Eileen Button

You Know You're a Runner When ...

2012-08-21T21:39:00Z

Photo courtesy of "I <3 to Run"

Yes, I know. I’ve been missing in action.

This in spite of the fact that experts say I must blog at least once a week to engage readers. (Thank you for being here in spite of my absence.) No doubt, the blogging police would like to take away my writing license (if, you know, I had such a thing) for being so lax in the word department.

But the truth is that I wanted a summer. Badly. And so … I took it.

Oh, I still did stuff. I taught college classes, spoke at community events, attended book fairs, and wrote articles for Women2Women Magazine and other people’s blogs. But I also slept in once in a while, enjoyed my kids, grew ten-foot sunflowers, experimented with composting and mulching, canned salsa, and sat at my husband’s hospital bedside as he attempted to give birth to a kidney stone. (He’s fine now, bless his heart.)

Perhaps best of all, I started running again.

For the past few years, friends who know this fickle side of me have asked, “So … are you running?”

I would tap my temple with my right index finger and joke, “Yep. Right here. I’m running in my head.” It was answer enough to make them drop the question.

But since March, I’ve answered “Yes!” without sarcasm or humor. Three times a week, give or take, I hit the pavement. That may not sound like a lot, but it is to me.

This Saturday, I’ll run the ten-mile Crim, otherwise known as the “Coolest Race in Michigan.” And I’ll win it, not because I’ll cross the finish line first (I’ll finish in the bottom half of my age group, actually), but because I did it. That's good enough for me.

I’ll love every step of it, too, since the Crim is like no other race. I’ll pass on the Krispy Kreme Donuts at mile four and the beer at Cashew Point at mile six, but I’ll happily slurp the straight-up Starbucks at mile three, along with water, Gatorade, and a melted popsicle or two.

I’ll follow the infamous thin, blue line for ten memorable miles. I'll dance to the live bands and high-five little kids on the sidelines who cheer over fifteen thousand runners on. Crossing the finish line will mean sweet victory. It also means free bananas.

As I've pounded the pavement for a few hundred miles these past months, I realized my life has changed to accommodate the fact that I'm running once again. Recently, somewhere around mile three of a seven mile run, the following list wrote itself in my mind:

“You Know You’re a Runner When …”

You judge every song on the radio by its potential running merits. (“Let’s Go” by Calvin Harris is inspiring. “We Are Young” by Fun is torturous.)

You reset your car odometer whenever you run errands around town to measure out miles for future runs.

You get whiplash whenever you’re driving and you pass a runner. Sometimes, you give them the thumbs-up or holler “You’re lookin’ great!” as you pass.

You eat dinner according to how it will feel in your gut at mile two the following morning.

You no longer care about your less than attractive body parts. Let ’em flap in the wind. At least you’re out there.

You don’t think your missing toenails are gross, but are pretty cool badges of honor.

You pay more for a race entry than you would for a new work shirt.

You get into running shoes debates. (Brooks vs. Asics anyone?)

You eat to run and run to eat.

Post-run, you smell like a pubescent boy who has yet to discover deodorant, but you’re kinda proud of your stink.

You have runner’s tan. (Tan lines from your running shorts across your upper mid thigh.) You’d look ridiculous in a bikini, but you don’t care.

You know the only way to really work out your hurt, anger, or confusion is to pound out a few miles. It helps.

Your day goes way better on running days.

Whenever you drive up a hill (or down a dirt road) you imagine yourself running it.

On a cool, rainy morning, when it feels like you could run forever, you wonder if your running friends are out there enjoying the day too.

Here’s to life and to being missing in action for good reasons,

Eileen

The Problem with Self-Help Books

2012-07-04T21:21:52Z

One look at the top of our bookshelf these days will tell you a lot about our state of mind.

In addition to new and old classics (One Hundred Years of Solitude, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, The Poisonwood Bible, Lessons Before Dying), you’ll find a few titles that fall in the “God-help-me-I-swear-I’m going-to-change-my-life-even-if-it-kills-me” category.

It all started with Charles Duhigg’s The Power of Habit, which I bought for Brad after he heard about it on NPR. Rich Horwath’s Strategy for You: Building a Bridge to the Life You Want and Canfield, Hansen, and Hewitt’s The Power of Focus were soon after borrowed from the library and added to the pile.

Clearly, we’re looking for something that will kick us in the pants … something that will deliver us from the quicksand-feeling, mid-life funk that Brad and I have found ourselves in. We’re hoping that a strategic overhaul on our habits and focus might be the perfect antidote for our restlessness.

The magic of the books has yet to work in my own life, primarily because I have yet to read them. It’s not only that I prefer Virginia Woolf in the summer, although it’s quite true that I do. Rather, there’s something about the books that grates against my psyche.

What it boils down to is this: self-help books basically assume that life as we know it is wrong. I don’t like that, not one little bit.

Oh sure, I realize there are plenty of areas in my life that could be improved. I could work more, be more organized, and shave my legs more often. I could wake up earlier, write a thousand words before breakfast, and have that novel I’m not-so-dying-to-write drafted in fewer than a hundred days. I could eat less ice cream and choke down more spinach. I could run more and sleep less. But I don’t want to.

Rather, in the lovely days of summer that are managing to take my breath away (quite literally since some days have been sweltering), I’m choosing to ignore the improvement guides and pay attention to the things that are good in life—those things that may never grace my resume or make me more “successful,” but that matter nevertheless.

Like the fact that …

… my garden is flourishing and the corn is better than knee-high on this 4^th of July.

… the robin that resides in our patio’s shade has successfully birthed three rounds of birds—nine birds in all—and they’ve all joined the morning Hallelujah Chorus.

… my sister, Mary, who is victoriously battling breast cancer with the most positive attitude known to (wo)man, has found the strength to go back to work and will soon be done with chemotherapy.

… the hollyhocks, which I grow in part to honor Orleanna, the mother from The Poisonwood Bible, are eight feet high, bursting with color.

… the kids are enjoying their fleeting summer days, which have been filled with good work (Stephen), good sleeping (Kristina) and good play (Jordan).

… my students at Mott Community College continue to find the courage to face their fears and overcome personal challenges to better themselves.

… four baby rabbits are nestled in the midst of my raised garden bed and, although I may learn to regret their existence, I get to peek in on them every morning.

… Brad and I still love being together after almost twenty-three years, and that, even though life often feels too heavy and much too serious, we still make each other laugh.

There’s more, lots more. But the point is this: while there is much that is wrong with the world, there is so much more that is right. In all our daily grumblings, it’s easy to forget that.

“Find ecstasy in life,” Emily Dickinson wrote. “The mere sense of living is joy enough.” (This written by a recluse in poor health who often mused about death. Go, Emily.)

Perhaps it’s time we stopped wishing things were different and that we lived that utopian existence (which, by the way, would no longer be utopian, in part because we’d be in it) and celebrate what is good and right amidst the chaos.

Yes, self-help books have something to offer, and perhaps I’ll poke my nose into the stack sometime soon. But first I need to wander through my garden and check on the cucumber vines that do more for my soul than any self-help book ever could.

Snakes on a Plain

2012-06-15T18:54:00Z

Knowing how I feel about the things, my teenage son "lovingly" texted me this pic. There are no words for the fact that it is SLITHERING ON MY TOWEL!

I've seen three in the last two weeks.

I freaked as I hurdled the first one, which was camouflaged in brown. I lost my mind when I saw the second, all brilliant green and black. The third one was dead, but it still made me swear. And all three made me scream as if I had banged into Freddy Krueger himself in the deep, dark woods.

Perhaps you can only understand my irrational fear of snakes if you also possess some kind of irrational fear. Some may fear clowns, spiders, Santa Claus, and handshakes, but I'm terrified of the slithery, often colorful reptiles so much so that I once became convinced there was one in my college dorm room. It didn't matter that I went to college in a busy suburb or that I lived on the second floor. It was there, I knew it. And it wanted to get me.

Yes, I know they're as afraid of me as I am of them. And yes, I know they won't hurt me. I guess it's that unpredictable way they move that makes me a little nuts, which might explain why I'm also a little afraid of Lady Gaga.

I have yet to run up on Lady Gaga on the wooded trail.

Recently, I realized that my fear of snakes was one of the many reasons why I stopped running regularly. The "What if I see a snake?" caused me to keep my running shoes tossed under my bed. When I did run, I often ran in winter, simply because the temperature guaranteed me that the buggers wouldn't slither through snow. But winter gives me many more reasons not to run (it's cold, for instance, and there are cookies at home), and whole calendar years ticked by without me recording miles on my running log.

It was high stinkin' time I faced my fear.

Call me nutso (you wouldn't be the first), but it takes a terrific amount of courage for me to put one foot in front of the other when the "what if" exists. Every stick and piece of rope is suspect. I jump at every rustle in the leaves. Last week, I wigged out at the sight of a yellow banana peel carelessly tossed in the road.

I consider myself a brave sort of soul, but as I've considered the secrets of life while I slog through the miles, I've come to a surprising conclusion. I am afraid of many things.

On Monday, exactly one-half mile after I saw the dead snake that made me want to dart into traffic, I made a mental list of these fears, which include:

Bridges
Twitter
College tuition
Pedicures
The ingredients in a Chicken McNugget
Missing the moment
Losing someone precious
Cellulite
Being misunderstood
Failing miserably
And Florida (for obvious reasons)

Perhaps most of all, I fear my life won't count for anything. Life, like a snake, has a way of being unpredictable sometimes, acting all pell mell and helter skelter when you're just running along, minding your own business.

I'm tired of my fears keeping me from risking and sucking the marrow from this crazy life. So, for the past four weeks, I've laced up my shoes and headed to the wooded trail, or the dead-snake-dotted roadside, to look my fear in its beady little eyes.

It's sometimes wicked ugly, but there's a little voice deep inside that says, "It's about time."

There's a little humor in it, too.

On Wednesday morning, I ran the same route I did on Monday, knowing that I'd see the dead snake somewhere around mile two. Even though I was pretty sure where it was, my body reacted violently when I saw it, making the passing cars certain I suffered from Tourette's.

But then, at mile three, I ran up on a Michigan Anaconda, otherwise known as an automobile's rusted tailpipe. I swear I saw the five foot long, three-inch wide "snake" slither, and I screamed so loudly that it woke the dead possum nearby, causing it to scamper to the other side of the road.

Perhaps I should stop looking down.

I'm deciding to stop focusing on all that I'm so gosh darn afraid of and look ahead instead, trusting that my feet will carry me where I'm trying to go. After all, I am 45 years old; it's time to outrun the fears that too often hold me back. As I do, I'm wheezing words of gratitude that sometimes my fear of snakes, banana peels, and tailpipes makes me run faster, screaming all the while.

Everytown, USA

2012-06-08T16:47:24Z

Not my town, but it sure looks like it.

If you visit me (and Lord knows I wish SOMEONE would), you’ll take the Davison/Clarkston exit off Route 69 and drive one half mile down M-15 before turning left into my subdivision.

That half mile may be short, but I’m warning you … it’s pretty gross. Whenever I drive home from wherever I’ve been, and idle at the inevitable red light, I often sigh at the sight of the half mile before me. It’s a distance that I’ve not-so-fondly nicknamed “Fast Food Row.”

The following chains sit side-by-side along this depressing strip:

Pizza Hut
Big Apple Bagel
KFC
Applebee’s
Jimmy John’s
Taco Bell
Little Caesar’s
McDonald’s
Burger King
Arby’s
Subway
Italia Gardens
Lucky’s Steakhouse
Tim Horton’s
Hungry Howie’s
Big John’s Steak and Onion

In that mere 800 meters, the length of which my daughter can run in two minutes and 25 seconds, you can get a Big Mac and diabetes, high cholesterol and a Chalupa. Half of the restaurants have a drive-through, so you don’t even have to get out of your car to have a heart attack. Lucky you.

With all the competition, it’s hard to believe the establishments would all survive in this proverbial tough economy, but packing them tightly together like that apparently provokes a feeding frenzy, and the cars pile in. Sometimes the drive-through line is so long it spills onto M-15, wreaking all kinds of havoc, especially during rush hour (if you can call it that) in the smallish Midwestern town where I live.

Listen, I’m no Michael Pollan, and I cannot stand on my soapbox without hypocrisy since I enjoy the occasional fish filet from the yellow arches like most women over forty I know. Yet I can’t help but wonder about this ugly phenomenon and what can be done to prevent it.

Specifically, I ponder the following questions whenever I drive past “Fast Food Row’s” cornucopia of heart disease:

Why do we continue to both welcome and patronize businesses that are clearly trying to kill us?

How did my small town, which was once defined by its lovely farms, get eaten up by unhealthy “food” chains?

Why do we allow corporate giants to neuter the originality out of America?

Why does my town look exactly like most every town I know?

Years ago, I attended a communication conference in New Orleans. I could hardly wait to get there since I was desperate to experience a culture much different from the one in which I was living. But many of my hopes were dashed on the cab ride between the airport and the French Quarter. There, too, Burger Kings and Taco Bells splattered the landscape. I didn’t know what a Shoney’s was, but I quickly learned that it, too, was a chain.

Basically, I was in New Orleans, but I could have been anywhere. And therein lies the problem.

The fight against the fast food nation, which threatens to swallow the health, originality, and competing small businesses of towns across America, is yours and mine. A good place to start punching is refusing to use the drive-through in the first place. After all, no fast food establishment can survive if we refuse to feed it.

Cars, Paychecks, and Boys

2012-05-28T21:15:49Z

Davison Girls' Track Team: Big Nine Champs. My daughter, Kristina Button, stands in the upper left corner. Jumping coach and truth-teller, Jack Kelts, is in front.

I stood near the high jump mat with Jack Kelts, who is my daughter’s jumping coach, along with a lovely runner who was waiting for her next race.

I’m just getting to know Jack, a knowledgeable, kind, and unassuming man who randomly dispels great truths. This is what he did on this particular day as he captured what he hoped would be a teachable moment with one of his runners.

“There are three things that kill a female athlete,” he said levelly, his left arm crossed before him, his right hand extended, ready to make a point.

“Cars. Jobs. And boyfriends,” he said, accenting the “three deadly sins” with a one-two-three on his fingers.

The doe-eyed athlete, whose perfectly manicured nails told us that she would be going to the prom the following day, shrugged and tried not to roll her eyes before slinking away. But I stood dumbfounded, knowing some great truth of the universe had been dispelled before me.

That’s right! I thought. Oh my gosh, I’ve got to tell Kristina.

When I did, my daughter laughed, in part, because she’s heard a similar lecture from me ever since I thought she could understand it. My lecture goes something like this: these are great years you’re living. Don’t rush them.

Our kids are so anxious to grow up, make their own decisions, and be independent that they don’t realize when they undermine themselves. They walk through the high school parking lot, where hundreds of kids drive their own cars, and are reminded they are without. They ask friends about the new gadgets they own and hear how they’re bought with paychecks from after school jobs. And all it takes is one stroll down the “tunnel of lust,” otherwise known as the halls of high school, to remind them they are unattached.

It may be natural to want what others seem to have and enjoy, but most students don’t realize these things are often obtained at a very high price. Every choice—for a car, job, or relationship—is also a loss. Students who have them are often making a trade: money for car, time for money, freedom for relationship. They think they’re getting the better end of the deal, but too often teens trade away what might be best for something that is merely good.

Or, you know … not so good.

So listen up, female athletes, your parents and coaches are right when they tell you you’re living some of the most terrific years in your life. Although you can’t imagine it to be true, you will never again be this fit, free, or strong. Enjoy it.

Make sure you don’t trade away the fact that you can run a mile under seven minutes for twenty hours at Little Caesars with an Impala in the parking lot and a boyfriend waiting for your text when your shift is over. There’ll be plenty of time for that, trust me. Your ability to fly, however, happens once in a lifetime. So fly.

Where have all the (future) teachers gone?

2012-05-19T12:02:17Z

My daughter, Kristina, has wanted to be a teacher ever since second grade when Ms. Casadonte entered her life and made such a tremendous difference in it.

There's no doubt in my mind that Kristina would make a wonderful teacher, too. She’s smart. Funny. Organized. Creative. She’s the kind of person who’s poised to make a difference in the lives of all she encounters.

Anyone who has the chance to learn from her will never be the same. After all, she’s been teaching me new things for the past fourteen years.

This is why my heart sank this week when I checked in with her about her plans for the future.

“So, Kay-Kay, are you still thinking of becoming a teacher?” I casually asked as I set the dining room table for dinner.

She shrugged, her resignation apparent on her face. “No one recommends it, Mom,” she said. “No one.”

And she’s right. Virtually no one does.

I thought about Kristina’s response this week when I heard that Kindergarteners in Georgia will be included in a pilot program that asks students to evaluate their teachers with smiley faces, neutral faces, or frowning faces. Nice teachers win. Tough teachers lose. Foundational education, at least in Georgia, has been reduced to a popularity contest.

I think of Kristina’s response when I consider that teacher pay raises are now largely dependent on students’ performance on standardized testing, in spite of the fact that true educators know that one’s ability to learn does not necessarily correlate with one’s ability to test well.

I think of Kristina’s response when I consider that, while there is plenty of dialogue (usually from people who have never actually taught in a classroom) about the effectiveness of teachers, few seem to be talking about student motivation and parental involvement.

Kelly Flynn, author of Kids, Classrooms, and Capitol Hill is the exception to that. In her recent article for Education Week, she courageously spoke the truth when she wrote, “… at some point this national education conversation has to acknowledge the growing number of students who don't learn because they don't want to.”

(Preach it, Kelly!)

Finally, I think of Kristina’s response when I consider the often appalling attitudes of community members. Take, for instance, the business owner who was recently asked for a donation to help build playground equipment at his local elementary school. (The very elementary school, by the way, where his granddaughter will attend—and have recess—next year.)

His response?

“Those teachers. I’m telling you they’re sneaky. They’re always looking for ways to raise money so they can split it amongst themselves and put it in their pockets!”

I wonder if he’s talking about the “sneaky” teachers who buy school supplies out of their own meager paychecks for less fortunate children. Or perhaps he’s referring to the “sneaky” teachers who often spend their short summer vacations in classrooms themselves, attending classes they pay for to further their own educations. Or perhaps he’s referring to the “sneaky” teachers who wipe our children’s noses with Kleenex they’ve purchased with their own funds. Or perhaps he’s referring to the “sneaky” teachers who spend their lunches, evenings, and early mornings grading our children’s papers, leading our children’s clubs, or teaching our children’s sports.

Yeah, those teachers sure are sneaky!

Certainly, we need to do everything we can to change what has become a crusade against teachers. We need to rise up and change the dialogue, empower our educators, and consider qualitative measurement tools. (Ones that don’t ask five-year-olds their educational opinions.)

At the very least, we should hold our parents and students to the same high standards of accountability that we do our teachers.

If we do, our hardworking teachers may once again be willing to recommend their profession, and the best and brightest will consider it a career worth considering again.

Life as a Cover Girl

2012-05-10T15:54:19Z

I’ll never forget the conversation I had a year ago with my Aunt Connie and Uncle Leonard as I visited them in their cozy home in Taylor, Pennsylvania.

We talked about the things that all families talk about: ailments, the other relatives, crazy kids, and stories. Uncle Leonard captivated my kids and me with the story of watching a rat the size of a cat (Dr. Seuss, where are you?) slink into his neighbor’s garage across the street. Before I left, we talked about how my first book, The Waiting Place, would be released in the following month.

I’ll never forget the look on my Aunt Connie’s face, her eyes and her smile equally wide. “We have an author in the family,” she said admiringly. “You’ll be our first millionaire!”

Telling her I had written a book was like telling her I’d won the lottery.

A year later, I know for a fact what I suspected all along. In the same way that not all actresses earn Angelina Jolie’s paycheck, not all authors earn J.K. Rowling’s. But that’s not to say that I don’t feel like a million bucks sometimes. Life is good.

This month is especially fun since I joined the ranks of Cindy Crawford, Jennifer Lopez, and Kim (are-you-freaking-kidding-me) Kardashian when my mug graced the cover of Women2Women Magazine. The magazine may be just a wee bit smaller than "People," but in the words of fellow writer, Tammy Bovee, “It’s every writer’s dream come true!”

So, for those who wonder what it’s really like to be a cover girl, I’ve decided to dish. This may be the way it is for all those who grace covers. Then again, it may be the way it is just for me. I dunno. You decide.

The Photo Shoot

Some friends who saw the Women2Women cover asked about my “professional photo shoot" and “makeover,” which makes me tee-hee. Here’s the story behind the story:

Eighteen months ago, my editor asked me for a headshot for the back cover of The Waiting Place. I didn’t have a picture where I wasn’t making a chipmunk face into the camera. (I make an excellent chipmunk face. Next time you see me, ask me to show you.)

Since I’m too cheap to cough up money for a professional author’s photo, I borrowed a friend’s Kodak, handed it to my then-13-year-old daughter, Kristina, and we headed into the woods for that “natural shot.”

A hundred pics or so later, with me making chipmunk cheeks into approximately 73 of them, VOILA! An author photo. Of course, I no longer look like I look in that picture. For instance, I no longer feel the need to highlight my hair. Being a millionaire does that to you.

The Live TV Spot

Women2Women has a terrific relationship with WJRT-ABC 12 here in Flint, so today, at 4:00 pm, I’ll be on the news for three-and-a-half minutes. Woo-hoo!

The last time I was on live TV, I was 17 years old, and the girl who had to speak before me pulled a Cindy Brady (yes, from “The Brady Bunch”) and stared silently into the camera as though that little green light had hypnotized her for an excruciating full minute. Truly.

But I won’t pull a Cindy Brady because I once wanted to be Barbara Walters. More recently, I’ve wanted to be a less crotchety version of Andy Rooney, God rest his grumpy soul. So this is my “three-and-a-half minutes in time.” (Whitney Houston, where are you?)

I’ll take my friends’ advice and be myself. I’ll also try not to bounce around the studio like Tigger or ask the host, Terry Camp, if he wants to race me. I can’t promise, however, that I won’t giggle, snort, or talk with my hands.

The Makeover

In preparation for my TV interview, I asked my husband Brad if he thought it truly necessary to color what I fondly call my “skunk strip” in my hair. He gave me that blank look, as if I had just asked him if he thought it truly necessary to wear clothes on live TV. He finally said, “You know how I feel, Eileen. You always want to make sure you’re putting your best foot forward.”

I wasn’t asking him about my feet, but he lovingly bought me a box of Garnier Nutrisse Medium Golden Brown anyway, and I slapped it on. Beauty is pain, I tell you. It took twenty-five WHOLE MINUTES. I’m feeling high maintenance.

The Afterglow

The weird thing about having three-and-a-half minutes of fame is that it’s all over so quickly. Also, it doesn’t feel much different than my normal life. I’m still sorting unsortable socks, running out of milk, getting my kids to and from school, teaching, and writing. My spring teaching semester at Mott Community College began last night. My new students didn’t look at me like I was Oprah, but rather like I was that hurdle they must cross to get an A.

Yes, life is good, and it goes on. Soon, someone else will have to color her skunk strip to grace July/August’s Women2Women cover. But as long as I’m a millionaire, I’m sucking the marrow from this moment. Hear me roar.

The Fine Art of Putting Things Away

2012-05-04T17:28:23Z

Believe it or not, there are drawers for all these things in the Button house.

I am living in Shel Silverstein’s poem, Messy Room:

“His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.”

Okay. Even if you don’t know the poem, you get the picture.

Friends and family who call ahead and then visit me, in my spanking clean house, don’t believe that I live with tumbleweeds of dog hair scattered across my hardwood floors.

When I tell them our house usually looks like a bomb went off in it, they think I exaggerate. All they see is the pristine version of the Button home.

In other words, they see a lie.

The month of May is always an explosion of sorts, especially since there are mere weeks until the end of the school year. Like most busy families, our calendar is filled with good things to do: track meets, soccer games, awards banquets and honors nights. A speaking event here. New classes to teach there. There’s a garden to plant, clothes to clean, dinner to make, and a hairy canine to groom.

Consequently, our material lives explode around us, and nothing, it seems, ends up in quite the right place. Our minds are full, as evidenced by the fact that we can’t quite bring ourselves to put the milk back in the fridge or a roll of toilet paper on its spindle.

Once a day, because I often work in this dusty box, I do the rounds, grabbing, sorting, picking up, and putting away. It’s tough to write when there are books and bills and church bulletins and school papers strewn across the kitchen table. And so I clear a space, feeling the futility of it all, knowing it will once again be boogered up in just a few short hours.

This week, I’ve been thinking about putting things away on a deeper level, especially since I have a tendency to keep things out in my psyche that create nothing but an unholy mess in my professional life.

It’s easy, for example, for me to put away the toiletries, do the dishes and wipe the counters clean. It’s not so easy for me to put away hurtful words or criticisms. As messy as those are, I tend to keep them on display, allowing them to cloud my thinking, paralyze my writing, and remind me that my worst fears are true: I’m just not good enough.

Just this week, I held tightly to a day-shattering mess of a criticism that was not-so-gently handed to me by an elderly woman after a speaking engagement. Granted, I was not on my best game and the Nyquil-induced fog of morning may have rendered me a bit duller than usual, but her sharp words stung me in that deeply insecure place when she said, “You have an engaging speaking style, excellent gestures and you know how to hold your audience, but…”

But. That three-letter word delivered a hard slap. I had just shared my heart and pieces of my life with the group, but she told me I blew it. I was stunned. Embarrassed. Ready to crawl into the proverbial hole and hide for a long while. Why, I wondered, didn’t I ask more questions of the group? Why didn’t I speak less and listen more. Why did I risk sharing my story?

There. You see that mess? Now that’s something I needed to put away immediately. Instead, I left it out for the rest of the week and let it remind me that I would be a much better barista at Starbucks than I would ever be a writer and/or a speaker. It didn’t matter that the rest of the women from the group seemed delighted with what I shared; I allowed the words of one to shroud them all.

That’s foolishness, and I know better. It’s that same foolishness that I address when I try to teach my college students that their public speaking voices have worth. Yes, they should listen to the criticism and allow it to make them better. But more than that, I tell them to listen to the voices that remind them of what they do well.

I recently heard Ann Voskamp, author of One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are, speak at Calvin College’s Faith and Writing Conference. Voskamp asked a simple question that has been echoing in my soul: “When you’re creative, why is it so hard to believe that it’s any good?”

She went on to say that whenever we create that lovely thing that we are called to create, we must expect to bury something. We must either bury our fear in faith. Or—and this is truly tragic—will will bury our talents in fear.

Today, I’m burying—putting away, if you will—my fear in faith. I will listen to and glean whatever truth there is from criticism and (hopefully) allow it to make me better. But I will work to silence the voice that creates the messy room of my creative life.

It’s time to clean house, so to speak. I will shine light into the dark and littered corners, sweep away the debris, and try, try again.

After all, Theodore Roosevelt was right when he said, "It is not the critic who counts; not the (wo)man who points out how (another) stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the (wo)man who is actually in the arena ... and who, at the worst, if (s)he fails, at least fails while daring greatly."

My dad, the ever-quotable Clarkie Gable, says it this way: "How're you ever going to learn anything if you never make a mistake?"

Good words from two great men. I think I'll "put them away." Right into my heart.

The Chemistry of a Future College Student

2012-04-26T20:14:07Z

The Key by Jackson Pollock, The Art Institute of Chicago

“I dropped AP Chemistry,” my son, Stephen, said about his senior high school schedule. “And I’m going to take a half year of intro to art and a half year of painting instead!”

Stephen said this with light in his eyes, and I tried, best as I could, to match that light, even though I suspect that something akin to disappointment (and perhaps fear, if I’m honest) swept across my face in its place.

The logical voice that whispered from the left side of my brain said, “But you want to be a chemistry major in college, right? And chemistry majors don’t drop AP Chemistry in their senior years, especially when they want to go to colleges that are tough to get into.”

Fortunately, I kept those sentiments to myself. He needs to figure out these things for himself.

Here’s the problem: when Stephen and I visited the college that he grew to love, it was as if I “saw” him already there. I expected to bang into the older version of his beautiful self at any moment. (And yes, I do mean this in a time traveling, woo-hoo sort of way.)

I expected his older self to come up to me and put his arms around me and thank me for visiting, knowing I would not only take him to out to dinner and slip him money for coffee and pizza, but that I would also take him to Wal-Mart to replenish his dwindling stash of deodorant, saline solution, Ramen noodles and socks.

As the real-time Stephen and I strolled through the pine grove on our way from lunch to the student-led panel, I swear I “saw” him sitting with a group of friends on a red and navy plaid Woolrich blanket, pretending to study in the shade. And when I peeked through the closed door of that philosophy class, I “saw” him there in the third row where he may not adore the subject, but had learned to appreciate the professor enough to tolerate her obsession with Plato and Descartes and … I dunno, maybe Lennon and Dylan.

And when I "saw" Stephen there, my heart broke into a thousand pieces because I worried that we might not be able to afford the college or, worse yet, that he might not be accepted, which would not only be a disappointment, but a GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT.

This coming from an optimist who regularly tells people that she’s “not a worrier.” Right.

When we left campus on that picture-perfect autumn day, I remember thinking, If he wants to go here, I will do anything for him to attend this place. I will work multiple jobs. Teach several hundred students. Pour coffee. Dig holes. Scrub toilets.

And yet … he switched out of AP Chemistry. And is taking art and painting. Art. Painting. Help!

In the face of that reality there is a voice that reprimands me: “Simmer! Simmer Down Now!” (In classic Saturday Night Live drawl, of course.)

It reminds me that I took neither physics nor advanced chemistry in my senior year, choosing horticulture instead, which was known as the easy way out. And although I remember little other than the fact that I watered many philodendrons and spider plants that year, I can only suspect that it planted in me a deep love of all things green that has stuck with me, nourishing both my heart and soul.

Left-brain logos might tell me Stephen will have a better shot at getting accepted into a biochemistry program if he actually shows that he’s interested in biology and chemistry, but I’m learning to let go, and Let Go, and LET GO! and accept whatever it is that he feels he needs to do to, not only “make it through” his senior year in high school, but to fully enjoy it as well.

“What’re you taking again?” I asked.

“Intro to art and painting,” he answered, with that same light in his eyes.

We discussed Jackson Pollock, whom I know little about other than what I once caught on 60 Minutes. “I think that’ll be great,” I said, trying to mean it.

Let go, and let go, and let go, I reminded myself. This is his time. His moment. His life. If I give him that space, he will make the best of it. And no college should fault him for that.

Ode to "Our Town"

2012-04-18T17:39:40Z

“Goodbye! Goodbye world! Goodbye Grover’s Corners … Mama and Papa. Goodbye to clocks ticking—and my butternut tree! … and Mama’s sunflowers … and food and coffee … and new ironed dresses and hot baths … and sleeping and waking up! Oh earth, you’re too wonderful for anyone to realize you!

If you don’t recognize that as Emily’s Gibbs’ monologue from Thornton Wilder’s great American play, Our Town, then I’m sorry to tell you that your high school English teacher totally jipped you.

I was only 17-years-old when I first read the script, but it struck a chord inside me where I didn’t even know there was music. Over the years, the play became a filter of sorts through which I saw the world—a theology, if you will, and I mean that in the most respectful way. It challenges me to open my eyes and see the moment for what it is, even when it’s ugly, predictable or mundane.

A few days ago, I saw the play again (this time with my entire family by my side) at the Flint Youth Theater, which is the coolest little playhouse. I was thrilled to be able to share Our Town with the people I love most in the world, but I was worried; what if the actors couldn’t do the play justice? After all, I own the PBS version featuring Robert Redford as the narrator, and who dares take on Robert Redford? But the actors did not disappoint, and the play’s theme rang clear in our hearts:

Life is fleeting.

Life is beautiful.

We best not miss it.

For those unfamiliar with the script, Our Town is a play about small town life in the early nineteen hundreds. That may not sound like it would entertain today’s savvy, action-loving audiences. After all, the play has few props. No glitz. No glamour. No sex, drugs or rock ’n roll.

(Correction: The Flint Youth Theater did manage to work in Elton John’s, “The Bridge,” into the script, which may sound a bit sacrilegious to devoted “Our Towners,” but it worked somehow. And as long as I’m offending, the theater group also performed some tastefully choreographed dance moves between acts. But best of all, two characters, Mr. Webb and Mrs. Gibbs, were played by African American actors, which made the story line all the more rich, if you ask me.)

My kids “got it.” And they seemed to love it. When Kristina was later asked by one of her friends what the play was about, I held my breath. Even the most passionate play-goers find it hard to explain Our Town to those who have yet to experience it. And yet, Kristina summed it up with a single word: “Life.”

Ah, yes. Life! (Or in the words of Thornton Wilder, “We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”)

Driving home from the theater, our family quickly slipped back into the twenty-first century, assisted by the blaring car radio. One of our favorite songs, “We Are Young” by Fun, came on and we belted out the lyrics into the cool night air, singing:

“Tonight

we are young

so let’s set the world on fire

we can burn brighter than the sun!”

And as we pulled into the driveway, it hit me that this was one of those moments—like all moments, I suppose—that we will never get back fully. That good feeling of being in a playhouse … that humbling sense that we had experienced something profound … that joy as we hollered out a favorite song together. It struck me that the five of us will never again be that young or that innocent. We will never be together in the exact same way ever again.

Instead of being wistful about that, I choose to be thankful that I noticed. With a grateful heart, I whisper, “Oh earth, you’re too wonderful for anyone to realize you.”

And so it is. And so it is.

The hoedown on dirt

2012-04-11T15:47:01Z

I write a "Simply Living" column for Women2Women Magazine. The following ran in the March/April edition. Perhaps it's best read with a potato peeler in-hand.

There’s a little red pail that sits on my kitchen counter filled with all kinds of disgusting things.

It contains slimy lettuce, browned apple peelings, a squishy cucumber, sticky eggshells and moldy ends of bread. Used up coffee grounds are sprinkled throughout.

My kitchen may be the place where I pretend to be Rachael Ray, but the little red pail adds a dimension to the meals I create here. With the zeal of a mad scientist, this is where I make soil. Every day is Earth Day in the Button home.

Pretty much everyone wants to make earth-friendly decisions. I think it’s the “how” that gets in the way. Creating a compost pile is a great place to start. It’s cheap. It’s easy. And it uses what you already have rotting around the house.

Yet few compost. According to the EPA, only three percent of the 34 million tons of soil-enriching food waste is actually composted. The rest is sent to our landfills, needlessly wasted.

So if you’re ready to turn potato peels into luscious tomato plants and gorgeous dahlias, here are a few tips to get you started:

First, the outdoor compost pile needs to be enclosed. Manufacturers may want consumers to spend hundreds of dollars on swanky bins, but any container that allows you to occasionally turn the soil works just fine.

Then again, my grandmother kept it simple with a freestanding pile on the edge of her garden. She regularly turned it with a pitchfork. It may not have been pretty, but it got the job done.

Second, two colors need to be kept in mind when creating soil: brown and green.

Brown elements include leaves, topsoil, eggshells, shredded paper, dog hair, vacuum cleaner bag contents and sawdust.

Green elements include expired produce, potato peelings, apple skins, peels from oranges and bananas (cut up small), used coffee grounds (Starbucks offers them for free) and old manure from cows, chickens, goats or lambs. It helps to get to know your local farmer.

Fresh grass clippings are excellent additions since they decompose fast and produce the heat needed to break down organic materials. However, keep chemically-treated clippings out of the pile, since they can poison the soil and prohibit seed and plant growth.

Third, the compost needs a little sunshine, a little water and a little magic. The David Copperfields of the compost pile are earthworms. They work hard for free food and can be bought cheap at many gas stations. The squeamish need not worry; there’s no need to touch the buggers or even look at them. Simply open the package and toss them into the pile. They’ll know what to do.

Braver souls (who should be on the next episode of Fear Factor) can easily collect worms from wet pavements or open fields. The big ones come out at night. All you’ll need is a flashlight, a coffee can and a little courage.

Finally, buy yourself a little pail, set it on your kitchen counter and start filling it. In no time, you’ll have soil and plants that are the envy of the neighbors. Plus, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you’re helping to save the earth one banana peel … one lettuce core … one eggshell at a time.

Buy a Hoodie, Save the World

2012-03-30T18:53:44Z

And now, in a bizarre twist of public outrage, we are once again asked to show our support, not by thoughtful discourse or intelligent argument, but by … um, buying stuff.

Media outlets report that Trayvon Martin’s tragic death has officially been branded. Retailers across the country and on the internet are encouraging us to wear our hearts quite literally on our sleeves, as they produce T-shirts and hoodies featuring the teen who was gunned down in a Florida neighborhood a month ago.

In response to the sales, Martin’s parents have filed for two trademarks, “Justice for Trayvon” and “I am Trayvon,” in an apparent effort to keep marketers from exploiting their son’s name.

Across the country, concerned citizens are furiously buying up clothing, bumper stickers, buttons and posters. Once again, we’re doing what we’ve always done. We’re allowing merchandisers to control our message.

Some marketers claim to have noble reasons behind their efforts, while others admit to using Martin’s death to get their store name in the public eye.

Can you say, “Exploitation?”

I shouldn’t be surprised that the same nation that celebrates the birth of Christ with the purchase of iPads (and the death of Christ with chocolate bunnies) would respond to accelerated racial tensions with the purchase of a $40 hoodie. But I am.

The hard-to-swallow truth is that the way to get to an American’s heart is through his wallet (or her purse).

Clearly, it's a sign of the times. But we must ask ourselves why our indignation against every atrocity, every disease, and every injustice must be expressed through our materialism. I’d like to think that we’ve evolved some since the post-9/11 message that said the best way for Americans to fight terrorism was to go shopping. But we haven’t.

Think about it. Virtually every imaginable cause has been merchandised. Happily, we’ve bought in. Every color means something: wear pink to fight breast cancer, yellow if you support our troops, blue if you’re against bullying and red if you’re trying to raise heart disease awareness.

And don’t even get me started on the Kony phenomenon. The Kony 2012 action kit, which has since sold out (much to public fury), included a T-shirt, bracelet, action guide, stickers, buttons, and posters. On the website invisiblechildrenstore.myshopify.com the kits were sold with the following description: “People will think you’re an advocate of awesome … You can decorate yourself and the town with this one-stop shop.”

My stomach roils at the words.

This is not so much a criticism of merchandisers who are doing what they’re supposed to do, even if they do it quite “vulturistically.” After all, it’s their job to identify trends, develop merchandise, and ride the wave toward keeping them in the black. I get that.

Rather, this is a criticism of a consumeristic nation that no longer seems to know how to stand for anything if it doesn’t require them to whip out their credit cards. Our civic engagement has been replaced by one stop shopping.

It’s a wonder that Martin Luther King’s message survived at all without “I have a dream” T-shirts clothing the nation.

Ah, you say, but that was another time. Yes, it was.

I don’t wish to live in that time again, knowing that both African Americans and women were severely repressed and discriminated against. But I do wish we could move beyond the lie that “justice will be served” if (and only if) we purchase a hoodie that states that.

Googleless (and liking it)

2012-03-24T01:03:46Z

My laptop is, once again, performing terrorist acts. It’s a suicide bomber of sorts, not only taking itself out every once in a while, but also trying to ruin my family’s many plans for it.

Fortunately, I have a whiz of a friend who regularly fixes it. When I told him of my computer’s most recent acts of terror, he texted, “Eileen, Eileen, Eileen. Get me your computer.”

In between his texted lines, I could feel him shaking his head at me.

I handed my bad boy over, happy that it’s in the hands of the master. I’m also surprisingly relieved to be free of it for a while.

This week has been an eye-opening one for us all. And while I’m sure my techno-adept children would beg to differ with me, it’s been a wonderful week. Each day, I’ve breathed a word of thanks, grateful for the reprieve.

Truth is, in spite of my intention to live otherwise, my family lives much like the rest of contemporary culture with all its technological trappings. We have a laptop, a television and gaming systems. My teens both have cellphones, and Stephen has a Kindle. Oh, we put limits on it all, but our online time can get away from us. In short, we’re not as Amish as I always hoped we’d be.

Being without a computer has forced us to be more intentional about the way we used our time and how we accomplished what we needed to do. Since I’m an extravert who prefers to write on the computers at the public library anyway, my dilemma seemed easy at first. Budgetary cuts, however, have forced the library to reduce its hours, leaving me only two hours a day to write while my kids were in school.

This is far from enough. I can barely get my groove on before it's time to switch back to being Mom.

In addition, my kids needed to do their homework at the library or at Brad’s office. Since they’re teenagers, they function best late at night. Brad and I, however, do not.

In short, being laptop-less has crimped our style.

However—and this is a BIG however—it’s been wonderful to (temporarily) plug one of the holes in our family life. We were unable to watch questionable YouTube videos or update Facebook statuses. Even I, in all my imaginary Amishness, had to fight against the desire to Google on a whim. That song from folk singer, Jay Brannan. That thought-provoking NPR podcast. An interview by Charlie Rose. Oh, well.

Instead, our family had more space to think. And with the weather’s cooperation, we’ve taken walks, dug around in the garden, hung laundry on the line, exercised the dog, lingered at the dinner table and read on the patio. It’s been good. Really good.

I could not be much of a writer and remain computerless, especially in this day and age when it seems just as important to promote yourself online as it is to write good prose. And yet, this week I was able to think deeper, consider greater truths and absorb some of the sun in the process.

This leads me to wonder how much I miss on a daily basis because I’m letting my ping-pong-y brain lead me down the stupidest bunny trails all in the name of “working.” It also leads me to wonder how much we’re all missing in our futile attempt to miss nothing at all.

Brad's Wife

2012-03-16T17:56:40Z

Who am I? Who is anyone, really? Lately, I’ve been thinking about how we define ourselves, particularly in relation to someone else.

My husband, Brad, has been out of town this week for a much-needed getaway to visit his brother and sister-in-law, Steve and Tiffany, in Portland, Oregon. I couldn’t wait for him to go, not because I don’t enjoy him by my side, but because sometimes his job can be a heavy load. (My words, not his.) Daily, he carries so much on his broad shoulders that I was thrilled to have him set it all aside for a little while.

For me, it’s been a long week.

It’s not that I can’t handle the kids or the house or juggle life as we know it (I am woman, hear me roar!), but simply that I miss him. After twenty-two years of marriage, I miss him.

I’m thinking that’s a good sign.

I miss our morning coffee together, the half hour or so that we spend in between dropping the kids off at school and the time he leaves for the office. This is when we might talk about our kids, some financial concerns, or a fascinating story from NPR.

But more often than not, we talk about our dreams. Not the goofy ones where we run naked through the halls of our respective high schools, but the real ones we have for our future together. Dreams of further education. Dreams of living in a tiny house (with tall ceilings). Dreams that we might live closer to my family.

After all these years, we still dream together. I’m thinking that’s a good sign, too.

I miss his phone calls throughout the day where we have little of nothing to say other than, “How’s your day going?” or “Did we get anything exciting in the mail?” The answers are usually “Fine” and “Nope,” but it doesn’t matter. We check in. We show that we care. We try to listen. We enter and exit one another’s lives, and there’s a comfort in that.

I miss peeking at the clock around 5:30 p.m., knowing he’ll be home soon if he doesn’t have a late night meeting. And while I’ve never been one to “ready” myself for him, like June Cleaver (who must’ve needed an awful lot of valium), I do ready my heart to have him back home for a while. I prepare to be available. I look into his eyes and gauge, not from his words necessarily (if you know Brad, you know he can be a man of few), but from his “look” how his day went.

Since I knew he would be gone this week, I had planned to write my buns off and do some things I wanted to do. I asked my sister, Susie, who has a two-year-old at home, what she would do if she were me. “I’d go to Pier One for a few hours. Buy a few coffee mugs. Look at stuff,” she said.

I didn’t go to Pier One. In fact, I didn’t go much of anywhere.

Instead, I wandered a bit. Wrote some. Baked a little. Parented. Loved. Watched most of the train wreck of the Bachelor Finale. Wrote some more. Planted some lettuce and spinach seeds. Hung sheets on the line. Posted midterm grades. Attended a delightful book club. Took a walk through the trails. Appreciated the spectacular grace of an early spring. And waited.

The feminist, bossy side of me told me I was being pathetic. She screamed, “YOU ARE EILEEN! YOU ARE NOT YOUR HUSBAND’S WIFE!”

I told her to shut her face.

Because here’s the thing: I am my husband’s wife. And here’s another thing: this is a bit of a revelation to me. After decades of ambitiously trying to define myself as someone apart from others—a writer, an author, a ... something—I’m finally realizing that it's who I am in relation to everyone else that truly matters.

It matters that I am my children’s mother.

It matters that I am my students’ teacher.

It matters that I am my friends’ confidant.

It matters that I am my sisters’ sibling.

It matters that I am my parents’ and my parents’-in-laws daughter.

It matters that I am my husband’s wife.

So here’s what I plan to do with this information: I’ll drive to the airport to bring my husband home. We’ll make a pot of coffee together. Talk about everything. Talk about nothing. Dream a little. Let the comfortable silence settle between us.

And when we do, I’ll breathe a word of thanks for the fact that I am his wife. I’ll listen to the echo of what Susan Sarandon said about marriage in the movie Shall We Dance? “Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness.”

At the end of my life, I can only hope that Brad, along with those I’ve loved along the way, will say that I loved well.

There's Something About Mary

2012-03-07T19:48:50Z

There are a few things you should know about my sister, Mary:

She looks like Reese Witherspoon. She’s that beautiful. When she walks into a room, it brightens, and people turn just to see the sunshine.

My sister, Susie, and I both call her “Mar-Mar,” but she’s “Aunt Mimi” to our children.

Whenever she laughs really hard, her nose turns yellow. Susie and I always stare so we can make fun of her. This, of course, makes Mary laugh harder. We can play this game for hours.

She was born with Situs Inversis, meaning her organs mirror yours and mine. Her appendix, for example, is on her left side. Doctors like to freak out their residents by having them check her heart since it's on her right instead of her left. Susie and I like to tell Mary that her first steps were taken backwards. Although the harmless condition is genetic, my mom often tells people that she suspects it occurred when mom rode a Tilt-O-Whirl pregnant. Seriously.

Mary’s a child of the 80s and has the big hair pictures to prove it.

A former gymnast, she performed the county’s best side aerial (a no-handed cartwheel) on the balance beam. At large meets, the entire gym would pause during her beam routine just to watch her fly.

She’s our family’s youngest child, but she often acts like the oldest, taking on the role of caregiver. Her love is unmatched in both passion and practicality.

She adores Dave, her true gem of a husband. (The picture above is from their 2010 carnival wedding.) They’ve been married one-and-a-half years and are proving that the second time around really can be the charm.

A devoted mom, she’d do anything for her daughter, Alyson, a high school senior, along with her two stepsons, who are both deeply affected by Friedreich’s Ataxia. To combat the disease, Mary is a grassroots fundraiser, event planner and social media expert for the Friedreich’s Ataxia Research Alliance (FARA). She and Dave have a network of incredible people who battle the disease with hope, humor and strength.

She’s a camping and wine enthusiast whose idea of a good time is sitting around a fire, holding cheese and crackers in one hand and a glass of Merlot in the other.

Ask her who’s running for president and she’ll give you a blank stare that asks, “Who cares?” I like to tease her about the fact that she thought John McCain was the sitting vice president in the 2008 election.

And yet, she’s a big time smarty pants who is great at problem solving and is a technological whiz. At Monroe Community College in Rochester, she’s an Instructional Designer and Training Specialist who teaches professors how to teach their online classes. In their eyes, she’s “Dr. Mary,” expert in all things technological.

While she’s a social media expert, she can be intensely private. In fact, she may not like this post, although I’m hoping she won’t mind all that much.

Finally, Mary has breast cancer. Since her diagnosis less than a month ago, she has faced the beast head on. Last Thursday, she endured a seven-hour radical surgery. She gains strength daily, surrounded by friends and family who would do anything in the world for her. For some, it’s no doubt payback time. She’s done so much for so many for so long, people are literally tripping over themselves to now help her.

Mary may have breast cancer, but she’s made it clear from the start that it does not define her. Watching her tackle it—with pragmatism, determination and clarity of mind and spirit—has inspired our entire family. “We need to take notes, Eileen,” Susie said. “If this ever happens to us, I want to respond just like Mary has.”

Indeed, I do, too.

These days, she is the magnet for my thoughts and emotions. I find it impossible to make dinner, take a shower, drive to work, get a cavity filled, teach class, write emails, check Facebook, etc., without thinking of her. In the last few weeks, I’ve had to make lists to myself just so that I could complete the most basic of tasks:

~~Wash dishes~~

~~Pick up kids from school~~

Fold laundry

Check on status of book proposal

Compile taxes
~~Balance checkbook~~

~~Grade papers~~

Write something
Respond to emails

~~Buy milk, bread, eggs~~

Not all things have been accomplished. Life has been recalibrated. Many things that formerly filled my heart and occupied my thoughts seem silly now. Superfluous. My soul is drawn to those things that truly matter: family, health, laughter, love, healing, faith and friendship.

Mary is many things to many people. She is mom, stepmom, daughter and wife. She is an employee, a “techie,” a hard worker and a patient.

She is a woman of grace, courage and strength to all who know her.

To me, she is my baby sister. She is also my hero.