Brothers...

I have three brothers.

My oldest brother, Ross (or Rossie as I called him when I was a kid), is ten years older that I am.  My "youngest" brother, Gary, is seven years older than me.  And the brother I never knew about was born sometime between Gary and me, but only lived for three short days.

His name was Randy.

I realized I had a brother named Randy when, as a young girl, I accidentally found his birth certificate hidden in my mom's cedar chest.  I never told anyone about my secret discovery until I was in my teens.  No one ever talked about him and I was afraid to ask.  In time, I learned about "the twins" and how my mother had given birth to a very premature boy who lived a couple of days and a stillborn girl.  The boy was my mystery brother, Randy, whose birth certificate I found as child.  That is about all I know of him, except that later in life, it became my mom's mission to put a headstone on the unmarked grave of "the twins" in the children's area of the cemetery. 

I still have his hospital certificate.

Coincidentally, my sister's husband was also named Randy - which means I still do have a brother named Randy.  And I am glad that even though I didn't know the original Randy, I did get to know my brother-in-law.  He was my sister's faithful companion during her battle with cancer and always treated me as his little sister.  His house is always open for us to stay when we visit my home town.  We go to church together, have breakfast together, and reminisce as we go through old family photos.  He tends to my parents' cemetery plots like they were his own parents.

It is nice to have a third brother again.

Randy is the father to two of my nephews and one of my nieces.  He drove to Colorado from Wisconsin for my daughter's college graduation and sat outside in the pouring rain to watch her commencement ceremony.  He approved her future husband, before we even realized that he would be her husband.  He celebrated her January marriage as he made the trek to Colorado with the rest of my brothers. Randy is as much a part of the family as any blood relative.

Life has a funny way of coming full circle.

My oldest brother Ross lives on a lake in northern Wisconsin with his lovely wife, Lillian.  The two met and married when Ross was in his early forties.  (We were all pretty sure he was a confirmed bachelor - little did we know he would meet his future wife square dancing!)  Because of Lillian, he became an instant father to two grown daughters, Grandpa to more kids than I can count, and Great-Grandpa several times over.

And he could not be happier or prouder.

I remember, as a little girl, my brother Ross seemed so much older than me.  He was an adult.  I was a kid.  When he graduated high school I was in second grade.  I remember seeing him leave for his first day at the local tech school and putting up with my mom's need to take a first day of school picture.  He was the first in our family to get a post-high school education, move out of the house and find a place of his own.  He seemed so grown-up.

But then, a funny thing happened.

As we got older, the age gap didn't seem so big.  I was in college and he was still in his late twenties.  I remember him visiting me the summer after my Junior year.  We went out to a local bar, drank beer, ate popcorn, ordered pizza and hung out with some of my friends.  Instead of feeling awkward like I was anticipating; I had fun.  We were equals. That was when we became not just brother and kid sister, but friends.

He is the only person to call our daughter Katie and I love him for that.

My "baby" brother Gary was close enough in age that his friends were the older brothers to some of my neighborhood playmates.  I wonder if he remembers the carnival we put on with the kids down the street?  It was a big deal to me at the time.  In fact, whenever I got to hang out with him, it was important to me.  I remember him taking me via the local bus to the county fair when I was around nine or so.  He was meeting up with a friend and they helped me win a stuffed animal.  I was so excited - not just that he helped me win something, but that he treated me as a friend.

Gary was a bit of a wild child as a teen.

He would hitch hike to the next town over and always ended up at our Aunt June and Uncle Rusty's house, where he would spend the night.  At sixteen he brought a puppy home and somehow talked our mom into letting us keep her.  As a young man, he had an eclectic taste in music.  He listened to heavy metal and current rock, but also to "Rindercella" by Archie Campbell of Hee Haw.

My brother was married at the tender age of twenty-one.

And I was a bridesmaid at his wedding.  I was fourteen and felt like an adult in my hot pink chiffon dress and matching hot pink veil.  Everyone else standing up was either an older relative or a friend of his or his wife, Sue.  They danced with me, laughed with me, and let me hang out with the wedding party all night.  They all treated me like one of the gang and I ate it up!

As I grow older, I am thankful every day for each one of my brothers.

They have taught me lessons in family and love.  They have all experienced personal rough spots but managed to pull through with dignity and grace.  They demonstrate perseverance in the face of difficulty.  They put family front and center in their lives.  They live lives of faith.  And they each are so happy when we get together - even if it is just for a few minutes, a few times a year.

Brothers are not always blood relatives.  Sometimes they are not related to you at all.  But, they are still family.  No matter how you first met, you recognize your brother.  He is that person you feel close to, respect, and love.  It doesn't matter who your parents were.

What Scar?

We all have them, reminders of long ago incidents. It is how we react to those scars from our past that determine how we view our present and future.

Why do we hold up some scars in triumph while we bury others in shame?

My body is covered with reminders of childhood incidents.  I have a little X on my right eyebrow from running into a brick wall during gym class in grade school.  There is the scar on my knee from falling off the front handlebar of my cousin’s bike.  I also have a mark just under my chin where the front of our toboggan slammed into me as we zoomed down the mogul area of the local sledding hill.

While traumatic at the time, the scars are reminders of that little girl who didn't back off of adventure because of fear.

The back of my hand reveals a scar from my college days, the result of tripping over an uneven sidewalk and scraping my hand on the hard cement. There is the mark between my eyebrows where my metal eyeglass frame slammed into the bedpost and my face as I was bending over to pick something up off the floor.  I have a long, red scar from my belly button down to my pelvic bone – a constant reminder that ignoring pain can result in emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix.

As I matured, the incidents and resulting scars tend to be reminders of feeling foolish, rather than signs of bravery.  

What changed?

Surprisingly to me, most of the scars I spoke about have disappeared from my body.  They only one I can find is the scar from my appendix surgery.  I remember them all so clearly, can see them so vividly, and yet they are not where they should be.

I am shocked.

I held on to the memories for years, assuming the scars would always be there to remind me of my childhood, my courage, my foolishness.  Now they are gone.  And maybe that is a good thing.  Childhood memories are meant to fade in importance.  We shouldn't beat ourselves up indefinitely over mistakes we made in our youth.  We should live in the present and anticipate the future, not grieve the past.

What have we learned?

When I think about my childhood, I was a cautious little girl.  The scars I remember came because I stepped outside of my comfort zone...and sometimes got hurt.  I could use this as confirmation I should not take chances because something bad might happen.  Or, I could think about how I didn't let my fear stop me from taking a risk.  That I overcame my insecurities and lived to tell the tale.

When I reflect on my awkward, embarrassing teen and young adult years I realize the scars are evidence that even the most foolish events are just that - an passing event that happened in a fraction of my life.  I am not proud of all the things I did without thinking, but I survived and those events made me the person I am today.  I do not have to live in the past.

Sometimes, near tragedy can be the beginning of something wonderful.

The rupturing of my appendix was the catalyst to write a blog.  I always enjoyed writing and even composed a couple of pieces prior to my surgery.  But, laying in a hospital room for almost a week gave me the time, topic and incentive to start writing on a regular basis.  It also prompted me to highlight the warning signs of appendicitis to friends and family.

Good can come out of bad.

I am lucky.  I don't have very many external scars anymore.  And the internal scars have faded away, too.  The internal scarring can be harder to deal with, to heal, but it can be done.  The process is not be as easy as watching the scar on your chin fade to nothing.  It takes understanding of who I was at the time and forgiving both that girl and the other people involved.  But, like the visible scars, they do need to heal.  And as they heal and fade, we can move on.

A friend of mine recently confronted the source of her torment in a much anticipated and feared meeting.  She asked for prayers that she could do what she came to do, say what she needed to say.  That she could let go.  And on that fateful day, she did just that and walked away.  Her healing is by no means complete, but she can now start to move on.  She no longer carries the hatred constantly with her.  And that is good - her internal scar faded a bit that day.

Unfortunately, none of us can avoid the pain that brings on the scars.  

We all have experiences that resulted in physical scars - no matter how careful we were.  Accidents happen.  Many of us have emotional scars as a result of a foolish act of rebellion, peer pressure or immaturity.  Others of us have scars because of the actions of another person who hurt us - no matter if intentionally or unintentionally.  They still hurt us emotionally, physically or spiritually.  I wish I could make all the painful scars go away with the sweep of my hand - but I can't.

Scars, whether visible, hidden or fading, are a part of us,   They form who we are today and who we will be tomorrow.  They do not define us, but contribute to how we view ourselves.

Are you on the way to who you want to be?

Obligation or Opportunity?

I was talking to my daughter the other day about a volunteer opportunity she was pretty excited about.  I could hear in her voice how much she was looking forward to the planning and executing of this unpaid position, even though her days were already filled to the brim with work, family and friends.  She has little time for self-care and yet was bubbling over this new adventure.

What is it about volunteer jobs that can make us so excited?

Kait works full-time as a shift supervisor for a homeless shelter program designed to help women and their children get back on their feet.  Her clients are learning basic life skills, taking classes to earn their GED, learning parenting techniques, and dealing with the consequences of less than ideal living conditions.  Her job is fulfilling, but can be stressful.

Her volunteer opportunity gives her the chance to work with teens in her church.  As an added bonus, her husband agreed to join her in this quest.  Before she was even offered the unpaid job, she was mentally planning fun, monthly youth gatherings.  She eagerly looks forward to the energy of working with kids.  As she told me, This age is so much fun and I get to be silly with them.  I can't wait! 

Her comment got me thinking.

If we aren't excited about volunteering, maybe we are not volunteering to do the right thing.  I have volunteered, or in some cases been volunteered, to do something I was not entirely comfortable with.  Usually, the task was not terrible.  But, I was not excited about the opportunity, either.

A few years ago, I volunteered to make and distribute Christmas fruit baskets to elderly shut-in's around the Denver area.  Assembling the baskets was okay.  The people we worked with were upbeat and fun.  I liked the challenge of seeing how quickly we could put together hundreds of baskets.

Delivering them was a mixed bag.

My heart was beating wildly as I rang the first doorbell and I secretly hoped no one would be home so I could just leave the basket and run.  But, when someone did answer (and they always did) I discovered that, for the most part, I enjoyed talking to the men and women on my delivery route.  They had no family and were SO EXCITED to see me, talk to me and share their memories with me. 

I also volunteered my husband to help.  He thought assembling the baskets was great.  He had a task to complete and saw the instant reward of a job well done.  The volunteering could have happily ended there for him.  But, I had signed us up to also deliver fruit baskets.  He was less than thrilled.  I couldn't understand why.  He was the one who constantly pushed me to "try new things" and he always seemed to enjoy meeting new people.  After some discussion, we agreed he would drive and I would knock on doors.

Except for one basket.

I was going into an apartment complex to deliver several baskets and there was one that needed to go to a home just a few houses away.  I talked him into delivering that one.  After we met back up, I realized why he didn't want to do that part of the job.  He is a big guy and can be intimidating.  He did not want to frighten a single elderly woman - and did not want to be accused of stepping over an invisible line when there were no other witnesses.

I get it now.

I work in a pretty routine job doing pretty routine things.  I pull up reports.  I send emails.  I audit for compliance.  I send out reminders.  I make sure the rules are being followed.  I sit at a desk all day working on a computer.  While it is a good job, it is not the most creative job in the world.

Now, when I volunteer, I try to pick activities that bring me some kind of  joy, and not pick opportunities because I feel obligated to help.  Like my daughter, I found a few volunteer activities that feel relaxing and not a chore.

Once a month I make sandwiches for the homeless.  I like the routine, the people, and the immediate sense of accomplishment.  And, if I am being perfectly honest, I like that it is at my church, a place where I feel very comfortable.  I have not helped deliver the food and am not sure I will.  I am told it is rewarding, so I might try it once.  You never know what might happen.

I volunteer on a few committees and groups that organize social and team building activities.  We try to build community.  I enjoy researching and organizing for these groups, but don't necessarily want to be the leader at the meetings.  Public speaking - bring it on.  Leading a discussion - not so much.

To be a happy volunteer we need to both enjoy the activity and want to challenge ourselves to do more.

We do have to stretch ourselves.  Volunteering out of our comfort zone can teach us something about ourselves we were waiting to learn.  It may help us to discover a hidden talent we did not know existed.  Or it might help others discover their hidden talent because you chose to be a leader.


A while ago, as an experiment, I started to create slide shows to be projected on a screen prior to our church services.  I had no idea if I would be any good at it or how it would be received.  But, I wanted to try.  I discovered I enjoy finding pictures to use, creating a storyboard, adding copy and putting it all together so there is a rhythm to my visual display.  It gives me a chance to be creative, something I don't get much of in my work life.  I want to learn to be a better at producing slides...maybe learn to do videos.  

This seems to be a good sign that I have found a place to spread my volunteer wings.

As for the future, who knows. I am looking forward to trying retirement again.  And maybe, with a little more insight,  I will be able to use some of my tapped and untapped skills to discover volunteer activities that leave me happy and fulfilled.

What more can I ask for?

This is Love

1 Corinthians 13:13  "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love."

The Bible speaks of love in many places.  It is just that important.  When questioned what the greatest commandment was, Jesus answered, First, love God with all your heart, your soul, your mind.  Second, love your neighbor as yourself.  

Sounds simple enough except for one small thing...

What exactly is love?

I say I love dark chocolate, red wine, and pizza. I love potato chips with onion dip, sleeping in, and watching old movies.  I love autumn, walks in the mountains, and happy hour with friends.

But, I also love my husband, my daughter, and my son-in-law.  I love my parents, siblings and in-laws.  I love my extended family, friends and family who are no longer with us, and I loved my dearly departed dog.  I love my old friends, my new friends, and friends I have yet to meet.

I love the way my heart still races after all these years when my husband walks into the room.  I love the silly texts he sends me and the silly songs he sings.  I love making food I know he and others will enjoy.  I love making people feel welcome when they come to visit.  I love spending time with others.

I love God.

I love many people, places and things in different and unique ways.  So, how is it that one word can describe so many types of feelings?

Is it love...or something else?

We tend to use love and like interchangeably when it comes to inanimate objects, enjoyable tasks and other intangibles. Instead of saying, I really, really like something, or, I really, really enjoy something, or I really, really admire something, we say we love it.  Sometimes, love is just a more emphatic way of expressing our opinion. 

But what about love as it relates to other living beings...specifically people?  (Please don't lecture me about your pets.  I loved my dog, too.  But for the purpose of this narrative, I am going to put them in a separate category.  Okay?)

When it comes to people, we are very cautious about expressing love.  We treat it like a precious commodity that we should only dole out in small quantities.  We tend to express our love only when we are confident the love will be reciprocated.

But, isn't that contrary to what Jesus taught us in the Bible?  To love our neighbor as ourselves?  He didn't say love your neighbor only if you expect something in return...

Do you see the love?

A short time ago a friend of mine was hospitalized because she had several small strokes due to a sudden spike in her blood pressure.  As a result of the strokes, she is having to deal with the loss of her peripheral vision, a constant shadow that hangs over what she can see, and short term memory issues.  Doctors were trying to figure out the cause, but may never know.  She spent nearly a week in the hospital, dealing with the aftermath of the strokes.  

Her husband never left her side during this entire ordeal.

He spent every night sleeping on an uncomfortable futon in her hospital room so she wouldn't be alone.  He didn't leave the room unless there was a visitor to keep her company.  He was there to interpret what the doctors said, provide emotional support, and make her laugh in the face of terror.

This is love.

She wants to protect her husband by staying strong.  She tries not to breakdown in his presence - keeping some of the bad news moments private until she is convinced he can accept the loss.  She encourages him to leave her side for a few hours to spend time with friends.  She wants him to also feel the support of their community and the comfort of a good laugh and a beer.

This is love.

Friends came to the hospital daily to visit, crack jokes, play music and just sit.  When she was finally released from the hospital and sent home, family and friends rallied around.  They brought meals, took her to appointments, sat and talked.  They encouraged her and her husband by pointing out the small victories.  They sympathized when she expressed frustration at the hand she was dealt.  They invite her to join them in every day activities that used to be so normal and easy...but are now challenging and scary.

This is love.

Love is all around...we just need to be open to giving and accepting it.

Offering our love is not always easy.  Sometimes it is pushed away.  Sometimes it feels trivial.  Sometimes it is just hard to keep going in the face of struggle.

Accepting love is not always easy, either.  Sometimes we don't feel worthy of the love.  Sometimes we are too angry or hurt to realize we need love.  Sometimes we are wearing blinders and miss the love being offered.

Where ever we are in the cycle of life...love can be our constant.  We just need to learn to accept love, to give love and, as Someone wiser than me said, love our neighbors as ourselves.

What I Did Wrong

I tried to retire at fifty-eight and failed at what I thought would be my dream job.  

So, what went wrong?

I lost my identity.

When you work and people ask what you do, it's easy to answer,  I am a project coordinator for an electrical distributor.  But when you are retired, especially when you retire early, it is harder.  I used to be a project coordinator, but I retired early.  Oh?  What do you do all day?  Ummm, stuff?

My job was my identity.  Who was I now?

Health Insurance is expensive.

I was able to insure the two of us with COBRA through my employer for eighteen months, but the cost was much more than I anticipated with my rose colored, pre-retirement, glasses.  Checking for something similar through the open market was even more money.  I discovered the older you are, the more insurance costs. Surprise (to no one but me)!

I never seriously thought about the seven years I would have to provide and pay for insurance before we went on Medicare. I should have.

Netflix is the enemy.  

On days when I had little planned, it was so easy to get sucked in to watching "just one episode" while I ate lunch.  But Netflix knows what they are doing.  When one episode is done, you immediately are directed to the next episode, and the next, and the next until you look at the clock and realize the afternoon is gone.

My husband owns a small business and still worked.

I failed to consider that my husband would not understand my motivation for retiring.  Several years ago, when my employer asked that I give an estimated retirement date, he suggested March, 2017, the year I turned fifty-eight.  And said he supported my decision when I agreed to the target.  However, as the date got closer and closer, he started to joke that I maybe I should postpone my retirement.  That my work needed me too much.  That I should prepare to be poor.  That we couldn't afford to go out - go on vacation - buy luxury items.  That he didn't know what I would do all day.

And yet, in the same breath, he told me he just wanted me to be happy.  He was excited for me.  He could help with the cost of insurance through some creative (and legal) accounting by paying for COBRA  through his business.  He said he supported my community hikes, pottery classes, and volunteer opportunities.

But, he still didn't understand what I did all day.

And, he was going through some personal issues that affected his mindset.  He started to fear losing his business.  He worried we could not support our current lifestyle if I stayed retired.  He worried we would lose our health insurance.  He worried we would lose everything.  He said some hurtful things about my retiring too young, being lazy and not wanting to contribute.

My retirement was breaking him...

It was too easy to go back to work.

When my husband started his worrisome spiral, I said I would look for a part-time job.  It would make him happy and fill some of my time.  It didn't solve all our issues, but it would be a start.

At the same time, my previous employer heard I was looking, and they offered me my old job back with the same pay, benefits and a four day work week.

How could I refuse?  My husband was thrilled.

But, the number one reason I failed at retirement?

I HAD NO PLAN.

Me, the ruler follower, the planner of all planners, the spreadsheet guru, the to do list maker, the person who always needs to know who, what, when, where - did not think this retirement thing through before saying goodbye to my life of working for others.


I naively thought my days would magically be filled with activities without really thinking about what I wanted those days to look like. I didn't have any hobbies to fall back on.  The things I enjoyed doing were pretty sedentary.  The activities I wanted to try didn't always offer classes during the day when I had excess time to fill.  Many of the volunteer opportunities I looked at only happened once a month for a few hours.

I didn't have any structure.

The first few months were like being on an extended vacation - sleeping in, taking trips, going out for coffee or lunch, window shopping.  I worked on small projects around the house - randomly choosing whatever caught my fancy on that day.

I thought I would spend more time with my non-working friends until I realized they already had routines that did not include me.

For retirement to succeed I needed a plan.  I needed structure.  I needed to really think about what my retirement should look like.  I needed to take this seriously.  I needed to treat retirement like a job.

Unfortunately, I realized all this too late for my first retirement to be a success.

So, next time I decide to retire, I will have a plan.

I realize now that to be successful at retirement I can't just "wing it".  I will need to treat retirement as as my job - complete with a consistent time to wake up, a routine that will fill my days with structure, and a list of projects with deadlines.  I need to include specific time for daily exercise, time to practice a new hobby or to learn an instrument, time for housework, and time to pursue friendships with more determination.

I can no longer just spend at will.  I need a budget that considers health insurance costs, luxuries like vacations and eating out, and the day to day necessities of life.  I need to make sure my husband is ready for me to retire - that it does not cause him to panic again.

I am not sure when I will try to retire for the second and hopefully last time, but I have learned some valuable lessons and am starting to plan.

And next time, I will be ready...

Unexpected

Earlier this summer I attended the play, Love's Labor's Lost, at the University of Colorado in Boulder as part of their annual Colorado Shakespeare Festival.  I had never been to a Shakespeare play and was a bit skeptical.  I was expecting a Victorian setting, old English accents and lots of long speeches I would have a hard time understanding.

In other words, I expected to be bored.

Instead, I walked into a lovely outdoor theater surrounded by trees, was loaned a folding "chair" with a comfortable seat and back support for the bleachers, and sipped on a glass of wine while I enjoyed a perfect, balmy summer evening.

Much to my surprise, the play was set in the early 1900's, just at the start of WWI in Europe.  The costumes reflected that era as did the scenery and mannerisms of the actors.

But, didn't Shakespeare write his plays during the late 1500's and early 1600's?  I did not understand.

Because we had arrived early, we joined a group lecture led by one of the university professors who told us some background on the play, things to look for, and interesting facts about Shakespeare and his publications.  I found out that Shakespeare festivals frequently change up the era of the play to give it a new feel.

This made me start to think.  If this concept of changing up the familiar to produce a new, energized production worked for the Shakespeare Festival plays, might it also apply to life?

As many of you know, I recently returned to my old job with my former employer following a yearlong sabbatical, failed retirement, extended vacation, break from reality...the terms to describe this time of my life are as complicated as they are numerous.

I have been back to work for a while now and in many ways it feels like I never left.  Most of the people are the same, the job functions are similar, and my computer muscle memory is coming back in unexpected ways.

I find I really like dressing up in my corporate casual work clothes every morning.  I enjoy the daily interactions with my co-workers: the joking, the stories, the good morning and how was your weekend.  I even enjoy my thirty minute commute - thank you podcasts!

But, there are some aspects I forgot about while I was gone and find are not so pleasant...sitting all day in one place staring at a computer, the tedium of working reports and spreadsheets every day all day, the feeling of isolation as I sit alone in my corner cubicle...

I forgot how difficult it is for me to get up at 5:30am and how early I now want to seek out the comfort of my bed the night before.  How easy it is to do nothing instead of something in the evening after making dinner for the two of us.  How familiar it is to sit at my desk and snack the day away, forgetting to get up and stretch.

I went back to my same company because they needed me and I needed them.  I needed the pay, the health insurance and the stability.  They needed someone with my skills to help catch things that were falling through the cracks.  I should be feeling grateful, but instead see myself as stuck in Golden Handcuffs - locked into a job because of all the material things it provides me but not feeling the excitement, challenge or joy of a job well done.

This needs to change.

A friend of mine recently said that if you don't love getting up in the morning to go to work, you should be looking for a new job.  For many people, this is probably true. But maybe, for some of us, instead of starting over in a new job, the key to satisfaction is to reinvent the one we have.  Perhaps we could learn from the Shakespeare Festival folks and try to re-imagine our current jobs with our current companies so that they do become something we look forward to each day.

I am beginning to think that loving a job needs to start with loving ourselves - searching out the positive and not letting the negative thoughts take over.  If we want the best for not only ourselves but those around us, aren't we are more likely to make the best of our situation?

So, I sit at a desk in front of a computer all day.  Who says I can't walk away for a few minutes of interaction with my fellow employees and allow myself the occasional break?  I do reports all day.  Why don't I use those reports as springboards for teaching moments?  I snack too much at my desk.  Bad habits are meant to be broken - maybe now is the time?

I was asked to return to work and I agreed. It is up to me whether I fall into the I wish I were still retired trap or embrace the challenge of now that I am here, what can I do to help...myself and others.

Life reimagined...what a lovely idea...whose time has come.

New Beginnings...

Sometimes, it is good (and even necessary) to push ourselves beyond what we think we are capable of doing.

A little over a year ago I, along with seven other women from my small group, attended a Friday night church service at New Beginnings Worshipping Community in the Denver Women's Prison. 

It was the first time I had gone to a service at the prison and I have to admit I was really nervous.  I was SO FAR out of my comfort zone.  I did not know what to expect and was filled with irrational fears.  I was afraid of missing one of the dress code rules we were emailed and that I would not be allowed in.  I was afraid we would be let in and something bad would happen while we were there.  I was even afraid I would get lost trying to find the prison parking lot.

What I learned, and this is an important lesson, sometimes it is a good thing to push beyond our comfort zone.  I discovered that while there were restrictions, getting into the prison was, initially, a lot like going through airport security.  The pastor met us in the waiting area and explained the entrance process along with conversation and physical contact guidelines prior to our proceeding onto the prison compound.  

Yes, this is a maximum security penitentiary and we walked through many loudly slamming electronic gates and doors, surrounded by fence and barbed wire on our way to where the services would be held.  But, once we walked into our final destination it felt more like we were in a high school cafeteria set up as a temporary sanctuary than a prison.  The female inmates who helped set up the area for the worship greeted us, engaged in small talk, and made us feel as comfortable as they could.    

Once it was time for the service to begin, we were encouraged to spread out and sit in any available folding chair.  The rest of the inmates then joined us, entering in groups determined by their behavioral status and corresponding housing unit.  They sat in designated areas according to the letters on the end of each row.    

While no guards were present, the volunteers stationed around the room made sure everything ran smoothly without disruption.  And honestly, behavior was not really an issue as attending church in a prison is a privilege that can be quickly snatched away and the inmates treat it as such.  

Once everyone was seated, we all participated in a pretty traditional Lutheran worship service.  The inmates were very involved - reading, singing, helping with communion.  Visitors were also encouraged to actively participate - sing, take communion, pass the peace.  It was easy to observe how much of an honor it was to serve and that the women were very proud to be selected to assist.  

After the service was over and chairs were put away, the inmates were dismissed back to their housing units and we were "debriefed" by one of the Friday night volunteers, escorted back to the reception area and departed the prison.

That was my first experience as a worship visitor at New Beginnings and I have gone back on several occasions since then, taking new groups of women with me each time.

Every visit has been a new and different experience.

Some nights I felt comfortable - some still a little intimidated. I observed the inmates change - and remain the same.  I saw too many familiar faces - and too many new ones.  I noticed women who could be my daughter - and women who could be my mother.  But, I always felt the presence of God in this place that seems so very far from God.  There was hope and love in these women, despite their circumstances.  Or maybe, they have new hope and love through Christ because of their circumstances.

One Friday night, some time after that first visit, I listened to the testimony of a familiar inmate as she shared her heartbreaking but ultimately inspirational, journey.  Her life was one of extremes, but her faith journey, with its periods of loss and disbelief, hope and new beginnings, was one each of us could identify with in some aspect.  As I looked around through misty eyes, I saw tears running down the faces of visitors, volunteers and her fellow inmates.

Getting over my fears; finding the courage to step out of my comfort zone; acting confident even when I was not feeling so secure enabled me to experience a life changing moment.  And deep down, aren't we are all just looking for love, compassion, and hope for the future?

As someone who likes to plan ahead, has anxiety when she doesn't know what to expect, and tends to take the safest route - it is a personal triumph to push past my fears and try new things.  There are many exciting and rewarding experiences waiting for us - if we are willing to step out of our comfort zones.

Maybe worshipping at a women's prison is not your thing...but maybe it is.  Try something new, something uncomfortable and you may find a new passion.  Or at the very least, a new experience.

http://www.newbeginningswc.org/

Not Yet...

It is just over a year since I began my early retirement and the time has mostly flown by...

When I decided to "step out", as a friend of mine called it, I made a lengthy list of all the things I wanted to do with my newly acquired free time.  It was a great list and included more reading, writing, crafting, volunteering, exercising, enrolling in classes, learning new skills and taking on various artistic endeavors. 

It did not include the more mundane reality of having lots of time to do everything...and yet somehow doing very little.

As my daughter so eloquently reminded me in a recent blog post, "The plan I have today is not necessarily the plan for my tomorrow."  I thought I was ready to retire at fifty-eight.  I thought I would not miss the routine of going to a job.  I thought I had my retirement activities all figured out; but life does not always go according to plan...

Things I learned...

I don't like telling people I am "retired", even when I say I took an "early retirement".  First, they assume I am older than what I am (not something any woman wants to hear!).  Second, they assume I won't say no to any task or invitation they extend because I am not working and should have lots of free time.  Third, I am still trying to figure out what this next life stage looks like and often find myself feeling a little lost.

I feel guilty when I am not busy.  Sit down to read a book or watch a movie?  I should be working outside, cleaning, making a meal - doing something that sounds productive.  But reading?  What will my husband think of me?  I need to report back on all the useful things I did - not the ways I relaxed...

Pottery class was fun, but after several sessions I had run out of ideas on what to make (and run out of room to store piece after piece of mostly mediocre pottery.)  My cabinets runneth over...

Hiking with the "senior group" was a great past-time, but because I hiked during the week I was less likely to want to hike with my husband on the weekend.  Not a side affect I anticipated...

It was really easy to put things on my to do list off to another day, or week, or month because, well, I'm retired. I found myself distracted by the most random events...and suddenly the day had gone by without my really doing anything.

I missed the structure of going to a job every day.  And the social aspect.  And the sense of accomplishment.  And the paycheck.  And the health insurance.

SO...

I decided the last year was a sabbatical...not my retirement.

It was a year to relax and recharge.  A year to reflect on what I enjoyed...and what I didn't.  A year to spend more time with friends and family.  A year to try new hobbies.  A year to work on my yard - and a year to discover I am not a gardener.  A year to see what retirement life could be like...when I am really ready.

Funny how life does not always go according to plan.

I am going back to work.  And not just any work - back to where I left off a year ago.

When I mentioned to a former co-worker I was thinking about returning to the work force the ball started rolling...quickly!  I applied for a few jobs in the area - even had an interview.  But nothing was really feeling "right".

And then, my old boss emailed me.  We met for lunch.  He heard I was looking for a job.  A former customer heard I was looking.  Everyone thought I should consider returning to the job I was good at.  It could be as if I had never left: same pay, same benefits, same hours, same customers and co-workers, Monday through Thursday, just like before I "retired".  They wanted me back...if I was interested.

I was interested.

And so now, my sabbatical is coming to an end.  I am recharged.  I am excited.  I am ready for the structure and fulfillment of a challenging job with a company that could not have been more supportive of my needs.

Retirement is in my future...just not yet.