This bracelet came up on a news feed of mine. I studied it. Not the bracelet, but the words. I’ve probably studied over it more than some people would study for a test. Well, not so much study, but ponder. The words are powerful. The words imply strength and courage and all the other positive feelings that are conjured up in these seven little words.
When I first saw these words I thought about the women in my life that intentionally took on a challenge. Chris Mac decided she wanted to have a healthier lifestyle and took on the challenge of losing weight the old fashioned way – by eating healthy and exercising. Hannah has taken on the challenge of going back to college to become an RN after having a child. Brenda G later in life chose to adopt three children that needed her. Amy made the decision to not only tell her adoption story, but posted it for all the world to read. To these women and others like you, I humbly acknowledge your courage.
Then there’s the rest of us – no less important, but our challenges more or less got dumped into our laps. We didn’t ask for them. We weren’t looking for them, but they happened just the same. Cynthia discovered she had breast cancer. Angela and Laura G found themselves in destructive marriages. Many of us were given widowhood. My Aunt Lois and cousins Pat and Tina face each day with the deterioration of their husband/father from Alzheimers disease. Heather battles the fear that comes with having a child with severe food allergies. Then there’s the many single moms I know that get up each morning to fill the shoes of both mother and father. My own sister Terri is synonymous with courage, tenacity, and strength (although sometimes she doesn’t see it).
So I go back to the words: She believed she could, so she did.
In all honesty, there were times when I didn’t know if I could overcome the loss of my husband and the avalanche of aftershocks that came with it. I feel sure that each person I have mentioned and all of the ones in this video have had the same feeling at one time or another in the challenges that have faced them. That doubt, that defeating feeling, that nagging in the back of your mind that says it’s too hard, it’s too much to bear. We fall. We cry. We doubt.
But herein lies the difference: We fell but we didn’t stay down, we wiped our bloodied knees and got back up. We cried, but we wiped our tears away and pushed forward. We doubted, but it didn’t consume us. We overcame. And that’s what I celebrate today.
So this is for you ladies: The women that inspire me, encourage me, and lift me up.
For the first twelve years of my life my mother was a housewife. That’s what they were called in the 1960’s. Today, we would refer to her as homemaker or a stay at home mom, but back then, it was housewife.
I give my mother credit for the love I have for a neat and tidy home. Keeping a clean home was important to her, and as children; we were given household jobs to contribute to the maintaining of a clean and orderly home.
My mother had the good fortune of having a dear friend Shirley that lived across the street. After her morning chores were done, my mother would put my brother John in a fresh diaper, grab her cigarettes, and head over to Shirley’s house for a time of talking, coffee drinking, smoking, and adult company.
Shirley had a daughter Lee Ann that was John’s age, which worked out great for the moms. All my life, I have chased after the hopes that one day, I could have a friend, neighbor, that I could duplicate that relationship that Shirley and my mother had.
I was around nine years old at the time and I loved to accompany my mom and my brother to Shirley’s house. I would play “teacher”, reading to the younger ones, drawing on the chalkboard, or coloring with them; basically being their boss.
Perhaps a year down the road, Shirley gave birth to a son. I remember the first time (possibly the last time) I was given permission to hold him. Of course I had to sit squarely on the sofa, getting instructions from my mother, “support his head”, “keep him covered up”, all the things nervous adults tell children.
For the first few minutes Billy peacefully laid there in my arms while I soaked in his sweet baby smells, touching his soft newborn hands, and stroking his downy soft hair. He then began to squirm, and shortly after, he began to cry. I looked squarely into his eyes and without any regard to my surroundings, in the company of my mother and Shirley, and said, “Quit crying you son-of-a-bitch!” In my defense, I had NO idea what a bitch was, let alone a son-of-a-bitch. I just knew that I had heard my daddy say it PLENTY of times out of frustration for one thing or another. My mother reeled in mortified disbelief and shock while Shirley grabbed her innocent son from my cradled arms. My mom in a desperate attempt to save some sort of face said, “Cathy Rhea, where have you heard that kind of talk?” To my mother’s embarrassment, I calmly replied, “Daddy says it all the time.”
Needless to say, I learned quickly that was not an acceptable thing to call a babe in arms.
I get a laugh when I think of this story, but keep in mind, my Daddy has always said that I would laugh at a funeral. I’ve always taken that as a compliment, because to me it shows that I look for the humor in life.
What is life without a few embarrassing moments, without a few experiences you would like to sweep under the carpet? I choose to hold on to those moments if for no other reason but to keep my humility in check.
Wayne and Trish Wolfenbarger (along with their three doppelgänger children, Ashley, Brooke, and Gunnar), came into our lives in the late 1990’s. There was only one condo that separated our large families (apologies to Mr. & Mrs Casey.) Michael and I were still practically newlyweds and adjusting to our blended family when our families were introduced.
I remember when they moved in. Truck after truck, load after load kept being delivered and unloaded. I watched with curiosity. Just how many people and just how much stuff can fit and live in this small three bedroom condominium?
Michael, being the social butterfly that he was, just had to make a beeline over to meet the new neighbors while all of the unloading and unpacking was taking place. I, on the other hand, wanted to leave them in peace and allow them to move in, get settled, and perhaps one day, get acquainted. But that was always a difference between Michael and I. He was more “in your face” – I was more.. well, not. And in true Michael fashion, everyone seemed to appreciate his approach.
I am proud to say that Wayne & Trish and three of the most adorable children you ever laid your eyes on became our dear friends. Our children became fast friends. Our homes became hubs to children going in and out, laughing, screaming, seemingly always hungry for snacks. There was always a child spending the night with another child. It was busy, it was chaotic, but looking back, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
Ashley, Brooke, and Hannah (Grigsby) performing the Macarena. The parents were constantly being treated to performances)
If you don’t mind, stop and listen to this song. I believe with all of my heart if Wayne ever had a song for his loving wife Trish, it would be this song.
Let me tell you about this amazing couple. When I met them, honestly I can’t tell you how long they had been married. At that point in time when we first met, they had already fused together as one. I don’t mean that didn’t have separate personalities, they did – clearly, they did. Wayne was soft spoken. His style was slow, it was easy, it was well thought out. And Trish, well, Trish was more like me. She felt things stronger, more powerful, and in truth (for both of us), more exaggerated. But they conducted themselves as one unit. They ebbed, they flowed. One didn’t make a move without the other. And oh, how they loved one another! I can close my eyes and remember the many, many times I caught them gazing into each other’s eyes – the love, the devotion, the respect, and the commitment was clearly evident. Theirs was a love to pattern a relationship over.
And one more thing, all of “that stuff” that went into that small condominium – well, Trish turned it into a home for their family. Everywhere you looked, it was home. It was comfortable, it was lived in. She loved Americana, and those touches she added to their home made it more special than any professional decorator could’ve done.
We spent several years in that community. We watched our children mature. We experienced great times, and we endured troubling times. But through it all, we managed to raise up some really great kids and still have strong marriages to show for it.
I can’t recall now if Michael and I moved away first or if Wayne and Trish moved away first, but in the end, each family went their own way. We got busy, we lost touch.
You all know that Michael unexpectedly took his life in 2009. Not long after that (through Facebook) I was reacquainted with Trish and her children. We swapped stories, we caught up, promising to visit soon. Time has a way of getting away from us. We have good intentions, really we do. It seems the next thing I know I hear that Wayne is sick – with cancer.
Personally, of all the words in the dictionary, I hate the “C” word almost as much as any other word I know. And when I heard how serious this monster had attacked Wayne’s body, it made me sick. Although no one “deserves” to have cancer, no one “deserved” it less than Wayne. By the time I got over to the Wolfenbarger’s house to bring a meal, I had waited too late to see Wayne. He was too sick for visitors. However, I did get to visit Trish and her amazing children. They were just as I had remembered (although the children were grown adults now). They were the family Musketeers – all for one, and one for all. This family has never wavered in their devotion to one another.
One year ago tomorrow will be the first anniversary of Wayne Wolfenbarger’s passage into heaven. I have in some ways dreaded this for Trish and her family as it will conjure up the memories of the loss of this wonderful man. Quite frankly, these kind of anniversaries suck – I can’t think of a more poignant way of expressing it.
But what I hope, and what I pray, is that this anniversary will highlight for this family all the love, and all the warmth, and all the special times that Wayne brought to this world and our lives. He loved his wife beyond measure, he treasured his children beyond compare. What greater legacy could a man leave behind? Nothing… nothing.
Wayne Wolfenbarger you are a man to be remembered. A man to be respected, and a man that we will never forget.
Several weeks ago I put my friends to the task of finding me a good guy to go out with. In the past five years since Michael’s passing, my dating life has been essentially nonexistent. After a few false starts, I finally felt like I was ready to put myself out there, to what extent I was capable of I wasn’t sure – but I was ready to put my feet back in the water.
I have a wonderful friend with an equally wonderful husband. They took my plea seriously and began to look in earnest for a great guy to match me with. The next thing I know, my phone number has been passed on to a potential suitor that seems interested in meeting a “great gal.” Within just a few days, I’m meeting this man for the first time for a meet and greet and a really good pizza.
21 DAYS WITH BOB
(I spelled his name backwards to protect his identity)
He walked into the restaurant while I stood in a standing room only bar area. “How will I know you?” he asked earlier on the phone. “I will be the shortest woman there, how will I know you?” “I’ll have a black t-shirt on.” And there he was. I thought, “If this is him, I’m the luckiest woman here.” And it was him. Tall. Handsome. Well dressed. Great smile.
We took our seats, clinked our bottles of beer together, and had a wonderful evening. I had forgotten how “newness” felt. How scary and exciting the unknown can be. I listened with intrigue to his life story. Intermittently, he interjected, “Now this might be a deal breaker but…”, and yet nothing in his past overshadowed anything in my own past. At some point in the conversation I felt it necessary to tell him about the nature of my husband’s passing. I didn’t want it to be the focus of our evening, but the “S” word came up (suicide) and I felt it best to reveal that part of my life. Before the night ended, Bob asked me out on a “real” date. I tried to squlech my enthusiasm, but quickly accepted his offer. We ended the evening with a respectable kiss and I drove away with a happy and grateful heart.
The next few weeks we tallied up hours of telephone conversations and enjoyed two more dates. This man is kind, funny, polite, and extremely interesting. We held hands in Market Square. We shared some tender kisses. He opened the car door for me. We spent hours listening to music together. I listened more than I talked (and you all know how much I love to talk.) Although I generally don’t hold my feelings too close to the vest, I found myself more guarded than I had expected. In passing I mentioned my blog to him but never revealed the website – I say this because this blog is an open window of my life. So I worried, was my life, my past, going to be more than someone could handle? Did I come with too much baggage? My idle thoughts brought questions of my level of ability to give myself to someone. Could I possibly fall in love again? Did I have the capability to become intimate with someone again? Could I ever trust another man with not only my heart but the bare bones of not killing himself? I only asked these questions because I really liked this man. I found him of quality and “brought up right.” I have to tell you, when a spouse ends their life without any warning or explanation, it makes a person question themselves to the tenth degree.
Even with all of these questions and self-doubt, I couldn’t help but face my days with an extra spring in my step, perhaps a larger smile on my face, and a higher degree of optimism. When his name popped up on my phone whether a text or a call, I would smile. I found myself letting my guard down a bit, allowing myself to have feelings for the first man since my husband’s death.
It turns out that all of my concerns, all of my doubts, were in vain. I found myself on Christmas Day with the realization that I had not heard from Bob in a couple of days. So I did what anybody else would’ve done – I text “Merry Christmas.” No response. Wow – I was a bit hurt. It’s Christmas for God’s sake – and nothing? The next day – “Hey Bob, was it something I said, something I did?” How funny, how odd, and yet predictable that we always assume that it was something that we are responsible for, that we somehow are to blame when something goes wrong. I won’t bore you with the rest , because you too see where this is going. Suffice it to say that apparently ol’ Bob didn’t feel as strongly for me as I did for him. It’s left me puzzled, it’s left me a bit sad – sad in the fact that I didn’t allow him to see me for who I was – who I am – where I’ve come from and where I want to go in life.
So I’m left with the fear that I will rebuild my wall of protection that keeps me from being hurt, that I won’t allow anyone else in my life that could possibly cause me grief. This small hurt was quite enough for now and quite frankly, I don’t like doubting myself.
To Bob I say, “I’m glad I got to meet you… but I’m sad for what we might’ve had… I’m sad for what we could’ve done… especially that ride on your tractor.”
