Category: Life Stories

A month before my thirteenth birthday, I discovered that Scotch tape is removable.  While she was at work, I crept into my mother’s room.  I’d seen her carry in shopping bags the prior evening. She handed me a box of party invitations to fill out and rushed upstairs with the bags.

Curious George fan that I was, the next day, I investigated.  I kneeled beside her bed and lifted the comforter, nothing.  I opened her closet and stood on my tippy toes searching behind her shoe boxes.  Nothing.  I reached between her dresses and felt behind her shoe rack.  Nothing. I sat, defeated, head cradled in my hands.  Then I spotted it.  On the far right, below my father’s trousers.  A large white bag with strip of orange ribbon hanging from the top.  I crawled to the bag and hoisted it over my father’s collection of cowboy boots.

I grasped the box with both hands and shook away the bag.  There on the yellow gift tag: Happy Birthday Pam!

I shook.  It was heavy and rattled.

Scissors!  No, mom would surely see that.

I turned the box on its side and slid my finger under the folded wrapping paper, but it started to tear.  I had to know.  I noticed a corner of the tape wasn’t pressed down.  I pinched the edges with my fingernails, and carefully peel it back.  It came right off.  I opened the paper revealing the contents of the box.

There, pictured on the box were the most beautiful snazzy, blue, suede roller skates with bright yellow wheels. This was decades before Heelys, and no other kid in my neighborhood had sneaker skates.

From that day forward, when mom set my presents before me, I knew what to expect.  But I couldn’t let on.  So, I kept my secret.  When mom placed the wrapped box on the table in front of me, I tore off the bow and paper, tossing them on the floor.  I took a deep breath, looked down and cheered.

Yaay!

I jumped up and gave my mother a big hug.  Even when I didn’t get the thing I hoped for, my mom, nor my friends, knew.  I prepared myself for what was coming, so they didn’t see my disappointment.

I wonder why my actual birthday reveals were never anti-climactic.  Perhaps my knowing about the gift is one thing, but the anticipation of one day actually using the item kept me excited and able to plaster on a giddy expression as I ripped away the paper.

It would be nice if life was like that.  Always knowing what to expect.  No matter who’s watching, I’d be prepared for whatever comes my way; brace myself for the bad and anticipate the terrific.  But it doesn’t work that way.

I love birthdays, and I love life’s excitements and joys.  There’s so much wonder and beauty out there; experiences to be had.  But, reaching for the box when I don’t know what to expect is often terrifying.

If I move to a rural town, will I be lonely?  

If I stand in the middle of a stage and sing a song I wrote, will people think I’m crazy?

Can I really write a book?

The last ten years have been full of big-paper-rips.  Some of the beautiful boxes turned out to be full of useless, eco-unfriendly foam padding. Some contained damaged items.  Returned.  But most of them were overflowing with glorious items pulled from my bucket list of magical life goals.

I’m not thirteen anymore, and I can’t sneak into my mother’s closet to examine my presents.  I have to wait until opportunities come, or create them, and then be willing to rip.  These days, I never have to pretend I’m excited.  Sometimes I am so disappointed I weep, and it is worth every tear.  I know that there are a million more boxes out there.  So, I’ll take my gifts as they come and rip away.

My former-husband frequently amused himself with descriptions of acupuncturists.  

“How do they all fit in their tiny car?” he began.  “And those big red floppy shoes.   Twenty to thirty of them piling into a Volkswagen Beetle driving around town with their orange wigs and bright yellow costumes.  How do they keep from smearing makeup on each other?”

It never grew old.

I don’t believe acupuncturists are clowns.  Clown school is a little different than acupuncture college.  Sure, acupuncturists can go to clown school, and clowns become acupuncturists, but they still go to different schools.  

Clown school graduates are granted a license to be spontaneous, playful, and very wacky, while acupuncturists stab you with five-inch needles and are rarely spontaneous or playful.  

I’m not one of those lunatics; lounging on a filthy sofa in my parent’s basement hashing out a sinister plan to shatter the window of some acupuncturist’s office and hurl rubbing alcohol on the naked pin-cushioned body of an innocent patient.

According to NIH research, acupuncture appears to be a reasonable option for chronic pain. However, in the very next paragraph, they highlight the role of expectation and belief as a significant factor in the effectiveness of the treatment.  In short, if people think it will work, it is more likely to work. That is the crux of faith, and that is also where Christianity begins. Faith.

Faith is crucial to Christianity.  It is believing that Jesus walked the earth, died, and came back to life as a selfless act of love, to spare those seeking a way to escape an impending harsh fate.  To be Christian is to believe that the Bible is the actual word of God; a loving memoir about God’s son, Jesus. It is faith that God is real when your skin can’t touch His, and you can’t see Him.  

Historically, even the suggestion of God’s existence has led to people being burned alive.  Jesus himself was flogged and sentenced to death for saying he was who he was. The fever is real.  There are psychiatric hospitals with entire wings devoted to patients claiming to be Jesus. It’s all very illogical, irrational and downright silly.  But, for some, including me, very real.

Until March, I identified as an Evangelical Christian.  Its premise, share the good news so everyone can benefit.  It was my 51st birthday, and I celebrated with my father. We chatted on the sofa after dinner.  Like most of our family gatherings, all roads led to Trump.

“Why do they support him?” my father asked.

“Who?”

“The Evangelical Christians support Trump.”

I’m a bit of a media hermit.  Ten years cable-free, commercial-free radio, and no magazine subscriptions.  In addition, I’d been on a 6-month Facebook hiatus. I knew nothing of a unified group of Evangelical Christians.  I thought I was one, but I had never been invited to a meeting.

“I don’t support him, and Evangelical Christians don’t have a consensus on that.”

I was wrong.  There is a group, with a spokesperson.  However, their group is not my group. The messages I hear from that group have nothing to do with my faith.  For the first time, I understood why people think Christians hate them, and why people hate Christians.

This struggle isn’t new, like any group, there has always been division within Christianity.  But, this particular division disturbed me. How did this group catapult so far from what I know to be the foundational message of Christianity?

What could I do to make a difference?  Probably nothing, but I needed to try something.

As a writer, I have a platform in my connections and in what I create and share: blogs, songs, speeches, scripts, books.  I have a hope, though the Bible confirms it will never happen; I pray Christians will help each other remember (or realize) that Christianity is about a personal relationship with God through Jesus, not about rules or judgments passed on others who don’t know Jesus personally.

With acupuncture, people who are not patients of an acupuncturist never need to avoid wearing deodorant on the day of an appointment.  Non-patients are not belittled for missed appointments, nor need concern themselves with antiseptic. The rules inside the office do not apply outside.  I haven’t heard any mass effort to guilt acupuncture patients into pain management clinics or onto raw diets. Acupuncture works for them; it’s what they want.

Christianity was never intended to be a list of rules clamped on people like handcuffs. It was always intended to be a choice to follow Christ, a choice to believe, a choice to love.  Christianity was never meant to be followed by those who do not believe in it. Why in the heck would they? Acupuncturists swear by acupuncture, vegans beans and tofu and so on. A carnivore won’t suddenly go meat-free without an internal shift.  

The success of acupuncture is in the positive marketing.  The ancient tradition that promises healing, potential clients are invited to receive relief and healing.  

And yet, I laughed with my then husband.  Together we painted the picture of orange yarn-haired acupuncturist emerging from VW Bugs.  It was easy to laugh. Easy to look down at lots of groups. To think I’m so different. Am I?

I recall my repulsive attempts to share my faith. In my zeal to persuade, I have lost sight of my miraculous experience with intimately knowing Christ.  I’ve resorted to insisting that the other person’s beliefs are wrong. I point to their behaviors, the things that God is best suited to point out.

I’m right.  You’re wrong.

Who would want a faith that is shared without patience, kindness, and love?  I have never been told I was going to die, by an acupuncturist standing outside my doctor’s office. But I did have a childhood friend invite me to her church’s vacation Bible school. 

I do believe that the world needs Jesus. Yes, Jesus. Not just me.  

So, as a Christian, I take notes from the marketing strategies of acupuncturists.  They are the same strategies taught by Jesus.

• Focus on positive stuff, like better quality of life.  
• Hold off on discussing billing, no-show penalties and payment methods until someone is interested.
• When someone says, “no thanks,” don’t take it personally, move on, or go take a nap.
• I want them to come back.  I should be nice.
• Tell the truth and present the evidence.
• Allow questions and be prepared to answer or find someone who can.
• And finally, live in a way that attracts others to my wonderful remedy to life’s pain.

 

 

 

 

My dear friend Chichi and I share a devastating ailment.

Theatrophobia: Fear of theatre that leads to significant anxiety and consequently, avoidance of the theatre.

As a therapist and licensed clinical social worker of 30 years, I assure you, it’s real.

Not cinema theatre.  That doesn’t scare us. Chichi’s a sci-fi buff, and I love settling into big-screen recliner seating.  I fist pumped the ceiling during Black Panther, adored Incredibles 2, and wept at the end of Fences.  I also share my father’s love of shoot-em-up-bang-bang productions, along with my mother’s affinity for happily-ever-afters.  Movies are wonderful.  However, the red velvet curtains of the stage…horrifying.

Chichi Enu, Nigerian-born opera singer, finds it impossible to watch other opera singers on stage.  It makes her doubt her singing ability.  Though her soprano trills can mimic the playful flutter of butterfly wings,  and fill the void of the largest opera house, still,  she crumbles in the presence of Renee’ Flemming.  And don’t even mention Audra Mcdonald.

We are kindred spirits.  Me, I cherish Broadway musicals.  However, when the curtain closes, I feel my chest tighten, shoulders scrunch to my ears, and my chin sinks to my chest.

I will never be able to write something that amazing.

Following each performance, weeks pass before I can resume my own writing.  In ten years, no amount of friend-chats or self-talk has ever cured me.  However, this week, something changed.  I had an urge to buy tickets.  Fearlessly, I pushed the envelope. Hamilton?

Why wasn’t I terrified?  Then it hit me.

Recently, I was invited to direct the annual Christmas musical at my church.  A grand production attended by thousands.  In researching all things musical (staging, choreography, lighting), I spent a weekend watching bootleg YouTubes of Wicked, Frozen, Carrie, Legally Blond, and an entire season of Legally Blond: The Search for Ellie Woods.

As I watched the final YouTube show on my list, I swelled with ideas.  For two days, I hunched over my Chromebook tapping out blocking, staging, and choreography until 3 am.  I was eager to capture every detail.

My shoulders relaxed, no butterflies, chest fine.  Something was happening.  Different.  I wasn’t feeling battered by Broadway.  Those fantastic performances were now my allies.

In therapist-speak: I flooded my weekend with Broadway and unknowingly forced myself to experience the very thing that petrified me.

My Broadway-binge didn’t destroy me; it helped me.  It never really had the power to hurt me.  It’s Broadway; it ain’t that serious, and it was never really about Broadway anyway.  It was about closing the final curtain on my self-doubt.

Hi.  I’m, Pam.  I’m a recovered Theatrophobic.

 

Your turn:

What thoughts keep you stagnant?

What petrifies you?

What can you do this week to face your fear?