clung to my teacher, begging to go home. There were tears. Loud, messy, snot-covered tears. Is it still brave if you don’t have a choice?

I saw myself in grade school (pick a year, any year) wondering if there’d be a seat for me at any lunch table. I saw myself listening to chatter about another party I hadn’t been invited to. I saw myself trying not to notice the whispered discussion of an after school playdate I’d been left out of. Back then going to school every day felt like a brave thing. Kids can be cruel.

I saw myself standing beside my uncle’s hospital bed, having no idea what to do. I watched myself reach for his hand and quietly promise him I’d never stop looking out for my cousins, that he didn’t have to worry.

I saw myself in the hallway of my childhood home, watching my Dad walk through the front door in tears. I watched as I hugged him, my mind desperately searching for the right words. Words that fit the magnitude of the moment you tell your Dad that you're sorry he suddenly doesn't have his Dad anymore. I’m still searching for those words.

I saw myself in high school, afraid to take my road test… again. But knowing having a license would help my parents who needed to split their time between home and the hospital once my brother got sick.

I saw myself undergoing tests in the hospital to make sure I could donate bone marrow to my brother. Oh how I remember wishing it had been Nora or Brendan. I did not consider myself the brave one in the family. I still don’t. That's why I write about being brave but my siblings volunteer their time putting out fires, driving firetrucks, and helping save lives.

I saw myself sitting in the front pew at James' funeral, listening as my uncle spoke beautiful words about my brother. I remember thinking I’d wish I’d been brave enough to speak. It broke my heart that I couldn’t save his life. Maybe one day I could find my own words and put them in a place that allowed the whole world to know him and his heart. He had a good heart. He was brave.

I saw myself in college, losing friends because I didn’t know how to be sad in front of them. I also didn’t know how not to be sad. I’d lost one of the most important people in my world. Back then, breathing felt like a brave thing to do.

I saw myself admitting to my parents that college wasn’t working out, that I needed a change. I needed time to figure things out. Why does it so often feel we aren't given enough time to figure things out?

I saw myself sobbing into my pillow the first night in my dorm in San Francisco, not believing I could stay, wanting to get on the plane the next day with my parents and go home. Staying didn’t feel brave at the time. It just felt like not wanting to fail at another thing.

I saw myself in a classroom being told by a teacher that God wasn’t real. A few hours later I saw myself in my dorm room, replaying the moment over and over, wishing I’d been brave. Wishing in that moment that I’d asked God for the words instead of silently disagreeing and asking a question about the homework to change the subject.

I saw myself in Tennessee. In my apartment. At church. I saw the way I fell in love with this beautiful place. Living here never felt like a brave thing, it felt like I'd found home. I saw myself as I met my friends for the first time. And I saw all the ways I wasn’t able to be brave yet. 

That the little girl who’d been picked on all through school and never seemed to belong anywhere suddenly seemed to be preventing me from belonging here to. Where belonging finally felt possible. She wasn't letting me be vulnerable with these new friends. She was preventing me from being vulnerable and authentic with the world.

And I knew that wasn’t going to work anymore. She needed to go and in order to go,  she needed to heal, and in order to heal, she needed to be known.

And for the second time this week, I asked God to make me brave. I asked Him to make me brave in this moment and hit publish instead of save like I so often do. I asked Him to make me brave enough to share these moments that made me.

I don't know why these are the ones that came to mind. I don’t know if I chose them, or they chose me. Maybe I needed to be reminded of these specific things. Because so many of these moments felt small at the time and I walked away from them feeling more broken than ever.

But that gives me hope. Hope for the moments I find myself facing today. Those moments I still feel broken. When I still feel like a failure. Hope that someday I will be able to look back and see the start of something brave.

This is not what I’d planned to write today. But it struck me that it was only fair if I was going to tell you how I’m going to be brave, that you also know some of the reasons behind why that's hard for me.

I won’t always get it right. In fact I’ll probably get it wrong more often than not. I know there are more broken moments ahead on my journey. And I feel God using past moments to equip me for those ahead.

There will be hard things I want to write about. Things I need to write about. And I’ll still hit save on this blog a lot more than I hit publish. Because it's scary to share these things. But I won’t stop trying. That is my commitment to myself and to anyone else out their who needs encouragement to be their own kind of brave.

Xo, 

Lauren

God, Make Me Brave (Part 1)

I like to hide things.

I like to hide my insecurities, my fears, my doubts... basically the stuff we all want to hide. Except I don't think I hide it as well as I think I do. Don't get me wrong, I have moments of transparency when I share a great deal. But I'm not sure those moments count.

What I tend to do is share about my past, the things I've already been able to overcome. Perhaps I do this in attempt to hide what it is I'm going through in the here and now. 

In fact I find it easier for me to share about some of the hardest things I've been through than it is to share about what I'm going through. The stuff I don't have figured out yet. The stuff I'm still content to hide, especially when I can't control the outcome. 

The truth is, I don't want to hide anymore.

I've been on this journey of late, where I've been trying to pursue a more authentic life as well as authentic relationships. And it's been hard, really hard. It's meant admitting things about and to myself that I've done pretty well at avoiding up until now.

But what I'm beginning to learn is that the more honest I am, the more honest other people are, the more God allows us to learn from each other, and the more we grow as a result.

So I woke up this morning and I asked God to make me brave today. Brave enough to share where I'm at, in spite of being terrified of other people getting to have an opinion. Heck, brave enough to admit that I still care about other people's opinions.

Because I do, but I'm working on it :)

Part of this is ingraining in myself that not everyone's brave looks the same. Brave looks different on me than it does on you and that's okay.

God made us all beautiful and unique. We all have different goals, fears, things that bring us joy, things that steal it. That's why we need each other.

So that's what this is going to be, a place where you get to see me grow. A place where you see me be honest and authentic and absolutely a place where you can do and be the same.

Starting today.

So here's where I'm at. It's a Monday in April, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and it's the kind of day where the world feels possible. You know the one I'm talking about. The kind where you wake up and immediately feel like you could conquer any task set before you. (Disclaimer: This kind of day is rare for me.)

I suppose it's a good day to feel this way because I am beginning my journey with a career coach this week. For me, this step is about dispelling with the notion I have my life completely under control. It's also about admitting my shortcomings and acknowledging when and where I need help.

And admitting this, is my first attempt at being brave and authentic with the people around me.

May you all enjoy today. May you find someone to be kind to. May you find new ways to be brave.


Xo,

Lauren

P.S. Check back next week for Part 2.

It's the "Little" Things...

I did this thing that seemed so simple. I brought a plant back from Florida. A patio palm to be more precise. I thought it was adorable, and how cool to bring a palm tree back from Florida??

When I originally got it, I looked at the box, thought how cute… a little six inch palm tree to put on my desk. Upon arriving home and rereading the box, I realized it said six feet, not inches. Oops.

I then really read the box and realized there was going to be a bit more involved in this whole “I now own a plant thing” than I originally thought. I made my way to the garden center at Home Depot. This was my first trip to any garden center that wasn’t a tag along. I wasn’t there to offer an opinion to my parents’ about flowers they were getting for the season or what have you, but I was the one making decision about the future of my aforementioned plant… tree.

Okay, so I relied heavily upon the help of those that worked there since in reality I had no idea what I was doing. They helped me pick out a pot, food (who knew plants needed to eat food?), and planting soil.

I left Home Depot with the food, clothing (the soil… it at least counts as the equivalent to a blanket), and shelter for my tree. That was fun, I thought getting back into my car.

A day later, I stood in front of my pot, the soil, the plant food, and Harold. Yes, I’d named him Harold. It was time to get him replanted in his forever home. Forever, of course, meaning as long as he fit in this particular pot.

It didn’t take as long as I anticipated and before I knew it, there was Harold, standing tall(ish) and proud.

Then it happened folks. I said something out loud… to my tree. I was talking to a plant. (Before you get too worried, he didn’t talk back. Not at first… kidding :)

I hear this isn’t unheard of, that people talk to their plants. I just never thought I’d be one of them. Pets? Sure. They have ears, they’re listening. But plants? I instantly wondered if this made me crazy, but then I remembered crazy people don’t know their crazy so thinking I was crazy was actually proof I wasn't.

I digress.

So there I was, talking to Harold and I realized this simple little plant, that I was now providing for, was pretty cool. I suddenly pictured him fully grown and wondered where life would bring me by then.

This was the first living thing that was coming along for this journey we call life. And I’m going to be the determining factor as to whether or not Harold has a successful one. (Prayers that I keep him alive, always appreciated!) Something I initially thought to be simple, is now something I am invested in for the long haul.

At that moment, I was left with an incredibly profound thought.

I really need a boyfriend. :p

In all seriousness, it’s been a few days, Harold is doing well, although doesn’t seem to be growing very fast. However, he IS still green, which means I didn’t over water him.

Everyone, meet Harold!

Xo,
Lauren

No Tears

Falling asleep last night, I knew what today would bring. I knew the memory that would play over and over again as I walked through my day.

This morning, the silence is almost overwhelming. It seems I’ve beaten the sun, the birds, and my half-asleep neighbors walking their dogs.

In this moment, the morning belongs to me. I take ownership of the quiet and check in with my heart, what kind of day are we going to have today? The truth is, I don’t know. I am optimistic, but I don’t know. It's been different every year, with some being better than others.

It’s been twelve years since I heard my brother speak the words that wove themselves into the fabric of my family, forever changing what our lives would look like in the years to come. Twelve years gives a person a lot of time to change and I have. I am not the same teenage girl from all those years ago, but I am not the person I would’ve been had that day not existed. 

I was sixteen. A very immature sixteen. We lived an hour and half from a sweet little ski town where we spent most of our winter weekends while growing up. I remember this particular day as one big whisper. Every time the phone rang, my aunt would go into the bathroom and close the door before she started talking. I knew I was on the wrong side of a secret.

I may not have known the details, but what I knew was enough to infer I didn’t want to know anymore. Except that I did. My brother, James, was an hour away at the hospital undergoing tests with my Mom. My Dad was with me, my younger sister, Nora, and our younger brother, Brendan.

If it was good news, there’d be no reason to hide it. So I knew, it wasn’t good news. I was also angry. I didn’t want to know, but I did. Here was my aunt, talking to my mom, about my brother, and no one was telling me anything.

My family began getting ready for Saturday mass, the halfway mark of every weekend. They might not have realized what was going on yet, but I did, and I wasn’t about to go somewhere and pretend everything was as it should be. In fact, my whole life, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid anything that makes me uncomfortable.

I still do.

It was as if all those moments in the past had been preparing me so I could perfect this one. I faked sick and stayed in bed. Of course, now I was alone with my thoughts and that is a very dangerous and uncomfortable place to be. My plan had backfired. I remember trying to fall asleep, but with my stomach in my throat and my heart beating as fast as it was, I was afraid if I let my guard down enough to fall asleep, I wouldn’t be able to hold back my tears any longer.

I was a child with her eyes closed, desperately hoping that made her invisible to and unaffected by the rest of the world.

It didn’t work. 

My family returned from church and almost immediately I was told we were leaving, a day earlier than planned, and to pack up my things and head for the car. Whispers and secrets were one thing, but now a sudden dash to the car with no one answering any of our questions? This. Wasn’t. Good.

We piled into my Dad’s jeep. James and I had flown with my Dad to Baltimore to buy it and drive it back home. That was a before memory. The good kind, when we were still relatively untouched by the harsh reality the world could be.

My Dad drove, I sat beside him in the passenger seat and Nora and Brendan rode in the back. It was a small car. Most cars offer you a little room to retreat, even if only within yourself. This car had none. The soft windows closed in around us and the sounds of the road played like a radio station. That day in particular, the car felt so small it was almost as if words weren’t needed for us to hear one another’s thoughts.

I wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Instead, I was racing down the thruway towards what I knew was going to be one of those moments there would be no coming back from. Our lives were about to change and I think everyone was beginning to feel it.

My Dad wears his heart on his sleeve. I wear mine more like a feathered boa that seems to leave an unintentional trail of feathers wherever I go. Needless to say, we aren't exactly the best combination of emotional support to have in a crisis. Even so, at sixteen years old, it was the first time I’d seen my Dad so silent and within myself. Halfway to our destination that changed. He looked at me and asked if I “wanted to hold hands?”

I wanted to say, “no.” I wanted to tell him, “I am sixteen and that would be weird.” I wanted to tell him, “you’re supposed to be acting like everything is going to be okay. You’re the Dad. That’s what you do. That’s your job.”

But I said none of those things.

I didn’t say them because in that moment, we both knew that once we got where we were going, turned off the car, and walked through the front door of the hospital, that my Dad would be unable to do the one thing in the world that every Dad is supposed to do for their children. He wouldn’t be able to make this better, no matter how much he wanted to. 

And so, for the rest of the way to the hospital, I sat next to me Dad and stared mindlessly out the window, not entirely sure who was holding whose hand.

It wasn’t until later that I found out my Dad was as much in the dark as my siblings and I were. There was a reason no one was telling the four of us what was going on. James had felt it was important that he be the one to tell us. He didn’t want us to hear it from anyone else. 

At fifteen, in the middle of the scariest moment he’d faced, he was thinking of others. Anyone who knew my brother knew that was just the type of person he was and it came effortlessly to him.  

I made an unsuccessful last-ditch attempt to extract information from my uncle who was waiting in the hallway outside my brother’s hospital room. I’ve tried but haven’t found the right words to describe what it feels like to know something, but not to know it and to desperately want to find out, but at the same time wanting to run as fast as you can in the opposite direction before someone can tell you.

The thing about receiving life-changing information is that life changes. From here on out, life would always be remembered and talked about as before and after.

Hours ago, my Mom and brother had their moment and now it was our turn. We entered James’ hospital room one by one. That room, like so many others over the next two years would become a makeshift extension of our home. He was sitting up in bed, my Mom with him. To be honest, I don’t remember those beginning moments, not even the exchanging of hello’s. Maybe there weren’t any.

What I remember in that moment is James looking at us and saying, “They think, they’re pretty sure I have leukemia.”

So there it was, We were all officially living in the “after.”

My brother started to cry as the words escaped his lips. I wonder if he had practiced what he was going to say before we got there. I wonder how different that moment was from his side of things. I wonder if I would have handled it as gracefully as he did. 

Looking back all these years later, I’m not entirely convinced those tears were for himself. After that day, James made a rule. There would be “no tears in his room.” And for the next two years and three weeks, there weren’t. 

The sun is up and I tuck the memory back into my heart to keep it safe. It lives beside the memory of another day, just three weeks from now that will mark an entire decade since my brother died. But I am not quite ready to relive that one yet.

Instead, I let my heart settle on the way God has been able to transform my grief, and I focus on the gratitude I feel for having known my brother and his bravery. I remember his request for no tears and I try to honor it.

James & Brendan

Xo,
Lauren