I’m sitting in a doctor’s office waiting for an eye
exam. My arms have finally become too
short to help my presbyopic (that's not even a word) eyes read the Presbyterian
hymnal on Sunday mornings. While sitting
here, I've been thinking about how, in recent days, I've been reminded by
Glennon Melton, Anne Lamott and Mark Hinds that my story, in my voice, needs to
be heard because it’s mine alone. What
follows is what has been on my mind this week.
I've mentioned before that I have a love-hate relationship
with social media. In recent weeks I
find I’m disappointed that society hasn't evolved as far as I had thought (or devolved) and, at the same time, dreading the negative rhetoric that will
appear on my timeline as we head into the 2016 political cycle. Just when I was
beginning to think I should pull back from social media a bit, a couple of
great things happened.
First, a friend put out a request for positive messages to
be given to LGBTQ youth struggling to find their place in this world. The messages that flooded the comment section
were amazing. Who among us doesn't want
to be reminded, once in a while, that he/she is a child of God, wonderfully made and
that the light he or she shines is vital to our world. We belong to one another. Social media did that.
Second, a re-connection with my very first friend (at least
one that I remember) made me re-think a pull back. I remember the day we met. We had just moved into our Lake City
neighborhood. My dad told me we had met
some neighbors who had a girl about my age. He took my 5-year old, incredibly
shy hand and walked me over to their house.
I don’t remember what we talked about.
I just remember thinking I had my very first friend.
I remember their yard had a stream that ran through it and a
huge (in my 5-year old eyes) garden.
There was a bridge over the stream that led from one part of the yard to
the garden. I remember spending long Seattle summer daylight hours building dams in that stream, each time trying to make the
resulting pond deeper and deeper.
We walked the mile (uphill, of course) to school together
every day. The walk never seemed to take
very long—until, one day, my friend was home sick, and I had to walk by
myself. My mom gave me a stick of gum
(probably the one and only time I broke a school rule until Senior skip day)
and assured me I could do it. That was
probably the first mile I ever ran. I didn't enjoy it. I made it to school in
record time, I’m told. I learned later that my mom watched me with her
binoculars until I reached the top of that hill. I slyly chewed that piece of gum ALL day. I've always been a quiet rebel, ;-)
The night before we moved to LA, my parents took my friend
and me to my favorite Mexican restaurant for a farewell dinner.
That was a hard goodbye for me.
My first goodbye. My parents
promised we would see her every time we visited Seattle. They kept that promise—no matter how packed
our visits were, they always made sure I had time to see her. That was such a gift. We wrote letters to each other on our Current
stationery (anyone else remember that stationery). We always picked up where had left off on our
last visit.
When I was 16, my parents let me fly from DC to Seattle by
myself. Props to them for letting a 16-year
old with a plane change in Chicago do that.
Before cell phones. Before
e-mail. Before online flight tracking. The only way they knew I had arrived at my
final destination was when I called them from my grandparents’ house.
On that visit, my friend spent several days with me at my
grandma’s on the Olympic Peninsula.
Grandma and great Aunt Lucy took us to Victoria, B.C. for the day. It was a glorious day. The water was pretty choppy on the ferry ride
back. The ferry kept rocking back and
forth—so much so, we went out on deck for some fresh air. We held on to the railing for dear life. Just as we decided to head back inside, the
ferry listed toward the water and a huge wave washed overboard. We were pelted with cold sea water. We aren't talking about a small boat. We are talking about a 341 foot vessel
capable of holding 1000 passengers and over 300 cars. To list that close to the water was
frightening, to say the least. For a second,
I was sure we were going overboard. When we made our way inside, Grandma and
Aunt Lucy reported that everyone inside let out a collective gasp when they saw
what was happening.
The last time I saw my friend, she was on a band trip to
DC. She had gotten permission to spend
the night with us in Virginia. We, as
usual, picked up right where we left off.
We continued to write one another as we went off to college. And then life and jobs happened, and I lost
touch with her. Every time we were in
Seattle, I wondered where she was. It
turns out, not too far from the places we hang out when we are there. So,
today, social media is a gift in my life.
Thanks for listening to me ramble as I waited for my eyes to
dilate. And, just in case you are
wondering, a pair of progressive lenses is in my future. Maybe I’ll, once again, be able to read the
notes on an unfamiliar hymn. I can’t
promise that I’ll sound good. They aren't magic glasses, after all.
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