Scrabble with Mom

“Teach me to play Scrabble,” I asked my 86-year old mother. 

It wasn’t that I didn’t know how. It’s just that the last time I played, it was the Junior version with our kids. Two decades ago, at least. I figured if I’m going to fancy myself a writer, I should become better at word games. Maybe increase my vocabulary. And Mom’s an expert. 

I was surprised when she seemed reluctant. It had been a while since she dusted off the game board, and she wasn’t sure she remembered how. Besides, she was fighting a headache. 

But I persisted. I’m nasty like that. And Mom proceeded to skunk me, laughing a little more maniacally with every triple-score word she laid down. 

On the second round, we stayed neck and neck until I finally moved ahead at the end. It’s entirely possible Mom was taking pity on me. At least three times, I started laying tiles in the wrong order and Mom would catch it before I did. Do you realize how quickly one’s brain must shift from right side to left when you’re trying to create words and then immediately tally points? It’s exhausting! That’s why I let Mom handle the score-keeping.

By the end of the evening, our laughter had provided a healthy, temporary escape from the aches and pains. “Let’s do this again,” we said almost in unison as we hugged goodbye. And we have. I hope there will be many more Scrabble nights in our future.

When it comes to mothers, it’s no secret that I hit the jackpot. Most of my peers have either lost their mothers or must devote great chunks of energy to caring for them as physical and mental health issues become all consuming. Doctor’s trips, medications, reminders, and special apparatuses like walkers, hearing aids, and oxygen tanks creep in and take over one’s freedom.

Mom is also aware of how blessed she is, unencumbered by such devices. Still, she feels better knowing someone expects her to check in each day. Several weeks ago, we came up with a system where, upon rising each morning, Mom calls and leaves a voice message (we’ve normally left the house by then). When I return home at one o’clock, I listen to it and know she’s okay. 

After the first week, I said, “Mom, your messages are getting monotonous. Maybe you could spice it up a bit by leaving us a good quote or a joke or a Bible verse or something.” Since then, we’ve been treated to a “power thought for the day” and I’ve come to look forward to what these thoughts will be and how they might apply to my day. I delete the message immediately to ensure we never mistake an old message for a current one and think everything is okay when it’s not. Each day, as I delete that message, the thought occurs to me that one day I will delete Mom’s final “power thought for the day” and I won’t know I’m doing it.

Each day is a gift. I imagine no one knows that better than the mothers and fathers in Humboldt and the surrounding area. While the rest of us have moved on, they are just now beginning to comprehend the depth of their losses.

This Mother’s Day, wherever you find yourself on the Mother/Child/Grandchild spectrum, I hope you take time to treasure what is yours for today. Because “love” is always a triple-score word.

Yes or No? The Struggle is Real

I almost said no.

I’ve become good at saying no. No, I’m sorry. I can’t come to your classroom and talk to the kids about being a writer. I can’t speak at your women’s group. I’d love to talk to your book club, but I can’t.

It’s not a fear of public speaking. That fear flew out the window with my first taste of high school theater. 

It’s the fear of exhaustion. Living with a chronic lung disease will do that to a person. You learn to guard and schedule your days like you would for a toddler. Sorry, that’s my nap time. I won’t make it through the day otherwise. Or No, I’ll be up too late. I’ll be ill the next day. Not worth it. Besides, I’m subject to coughing fits if I talk a lot.

I don’t say all this, of course. It sounds too pathetic. I just say no. Or I might drop a hint about physical limitation that sounds lame even to myself. After all, I walk a half hour every day. I hold down a job. I look fine. What’s the deal?

I’m filled with angst if I say yes and riddled with guilt if I say no. Guilt, because I’ve been given so much, and we’re supposed to take what we’re given and pass it on to others. 

So when I’m invited to lead a writing workshop with the Country Quills group which meets in the TigerHills Art Gallery in Holland, I almost say no. But guilt wins out for a change, and I agree to come. And immediately ask myself what on earth I’ve done. Spend several hours prepping for it, still grappling. Then the event is postponed due to a storm, and I spend another month anxious about how I will manage to be “on” for the duration of a four-hour workshop, plus drive an hour each way. Spend another Saturday reviewing my preps from a month earlier because my old brain hasn’t retained it.

And somewhere in the middle of that Saturday, I finally begin to realize I feel far more concern for myself than for the people I am going to serve. Had I bothered to ask God what they might need from me? How I could best encourage them? I hadn’t. 

I ask his forgiveness and try to shift my focus. Before I hunker down for my nap, I read a portion of AnnVoskamp’s book, The Broken Way. She quotes Auschwitz survivor Viktor Frankl, who said meaning comes when one does something that “points, and is directed to, something, or someone, other than oneself…by giving himself to a cause to serve, or another person to love.” She says, “maybe that’s how you peel back everything that distracts and cheapens and derails a life—transcend this life by giving yourself for someone else.”

Sunday morning, I drive to Holland with an adjusted attitude, trusting God to increase my stamina and decrease my cough. 

And I meet some wonderful writers. I share with them my journey and hear a bit of theirs. Pass on some of what I’m learning. Listen to them read their brilliant words. And begin to hear things like, “This has been so helpful! Thank you for coming!”

Yes, I arrive home exhausted. But the good kind of exhausted, the kind that comes when you’ve spent yourself with passion and seen others gain from it. Voskamp says, “The abundant life doesn’t have a bucket list so much as it has an empty bucket—the givenness of pouring out.”

And I find myself hoping for another opportunity to say yes.

Here's to Administrative Professionals

Got these beauties from Diane

Wednesday, April 25 was Administrative Professionals Day. Some still call it Secretary’s Day. Some call it Administrative Assistant’s Day. And some call it “The Only One Around Here Who Knows What the Heck is Going On” Day. 

You might think that, being an Administrative Assistant myself, I’d be too modest to crow about the work we do. You’d be wrong.

If everyone had an Administrative Assistant, the world would be a more organized, efficient, and happy place. You wouldn’t lose your keys, your phone, or your glasses so often. You could put your hands on that tax receipt a lot more quickly. Your bills would get paid on time, your paperwork neatly filed, your phone politely answered. Your letters would look awesome and your appointment calendar would always be up to date. You wouldn’t miss meetings or birthdays or Administrative Professionals Day. 

Of course, I’m referring to the really good administrative assistants. The good ones are competent and excellent communicators. They’re organized, detail-oriented, and masters at time management. They’re tech savvy. They maintain a professional attitude and appearance. They know how to deal with office politics and confidentiality. They possess good judgement and are team players. You know those clichéd movie scenes where the executive and the assistant charge down long hallways on their way to the next meeting, high heels tapping out a staccato beat, and the entire time the assistant rattles off phone messages, appointment reminders, or has the exec sign papers on the run? Do these assistants exist in real life?

Me, I lean toward mediocre. I make lots of dumb mistakes. Oh, I can eventually answer a question or find what someone is looking for. I just can’t do it before giving them a long, blank stare and muttering something unintelligible while, somewhere in the far recesses of my brain, gears shift with all the swiftness of a sloth. 

I blame my advanced age. The fuller your memory bank, the longer it takes new thoughts to upload.

Look how they've opened!

They keep me around because they think I’m a famous author. They probably think that because I tell them I’m a famous author. And I’m seeing a pattern. When I’m introduced to a new staff member or a visitor to the office, I’m more likely to hear, “This is Terrie. She’s a famous author.” The new person walks away wondering why they’ve never heard of me and with no clue why I’m sitting at a desk at city hall.

At my writing desk at home, I am my own administrative assistant. Which means that in addition to penning books and these riveting blog posts, I must take care of the business end of things. Emailing my newspaper column on time every week; connecting with readers through newsletters, email, and social media; submitting invoices and paying bills; keeping track of income and expenses; designing and ordering business cards; organizing book launches; entering writing contests; planning trips to conferences; maintaining my book inventory, and more. Some writers hire “virtual assistants” who take care of these details from afar. I’d go broke if I had to hire me. A good administrative assistant is worth their weight in bitcoin.

  

So Happy Administrative Professionals Day to all my peers! And to all you bosses who may have forgotten? You’re welcome.