Hurting, Healing, and Hundred Character Blessings

In 1996, I ended my summer in a very special place, Camp El Tesoro de la Vida -- The Treasure of Life.

(I know what you're thinking -- "Good grief! ANOTHER camp post?" -- but hear me out.)

De la Vida (DLV) is a one-week camp for children who have experienced a significant death, usually of a parent or sibling or caregiver.  The whole experience is designed to provide a safe place for children to grieve, no matter where in the process they may be.  They are sometimes meeting other children in their situation for the first time.  They are sometimes receiving actual therapy for the first time.  Sometimes they are just acknowledging the death and speaking freely about it for the first time.  And for many of them, it's the first chance they've had to "just be a kid" for a long time.  More than anything, that's what they do at camp -- just be kids and have fun.

I volunteered for DLV for 9 summers, but I can still remember in those opening moments as kids started to gather in my cabin group that I panicked and thought, "I don't know anything about grief. How can I possibly help?"  I had two parents.  I had two brothers, including one who had literally escaped death just 10 years prior.  I'd suffered the loss of a couple of friends, but I didn't feel close enough to them personally to have "the right" to grieve them deeply.  I felt incapable and afraid.

With most things in life, however, I don't believe it was a coincidence that I was there; I was meant to be.  In my time at El Tesoro de la Vida, I've learned a great deal about grief, mostly from the children in the throes of it.  And since then I've had to grieve on far too many occasions -- the deaths of students, friends, extended family, even a former DLV camper. 

What I learned most in my time there, though, was that sometimes grief has nothing to do with death at all or at least not literal death.  I've grieved for broken friendships and relationships and family.  Broken trust.  I've grieved for my school and my students.  I've found myself grieving things that happened to me 3 decades ago, and I've grieved for the time they cost me.  I've been grieving for the last 5 years the ravages of my dad's Parkinson's disorder, and I felt guilty grieving for a parent I still have.  It took a long time to understand that I was grieving for the father I knew -- the hero I knew -- and learning to accept this new man, this changed man, in front of me.  I grieved when he went into a nursing home; I grieve each time I have to take him back after a holiday or a short visit away from it.

Grief is presented in stages, but that seems such an inaccurate way to arrange it.  Grief is fluid, and it swirls around us in so many different patterns that it's sometimes difficult to recognize.  Sometimes it buoys you. Sometimes it tries to drown you.  And it never really goes away.  That's the hard part.  It never really goes away.  Just when I think it's gone for good, it sneaks up on me.  A song, a smell, a photo, a memory.  A plug is pulled, and down I go, circling the drain.

I'm not very good at taking care of myself, and I'm downright terrible at asking for help (although I am a caretaker and do-gooder at my very core).  So sometimes help has to find me, and sometimes it finds me in the unlikeliest of places.

A few months ago, one of my 140 character peeps, Hayes, tweeted an article about his brother-in-law.  I happened to click on the link, and I was moved by his family's story.  After a couple of message exchanges, he sent me to this blog, "The Real Full House", which chronicles his family's life without their mother and wife and sister.  I can remember reading several posts and promising myself that I'd go back to it and read their story from the start.  Of course, like so many promises to myself, I didn't.

And then, a couple of weeks ago, this post came across my Twitter feed at just the moment I found myself in the beginnings of a big spiral.  I did go back that time, for three straight nights, and I read about their family from the beginning.  I was inspired by their strength and their honesty and their laughter and their tears.  That post and blog didn't save me, but it certainly picked me up, reminded me of what I still have, and forced me to make a plan.  Part of that plan was to say thank you and let others know about this wonderful family.  Of course, like so many plans for myself, I wasn't very quick about it.

Then last week, he posted this song.  And I thought "Dang.  I need to write that post."  But I didn't.

And then this morning, I woke up to hear his brother-in-law, Bruce, being interviewed on one of my favorite podcasts.  And I thought, "Dang.  I need to write that post."  And so I am.  The third time's a charm, I suppose.

The older I get, the more I am convinced that there are no coincidences, and we are led to moments or people that we need just when we most need them -- even if they don't know us.  Sometimes the blessings are plentiful, and sometimes they're no more than a hundred and forty spaces.

So thank you, Ham family and Hayes.  Keep on keepin' on.  You never know who's watching.

If you'd like to check out the blog for yourself, please do at http://therealfullhouse.wordpress.com/ .
You can also follow them on Twitter (@realfullhouse).  Bruce is also currently publishing a book about his experiences.  It's titled, "Laughter, Tears, and Braids", and it should be available soon on Amazon.

If you'd like to hear more about the podcast I mentioned, please visit them at  http://www.twodadsonemic.com/ or follow them on Twitter (@TwoDadsOneMic).  Especially if you're a dad.  They're really pretty funny dads.

If you'd like more information on Camp El Tesoro de la Vida, please see the video below.  There are beautiful friends connected to this place (some within the video, but most are not) who are still some of my biggest cheerleaders today.  I know, for a fact, that they are no coincidence.  I love you, guys.

If you'd like to find out about how to register a child or make a donation to DLV, please contact them here.

Baby Giggles are the Best Medicine

I woke up this morning, and I felt like a garbage truck used my head as a speed bump.  Then it backed up and poured hot garbage juice on me.

Needless to say, the words are not forming so easily in the brain today.

So, I'm leaving you with one of my go-to videos on my struggle days.  I've watched it about 12 times already today.

Baby giggles make the world go 'round.

Laundry Woes

Laundry Day is my nemesis.

I don't like dishes. I'm not the greatest at cooking. And I think making my bed is sort of ridiculous. I do it, but it's not my favorite thing. There's satisfaction in climbing into a well-made bed at least.

But laundry. Laundry is really what makes my blood boil.

My dear friend, Courtney swears that she has the world's most intense laundry situation, but she also has 3 kids under the age of 5. I think that if you have 3 kids under the age of 5, the government should just issue you an extra person for laundry and mopping alone.

Not me though. I have zero excuse. It's just me making (and ignoring) this mess.

Several things come into play when it comes to Naz vs. Laundry.  Of course, there's the Bermuda Triangle of Socks.  10 socks go in, but only 7 come out.  It's unnerving, but I have the bad habit of leaving my socks everywhere, so I can never be sure if 10 matching socks went in at once.

I'm not down with separating clothes either.  I will be the first to admit that I am firmly against Laundry Segregation.  Whites, colors -- we all mix in this house.  Throw 'em in and put it on cold.  And for all of you screaming about cold water, that's why they make the detergent SPECIFICALLY for cold water washes. God bless you, Tide, for understanding my needs.

Then there are the things that can't go in the dryer.  Sweet buckets of love, I cannot tell you how many things I've ruined with the dryer.  I will separate those out.  Those things are typically pretty expensive.

Along with the sock trauma, I am also the world's worst at checking my pockets before stuffing clothes into the wash.  I had to retire a whole load of t-shirts to a rogue lip gloss explosion in the dryer. Sharpie markers and highlighters and paper clips are constantly sneaking past me.  Pro Tip: Highlighter will come out; Sharpie, not so much.

I also am a stockpiler.  I have enough sheets and towels to last me at least 2 months.  So, when the linen cabinet is bare, it's a whole day's work.  I'm currently remedying this in the Great Closet Clean-out of 2013. Hopefully.  Additionally, my laundry hook-ups are on a screened-in back porch.  Because I live in Texas, there are only about 17 days a year where it's a normal temperature outside to turn on the dryer or not have the washing machine freeze.

Those things are a deterrent for lots of people I know, but in truth, they are only minor obstacles for me. Because I have to have clean clothes, I will force myself to do the wash eventually.

But the real problem is this:  putting it away.  I can fold t-shirts and match socks (sometimes).  But going on the search and rescue mission for empty hangers in the closet is defeating.  Picking it all up and then taking it to its rightful place in the closet or dresser is too much.  It's like I just quit at the finish line of the marathon.

So, the clean laundry sits -- typically folded but not always -- in the basket or on the kitchen table or hangs over the backs of the chairs.  I have been known to live out of my laundry baskets for weeks -- especially in the busiest parts of the school year.  It's so embarrassing.  But obviously not embarrassing enough to make me stop.

For the record, I'm also terrible about putting CD's or DVD's back in the correct cases or taking the clean dishes out of the dish drainer and placing them on their shelves.  I'm a mess.

In one of my favorite movies, "Singles", by Cameron Crowe, one of the characters says this:

Janet: Well, when I first moved out here from Tucson, I wanted a guy with looks, security, caring, someone with their own place, someone who said “bless you” or “gesundheit” when I sneezed, you know. Someone who liked the same things as me but not exactly. Someone who loves me.

Steve: Tall order.

Janet: Yeah, I scaled it down a little.

Steve: Well, what is it now?

Janet: Someone who says “gesundheit” when I sneeze. Although I’d prefer “bless you” – it’s nicer.

I'll just take someone who'll put the laundry away for me.  Matching socks: optional.

Where Does the Time Go?

The last two days, I've been clearing room on my computer, getting rid of pictures I don't need anymore and music I'm still embarrassed to have.

I spent today cleaning out closets and sorting through the build-up of life.  

If you're ever in need of a reality check... sort through some old drawers and shelves.  The Ghost of Youth Past is totally holed up in there.  

I got kind of caught up in looking at some old photo albums -- mainly from when I was in high school.  There were lots of good memories and more than a few regrets.  But I'm glad I found them.  I hadn't looked at them in a few years.

This picture was taken 21 years ago.  It's the first picture I have of my oldest nephew, Hunter.  That baby drinks beer now -- legally.

And then I found this picture.  It's 21 years old too.  It's a classic of me and one of my best childhood friends, Christel.  It seems like forever ago and 10 minutes ago all in the same breath.

After finding this, I think I'm going to go drink a beer, too.  And maybe say a little thank-you prayer for eyebrow shaping and hair straighteners.  Yikes.

Man.  Where does time go? 

My favorite song from that year.  Still one of my top plays.  

Some things never change, I suppose

The Thursday Night Blues

I got the Thursday night blues, I think.

Those nights have been pretty special to me for the last 8 summers.  Our camp's closing campfires were on Thursdays.  We'd have a great camp dance and then head to the point for a huge fire and awards.  No matter how hot it had been that day, there was always a breeze off the lake.  Occasionally, there'd be a fish jump or Big Sam, the camp dog, would bark at absolutely nothing to protect us all.  Each counselor recognized the Broken Arrow winner in his or her cabin.  We recognized the campers and staff of the session.  But mostly it was the sounds of the cicadas buzzing, the fire crackling, and children singing.  That's what I miss most tonight.

I have to admit, I always felt closer to El Tesoro than I did to Camp Carter... except on those nights.

No one could touch a Thursday night at CC.

I miss you guys.

The "not taller than me" fire rule was never obeyed.

Broken Arrow winner

Lighting our candles

Passing the light

One of my favorite campfire moments with Caleb singing.  Still gives me chills.

And the last links are a nod to Jamie Fletcher, King of Begging for More Singing.  These were after our last campfire in 2012, after all the kids had gone back to cabins and we were singing only for the CIT's and ourselves and then later in the office.  None of us had any idea that it would be our very last Thursday night together at Camp Carter.  

Jamie is also known for recording you when you don't realize it -- which is what he was doing that night. Therefore, sometimes things don't sound so great, and you never know what you might have said.  Normally, I'd be mad, but now I'm so glad he did.  It makes me happy to hear our voices together -- even if it's just arguing over keys afterward (like I know anything about singing on key) or the forgetting of words. Big Sam, the camp dog, even makes an appearance in one track. 

¿Cómo se dice 'jerkface' en Español?

I turned on the t.v. on Monday night to watch the Home Run Derby.  I originally wanted to watch it on mute because Chris Berman, you know.  But I'm so glad I didn't.  What I witnessed was not only a pretty brilliant display by Yoenis Cespedes but a pretty brilliant interview in both English AND Spanish by the ESPN reporter.  The reporter was clear and efficient, asking the question first in Spanish, receiving the answer, and then providing the translation for both the question and answer in English for both the at-home viewers and those in the stadium.  If you didn't know, Cespedes is Cuban and has been in America only since 2011.  Consequently, he still struggles with English.  I've taken 4 years of Spanish, but if you forced me to stand in front of 40,000 people, with cameras broadcasting to millions of homes, AFTER I'd just belted 25 home runs and asked me Spanish-only questions, frankly, I'd probably crap my pants before I could even stammer out a simple greeting.  So to me, it was not only an impressive move by the reporter but also a kind gesture.

Apparently, parts of America didn't think so.  You can read a pretty great article by Gregg Doyel here.  He says what I feel probably a great deal better than I could.

What bothered me most about reading Doyel's article or seeing it on Deadspin was not just seeing America show its panties one more time (because America does some ugly shit a lot of the time) but that the majority of tweets and messages I saw were from young people.  In my mind, I kept looking for the skinhead or the toothless redneck or the 85 year old granddad who "just doesn't know any better".  But that's SO NOT WHO I SAW, and I guess the fact that I was looking for those types of people reveals my own stereotypes and prejudices to some extent.  Or just a misconception that somehow we are growing more tolerant with each passing generation.

Any time I hear someone grumbling about "English-only America" I hear the struggles of my students (and their parents).  When I read messages that proclaimed "You're in America, learn to speak English" I see these mothers and fathers, sitting in a parent conference, heads bowed in shame or indecision, trying to understand as their 12 year old straddles two worlds.  I see their fear in coming to school because they feel that they can't interact.  I see my students who struggle to remember nonsensical English grammar rules while still maintaining fluency in their own home language, whatever it may be.

So, needless to say, I was infuriated by these tough guy tweets and all of their bravado and ignorance.  I am so tired of talking to kids about bullying, day in and day out at school, only to see that they really aren't the worst offenders.

Some of these people, whether they're spewing hate about Yoenis or someone else, will say that they're just kidding -- that they're just trolling for a fight or a retweet.  Others will proudly stand behind their freedom to say whatever the hell they want.  Others might just be finding their courage from a keyboard and relative anonymity.  Whatever the reason, I personally think it's pretty laughable for some 25 year old loudmouth  to wave the First Amendment as permission to tell another human being to "speak English or go back to jibber-jabber land".

Actually, the only laughable part, to me, is that almost every one of those English-only demands, in fact, contains multiple and glaring grammatical mistakes.  And you're speaking IN YOUR OWN NATIVE LANGUAGE, YOU JERKS!

Note:  This is where you should hear me giving a huge, defeated sigh.

So just as I was about to give up on America there on an unassuming Monday night, this video rolled across my Twitter timeline.  By the way, I adore my Twitter timeline.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again and again.  If Twitter is really an echo chamber, I'm glad that I found a group speaking what I like to hear.  It's about a 9 minute video, but I promise you, it's worth your time.  (I should also note that it came across my Facebook feed as well -- thanks Taylor Fratina for posting.  I like what she says too!)



I really do believe we are growing more tolerant generation by generation, but like with any other struggle, there are bumps along the way.  And sometimes those bumps are getting all the press because they're the loudest and most insane (to me at least).  But I've got a lot of hope in the crop of kids coming up.  Don't let me down, kids.

For the record, I never noticed that they were a mixed-race couple.  I want to think that it has to do with my ability to look past such outdated prejudices but it might have just as much to do with my lack of paying attention.  Also, I'd like to know when the girl in the aqua tank top will be old enough to run for President. She's totally got my vote.

They Grew in Their Hearts

Last Friday was a special day for my family.  Last Friday, the number of Nazworths in the world increased by one more.  Set your clocks backs, world; we tend to run a little late.  And we're kind of stubborn. Deal with it.

A long time ago, some doctors told my sister-in-law, Becky, that due to her cancer treatments as a child, she'd not be able to have children.  What those doctors didn't know is that people like Becky are MADE to be mothers.  I've never met a kinder, gentler, more caring soul in the world.  And the fact that she not only puts up with my brother but loves him intensely adds so many points in her Heaven column.

(Don't worry, I love my brother too, but it's my little sister duty to give him Hell even when I'm supposed to be being nice.  He'd expect no less.)

And you know what?  My brother surprised the sh*t out of me by being a spectacular dad.  I don't say it to be mean at all.  He will be the first to tell you that most people frustrate him/drive him crazy.  But I guess if those people are little enough and cute enough, he'll cut you a few breaks.  I'd like to think that he cut his parenting teeth, bossing me around all those years.  However he did it, though, it worked.  Those boys adore him.

It hasn't been easy.  When Jim and Becky decided to adopt through the foster care system, I worried.  A lot. I've worked with a great many kids in the system, mainly through camping, and their stories aren't easy.  As a friend of mine says, "You don't get in that system for nothing."  They don't take them away for feeding the kids Pop-Tarts and not making them wash their feet.  I worried about the emotional strain.  I worried about the guilt in wanting to save them all.  I worried about what would happen if kids were sent back to their bio parents.  And some of that happened, and it was devastating.

But it didn't stop my brother and sister-in-law.  They knew that somewhere out there, there were kids who needed them.  Kids who deserved them.  Kids that they could save from some pretty severe circumstances.  And there were.  And they did.

I can't even begin to imagine the leap of faith it takes to trust yourself to be a parent -- either through birth or by adoption.  I don't know if I could risk my heart the way that Jim and Becky did not once but several times. I was in awe of their courage to go after their dream of being a family.  I'm still in awe of it.

On December 21, 2012 -- a day that most people predicted an ending for our world, Jim and Becky's world began anew.  This is the day that they officially adopted Isaiah.  When the judge asked my brother to hold up his hand to be sworn in, Isaiah immediately gave his dad a high five.  It was so fitting, I think, and such a clear picture of Za's personality.

And this past Friday, Isaiah's little brother, Jaxson got his day in court as well.  I don't know that high fives were exchanged, but there was some serious attempted foot-eating that occurred.  That's Jaxson with the attempted foot to mouth maneuver.

Due to changes in the foster care system, Jim and Becky had to be very private about what they shared about the boys -- including pictures -- on social media.  Nothing makes me happier now than to see them brag, just like every other parent, on Facebook.  I waited until Jaxson's adoption was final before posting; it just didn't feel right to mention one without the other.

Baby Isaiah

Baby Jax

More Jaxson:

More Isaiah:

 

 

Easter pics:

 

And Mom and Dad:

 

This morning, Becky posted that today it hit her that she was "finally a MOM" and included the phrase, "they grew in my heart".  I loved that; it is so very true.  And I'm so glad that she and my brother kept planting that dream.  The world's a much more beautiful place with those boys in it.