The Week Before Christmas

Each year I write a poem for my recruitment team. Those of you in the staffing industry can appreciate the intensity this time of year brings as we near year end and our clients are dizzy with holiday joy and cheer. Last year I wrote a poem called "Working in Recruiting Wonderland". This year I decided to do a twist on "The Night Before Christmas". The names have been changed to protect... well... all of us.

The Week Before Christmas

Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house,
Recruitment was working like a busy little mouse.

Resumes were submitted to the client with care,
In hopes that offers soon would be there.

The Partners were frantic and had much to dread,
While visions of low profits danced in their heads.

With free cokes in the kitchen (but really wanting beer on tap),
The recruiters were exhausted and each needed a nap

When out in reception there arose such a clatter,
Recruiting sprang from their seats to see what was the matter.

They ran to the front quicker than a flash,
Fearing it was a candidate demanding more cash.

When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But candidates pouring in from both far and near.

More rapid than eagles the resumes came,
As they applied from firms with a reputable name.

On E&Y, BDO, Deloitte and KPMG,
On Grant Thornton, Moss Adams and PwC.

They had all quit their jobs and heeded the call,
To work for McGladrey, each, one and all.

Jackie spoke not a work but went straight to her work,
Handing out applications and going over the perks.

Then Bill laid a finger aside of his nose,
Working on ways to get each candidate to close.

While Alan did interviews and then heard a grumble in his belly,
It was now 11:30 and he was off to the deli.

Jennifer was excited to know cold calls would stop,
As candidates were accepting and the pipeline did pop.

Managers, Supervisors, and Seniors had been hired,
It was exactly the outcome that the client had desired.

Jim was pleased with how the recruiters stepped up to the task,
Despite thinking they spend their days just drinking from a flask.

But they heard him exclaim as in his Porsche, he drove out of site,
Merry Christmas to all and keep sourcing tonight!

Happy Holidays!!!!!

Heartbeats

Today, my good friend Brian shared a touching and tender story with me that moved my soul in such a way, that I just had to pass it on. I have to preface this anecdote by saying that Brian is a single dad of an adorable two year-old baby girl, Alana. Over the past two years, I’ve watched Brian evolve into a wonderful father and wholly embrace his initiation into fatherhood. He often tells me how Alana is the love and light of his life. With Brian you know he’s speaking directly from his heart when addressing any topic regarding his daughter.

One of the activities he shares with his daughter is a weekly Kindermusik class. Kindermusik is a wonderful program designed to teach infants and toddlers preliminary musical skills all the while promoting parental bonding and interaction. During Brian's and Alana’s recent Kindermusik class the teacher instructed both parent and child to draw physically close to each other to feel and share each others’ heartbeats. What a brilliant concept and powerfully moving time of bonding!

Fast forward two days later. Brian is dressing and primping Alana for the day. Any of you who’ve been adventurous enough to meticulous groom a two year-old know all too well that such an activity could have rattled even Gandhi; however, thankfully, such was not the case this morning. Clearly Brian had some good karma coming to him. As Brian was brushing Alana’s hair there was a tender spirit about her. Brian pulled her close and encouraged her to share their heartbeats; to which she readily obliged. In doing so, she heard both hers and her fathers’ heartbeats as one. Being caught up in the moment she gave a gentle smile and cooed. It was such a moving moment for both that Brian had Alana do it again. No words, just bonding through the unified beating of their hearts. A heartbeat symbolizes life and love. Both of which were very present. If every child could have such deep, affectionate moments with their parents just think of the beautiful, peaceful generation of children we’d raise.

When Brian shared this story with me, I was touch by how incredibly blessed both he and Alana were to have had this priceless moment of bonding. I was also reminded that there is a heart beating inside every child and it needs to be heard and tended to. Too often as busy parents we get caught up in the demands of our day. We forget to take something as simple as grooming our children and making the moment special and building lasting memories. We let valued moments slip through our hands. All too soon our children will be off on their own and our homes will be agonizingly quiet. Instead of listening to the current deafening din around us, we need to make some quiet time with our children. Time so quiet we can hear the precious beating of their hearts and be reminded of the priceless gift they are to us. Then, when they’re grown up and eventually leave the nest, you can gently put your hand on your own heart, feel its tender beating and know they’re still close by.

The Merry Bells of Christmas

I know, I know. It's only September 4th and I'm already writing a blog about Christmas.

I'd be remiss if I didn't share with you the wonderful nostalgic experience I encountered this past weekend at the Pasadena Flea Market. As an experienced shopper, I know all too well the pre-shopping ritual that must take place. I was dubious to properly stretch, apply sunscreen, don my baseball cap and sunglasses, chant to the shopping gods for great bargains, and most importantly, grab my non-fat venti vanilla latte with whip. All by 7:30 a.m., mind you. That's right, 7:30 a.m. on a weekend. Bargain hunting requires exemplary skills and a strategy equal to that of a well executed military operation.

The temperature was a disgusting 99 degrees and climbing. It was an optimal environment for hatching baby chicks, not antique shopping. Being the ardent bargain hunter that I am, I was not going to let the sweltering heat deter me. I browsed through countless items with childlike glee. Silverware, paintings, furniture, toys, collectibles, apparel, and every conceivable chachkey you could imagine.

Before I go further, I need to interject here with a story from my youth. Hang with me. It will all make sense in a few minutes.

Every year, on the Friday after Thanksgiving my mother would don this lovely Christmas bell pin. She’d wear it on her wool coat and sweaters. Hearing the first sweet sounds of the tinkling bell would signify the start of the Christmas season. I can remember hearing my mother walking down the church aisle at Christmas all the while hearing her jingle until she properly took her seat. As the years passed, I would search jewelry store after jewelry store in an effort to procure the same pin my mother had. I liked the symbolism it held for me and wanted to one day impart the same to my child(ren). For almost 30 years I diligently searched, but to no avail.

Now here’s where we get back to my original story. See, I told you it would all make sense.

I happened upon a table with a display of antique jewelry. I normally don’t browse the jewelry tables because I know the one thing that catches my eye will undoubtedly be from some Royal family and have a price tag far beyond what my humble purse can afford. Thankfully, today was different. As I quickly surveyed the beautiful baubles, one piece of jewelry in particular caught my eye. It was an exact replica of the Christmas bell pin my mother wore. I gasped with excitement and the largest of smiles crossed my face. I quickly snatched up the pin and inquired as to its cost. The vendor replied “Uh, that one. It’s $7.00.” To which I immediately replied “I’ll take it”.

I made several other modest purchases throughout the morning, but nothing held greater value to me than having found my long sought after Christmas pin. It’s not because of the material value of the pin but rather the sentimental value; which to me is priceless. Hearing the gentle ringing of the pin’s bells has flooded my heart and mind with wonderful memories of my childhood Christmas’s.

In Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life, the character of ZuZu Bailey is quoted as saying “When a bell rings an angel gets its wings”. For me, when I hear the sweet sounds of the bell ringing, I’m reminded of an angel of a mother who created this wonderful holiday memory and how on the wings of this tradition I can share the same with my child.

Oh, and for the record, there are only 109 shopping days until Christmas.

Avon Breast Cancer Walk

This coming September 15th & 16th I have committed myself to walk almost 40 miles, with thousands of other men and women to help find a cure for breast cancer. We will forge new friendships, get blisters on our feet, drink countless bottles of water, sleep in tents, and walk 26 miles one day and 13 miles the next; all the while raising money for breast cancer research. We have committed to the training and fundraising required to participate in this life changing event known as The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer . The net proceeds from this event (and others across America) will support non-profit breast health programs, as well as medical research to help find a cure for breast cancer.

I've been touched my so many stories from my friends and loved ones on how they were personally affected by breast cancer. Whether they themselves are a survivor, know someone battling breast cancer, or have lost a loved one to the disease. I've been humbled and challenged by your personal accounts and will walk in tribute to them.

My story is pretty simple, but at the time was quite a scare. I awoke one Saturday morning, over two years ago, and inadvertently found a lump in my right breast. By Monday morning I was in the doctors office. On Tuesday I had undergone a mammogram and breast sonogram. On Thursday I was in surgery having not one, but three lumps removed as well as several small masses. Two of the lumps removed hadn't shown on the mammogram. Within the span of one week my life had drastically stopped and I was confronted with the possibility of having breast cancer. The morning of my surgery there were several other women going in for breast related surgeries. When all was said and done, my lumps were benign, however, I've never forgotten the other women who went into surgery that same day and received the difficult diagnosis of breast cancer. From that day on, I promised myself that I would do my part to help those who despite optimism, prayers and the best of medical care, suffer from breast cancer. The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer is a great way for me to show my gratitude for my positive outcome as well as help those who suffer from this terrible disease. I'm asking for your help as well.

This year, over 180,000 women in the United States will be diagnosed with breast cancer.

Over 40,000 will die.

That's why we're walking.

To do something big.

To be a part of something special, and something very, very important.
We hope that you'll be a partner with us in this effort.

Each walker must commit to raising at least $2,000. Maybe we're crazy--but if this is what it takes to find a cure, and help our many friends and family who are breast cancer survivors--we'll be there.

I'm asking for your support. Would you commit to making a fully tax-deductible donation toward my efforts to help us meet our goal? I'd like to personally thank each one of you for joining us in this fight. You can make your donation on-line at: www.avonwalk.org. – click on Make a Donation – then click on Donate to a Participate, select Los Angeles and then type in my name (LoriAnn Boyer - for those of you who've already forgotten who sent this email). You can make a single donation or spread your contribution over several months. Any support will be most graciously appreciated.

In the time it has taken you to read this, another woman is diagnosed with breast cancer in the United States.

Please help us change that statistic.

Thank you ALL from the bottom of my heart.

Love,
LoriAnn

First Crush

For the past several months, my son has had a crush on a girl at school.

It wasn’t until recently that he finally opened up and shared his heart’s intent with me, but I’d had my suspicions.

There are certain unmistakable signs that a preteen boy is falling in love.

Improved hygiene, for one.

Suddenly, my son was showering more thoroughly and actually using the soap and shampoo. A huge feat when you’re parenting a preteen. He began getting ready for school a half hour earlier than usual, paying careful attention to his wardrobe and hair. Dressing out of the hamper and walking out the door with bed head was apparently SO yesterday.

Then came the request for a lesson on the proper application of deodorant, followed by an inquiry as to whether he should start wearing cologne.

But perhaps the most telling sign was his newfound affection for Mondays.

He would walk around on weekends forlorn, seemingly counting the hours until Monday morning arrived. With the possible exception of pastors and priests, I don’t know anyone who looks forward to Mondays.

Clearly, this was serious.

One afternoon, while driving home from Baskin-Robbins (please don’t tell my Weight Watchers instructor), my son turned to me and asked a question I wasn’t expecting.

“Mom, what does it feel like to be in love?”

There are questions your children ask that make you realize, without warning, that they’re growing up right beside you. One minute you’re reminding them to use shampoo. The next, they’re asking you to explain one of the great mysteries of the human experience.

What does it feel like to be in love?

Why… it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

It’s euphoric and beautiful. Silly and tender. Invigorating and heart-thumping. It makes ordinary things feel extraordinary. A glance can sustain you for an afternoon. A hallway can become the place where your entire future might be decided.

And apparently, Monday morning becomes something to look forward to.

Then he asked me about my first crush.

I love when my son asks about my childhood. It gives me the chance to introduce him to the person I was before I was Mom. And I think there’s something comforting for him in discovering that I’ve been where he is, that all of these strange and wonderful feelings are simply part of growing up.

My first great love arrived in fifth grade.

His name was Mr. Pontes.

My teacher.

I fell madly, deeply and unabashedly in love with him.

He was gorgeous, by a ten-year-old’s standards. I was giddy with excitement at the beginning of each school day and devastated when the final bell rang. That meant a long bus ride home and an entire night of counting the hours until I could be reunited with my beloved.

Apparently, love hasn’t changed much in a generation. My son had discovered shampoo.

I discovered perfect attendance.

In an effort to impress Mr. Pontes, I worked diligently on every assignment. This was important. If we were eventually going to build a life together, he needed to know he was marrying his intellectual equal.

Never mind that one of us had a college degree and the other was still mastering long division.

I had also read somewhere that men liked women with long, silky hair, so I kept mine long and perfectly combed. I could have been in a coma or traction and I would not have missed a day of school.

I watched Mr. Pontes with adoration as he glided through the classroom, dispensing his knowledge upon us. I found him absolutely dreamy.

I loved everything about being in love with him: the butterflies, the exhilaration, the anticipation, the sheer joy of being in the same room with the object of my affection.

And I was quite certain Mr. Pontes felt the same way.

Naturally, he couldn't reveal his feelings. He was my teacher, after all. There were professional standards to maintain.

In my ten-year-old mind, his professionalism was not evidence that he didn’t love me.

It was evidence of extraordinary restraint.

When he called in sick one day and left us with a substitute teacher, I was furious.

How dare he not consider my feelings?

There was, of course, the minor complication of our 20-year age difference.

And his wife.

And their two children.

Details.

I was convinced that Mr. Pontes was every bit as enraptured with me as I was with him and had simply decided to wait patiently until I turned 18. At that point, he would divorce his wife, profess his undying love for me, we would marry, have seven children and live happily ever after.

I had no idea, of course, that this plan technically positioned me as a homewrecker.

Great.

A homewrecker at ten.

Clearly, my moral development had not kept pace with my romantic ambitions.

Then, one Friday afternoon, it happened.

“Lori, may I speak with you in the hall?”

This was it.

After months of stolen glances, academic excellence and impeccably combed hair, the man could resist me no longer.

With heart-pounding anticipation and a sweet dizziness, I followed him into the hallway.

He asked me to sit down and crouched beside me.

Oh my heavens.

He’s going to propose.

Never mind that I was ten, he was thirty, and I still needed permission to go to the bathroom.

Love apparently recognizes no administrative boundaries.

“Lori…” Mr. Pontes began.

“Yes?” I said, ready to leap from my chair, throw my arms around his neck and kiss him passionately.

Well, as passionately as a ten-year-old knows how to kiss.

“Ms. Almeda informed me that you were somewhat unruly in the lunchroom today and, despite repeated warnings, you chose not to modify your behavior. Is this true?”

My heart sank.

He was not going to propose.

Worse.

I was in trouble.

How utterly humiliating.

I wished for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. This could not be happening. Mr. Pontes was the love of my life, and I was standing before him a convicted lunchroom anarchist.

I burst into tears.

I confessed to everything.

I apologized incessantly.

For my punishment, I had to write all 50 states and their capitals three times.

For days afterward, I had knots in my stomach and behaved sheepishly around him. The fantasy had been shattered. The future Mrs. Pontes had fallen from grace.

By day two, I realized I was experiencing something entirely new.

Heartbreak.

Sadly, it would not be my last encounter with that particular emotion.

I finished fifth grade still deeply admiring Mr. Pontes, but I was no longer in love with him.

I was much more mature now.

Mr. Pontes was SO yesterday.

Besides, I had moved on.

I was now crazily in love with Erik Estrada.

At least he wasn’t married with a family.

I find myself thinking about that little girl now as I watch my son experience his first crush.

I remember how enormous those feelings seemed. How one person could suddenly make school more exciting, weekends unbearably long and Monday morning something worth counting down to.

And I remember how real it all was.

That's perhaps the most important thing for me to remember as his mother. His first crush may someday become a funny childhood story, just as Mr. Pontes became one of mine. But right now, to him, these feelings aren't small simply because he's young.

They're enormous.

Sitting beside him that afternoon, I realized my son was taking his first few steps down a road I know well.

There will be butterflies and awkward conversations. There will probably be ridiculous decisions and, almost certainly, heartbreak. There may be people he loves for a season and, someday, perhaps someone he loves for a lifetime.

I can’t walk that road for him.

I wouldn’t want to.

But right now, he’s still willing to let me walk beside him.

And that may be one of the sweetest parts of watching him grow up.

Besides, any girl who can get my son to voluntarily use shampoo has already earned a special place in my heart.

The Pinewood Derby

Today was our Cub Scout pack’s Pinewood Derby.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Scouting, the Pinewood Derby is an annual tradition, pitting Scout against Scout in pulse-jumping, nail-biting races. About a month before the big event, each Scout is handed a 6" x 2" block of pine and given the challenge of transforming it into a racing machine that will shoot like a bullet down a 40-foot track.

Every year, I’m touched by watching grown men revert to their childhood as they reminisce about building Pinewood Derby cars with their dads. Some have even admitted to still proudly displaying their cars despite now being middle-aged themselves. I suspect it has far less to do with the glory of winning and much more to do with the memories attached to that little block of wood.

There’s something wonderful about watching the 10-year-old boy reappear in a grown man as he regales you with stories of his Derby days.

This year, due to my ex-husband’s busy schedule, I was tasked with overseeing the transformation of my son’s block of pine into a miniature NASCAR-ish creation.

I should probably interject here that I’m a bit of a perfectionist, particularly when it comes to aesthetics.

This could have been a problem.

But this wasn’t my Pinewood Derby car. It was my son’s. I had to step aside and allow him to take ownership of his creative process. My job was simply to purchase the paints, decals and weights, offer assistance when asked and then watch the metamorphosis from ordinary block of wood to championship-worthy race car unfold.

By relinquishing my ideas, and, OK, a little...um...control, over what I thought his car should look like, I was amazed by what he ultimately created.

Wow.

A life lesson for Mom hidden inside a Pinewood Derby? How novel.

My son was knocked out of the competition midway through. It certainly wasn’t for lack of effort. He placed second in most of his races before eventually making way for the remaining Scouts to vie for the top prize.

One might think that would bring some disappointment after weeks of hard work, anticipation and preparation.

But something quite different happened.

During the final heats, one of my son’s friends, whom we’ll call Tyler, emerged as the front-runner. Every time Tyler approached the track, the boys began chanting his name.

TYLER! TYLER! TYLER!

With each heat Tyler won, the chants grew louder.

TYLER! TYLER! TYLER!

What struck me was that these were the same boys whose own cars had already been eliminated. Their chance at the trophy was over. Yet there wasn’t a hint of resentment or disappointment as they watched their friend move closer to winning.

They were genuinely thrilled for him.

In that moment, Tyler’s wins became their wins.

When the final heat ended, the Cubmaster announced the third-place winner. Everyone applauded.

Then came second place. More applause.

Finally, the boys crowded around Tyler. Fingers were crossed. Anticipation was high. They waited.

“And the grand prize winner of the 2007 Pinewood Derby is...TYLER!”

The room erupted.

Tyler’s friends jumped up and down, screaming and cheering, hugging him so tightly he could barely break free to collect his trophy.

I stood there watching them and found myself deeply touched by the sincerity of their sportsmanship and, more importantly, their friendship.

This was Tyler’s day.

But it occurred to me that Tyler had won something far more valuable than a Pinewood Derby trophy. He had a group of friends who could celebrate his success as enthusiastically as if it were their own.

They say we can learn a great deal from children if we’re willing to look with the right eyes and an open heart. Today was no exception.

I learned that genuine love and support in friendship are gifts far greater than any trophy we could ever take home. I was also reminded that I won’t always take home the grand prize in every area of my own life. Sometimes it will be someone else’s turn to stand in the winner’s circle.

And when it is, I hope I’m standing nearby, cheering just as loudly.

My son and the other Scouts may not have taken home the top prize today, but as far as I’m concerned, they demonstrated something worth far more.

They showed what it looks like to be number one as friends.

Way to go, guys.

A New Beginning

There’s a symbolic nature about the dawn of a new year. It’s as if every January 1st, life graciously affords us a “do over”; the opportunity to start anew. For most, it’s a time to cleanse the previous years’ slate of failures, missed opportunities, broken resolutions, hurt, pain, drama, and mistakes and initiate or reignite our goals and purpose. It’s like the sweetness and sense of renewal you feel after a rain storm. Everything is fresh, beautiful and hopeful again. We thrust ourselves into the new year with great expectations. Not that we approach them in a quixotic nature, but rather with a genuine zeal. We have the best of intentions. For many, unfortunately, the fervor is lost within the first month. Whether it’s trying to lose weight, stop smoking or drinking, start that new career, or taking that long awaited trip, many simply give up all too quickly, only to face the same regret of another failure the following new year. For those that remain steadfast in passionately pursuing their resolutions and dreams, they have the pure satisfactin of knowing they stayed the course and can now partake in the sweet taste of accomplishment and victory.

As I look back at this past year there are countless accomplishments I’m proud of. I set numerous goals for myself, from learning to start a fire in my fireplace to taking my business to a higher level. I experienced the satisfaction of reaching one goal after another. On the flip side, there are also moments in which I wished I handled things differently, whether with more grace and compassion, better judgment, or had disciplined myself to stay wholly focused on the all of the objectives I had set for myself. All in all, I feel I emerged from 2006 a more grounded, compassionate, insightful, intellectually wealthy, and driven individual. I can’t undo the pain, hurt, failures or mistakes I encountered during 2006. I can only learn from them and center my thoughts on the future that is at hand, set new aspirations, and endeavor to reach them with the utmost of commitment. I feel with each passing year, I have come more and more into my own. I’ve finally learned who I am and love the course my life is taking. It’s not the easiest of courses by far, but one I’m eager to embark on as 2007 unfolds. I'm eager to see where life takes me this year and where I'll be this time come December 31st. I lift my cyberspace glass of champagne and enthusiastically toast 2007. A year I'm certain will be filled with elation, joy, successes, and of course, unexpected turns. All of which I passionately embrace. Here's to a wonderful New Year!

HELLO... Farewell...

This morning I had the sad and daunting task of putting one of my cats to sleep.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, or Wolfie, as we affectionately called him, was a birthday gift from my ex-husband before we were married more than 16 years ago. My ex and I often joked that Wolfie lasted longer than our marriage.

The passing of a beloved pet is never easy. After all, this furry creature, despite his non-human form, was as much a part of our family as any other member.

As I reflected on Wolfie’s 16 years with me, I found comfort in the many enchanting memories he left behind.

He was sweet and loving beyond my expectations. He lived in six homes and four states. He traveled cross-country with his late brother, Schubert, in 1995. He had a Woody Allen persona but could catch a mouse like a pro. His favorite cat food was Fancy Feast, and he adored tummy rubs. During his final year, he spent his days perched atop my desk, fascinated by the keyboard and the cursor moving across my computer screen.

But perhaps Wolfie’s most memorable characteristic was his nightly patrol of the hallway.

Every evening, without fail, he would skulk up and down the hall of our home, meowing a sound that came out remarkably like “Hello.”

This scared the daylights out of unsuspecting overnight guests, and I would have to explain that no, there wasn’t a mysterious stranger wandering the house. It was just Wolfie, making his nightly rounds.

Last night, Wolfie roamed the hallway one final time, conducting his last aria of “Hellos.”

I listened differently this time.

My heart broke as I realized that within a matter of hours, the two of us would be saying our own final farewell.

When morning came, my heart was heavy with what I knew lay ahead. At the vet’s office, I made the decision to stay with Wolfie until the end. It was the only choice that felt right. This was his deepest hour of need, and I couldn’t abandon him simply to spare myself the pain of witnessing his final moments.

Much to my surprise, and enormous comfort, he purred until the very end.

The moment he was gone, grief struck at the very core of me. But almost as quickly, I found comfort in knowing that Wolfie had lived a full, carefree and wonderful life. The pain he had endured during the past several months was gone.

He was finally at peace.

When I returned home carrying an empty cat carrier but a heart filled with 16 years of precious memories, I took a quiet moment to grieve.

As I sat there, my remaining pets, one dog and three cats, began to gather around me. One by one, they drew near. It was almost as though we were collectively mourning the loss of one of our own. There was an unspoken sadness among us, but also a quiet consoling.

It was incredibly touching.

So farewell, my furry friend.

Thank you for 16 years of friendship, silly moments, love, loyalty and undeniable sweetness. Thank you for traveling through six homes, four states and so many chapters of my life with me. Thank you for keeping watch over our hallways and for making us laugh with your nightly “Hellos.”

I imagine the house will feel a little too quiet tonight.

And somewhere in that quiet, I know I’ll be listening for you.

Goodnight, Wolfie.

Oliver With A Twist

Last weekend my son and I found a two week-old baby squirrel in our front yard. Our cat, Chloe, was curled up around him trying to tend to and protect him. At first we thought she had caught the squirrel as her prey and was proudly presenting him to us. Interestingly enough, this was not the case. Chloe, like us, was concerned about our new baby friend and wanted to ensure his safety. It was quite sweet watching her be so protective and maternal.

After several calls to known animal groups and researching the care of baby squirrels on the internet, my son and I placed our new house guest in a deep, open box with towels and a few almonds. The poor little creature was terrified out of his mind, but after a few hours of allowing him to acclimate to his state of the art cardbox box house, he became a little more trusting of us. We were instructed to feed him (oh, yes, it's a boy and a proud one at that) a puppy formula called Esbilac. It's been the cutest thing watching him nurse from the bottle and then wash his little face afterward. I broke down and bought him a moderate cage and some fun treats. We also decided to name him Oliver Twist, given he was technically an orphan. He's been a delight to care for this past week. According to our sources, when Oliver is about eight weeks old, we can release him back into the wild. "The Wild" being our lovely suburban street with high end homes and an ample supply of gorgeous trees to run up and down. Poor little guy.

We're enjoying our temporary house guest. He's been an absolute delight and I can now add caring for a squirrel to my list of accomplishments.

Tending Our Friendship Garden

One of my favorite pastimes is gardening. There’s something immensely satisfying when you can have this wonderful sychronicity with nature that results in a lush, beautiful garden. In the quiet, tranquility of my garden last week, I began to reflect on several of my friendships, their impact my life and vice versa. The more I contemplated my relationships, and the more I tended to my garden, the more a gardening analogy took place.

In tending to our friendship garden we first need to understand the nature of each friend we are privileged to have. Like flowers, our friends come in varying varieties. Once we understand the individual nature of our friends, the better equipped we are to be the kind of friend they need in return.

Perennials
Our perennial friends are always in full bloom, bringing a continued robust beauty and charm to our lives. They exist through self-renewal. Through thick and thin we can count on our perennial friends to be available, day after day. They are delightful, and bountiful by nature. Because of their loyalty and steadfastness, we place our trust and devotion in our perennial friends and they us. We admire and are endeared to our perennial friendships and value greatly their influence on our lives.

Annuals
Our annual friends are those with whom we see primarily during life events (i.e. holidays, weddings, birth of a child, etc.). Our annual friends bring a vigorous beauty when they are present in our lives. We savor their presence and appeal during the narrow window of time we have with them. They add value to our lives, but in small snippets. We love them and look forward to their next blooming in our lives.

Exotics
Our exotic friends are those who bring a unique diversity to our lives. They are bold and exquisitely gorgeous. They teach us to look beyond the ordinary. We see the world through different eyes due to the impact of our exotic friends. Whether they’re of a different culture, sexual preference or mindset, we embrace them wholly. We delight in their ability to provide us with a new paradigm.

Desert Flowers
Our desert flower friends are those who bring a harsh and sometimes barren element to our lives. Our desert flower friends have many redeeming qualities, which is why we put up with their coarse nature, but they are clearly a challenge to maintain. They may have a prickly exterior, can be excruciatingly judgmental or opinionated. They have a harsh exterior due to painful life circumstances, yet they are survivors because they have weathered such incredibly harsh conditions. You admire them for their strength to survive and search diligently to find the tenderness amongst the thorns. Our interaction with our desert friends tends to be limited due to the protective barriers they put up. Yet, we acknowledge that despite their tough exterior that eventually a beautiful desert flower will emerge and we hold steadfast to share in that day.

Weeds
We all have weed friends. These are the friends we politely need to weed from our lives. They are toxic, time consuming in non-productive ways, and highly annoying, altering the overall beauty of our friendship garden. Our weed friends serve no purpose and add zero value to our lives. Weed friends will continually make themselves known in our live, but the sooner we weed them out, the better and more plentiful our friendship gardens will grow.

Our network of friends is vital. For some they are our lifeline. For many they are our families. The types of friends we have in our friendship garden will speak volumes to the nurturing and care we invest in these relationships. What kind of flower would you consider yourself to be in your friends’ gardens? Are you loyal, dependable, and add value and beauty to your relationships or are you toxic, harsh and require meticulous understanding? How we conduct ourselves in our friendships will determine the overall beauty of the relationship. That reminds me, it's time to trim the rose bushes.

Having a Strong Work Ethic

My pastor preached a sermon this past Sunday on "work ethic". This is a subject dear to my heart for several reasons. One of which, I'm a recruiter by trade and look for top talent across the globe in virtually every discipline. Two -- I come from a long line of hard working individuals. My dad worked tirelessly for over 30 years for the same company. The only time he took a sick day was when he had a heart attack and that was only because he was strapped to an operating table and my mom and I had confiscated his keys.

As a recruiter, I have the unique opportunity to speak with scary smart, creative, cutting edge individuals who are shaping the future of our businesses. I love the intellectual stimulus my craft affords me. I get a high of sorts speaking with hard working, innovative candidates and hiring managers, and when I'm able to match the right candidate with the right job opportunity. It's intensely satisfying to know you had a hand in defining someone's career path as well as the future of your client's company.

There is one particular recruiting story that I've always held dear. I was working for a utilities client and had been tasked with hiring about 35 armed guards. These are the dudes with the AK47's. The recruiting process is grueling for the candidates with written and shoot tests to be performed to the highest of standards. The job itself isn't that sexy. The main focus is to stand guard. No laptops, no corporate in-house environment, no desk or cubical space or fancy office; just standing hour after hour, with weapon in hand, guarding the facility.

Several of the candidate's I hired were from the local marine base. These were soldiers who were rolling off their tour of duty. Soldiers who had seen battle, soldiers who put their lives on the line, soldiers who were not afraid of hard work.

One evening I called one of the candidate's to give him an offer. We were paying a whopping $16.00 an hour. Again, this was a former Marine of the United States who had endured battle. When I gave him the offer, he started to cry and it took him a moment to pull himself together. I thought it was due to the low salary, but I was wrong. He cried because he had been praying for a new job. His wife had just had a baby and he wasn't sure how they were going to make ends meet now that he was no longer with the military. He promised me that he would be the hardest working armed guard I’d ever hired and that I would not be disappointed that I hired him. I was humbled and moved by his gratitude. He made such an indelible impression on me that I've never forgotten it to this day. I've made offers in the several hundreds of thousands, with equity, stock options, benefits galore and every kind of perk you can imagine and not seen as much sincere gratitude as I did from this man. Additionally, he provoked me to be a better recruiter and to always keep my work ethic in check.

When I went to bed that evening I was proud to have had a hand in helping this man know that he and his family were going to make it. Yes, I had a part in the process, but he would never have been selected if it weren't for his hard work ethic and stellar military record. He's crossed my mind several times over the years. Usually when I'm on the phone with an MBA candidate who wants $150K base salary with only one year of relevant work experience. I can't help but shake my head in disbelief.

I'm thankful for the examples of hard work I grew up with and continue to come in contact with day to day. As my pastor repeatedly said this past Sunday, hard work is not a curse, but a blessing. I'm thankful I'm in a profession that allows me to witness this on a daily basis. A profession that also keeps me challenged to work hard and give it my all. I have a son who watches everything I do and my work ethic is part of the legacy I'm handing down to him. How I work today will determine how hard he works in the future. In a way, my work today will affect the future. Now that's a great benefit!

The Grand Canyon

My son, Stephen, and I recently took a trip to the Grand Canyon. We try to plan two family vacations each year, and this one was our big end-of-school-year bonanza. Since Stephen is a major train enthusiast, we decided to use this mode of transportation for our journey.

We boarded our Amtrak sleeper car at 6:00 p.m. By 6:04 p.m., Stephen had already unpacked and was practically bursting with excitement in his bunk. It was endearing to watch his exhilaration. As the train pulled out of the station, Stephen was completely charged-up, excitedly exclaiming, “We’re moving! Mommy, we’re moving!”

The train ride from Los Angeles, CA, to Williams Junction, AZ, took about 12 hours. Stephen slept a grand total of 13 minutes and was diligent about waking me every 20 minutes to point out a passing train or grazing cow. I briefly considered Benadryl—or perhaps slipping a roofie in his apple juice—but quickly dismissed the thought, hoping that eventually he’d tire himself out with the sheer excitement of the evening. NOT.

We arrived in Williams Junction around 6:00 a.m., exhausted, hungry, and in serious need of a shower. Once we checked into our hotel, Stephen and I immediately passed out in our respective beds. When we finally woke up—six hours later—we spent the remainder of the day swimming, walking, shopping, and enjoying the sights.

The following morning, we set off for the Grand Canyon aboard a charming, old steamer train. As we journeyed through the Arizona landscape, we spotted cows, elk, and various canyon creatures.  We also steamed past an adorable moose named Elvis. But this Elvis wasn’t wearing blue suede shoes—oh no. Instead, he was donning a lawn chair stuck in his antlers. Apparently, he had gotten it tangled up in some moose mischief at one of the camps and couldn’t shake it free. It turns out that approaching a lawn chair-wearing moose isn’t recommended; it’s best to let nature and the moose work it out in their own time.

Needless to say, Elvis was quite the sight, and his unique "headwear" brought plenty of laughter from all of us.

The local Grand Canyon sheriff made his rounds through each car, entertaining everyone with a lively western sing-along that brought out the cowboy in all of us. It was a moment of pure, unbridled fun.

About an hour into the ride, we were suddenly accosted by a group of train robbers, who burst onto the scene with exaggerated flair. The whole train gasped in mock horror as they demanded everyone’s valuables—though, in true Wild West fashion, no one was in real danger. The robbers, with their bandanas and theatrical mustaches, squared off with the sheriff, leading to a dramatic, bloodless shoot-out right there on the train. The whole thing felt like something straight out of a movie, complete with plenty of fake gunfire and a lot of laughter from the passengers. It was the kind of absurdly fun moment that turned an ordinary train ride into a legendary adventure.

After two days of train rides, a Mitch Miller sing-along, and a staged train robbery, we finally arrived at our destination—the Grand Canyon! We were instructed to carefully climb a small flight of stairs that would lead us to the very edge of the Canyon. With cameras and water bottles in hand, we practically sprinted up the stairs, eager to reach the top. And then, there she was—standing before us in all her breathtaking beauty, color, and splendor.

We had arrived at one of the seven modern wonders of the world. I held Stephen close, and together we took in the majestic canvas before us. I’m pretty sure we both muttered something profound like, “Whoa.”

The moment felt both surreal and humbling. It’s impossible not to be enraptured by the canyon’s immense colors, scale, and grandeur. Stephen and I stood there for what seemed like hours, completely absorbed in the exquisite creation that unfolded before us. Nature’s power to inspire is astounding. She simply is, and in her presence, we are left in awe.

My son and I spent two unforgettable days exploring this majestic chasm, making new friends, and learning about how the canyon came to be. It is said that the canyon does not need man, but man needs the canyon. And it’s true. My son and I needed this time together—time to explore, bond, and slow down enough to truly appreciate the beauty surrounding us. There were countless “Wow” moments, where I urged Stephen to soak it all in and keep a mental snapshot.

One moment stands out above all, the most special of the entire trip. It was during our train ride back to LA, around 3:00 a.m. Stephen was curled up beside me in my (very, very tiny) bunk. Together, we gazed out at the celestial night sky. Thousands upon thousands of stars sparkled and danced in the heavens. The moment felt truly magical. We were in awe of the vast beauty before us. In the stillness of that moment, Stephen quietly whispered, “Wow.” It was in this “wow” moment that I realized I was giving him something special. And it was clear—he had experienced several on this trip.

He then reached over, took my hand, pulled it close to his chest, and with a smile, said, “I’ll never forget this night. Thank you for taking me on this trip.” I was deeply touched by his sincere appreciation for the moment. I too will never forget it. It was special in ways I can’t even fully express.

Throughout our trip, we saw many breathtaking sights and came away with a deeper love for nature—and, more importantly, for each other. They say life should not be measured by how many breaths you take in a moment, but by how many moments take your breath away. Those four days with my son were filled with “take-your-breath-away” moments. Moments that will forever be etched in my heart. Moments that have become tender memories of our time together—moments that were truly, well… Grand.

Is Your Hut On Fire?

I received the following story from a friend of mine. It’s a simple story, but one I think we can all learn from.

The only survivor of a shipwreck washed ashore on a small, uninhabited island. He prayed fervently for God to rescue him. Every day, he scanned the horizon for help, but none came.

Exhausted and alone, he eventually managed to build a small hut out of driftwood to protect himself from the elements and provide a place to store his few remaining possessions.

One day, after scavenging for food, he returned to find his little hut engulfed in flames, smoke billowing high into the sky.

He was devastated.

Everything he had left was gone.

Overcome with disbelief, grief and anger, he cried out, “God! How could you let this happen to me?”

Early the next morning, he was awakened by the sound of a ship approaching the island.

It had come to rescue him.

“How did you know I was here?” the weary man asked his rescuers.

“We saw your smoke signal,” they replied.

It’s easy to lose heart when life seems to be going terribly wrong. In the middle of pain, disappointment or loss, we see only what is burning. We see what we’ve lost, what didn’t go according to plan and what we cannot understand.

But sometimes, what looks like the end of something is making way for something we simply cannot see yet.

The man saw a burning hut.
The rescuers saw a smoke signal.

Perhaps that is the reminder in this little story: we don’t always have the vantage point to understand what God may be doing in the middle of our circumstances.

So, the next time it feels as though your little hut is burning to the ground, don’t lose heart. The smoke rising from what you thought was lost may be the very thing that leads you toward what comes next.

Sometimes grace arrives disguised as the very thing we thought would undo us.

And if someone you know feels as though their hut is burning today, remind them that the story isn’t over yet.

Great Summer Reads

I'm an avid bookworm. I try to read one to two books a week. The following are two Amazing books I'd like to recommend. Both were inspiring, touching and transformed my life in many ways. If you haven't read either of these books, take the time to treat yourself to them. It will be time well spent and you won't be sorry you did.


The Alchemist by: Paulo Coelho

Review by Amazon.com
Like the one-time bestseller Jonathan Livingston Seagull, The Alchemist presents a simple fable, based on simple truths and places it in a highly unique situation. And though we may sniff a bestselling formula, it is certainly not a new one: even the ancient tribal storytellers knew that this is the most successful method of entertaining an audience while slipping in a lesson or two. Brazilian storyteller Paulo Coehlo introduces Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd boy who one night dreams of a distant treasure in the Egyptian pyramids. And so he's off: leaving Spain to literally follow his dream.

Along the way he meets many spiritual messengers, who come in unassuming forms such as a camel driver and a well-read Englishman. In one of the Englishman's books, Santiago first learns about the alchemists--men who believed that if a metal were heated for many years, it would free itself of all its individual properties, and what was left would be the "Soul of the World." Of course he does eventually meet an alchemist, and the ensuing student-teacher relationship clarifies much of the boy's misguided agenda, while also emboldening him to stay true to his dreams. "My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy confides to the alchemist one night as they look up at a moonless night.

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself," the alchemist replies. "And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."


The Kite Runner by: Khaled Hosseini

Review by Amazon.com
An epic tale of fathers and sons, of friendship and betrayal, that takes you from the final days of Afghanistan’s monarchy to the atrocities of the present.

Amazon.comIn his debut novel, The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini accomplishes what very few contemporary novelists are able to do. He manages to provide an educational and eye-opening account of a country's political turmoil--in this case, Afghanistan--while also developing characters whose heartbreaking struggles and emotional triumphs resonate with readers long after the last page has been turned over. And he does this on his first try.

The Kite Runner follows the story of Amir, the privileged son of a wealthy businessman in Kabul, and Hassan, the son of Amir's father's servant. As children in the relatively stable Afghanistan of the early 1970s, the boys are inseparable. They spend idyllic days running kites and telling stories of mystical places and powerful warriors until an unspeakable event changes the nature of their relationship forever, and eventually cements their bond in ways neither boy could have ever predicted. Even after Amir and his father flee to America, Amir remains haunted by his cowardly actions and disloyalty. In part, it is these demons and the sometimes impossible quest for forgiveness that bring him back to his war-torn native land after it comes under Taliban rule. ("...I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.")

Some of the plot's turns and twists may be somewhat implausible, but Hosseini has created characters that seem so real that one almost forgets that The Kite Runner is a novel and not a memoir. At a time when Afghanistan has been thrust into the forefront of America's collective consciousness ("people sipping lattes at Starbucks were talking about the battle for Kunduz"), Hosseini offers an honest, sometimes tragic, sometimes funny, but always heartfelt view of a fascinating land. Perhaps the only true flaw in this extraordinary novel is that it ends all too soon.

There's a 5th Grader in the House!

This afternoon marked the end of the school year for my son and his beloved schoolmates. At 12:00 p.m. PST, to be exact.

The excitement in the schoolyard was palpable. Teachers hugging their students goodbye. Parents thanking teachers for a year of amazing work with their sons and daughters. The school’s director wishing everyone a wonderful summer. I was touched by the genuine affection in every exchange.

For my son, this past year has been one of transitions. Transitions I wasn’t quite prepared for. Transitions that taught us both some very important life lessons.

My son and I spent some time reflecting on the past year. We talked about what we learned. What we enjoyed. What surprised us. And what we’re looking forward to.

Here’s what we came up with.

Stephen:

• I learned about the California Gold Rush and that earning my allowance is far easier than panning for gold.
• I learned about the great explorer and environmentalist John Muir, and how we all need to do our part in preserving our planet.
• I learned about sex education and that my body is an amazing creation. (Which, by the way, garnered some very interesting dinnertime conversations.)
• I learned to appreciate the convenience of my own bathroom after a rustic, primitive camping trip in the Los Angeles Forest. Running water and flushing toilets RULE!
• I learned how to do algebra, but that I appreciate geometry more. (I’m just thrilled I still had enough brain cells to help him with his math homework this year.)
• I learned about the complexities of friendship and positive conflict resolution.
• I learned that it was John Kerry who ran against President Bush, and not Jim Carrey. But oh, what fun that would have been.
• I learned that I like to dance.
• I learned, after a recent field trip to Alcatraz, that having a time-out isn’t so bad. Twenty minutes is way better than twenty years to life.
• I learned that organic foods are good for you.
• I learned that I’ve outgrown my size 8 underwear. (Note to self: Get to Target and buy new underwear.)
• I learned that my friends totally ROCK!

Mommy:

• I’ve learned that raising a man is a wonderful responsibility, and one that should not be taken lightly.
• I’ve learned how much I love our family time in the evenings.
• I’ve learned not to feel guilty when I’m beyond exhausted and can’t read a bedtime story.
• I’ve learned that my son has an amazing sense of humor.
• I’ve learned that I still hate algebra.
• I’ve learned that my son loves to dance.
• I’ve learned how to console my son when he’s been deeply hurt or disappointed by his friends.
• I’ve learned that I hurt just as deeply when he hurts.
• I’ve learned that my son can hold up to 30 pounds in his backpack before he topples over, arms flailing.
• I’ve learned that the snuggly, cuddly, lovable, affectionate young boy who still crawls onto my lap isn’t going to last forever, and that I need to hold close every moment he does.
• I’m learning to let go of the little boy and embrace the young man. This is a tough one, but I’m evolving.

As I put my son to bed this evening, I was struck by the realization that he woke up this morning a fourth grader, but tonight he is going to bed a fifth grader.

Another milestone reached.

Next year will hold new adventures, more milestones, triumphs, disappointments, laughter and lessons yet to be learned.

But those can wait.

For tonight, I’ll tuck in my little man, hold him close for as long as he’ll let me, and whisper my prayers of gratitude.

Gratitude for the little boy he has been and for all the joy those years have held.

And gratitude for the young man he is becoming, and for all the joy that is yet to come.

Returning Home

In a recent post, I mentioned I had taken a trip back home to the east coast. Home for me is MA. I grew up in the small, colonial, yet suburban town of Swansea, MA.

My sojourn to the east encompassed many purposes. My son was on spring break and very overdue for a visit with his eastern residing family members. Additionally, my grandmother had suffered a stroke at Christmas, my former father-in-law was undergoing chemo for colon cancer, my aunt had been going through severe set-backs from her advanced arthritis, my son’s great grandfather was diagnosed with throat cancer, and I longed to see and be with everybody. Interestingly enough, my father was also on the east coast during my visit, which made getting together with everyone, that much more enjoyable.

I spent the first two days of my visit with my former-in-laws, Lon and Sandy. Despite being divorced, we have all remained close and continue to intersect nicely in each others’ lives. They are amazing grandparents to my son and were delighted to have some special grandson time. In spite of having undergone several chemo sessions, Lon looked fairly well, and made an effort to remain in good spirits during my son’s visit. Sandy was the doting grandmother, tending to all of Stephen’s needs -- Dunkin Donuts, chocolate, grilled cheese sandwiches, chocolate, ice cream, chocolate, visits with Great Grandma and Pa Poofatah (an affectionate nickname), lots of games, fun activities and, did I mention chocolate! Our visit was restful, enjoyable, and, as always, too short.

The last few days of my visit were spent with my father’s side of the family. Both my father and mother grew up in Fall River, MA. Most would say the city’s claim to fame is the Lizzie Borden trial. I beg to differ. There is a rich, old world history about the city. Many call Fall River, Little Portugal, as the occupants are predominately Portuguese. My family and I are no exception. An outsider driving through Fall River would probably consider the city run down and depressed. When I drive through Fall River, I see my past and a culture rich in family, friends, and faith. A culture I had the good fortune to grow up in. There’s a special reminiscence that comes over me whenever I return to the city.

One of the special highlights of my visit was the delicious clam bake my Aunt Maureen put on. Disregarding the pain she was in, due to her arthritis, she worked tirelessly to ensure we all had a wonderful time. During dinner, old stories were brought to the surface again, jokes were exchanged, we caught each other up on the current events in our respective lives, and Uncle Brooksie ate… A LOT. Uncle Brooksie is almost 90 years-old, smart as a whip and could rival any established comedian. My grandmother, also nearly 90, busied herself with cooking, cleaning and making sure everyone was eating seconds and thirds. My brother David was able to join us, and I was thrilled to see him. It’s hard to believe he’s going to be 40 this year. I remember pushing him around in his mini fire truck during his third birthday and now we’re making grimaces at the thought of us both being in our forties.

As I looked around the table at the sight of my gathered family, I was filled with magnificent warmth. I was beyond thankful for each member present. This moment alone was worth the 3,000 mile flight across the country. I was in the moment and I loved every second of it. It’s a mental snapshot that will stay with me forever. Family, enjoying each other’s company, filled with love, fellowship, and a genuine care for each other. The conversations flowed and I hung on every word. Despite having heard some of the same stories a hundred times, I learned something new because I listened not only with my ears, but with my heart as well. We’ve gathered around the table as family so many times in the past, but for some reason, today was special. I don’t know if it’s because I’m now at a point in my life where I know that time is short and we need to truly seize the day or if I’m just becoming another sentimental, old fool. Either way, I walked away from my trip to the east coast transformed. When I hugged everyone goodbye, I embraced a little longer. I held dear the faces of my aunt and grandmother as they waved goodbye. I treasured my brother’s giant bear hug and tender words “I love you, sis”. I’ll never forget the smile on Uncle Brooksie’s face when I said goodbye and he squeezed my cheek and said, “Stay beautiful”.

As my father drove my son and me through the streets of Fall River that night, my heart was content and yet, ached at the same time. I wanted the day to last forever. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I’m hoping that despite the age and health of some, we’ll gather together again and share in the collective joy of each other; of family. Until then, I have my memories of that day, which I’ve reflected on often since my trip. There’s a gentle smile that instantly comes across my face when it crosses my mind. Even now as I write this post :)

The Da Vinci Code

I had the opportunity to catch a special screening of The Da Vinci Code this morning. The film started 8:30 a.m. (on a Saturday, mind you). Thank God, for venti vanilla lattes. My friend's Colleen and Geoff invited me as part of a fund raiser for their church. After the film their pastor moderated questions regarding the movie.

Having read the book a few years ago, I was anxious to see Ron Howard’s adaptation of Dan Brown’s best selling novel. I have to admit, I found a lot of the pre-movie hype interesting. Any movie that has overtones of attacking a specific denomination is guaranteed to undergo public repercussion. The Da Vinci Code is no exception.

Despite lackluster reviews, I quite enjoyed the movie. I found it captivating, enlightening, and rather true to the book. For a two and a half hour movie, it held my attention to the end. I applaud both the movie, and the book, for the hard to miss undercurrent of celebrating the TRUE impact of women on history. The Da Vinci Code’s theories are filled with murder, mystery, sabotage, treasure hunts, (sounds like your last family reunion for some of you readers), history lessons, and in the end, gives the reader the choice to take literally what they’ve read or applaud Dan Brown for such an intriguing novel.

The after movie discussion was like a spectator sport for me. I love how people who have nothing of substance to say will use any forum possible to ramble on, pontificate, or shamelessly promote their cause. There was everything from insightful commentary, to one woman trying to endorse the role of lesbianism in the Catholic Church. The overall question of the morning was, Did Jesus have a relationship with Mary Magdalene? The debate that unfolded was rich material for a doctoral sociologist’s thesis. What struck me was how factual everyone was taking this movie.

I was about to stand up and speak my mind on what I had observed. Unfortunately, we had run out of time… Dang!!! Had I stood up, my comments would have been something to the following… We need to keep in mind that this book was written by Dan Brown, not God. Just because the book has a religious connotation to it doesn’t mean it should be taken as bible. Granted it’s good to see so much discussion around biblical history, but we need to ensure our discussions are productive. Throughout history, religion has been tested and defended. This will continue to the end of time. The important thing to remember is that when all is said and done, we shouldn’t consume ourselves with the question of Did Jesus have a romantic relationship with Mary Magdalene, but rather, Do I have a personal relationship with Jesus?

For what it’s worth, I’ve been a Christian for over 30 years. I’m a Bible College graduate and have studied the bible from cover to cover several times. Despite having said this, I was able to read The Da Vinci Code, see the movie, and not take it literally or feel as if I had to defend my faith or beliefs. What I walked away with, both from the book and the movie, is that the essential intent behind The Da Vinci code is to drop you off at the crossroad of faith and legend. Whether you believe Dan Brown’s theories or not is up to the individual reader and/or movie goer. For me, it was a great book. That’s all.

Let’s face it, after reading Harry Potter, no one truly believed that there’s an actual Hogwart’s Castle, flying broomsticks and an evil wizard named Voldermort -- now, do they?

Batter Up!

My father sent me the following email about my writing. He knows how much I love the craft and how I’d like nothing more than to continue broadening and sharpening my skills, immersing myself in words and, quite frankly, writing all day long if life would allow it.

His words meant so much to me that I printed the email and taped it to my wall, where I can see it often. It’s a reminder to keep writing, keep learning and, as Dad would say, stay in the game.

More importantly, it reminds me that no matter how many times I strike out, someone very special will always be sitting in the stands, cheering me on.

Thanks, Dad!

Remember, the game is never over until the last out is made. As long as you can continue to step up to the plate you have a chance of scoring a home run. Kick the dust off your shoes and take another swing.

I have season tickets, so I'll always be at the game.

Hugs and Kisses
Dad

How to Deal With a Bully!

For the past academic year my son, Stephen, has been tolerating the hostile antics of the class bully. In an effort not to publicly out the child in question, I'll refer to him as "Bully Boy". For the most part, my son has ignored or walked away from Bully Boy when targeted for torment. On a handful of occasions, when the bullying became serious, Stephen was diligent enough to alert me to the situation; at which point I would speak with Bully Boy's parents, come to an agreeable resolution, and for a week or so afterward, the bullying would stop. After my second attempt at positive conflict-resolution, it became apparently clear that there was a deeper issue then bullying at hand. Despite the fact that my son was the target of Bully Boy's actions, I had empathy toward the child, and resolved myself to use compassion in dealing with him; no matter how furious I became over his actions. Interestingly enough, this was the same route my son chose to take as well. It's a well know fact that children who demonstrate such hostile behavior are clearly dealing with serious deep rooted personal problems.

Our first order of business was to extend the hand of friendship. We invited Bully Boy to our home for a play date. My thought was that this would allow both boys to play in a safe, but controlled, environment. Additionally, I could witness firsthand Bully Boy's social skills with my son. The first play date went fairly well. Bully Boy was slightly controlling, but given most of the children at my son's school are born leaders and academically off the charts, I can understand the whole alpha male dance. Several other play dates, including sleep-over's took place. The boys seemed to play well; however, Bully Boy's control issues became stronger. Additionally, my son became increasingly disturbed at how disrespectful Bully Boy was to his parents. On one particular occasion, Stephen witnessed Bully Boy telling his mother to go to hell. I was starting to understand Bully Boy's behavior. Not only was he trying to control my son, but he was also controlling and manipulating his parents. Inappropriate behavior was going unpunished. On at least three occasions, I had to stop Bully Boy from yelling at, or aggressively belittling Stephen. The more these incidents took place, the more my son was concerned about spending time with Bully Boy. Oddly enough, despite the weekend play dates, Bully Boy would still taunt Stephen in school.

After several weeks of attempting to extend the hand of friendship, only to have Bully Boy still going after Stephen in school, I decided a new course of action was necessary. I contacted Bully Boy's mother to discuss several of the issues that were taking place in an effort to bring them to her attention, with the hope she would take action. On one particular call I suggested getting the boys together, with the parents, in an effort to resolve the tension. I was taken aback when Bully Boy's mother informed me that Bully Boy had elected to pass on such a meeting. I'm sorry, but who's the parent here? God gives children parents to guide them and correct them in situations like this; not to have the child direct the parents on how to handle to circumstance. After I picked myself up off the floor, I had two options. Call in the marines or devise, yet, another plan.

Unfortunately, the situation was getting worse. My son came home in tears two weeks ago, indicating that Bully Boy had made a death threat toward him. He also told Stephen that because his father was an attorney, he had the capability to call the police and have him arrested and taken away in the middle of the night to juvenile hall. And, because his father is an attorney, he apparently doesn't need to give the police a reason to have him arrested. Apparently, it's a perk that comes with the job. Having dated several attorney's myself; I know this is clearly not part of the bonus package. At this point, I had reached an all time high on my frustration scale. I marched into my son's school and demanded serious action be taken. The school was reluctant to expel Bully Boy for his antagonistic behavior and death threats (which the details involved using a gun). Stephen's father and I were furious at what we perceived to be a passive attitude on the school's behalf. In their defense, this was due to a lack of knowledge on their part, from not having the adequate misbehavior history on Bully Boy. The school conducted interviews with various students, teachers, and parents, and came to the conclusion that indeed Bully Boy was causing an upset among the school community. A school community that prides itself on a warm, loving and gentle culture. However, despite being armed with their new data on Bully Boy, the school was reluctant to expel him. The approach they took was to put Bully Boy on serious probation. Basically, if the child antagonizes any other child, he's lost his privilege to attend this particular school. Bully Boy's parents were firmly informed of the school's position as well.

Despite all of the torment my son went through, name calling, belittling, nightmares about being murdered at school, etc., he still had empathy toward Bully Boy. So much so, that during his prayers one night, all he did was ask God to help Bully Boy behave and learn about being a friend. When my son prayed that night, I was moved and humbled at the same time. His heart and intentions were pure and genuine. Here I was taking all of the tactical steps I thought were necessary, and my son showed me that all that was needed was a simple act of kindness.... he prayed for Bully Boy. Of course! That was the answer. I was embarrassed to realize that I hadn't once stopped to pray for Bully Boy? God has handled bullies before. How could I have been so blind to not see the obvious solution? I'm a firm believer that God uses children to drive home grown-up lessons to adults, and this was no exception.

It's been two weeks since my son, and subsequently I, prayed for Bully Boy, and have done so every night since. I'm proud to say that Bully Boy has been kind, non-threatening, is playing fairly, and making strides toward building positive friendships. I recently approached Bully Boy and praised him for his efforts. His face lit up as he eked out a faint "Thank you. I'm really trying hard". Maybe Bully Boy just needed some praise and to know someone cares. At the moment, I'm pleased with the outcome. An outcome that dervied from the genuine, sincere heart and prayers of a true friend. My son showed me, through his example of compassion, how to truly deal with a bully.

We're having a baby today!

The phone rang at 7:16 on Saturday morning.

Before I even checked the caller ID, I could have bet an entire year’s salary that my notoriously early-rising mother was on the other end. It doesn’t matter if it’s a weekend, holiday or vacation. My mother is up at 6:00 a.m. and firmly believes the rest of the world should follow suit.

I answered the phone, mildly annoyed that my dream of strolling along the beaches of Malibu hand in hand with George Clooney had come to an abrupt end.

Through the cobwebs in my throat, I managed to eke out a faint, “Hello?”

“We’re having a baby today!” my mother announced enthusiastically.

I went from zero to one hundred in 2.6 seconds.

“Oh my God! Alba’s in labor?”

Alba is my sister-in-law.

“Yep. Her water broke at 5:00 this morning. Your father and I are on our way to the hospital.”

Suddenly, George Clooney was on his own.

I told my mom I needed to get a few things in order and would get to the hospital as quickly as possible. I lived two hours away, so I figured it would be around noon before I could meet up with everyone.

After a quick shower, packing toothbrushes, getting the dog boarded and filling the car with gas, which at the time practically required a meeting with my loan officer, my son and I were Palm Springs bound to meet the newest member of our family.

Armed with bagels, coffee and a DVD to keep my son entertained, I made my way across the 210, 15 and 10 freeways and arrived at the hospital in a record hour and a half.

My father was beaming when he met us at the front of the hospital.

The excitement of the day was just beginning.

Despite already having three grandchildren, this would be the first time my parents were actually at the hospital for the birth of one. Their other grandchildren had either arrived too quickly or had been born on the opposite coast.

This birth would be different.

When I arrived at my sister-in-law’s birthing suite, she was in wonderful spirits. No stress. No pain. Radiating.

She had just turned 40, and this was her first child. She’d had a wonderful pregnancy, and we could only hope and pray that the birth would be equally wonderful.

Having endured a 34-hour labor myself, only to ultimately have a C-section, I wanted nothing but the best possible experience for Alba.

She is one of the sweetest sisters-in-law anyone could ask for. She adores my brother, loves and respects my parents, and is bright, sweet, hardworking and always putting others first. When she and my brother married, I told him that we loved Alba so much that if things didn’t work out between them, we were keeping her and getting rid of him.

Fortunately for my brother, they are such soulmates that I’m certain they’ll be together for all time.

As Alba’s contractions grew closer together and more painful, she pleaded with me to find the anesthesiologist and have him administer an epidural. Or, as the nurses affectionately called it, “the special cocktail.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s to follow the firm directive of a woman in labor.

The nurses quickly produced the anesthesiologist, who served up the much-needed special cocktail.

Alba was now in epidural heaven.

Life was good again.

Labor continued throughout the late afternoon and into the evening. Finally, around 7:00 p.m., the nurses announced that she was fully effaced and dilated.

It was time to push.

Now, here’s where things get funny.

Alba thought perhaps six good pushes would get the baby out.

My mother and I thought maybe nine.

We were only off by about two hours and 40 pushes.

Alba had asked my mother and me to be with her during the delivery. I was incredibly touched and honored that she wanted us there.

And so there we were. The three of us.

Three women, bound together by family, sharing one of life’s most extraordinary experiences: watching a new life enter the world.

With every push, we pushed with her.

With every deep breath, we breathed with her.

With every moment of progress, we experienced it together, hand in hand.

There was something incredibly powerful about it. Three women from the same family, gathered around one another as another generation prepared to take his first breath.

Finally, after all the waiting, Alba’s extraordinary effort and the work of a stellar medical team, Loren Craig entered the world.

Eight pounds, six ounces.

Twenty inches long.

Perfect.

The joy that filled that room was boundless. There were tears, hugs, laughter and complete awe at the sight of this beautiful new little soul.

For a few moments, everything else simply disappeared.

I had never felt closer to the women in my family than I did at that moment.

Then the nurses placed Loren into his mother’s waiting arms.

He opened his eyes.

And the first face he saw was hers.

He seemed to recognize her. He listened as she spoke to him in that soft, sweet voice he had already been hearing for months. Watching that immediate bond between mother and child was almost indescribable.

And suddenly, I was transported back to the moment my own son was first placed in my arms.

I remembered the warmth that washed over me.

A kind of liquid love, if you will.

It was instantaneous. Fierce. Almost overwhelming.

This beautiful baby I had longed for was finally here. He was healthy. He was adorable.

He was mine.

And in that moment began a bond that I knew could never be broken.

Watching Alba hold Loren brought all of those feelings rushing back, only this time I was privileged to witness them from the other side.

I will never forget watching my nephew come into this world. I will forever be grateful to my sister-in-law for giving my mother and me the extraordinary gift of witnessing the beginning of a new life.

Some days blur together with time. Others remain so vivid that you can return to them years later and still remember the voices, the faces, the laughter, the tears and exactly how your heart felt.

This will always be one of those days.

This was the day we had a baby.