Uganda: Part 1

So, how was it?

It’s hard to believe it has already been three weeks since I participated in a mission trip to Uganda, Africa with my husband, daughter and several others.

 

It seemed like such a long preparation for this 12-day trip. We had to prepare for the commitment to go, the money to get us there, and arrangements for the kids too young to accompany us. And the packing—dear Lord, the packing! The preparations started over a year ago.

But now that we’re all safely home and resuming something like a typical schedule, our kind and wonderful friends and families want to know about the trip. Oh, how I want to tell them! I want to share, with each one who asks, how the mission came about, how it affected me and how I want to stay involved.

But I find that I’m still processing it myself.

I really, truly appreciate the genuine interest in the mission trip. In fact, if you haven’t heard about it yet, please ask me! But if I hesitate slightly before answering, it’s not that I don’t want to share about it; it’s that I DO.  Sometimes I even find myself searching for the words to say, and it is a rare and highly uncommon thing to find me at a loss for words.

 

But the truth is that in the seconds following the inevitable question from folks—“So? How was it?”—I feel myself transported to the late-June Ugandan landscape and wondering exactly what and how much to share.

 

How can I convey the sights, smells and scenery of this east African country, the Pearl of Africa? I’ll bet no one expects to hear how everything smelled vaguely of diesel fuel, body odor and earth for 10 days, and coming home to Tide with Downey wasn’t quite as April-fresh as I’d imagined. I miss Uganda.

 

Can I create for someone the pleasure of the nearly 50 individuals that took ten days to become friends, and how these Nashvillians (not to mention a few Indianans, Californians and Mississippians) have already scheduled a mid-August get-together, because, frankly, there is an understanding among us now that we value and want to share over and over.

 

Further, can I relay how an entire team of Americans and Ugandans—a bit timid on that first night after an exhausting 8,000 mile journey, and the hard work that went into preparing it—were clinging to each other that last Friday at Good Samaritan school, not wanting to say goodbye to new and beloved friends?

 

Do I share about the translators, helpers, leaders, and servants who gave of their time and selves to accommodate we “mzungus”?

 

How do I express the freedom in worship I witnessed as my Ugandan brothers and sisters stood, hands raised in devotion, thanking and praising God?

Surely they should know how grateful we were for Ms. Rebecca, who fed us so well—two meals a day, in addition to feeding over a thousand children and adults. Her meals were produced from a “kitchen” without water and electricity, her giant pots simmering over a wood fire and her small army of helpers smiling our way, bringing our daily bread and constant lessons in gratitude and appreciation.

Is there a way to explain the feelings of excitement, joy and even guilt at the unprecedented welcome we received when we reached a point along the rural dirt road and had to walk the rest of the way into to village while throngs of children sang us into their lives? Maybe they want to know about the wide smiles and warm hugs of the thousands who touched me that day—literally, physically touched me— saying, “Welcome! You are welcome!”

How do I tell them that I’m still processing the moment I heard that my friend Sarah had saved the life a 10-day old baby whose mother died delivering him?

What about a day or two later when the severely malnourished boy was brought to the clinic, 8-years old and weighing only 18 pounds, and our medical team sought long-term, permanent help for him, continuing even now to monitor his progress?

How about the 11-year old epileptic that came to Raise the Roof Academy telling of how no other school would take him because of his health issues, but left, not only as a Raise the Roof student, but as the sponsored child of one our own medical workers?

How do I explain the 87 sixth grade children that filed into my VBS craft class one hot Tuesday morning, every single one of them without shoes, feet shuffling among tiny cloud-puffs of red African dirt?

How do I convey that, at least three times a day, a new batch of Ugandan children came into that room, eager and happy about what we were doing, and from then on, as I walked among the children outside, they ran up to me, palms raised, shouting, “High five! High five!”

Do I tell them of the morning I sat among the children at breakfast and held out my hand for my usual “high five” and a kindergarten-aged child placed his only slice of bread in my hand without hesitation or thought, and how I choked up so badly that I couldn’t speak for several minutes, instead pulling the child onto my lap and watching that generous little heart laugh with his classmates?

I want to give details of how we met our precious sponsored child, Bankiya Madda, and how her family received us with a moving and graceful hospitality. They fed us a veritable feast, giving us a place of honor in their home and gifting us with a kindness we could barely process.

Will I think to tell them that Madda’s favorite color is orange, that she is bright and beautiful and quite shy? Should I include how cute it is when she answers in the affirmative with a slight raise of her eyebrows when she gives a soft, “Yes”?

Can I talk about my daughter? Is it okay to tell them how she jumped off that bus immediately and threw herself into those children with all she had? I want to tell them how, when Madda had a fever, my Julia scooped her up and marched her to the clinic announcing, “This child needs to be seen!”

I want share with them the fear and concern I had about Madda getting home that afternoon with a fever, because she walks miles to school every day.

And what of the mothers? Do I tell people of the lump that forms in my throat every time I think of those dark-skinned, beautiful, hard-scrabble mothers going to any length—even in the most difficult of circumstances—to see that their children have a better life? The chance at an education? Enough to eat?

I think they will want to hear about the old African man that stopped my husband on the first day and with a leathery, aged hand, pulled him close and said, “Thank you for loving Africa.”

What about how my husband was as fulfilled and content with his work as I’ve seen him in over a year?

Then, what about the funny stuff? We could tell endless, hilarious tales about drowned lizards, the chicken dance, the chicken GIFTS, mzungus taking care of babies and the great balloon stampede of 2013.

Surely everyone will enjoy the story of how, on July the 4^th in a tiny, little village, hours down a dusty African road, nearly 50 Americans stood among a group of loving Ugandans, hands over hearts, and belted out our national anthem.

Uganda was all these things and many more.

Mostly what I’ve been saying when someone asks me about the mission is, “Oh, wow. It was awesome.” But now you all know what I’m really thinking. You know that in the split second before I respond, a thousand meaningful, heart-breaking, uplifting stories flash in my mind.

So if you ask me about Uganda, and I pause ever so slightly, please know that I’m searching for the right words to tell you about my trip. Maybe I’ll try to be brief. Maybe I’ll pull you into an hour-long synopsis and show you pictures. More than likely, I’ll continue with a series of other blog posts about it in the coming weeks.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ll come up with just the right words, and you’ll understand what I mean when I give you a faraway look and say, “Oh, wow. It was awesome."

And y’all, it really was.

 

 

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If you aren’t familiar with Raise the Roof, the organization we went to support, please read about them here and consider getting involved: www.raisetheroofinc.org.

 

Of hills, hillbillies and home

Do people even know anything about West Virginia?

When you tell people you’re headed to a family reunion in the Mountain State, they either start singing John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads (like we’ve never heard that before) or they tell you they have people down in Roanoke, which is fantastic, except that Roanoke, being in the Commonwealth of Virginia, is in a whole other state. It’s been that way since June of 1863. Look it up. (BTdubs, happy 150^th birthday, Mountain Mama!)

Granted, there have been many attempts—some, quite successful—to exploit and poke fun at West Virginians. The most recent was the short-lived MTV reality show, Buckwild which featured Charleston-area teens engaged in various activities in their rural areas. Naturally, it perpetuated negative stereotypes of West Virginians, essentially doing for them what Jersey Shore and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo did for the casts of their shows: it paid them to be obnoxious caricatures of their worst selves and duped them into mistaking infamy for fame.

Not that there aren’t plenty of mountaineers who are like that for free.

Last weekend, during a visit to my home, I had such a run-in. I was in the parking lot of the local Kroger and happened to be wearing my Downton Abbey t-shirt that says, “Free Bates.”(If you watch Downton, you know what that’s about. If you don’t, why are you still reading this? You should be ordering seasons 1-3 at pbs.org this minute.)

As I neared the store entrance, a bearded woodsman in the passenger seat of a mud-covered pickup truck stopped me. I solemnly swear this is how it went down:

Bearded Woodsman: Hi. (He made it sound a tiny bit creepy.)

Me (smiling): Hey.

BW: What’s that shirt say? “Free” what?

Me: Free Bates.

BW: *crickets chirping*

Getting the feeling that he might not be altogether familiar with Masterpiece Classics or the Crawleys, I offered a quick explanation.

Me: Bates is a fictional character on a television show I like.

BW (with a sly grin): Oh. That’s cool. I thought it said “Free Bites.”

Um, you wish, Grizzly Adams. You wish.

That trip home was epic for me. I got to attend a family reunion AND the Belle Town Fair! I finished it off with a little visit to the Dairy Winkle, the site of some pretty awesome onion rings and an enviable West Virginia-style English dog.

Not to brag, but back in the day, I participated in the Belle Town Fair Parade as a Belle Bulldog Majorette. So, as you might imagine, I was quite thrilled to realize that my visit coincided with such an extravaganza. Even if I did forget my baton. And if majorettes haven’t existed in 20 years.

Still, I was ready for the parade!

I may have romanticized it a little, but really, it was not the spectacle I remembered. I was happy, however, to overhear my mother refer to me as “The Shizzle” when she proudly recounted to my children my stint as co-captain of the squad.

(And, as you can see in the picture below, I [front left] was indeed rocking the boots and baton at the Belle Town Fair parade, circa 1979. And check out those lovely WV hills behind me.)

We walked from my mom’s house to the parade, visited the fair and meandered back home. My husband loved the small town-ness of it, and it’s true—it did feel very River City Iowa, very Music Man. I half-expected Mrs. Eulalie Mackecknie Shinn to sneak up onto the podium at the coronation of Miss Belle.

We were taken by the mayor, whose approach to politics seemed to be genuine and earnest, and at times even funny and politically incorrect without him even knowing or caring.

We also liked the lady who didn’t have enough cash to make change when we paid for our hot dogs and simply told us to “come back and pay later.” We did.

I enjoyed that comfort of being raised in a place where 23 years after I moved to another city, people recognize me, saying, “Oh, honey, you look exactly like you did as a girl!” and “Those kids have to belong to you, girl, they are your spitting image!” Some people I didn’t even recognize called me by name.

But it was the Nelson Family Reunion that took me there. The Nelsons—my mom’s side—gathered for a long-overdue family reunion at Point Lick Park, the Campbell’s Creek site where my Aunt Pat used to take me, before I was old enough to have memories. But my soul remembers, and because of that, Aunt Pat was there, too.

I reconnected with a cousin I hadn’t seen in years, whom I always thought seemed older than I was. Turns out, she’s only two years older than me, and just as funny!

It didn’t take long for some of the old family stories to be retold. We heard the hilarious story of how Uncle Tykes reacted to a man on the moon, and recounted the times when my Paw Paw’s sisters would gather to make fudge in Aunt Dell’s tiny kitchen, the sound of a stirring spoon, heavy across the bottom of a cast iron skillet.

I heard, for what seemed the first time, of cousin Buster who lied at age 16 so he could join the service and went on to become a POW in WWII.  I must have heard of Buster and his story dozens of times, but it wasn’t until someone showed me his picture and I saw his sister wearing a POW pin with the piece of a retired flag on her blouse that it connected somehow. In his picture, he was young, beautiful and mischievous. His eyes, that same blue I’ve recognized in other Nelsons, shone behind a freckle-faced, dimpled grin.

We remembered the Nelsons who had gone on to their own reunion, the ones whose lives were harder than ours, and who were back together again just the way they always liked to be; the way we were that evening at the park.

There were no stereotypes around that table—just a group of good, honest, loving family members lucky enough to know the unique life of hard-working West Virginians.

I watched my kids playing ball and running around with their cousins in that valley, in the shadow of those great, green hills, the way I had as a child, and my mom had before that. I kept taking pictures of the children as they played, and found myself adjusting the zoom to include the mountains around us, as though I wanted to give my pictures a context.

Those mountains, it turns out, are always a part of my picture.

 

The Jumping Off Place

For some time now, I’ve had something of a love affair with the Palmetto State. There are two main reasons for this: South Carolina is home to Myrtle Beach and some of my favorite people.

I truly love to be at North Myrtle Beach. Our family considers it a necessary destination at least once a year, but that’s never enough. Each year, we buy a white picture frame and have it personalized with the year and a smattering of our favorite memories or catch phrases from the week. We didn’t get there in 2010, now known to all of us as The Dark Year.

The rituals we’ve come to love are familiar and have been ingrained in our coastal consciousness. The minute we pass the first palm tree on that 10-hour drive (somewhere between Florence and Marion), we begin to get into “beach mode,” and it’s only a matter of time until we finally hit US-17. Soon enough, we’re jumping from the car and rushing toward the Atlantic, dipping our toes in the sand before heading to Hoskins for our inaugural meal.

Honestly, I didn’t realize families even visited other beaches until I graduated from high school and moved to Nashville. Everybody kept talking about going to “the beach” and I didn’t recognize any of their destinations: Orange Beach? Gulf Shores? Destin? None of those are places in the 29582.

Sure, those sandy white beaches in Florida and Alabama are fine, and you fans of the gulf can have them.  You will never lure me from the midnight blue waters of the South Carolina low country.

South Carolina also boasts some pretty awesome people, their curious selection of a governor notwithstanding. In fact, some of my very favorite people are South Carolinians.  It’s no secret how I revere the great Pat Conroy, supreme novelist and Beaufort resident, whose tributes to the low country are unparalleled. Reading his work is, for me, a religious experience.

If you’ve been to Charleston, you know there is nothing quite as lovely as a slow walk along The Battery. But Conroy turns an afternoon in Charleston into a diaphanous, other-worldly stroll. The voice of Tom Wingo, affable protagonist in The Prince Of Tides, tells us in his unforgettably tender first line, “Geography is my wound. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.” Naturally, Tom is referring to the low country; his amazing story—and Conroy’s masterpiece—unfold from there into magnificent, heart-breaking prose.

Upstate, I have family: wonderful, enjoyable, hospitable family.  In fact, this weekend, my great-uncle Ray will celebrate his 90^th birthday. Family and friends will gather, not far from his little white house, to celebrate with him.

Everyone who knows Uncle Ray loves him. He’s one of those good, godly men whose life is worthy of emulating. During one of our visits a few years ago, he pointed to his well-worn bible, and said to me in his pleasant drawl, “Kristi (which comes out more like Krees-teh), the answer to every problem you’ll ever have is right here in this book.”

I was especially amused once during the brouhaha caused by The Passion of the Christ movie. My husband asked him if he planned to see it, and Uncle Ray replied without incident that he didn’t need to; he’d read the book.

I love to hear my mom tell stories of the summers she spent with Ray, and her beloved Aunt Sue, as a teenager. She tells us of the time she tried to show off for a cute boy by riding a skateboard down a steep hill—a task she hadn’t done before or since. She was banged and scrapped up, hide torn from the entire side of her body.

She tells that when she ambled back up to Ray and Sue’s yard, she was taken care of, nursed back to health (and pride) after the skirmish with the skateboard.

My mom felt safe and cared for by Uncle Ray back then, and she still does. She carries an unsullied respect for her favorite uncle, an honor she reserves for few people, because few people deserve it more.

My favorite Uncle Rayism involves the time told me that his great-grandchildren were such big fans of he and Aunt Sue that they would, “follow [them] to the jumping off place.” I love that: the jumping off place.

And in a way, I think some folks have followed—and continue to follow— him to the jumping off place. His 40-plus years working for R.C. Cola is a highly-regarded rarity these days, as is his involvement at the little Baptist church to which he remains so committed. But his legacy is his family, and inside that white house in Greenville, SC is the headquarters of a mutual admiration society: he adores his family and his family adores him.

I’m sad that I won’t be headed to the Palmetto State this weekend to hug my uncle, to celebrate his birthday and let him know what an amazing guy he is. But I imagine I’d have to wait in line. All the other attendees will be telling him their own version of how he has impacted their lives, and the line to following him to the jumping off place is pretty long.

 

Sometimes, a situation occurs—something way too delicious to let it slip by—that merits it’s very own blog post. Such a sitch has, indeed, occurred in Walker World, friends. Enough even to send me back into the blogosphere, a place I have avoided since December.

Turns out, one can get a great deal of television watched when avoiding one’s craft; but not much else. So consider this my Back to Business blog post. I want to keep it updated, at least once a week. No need to disappoint all 12 of my followers.

Once again, I have learned much about how a “simple” home renovation is a mirror of real life relationships. These same repairs also create an enormous amount of dust.

We are “thiiiiisss close” to finishing our brand-new bathroom. We are a family of five sharing a smallish space, whose bathroom grand total is one and a half. That ain’t much space, folks. Not only does it mean we use a carefully calculated Excel file coordination system of who showers when, but it also means no adult has showered (or done any other bathroom business) unaccompanied since around 2002.

While the full bath re-do was happening, we shared the half bath, a space approximately one-third the size of a Smart Car. It was loads of fun, especially before I got wise to using my daughters’ closet space as a handy litter box placement; until then, even the cat used the half bath. It was a constant lesson in patience, something I run short on too often.

Further, the half bath doesn't have a shower, so let me just say we're now members in good standing at the local YMCA. I joined the day before Easter so I could show up at church clean and spiffy in my Sunday best, and not the yoga pants and "St. Patrick's Day 2009" t-shirt I'd sported most of Spring Break.

The re-do has been a family affair. Most of the work has been done by my husband and my dad, though me, my brother and my sister have all pitched in. It is looking great. I love the gray walls, the new tub and sink, and can’t wait to hang my shower curtain—a 72”x72” New York City subway map.

But the one sticking point has been the shower vent/light. They were able to turn the vent on, and it worked fine, but the light did not. A series of re-wiring, junction box inspections, plugging and unplugging, then re-plugging in every possible combination, left the fellas out-of-sorts about the whole thing. There were trips to The Home Depot (this is how men solve an assortment of problems), calls to electricians and even reading the directions. Still, the light to the vent was not turning on.

Meanwhile, this slowed the progress of my dream ceiling: tin tiles, sprayed-painted yellow and affixed with some adorable crown molding. Then I realized that the ceiling was about to cost more than the combined cost of the new floor and tub. Now my dream ceiling has a less lofty requirement: done. And yellow. I will not bend on the yellow.

Alas—and here’s where the real life lesson comes in—the solution was simple. My hard-working man climbed up into the attic on Saturday, determined not to come down until he figured the damned thing out.

And then there was light! And a vent! At the same time!

Here is exactly the way my beloved explained the problem to me—I swear—word for painfully-true-yet-simple-to-solve word:

 “The male end was not connecting with the female end.”

Let me type that again for you, folks. It’s too good to say only once:

“The male end was not connecting with the female end.”

Well, I’ll be damned. There it was, the solution to an entire lifetime of complications, all wrapped up in a Columbia sweatshirt, feet dangling out of a hole in my bathroom ceiling.

He went on. “It was actually a simple solution. The male end was just pushing the female end away, but I needed to make a way for them to connect to turn it on.”

Listen, fella, who you tellin’?

And so, we have a light, a vent, a connection and a really, really good story about the bathroom.

It’s all about connection. Once that’s been made, it doesn’t take much effort to flip my switch.

Who’s turned on?

 

 

Won't you be my neighbor?

There is an abject evil in the world that has taken our breath away.

The people of Newtown, CT are on their knees, felled by the heinous, unmentionable act of a killer who walked into an elementary school and opened fire on its students and teachers.

The rest of us are on our knees, too: some in prayer, others in despair, and still others as a reactionary double-over from the kick in the gut elicited by an act of such unfathomable terror. It’s hard to speak of normal activities with the sickening, shameful, pornographic violence our world has seen.

Just when I think I’m about to resume the business of my life, new waves of grief well inside me and I think of Newtown where mothers are not Christmas shopping and teachers are not making gingerbread houses from milk cartons. Siblings are crushed, families ravaged—ruined—at a time when rejoicing and gladness should come easily.

In the aftermath of Newtown, one thing that comes back to me is the image of that young girl on the news footage whose sweet, little face was contorted in complete terror as she was lead from the scene with her class.

What kind of untold, collateral damage has been done to that little girl, her friends, her teachers, the parents who got to school and didn’t leave with a child? Above all else, it’s the image of that little girl’s face that haunts me; her confused expression saying what the entire nation feels inside.

Newtown could have been us. It could have been anyone.

Among the processing going on via social media, I love the quote from Mister Rogers:

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world."

Am I the only one wishing I lived in his neighborhood right now?

I have taken to repeating those words when talking to my children about Newtown. I keep telling them—thus, myself—to look for the helpers. Where you see the helpers, you’ll know that’s one of the ways God is working in the lives of these hurting people, I tell them. I really, really want to mean it.

So I’ve started looking around here for helpers. The day of the shooting, I went to pick up my kids from school to find that our trusty crossing guard (the same one who always flashes the “I love you” sign when families pull into the school) had arranged for Santa and Mrs. Claus to stand outside with her and visit with kids. 

I’ve been engaged in several Facebook shares offering, simply, peace and support—no political rants or too-soon petitions—but love, from our hearts to theirs.

I watched our President deliver a nation’s condolences to that broken, bewildered community, and echoed his sentiment and sadness.

I watched a video, posted by my dear friend, of her precious son singing—appropriately— O Come, O Come, Emmanuel at his voice recital. It was beautiful and moving.

I sat in the sanctuary of my church yesterday morning while my pastor and friend shared about the breaking heart of God, whom he imagines to be standing beside us in our grief, putting the world back together. Moments later, the children of our church sang to us about a Savior.

Come, Emmanuel, indeed.

I think some of the real helpers are working with my kids today. I am deeply grateful for the loving, living examples of helpers I see in the schools my kids attend. Our elementary school principal, along with her her staff, is in the trenches everyday—long before we arrive and long after we’ve gone home—working, thinking, creating ways to help kids learn. Often, her efforts aren’t so lofty. I’ve seen days when she worries first about a child getting breakfast, much less acing a multiplication test. I imagine her visceral reaction to Newtown, and want to hug her, thank her and be a helper, too.

The same goes for the teachers. I have no doubt that the teachers of my kids caught wind of Newtown’s tragedy and began a painful process of getting through the day without letting the students see their heartbreak. I’ll bet they were simultaneously counting kids, reviewing lock-down procedures, hugging little bodies and grading papers. That night, at home, I’ll bet they came apart like the rest of us. But today is Monday and there they are: back again to shape our future.

Thank you, helpers. I’ll keep looking for you, and make every effort to be one, too. And thank you, Fred Rogers, for giving us a way to help navigate through this ineffable pain until we find ourselves being your kind of neighbor.

Raise Your Glass, Raise Your Kids, Wear Some Pants

I really like the song “Raise Your Glass” by Pink, and this morning it’s what played through my head as the soundtrack to a busy beginning to this Friday.

Let me start by going ahead with the admission that I did, indeed, take the kids to school in my pajamas. I know, I know. But I really thought I could get them around the building and through the drop-off line without having to get out of the car. It wasn’t just my sparkling personality that made me stand out this morning. It was also the purple flannel polka-dotted pajama bottoms I wore, the long-sleeved t-shirt, the red and black woolen socks and burgundy flats. I topped the whole ensemble off with a super-cute navy sweater-wrap, as though it was the piece de resistance in an effort to salvage my dignity, which I’m pretty sure I left near the railroad tracks on Stewarts Ferry Pike when I realized (with the help of the Music City Star) we would not be on time and I would have to walk the kids in.

I didn’t just want to get the kids in to avoid (another!) letter from the truancy office. Sure, I care about their learning and education; promptness is a part of that. Yeah, I get all that crap. I really just wanted to get them there before I received another shaming look from Front Office Staff And All Around Keeper Of The Keys Mrs. Shamey McTardimuggins.

And today was my lucky day! Because ala Pink, I’m “too school for cool.”

Imagine my delight when I screeched to a halt in front of the school and ushered my kids out of the car, one of whom was still finishing off a French Toast Stick, to find the front door still open. That means no sign in! That means no shaming looks! No tardy today! But they would have to hurry. The door was about to close.

“Ha ha, suckas!” I shouted to the people just pulling into the parking lot. These were the fully-dressed people, with dignity still intact, whom I’d zoomed passed in my fury, humming Pink the whole way:

…So raise your glass if you are wrong, in all the right ways, all my underdogs,
We will never be, never be anything but loud, and nitty­ gritty dirty little freaks…

It was then that I noticed our beloved, highly-professional and erudite principal at the front door, greeting the last of the “on time” children with an equally professional-looking guest. And here I was, secretary of the PTA board, in my flannels. I considered a swan-dive into the landscaping and an Army crawl back to the van, but I think she already spotted me.

So, I mustered what was left of my self-respect and stood up straight, cinching up my sweater-wrap. I waved gracefully and kissed the kids goodbye. (“Have a great day, sweetie! Mommy promises to be dressed when I pick you up after school! Unless I get caught up in a Glee marathon this afternoon.")

Back in the safety of my van, I was thrilled to find that my child left her freshly-poured juice in the car. She loves to drink her juice out of a tiny wine glass she calls the “fancy glass.” I grabbed it and took a long drink of the pineapple-orange ­juice. I was trying to merge in front of a gentleman in a huge, red truck, who had no doubt watched the entire pajama-clad freak show unfold.

Perhaps I’d frightened him. Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe he wondered why the hell PTA Mom was dropping kids off in her jammies and swilling what appeared to be mimosas from a wine glass at 8:00 in the morning.

Okay, 8:02.

But he kindly motioned for me to go ahead, and I did the only thing I could think of.

I raised my glass.

The Original BFFs

Not many people have affected my life the way Michael has. We are, as he likes to call us, the original BFFs.

My life was forever changed when our last names placed us in homeroom together at DuPont Junior High in Belle, WV. No sooner had I placed my Mead Trapper Keeper under my desk and smoothed out my Forenza sweater over my stirrup pants with Chuck T. high tops, when Michael turned to me and said something sarcastic. In that moment something happened.

I’ve heard people talk about love at first sight—but this was more than that. This was humor and wit at first sight: I had found my soul-mate. Michael and I hit it off right away. Immediately, I liked him and the way he could keep up with my sarcastic banter, giving it back as quickly as I could dish it out. Our first order of business was to rename everyone in the class. I still occasionally wonder how “Spiral McPermison” and “Mary Jane Von Stonerton” are doing.

We had fun together. Once, convinced that I should learn to cook after I caught a bag of microwave popcorn on fire, Michael donned an apron and set about my kitchen with my mother’s avocado green mixer. Another time, he hid in my bedroom and scared the bejesus out of me when I got home from school. We spent a lot of time at Taco Bell and TCBY. We may or may not have belted out Taylor Dayne tunes into a hair-brush microphone in his car. One of his shining moments of BFF greatness came on my 18^th birthday when he showed up at my grandmother’s house, after our family dinner, with a birthday cake for me, because he knew no one else had a cake for me. I loved him for that. Even if the cake did say, “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Steve.”

We’ve endured some heavy-duty issues in our lives, too. We’re 40 now people—we have jeans older than some of you. So, we have encountered some crazy juju, the most notable of which was a rift between the two of us that lasted the duration of the 1990s and took us all the way past the birth of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt.

Alas, the original BFFs hit a major snag somewhere around the early 1990s. About the time Vanilla Ice was hotter than hot, our epic friendship cooled off. As in: frozen. Stone cold. Brrrrrr.

It is a long, complicated story whose details don’t need re-hashing. But during that rift, we missed out on so much: Ross/Rachel, Clinton/Lewinsky, the unfortunate onset of “japris,” my wedding, his coming out, the OJ trial, the SNL Spartan Cheerleaders, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, Ace of Base, Titanic, and Y2K. While Will Smith was “Gettin’ Jiggy With It,” we were nowhere near a much-longed-for reconciliation.

During our junior year of high school, Michael and I had the good fortune to end up in the English class of Carol Recco, teacher extraordinaire and all-around fabulous person. She, more than anyone, was privy to the genius of our wit when she poured over those weekly journal entries wherein Michael and I penned, with Pulitzer-like finesse, all the teenage angst and euphoria of (depending on what was being served in the cafeteria) our young lives.

But one big thing wasn’t being written in Michael’s journal: he is gay, but he wasn’t telling anyone. Why, I’ve wondered? But the truth is, it was Belle, WV in the late 1980s and life was not an episode of Glee. (If only!) An adequate safety net did not exist for Michael the way it may today. I think back on that hilarious, attractive, smart, wonderful boy that I loved for all the right reasons and my heart hurts that he couldn’t feel safe telling even one person—even me—that precious part of himself. We were Will and Grace before Will and Grace were cool.

And that is exactly how our reconciliation happened. One blessed day about six years ago, at different times, we both had similar conversations with our beloved Mrs. Recco. She casually mentioned to each of us how much the other would love to reconnect. (Mrs. Recco has always used her super-powers for good instead of evil.)

Finally, we connected in a phone conversation that lasted a few hours. There were tears, there were apologies, and there was story after story in a remarkable reunion that brought us back to that friendship we had so missed.

“This is so Will and Grace,” I said to Michael.

“I’m signing us up for the Amazing Race right now,” said my BFF.

And just like that, we were back, settling into a comfortable banter just in time for me to deliver my third child and Michael to find the love of his life.

Today when I crack open my senior yearbook I see the once and future BFFs, now two grown-up friends.

I see a strong, still-handsome, still-funny, good man unafraid of who he is. He is blessed to be in relationship with an equally good and wonderful man, and it is my great pleasure to know and love them both.

I see a younger version of myself and want to tell her, “Wait until you see the wonderful gifts life is about to hand you. Also, the late 1990s involve knit pants and matching vests. Try to avoid that.”

I’m not sure I believe that everything happens for a reason, but I do believe people are in our lives for a reason and I am so grateful to have Michael in mine.

And thank God for the reunion because there is always so much for us to discuss.  With the fleeting drama of an election year, a divorce for Tomkat and—God, help us—Honey Boo Boo, it’s nice to have a BFF that endures.