Brown Paper Bag Kind Of Friends...

Have you ever had the kind of friends that made you want to show up with a brown paper bag over your head? Not that your friends did, but your feelings of not being enough did? No?  That is good.  Me, well, not so.  On the journey of self-discovery and learning to focus more on my faith and less on my face, I have learned that hiding under a brown paper bag is not what being a friend is all about.

A few Thursdays ago, I met with most of my tribe at the local park. We sat around and did what we love to do best. We shared deeply from our souls, we talked and laughed and even shed a few tears.  When all was said and done, we walked to our cars to say our goodbyes.  One member from the tribe surprised us with a grocery bag full of strawberry plants.

They were separate, about six of them sitting on a plastic tray in a brown grocery bag. I placed them in the back of my car, gave my hugs as we said our goodbyes and headed home. For two days, the plants were left, forgotten in the back of my car. No water, little oxygen and very little sunlight through my darkened windows. By the time, I realized I had forgotten them, I thought for sure they would be dead.

I popped open the back of my car, grabbed the brown bag and looked deep down into the paper holding them in place, and low and behold they were still alive. I quickly pulled them out of the bag, knowing their life was dependent on me and took them straight to my back yard.  I ripped the bag open as fast as I could as if I was about to give them C.P. R.

I gently lifted the flat plastic container that was holding them together up and out and placed them in my garden. I looked in amazement at what I saw.  A few shriveled up buds and dried up soil but the plants were still plump and green.  The most amazing part was the way they appeared to have huddled all together as if to give and get energy from one another. They looked like they were holding on tightly to one another for hope of being found. 

I stared at the plants holding each other and it made me think of my tribe, those who I huddle together with who help me when my soil is dry and my water is low, when I can barely breath and there is no sunlight in site. I looked at those plants and I was reminded of how important my survival is dependent on my interdependence of my tribe.

I grabbed some water and fed the beautiful green strawberry plants that were depending on me to help them grow and as I drenched their dry soil, I found myself filled with gratitude for those who have helped me out of my brown bag.   I am thankful for the ones who love me enough to let me be me.  Grateful for the fact that when we come together even in our dry times we can add life and energy to survive,  just like the strawberry plants huddled together waiting to be cared for.

I believe we were created to connect in the same way as the strawberries did in the brown paper bag.  Thank you God for strawberry plants and friends who love deeply and live authentically.  I will never look at another strawberry plant or brown paper bag the same way again.

Thank you for letting me share!

The lovers, the dreamers and me....

How can it be that two people who have not talked in a while, who are on opposite sides of the country could be thinking about the very same thing at the very same moment and when they connect, they are both shocked and surprised?

That is what happened last night when I called my sweet soul sister and we started talking,  only to find out she has been pondering the teachings of Kermit the frog as well. The lovers the dreamers and me.

I was sitting in the same parking lot I had been sitting in just two weeks earlier crying, stuck in the wash of shame for making a life choice that was good for me but felt more familiar, like a quitter from my past. Only to come to find out that the recent choice led to open space to follow the lovers the dreamers and me, and I stepped right into another piece of my calling.

Now two weeks later no tears but rather giggles and ah ha moments with a dear friend over the phone. We both realized that it is a brain thang, not what we do but how we think, that matters most, as a woman thinks she is.  Two women of faith who are choosing to believe we are forgiven and free and are walking or hopping like our hero Kermi.  We know it's not easy being green but someone has to do it and we both raise our hands and say pick me.   We will be counted as two of the lovers and dreamers.

I will be counted as a women who is not afraid to leap into the life God has created for me. Not forcing my way but letting the wind lead me. Which lands me into deep conversations with soul sisters as I had last night?  It leads me into ice cream trucks, care units and chaplaincy calls. 

I have a choice to sit back and watch or jump into this beautiful crazy messy thing I call my life and I choose to leap in with all I have. I am grateful for that phone call last night, conversation, connections and understanding, needed at just the right time. 

Words of wisdom and encouragement from a friend who shares the same calling to live in the middle of her message, forgiven and set free. Thank you sista you know who you are.  You held sacred space for me last night, not judging me but cheering me on.  Thank you for laughing with me and at me and giving me permission to do the same with the way you responded so beautifully with your words and your silence.  

You are a gift my friend and I truly carry your message with me every time I step into my yes where I only see what's in front of me. Keep telling your story, it helps other lovers, dreamers, and me!

Thank you for letting me share.

Cris

These hands are not my own...

These hands are not my own.  I look at my long fingers that seem a little chubby but I think that is just a story I have told myself.  When I look at each finger, nail, palm I do not just see my hands, I see my mothers and grandmothers. 

I sit in my big blue chair in aw as I stare at both hands realizing that they are not my own. My mothers, grandmothers, her mother, her grandmother and so on.  My hands carry generations of women who had stories of struggles, victories, families, hopes and dreams just like me.  A generation who passed down their ability to perserver under pressure while keeping their faith intact.  

Sometimes when I take a glimpse at my hands, I do not see mine but I see those who have gone before me.   Mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, aunts, sisters and so forth.  I believe if my hands could talk from voices of my past, with skin that has been shared what I would hear would be “good job Cristina Dolores, follow what your fingers want to do.”

I think the women who have gone before me have left me with stregth, courage and perseverance. 

Not only do I have my mothers side stretching across my palms, I have my fathers side as well and all the women who had worked hard to create businesses so that they could bring their families to this country for a better way of life.

The women from my past, the women whom I have never met and will never meet on this side of eternity have given me the gift of stregth and courage to step into the unknown, to persevere and not give up when the going gets tough. I look at my hands and I realize they are no my own.

Thank you for letting me shares…..

Proud member of the Price/Perez Family heritage

Cristina Dolores Perez-Nole

There is more to a boy....

 “There is more to a boy than what his mother sees.  There is more to a boy then what his father dreams.  Inside every boy lies a heart that beats.  And sometimes it screams, refusing to take defeat.  And sometimes his father’s dreams aren’t big enough, and sometime his mother’s vision isn’t long enough.  And sometimes the boy has to dream his own dreams and break through the clouds with his own sunbeams.”

-Ben Behuni

Last night I went to bed thinking about the fact that my boy will be preparing for his 18th birthday next year at this time.  I wonder how in the world did this happen so fast.  He came into my life early, we were unprepared for his preemie body but we walked by faith as they placed his tiny three-pound body into my arms, only after watching him from a distance for the first three days of his life. 

 How did my tiny little miracle out grow me?  It seems like only yesterday I was changing his diapers, chasing him around the house, singing him to sleep, walking him to school, answering his questions about the moon. Now that boy who once was fighting for life is now fully living his life.  He went from diapers and bottle to legos and trucks.  He graduated to writing, cameras, and creating.  He is a man who does not follow the crowd or conform to this world. 

He has a gentle faith that believes in the best of all and is willing to defend the weak.  He is a teacher a learner and one who loves deeply.  How did this happen?  One day at a time, one moment at a time, my tiny little boy grew into a man.

Dedicated to one of my hero’s Vito Nole

From the moment, I held you I knew God gave you to me to remind me not to take life to seriously.  Keep being you, the world is a better place because you are in it.

Love Your #1 Fan
Mom

The More Is In The Mess...

Welcome to my mess. Please come in, pull up a seat and excuse the mounds of over exaggerated experiences.  Yes, I have yet chosen to clean up the scraps, the pieces, the dust, it is all still lingering for all to see.

Why? You ask. The mounds of mess in the middle of those piles are answered prayers. I figured before I found my way through the mess I would look for what I have been searching for.

Just today, I dusted off a corner of the clutter and suddenly appeared courage with a big C. Courage to live in the moment, fold into my feelings and forget about what the world around me thinks. In the middle of the mess is the more I had been looking for all of my life. More meaning, purpose and direction, not to mention peace and possibly even patients to wait in the mess.

Funny, one day I felt the creator whisper to my soul “stop being so quick to clean up." It was an odd encouragement. Stop, look, listen, go through, mingle among the mess was the message I was getting.

With a deep breath and deep faith, I put a halt to my need to clean. I stopped looking at my mess as a mistake and instead received it as a miracle to be unearthed.

Standing before my mess made me uncomfortable. I felt less then, not good enough, irresponsible and lacking any credibility as a responsible adult.  I mean, what would King Lempel’s mother think if she saw me standing before my mound of chaos?

Yet, the more I relaxed into my mess the more the Divine started to refine my way of thinking about who I am and whose I am. It was in those moments that I became comfortable with the mess before me.

Here is the truth. Life is messy.  In addition, my mess is not a sign of weakness or lack of faith or lack of involvement but rather a sign of a life being lived.

The religious rule followers are uncomfortable with my mess. How do I know this? I use to be one of them; I can scout them out a mile away. I based my value in how less a mess I had. I believed it made me a "better" believer, if there is even such a thing.

In reality, it caused me to take my eyes off the eyes of the one who breathed life into my very existence. It caused me to care more about cleaning up then sitting still.  I had years of being told God is a God of order, cleanliness is next to Godliness all of those padded answers that people with good intentions spouted out and I believed.

Do not get me wrong, I do believe that God is about order but first there is a mess.  Look at anything worth creating and you will see creating is messy; order is a by-product of the creation.

 

One day I came to the realization that true life, the get down and dirty kind of walking in the foot steps of Jesus living is messy, sometimes two or three showers a day kind of messy.  I came to understand that my faith was not calling me to clean up but get up.  My faith was not calling me to look good but rather look for, look at and look up.  

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Today I have the privilege of traveling this journey with many amazing messy followers who are constantly asking, “Is there more,” and I gently remind them as I remind myself yes, the more is in the middle of the mess.  More meaning, more purpose, more beauty, look into the middle of your mess with a magnifying glass and you will see that the more you have been looking for has been there all along. 

Thank you for letting me share.

Cris

 This article is dedicated to my beautiful baby sister Michelle who is courageous enough to live her life in the middle of her mess.  She is brave, bold and beautiful and one of the strongest women of faith I know.  Keep running your race sis, you know how to mingle in your mess and you inspire others to do the same.

      

Making Your Bed In The Morning...

  Have you ever wondered if making your bed in the morning is overrated?  I am praying that my kids do not read this blog post before they are all out of the house.  As a returning college student, after twenty years, I can see why making ones bed in the morning does not seem as important as I have made it out to be over the last seventeen plus years of each of their lives.  I would venture to say, my twenty seven year old would probably agree as well. 

  However, the saying still goes, cleanliness is next to Godliness right?  That sounded so proper when I would whisper it to myself as I walked through my daily chore list while sending kids off to school,  not so much anymore.

 

  Here I sit in front of my computer, two weeks into my new college career and I have a completely new appreciation for my young adults who are either finishing off their high school career or just starting their adventure in college.  Oh how I forgot what it was like to be a student.  Granted, they are much younger then I am but there is still the stress of keeping up with the agenda of the teacher regardless of what is going on in and around your life.   

  I recently found myself miscalculating my morning and thought I would have time to get my son to school, my bed made and bags packed for my own class schedule.  It was not the case; I looked at my bed, shrugged my shoulders and said aloud as if my pillows were my audience, “making the bed is so overrated.”   I grabbed my purse, books and water bottle and headed out the door, hoping to be able to at least make it home before anyone found out I broke my own rule.

  I  debated for a second on whether I should tell my children my thoughts around making the bed first thing in the morning but then I thought I might loose some of my credibility as a mom.  I decided to keep that little tidbit to myself until the last one has flown the nest and then I will share how I feel about making the bed.  Do not get me wrong, I love when my bed is made first thing in the morning but do I find it a moral failure to leave it UN done, no and I should have never treated my children that way when they were younger.  What can I say, I was a mom navigating my way around parenting and training them in the way they should go.  Bed making 101, oh how I would do things differently.

  However, today, if I had a choice between making beds or eating breakfast together you bet it would be the later.  I would leave more space to sit with my kids, share about what is going on in their world, and I would be less concerned about dust bunnies, UN made beds and dirty floors.

  I know there is a greater lesson for me to learn as I step back into the classroom.  There is a big picture to be seen as I walk in the shoes of a student.  Only two weeks into the journey and I find myself with more compassion and empathy for my own kids that are students as well as others on the journey. 

  Everyday my brain is stretched as it has never been stretched before.  Everyday I find that I am trying to keep up with those who are ten and twenty years younger then me without competing or comparing.  Everyday I find that when I sit down with my red journal wide open to write the lessons I learned for the day, I could write for hours. 

  This going back to school is much more about me being given a second and third chance to do over what I did not think I could do the first time around.  This going back to school is about me getting the opportunity to connect with the next generation coming up in a non-threatening way.  This going back to school is about me understanding that I am much stronger then I ever believed I was and most importantly, this going back to school has allowed me to see that making my bed is highly overrated. 

Thank you for letting me share.

Cris

The Invitation

Another poem dedicated to my tribe.

Love you ladies to the sky and back.

_______________________________________

by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for,

and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's desire.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool

for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow,

if you have been opened by life's betrayals,

or have become shriveled and closed for the fear of future pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain,

mine or your own,

without moving to hide it, fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy,

mine or your own,

if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you

to the tips of your fingers and toes

without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic,

or to remember the limitations of human beings.

It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true.

I want to know if you disappoint another to be true to yourself,

if you can bear the accusation and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be unfaithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty,

even when it is not pretty every day,

and if you can source your life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure,

yours or mine,

and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the moon "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair,

weary and bruised to the bone,

and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are now or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself,

and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.