At Least They're Committed

“All are welcome, all are welcome!”

I say that line from Poltergeist as I look out my office window at the birds that peck at the pretty white feeder I bought this time last year at the chicken store where I worked. (Run on No. 1!) I loved that place. My feet didn’t, unfortunately.

Mom doesn’t like the doves that share her feeders with the robins, chickadees and sparrows. But everyone seems to get along fine among them at her house and mine, so all are welcome here.

Looking back down on this empty page, I can’t help but let my shoulders droop with a heavy sigh. I haven’t blogged for a while and there’s a reason why.

Between trying to get someone — anyone — to service our squeaky air conditioner (at home), a contractor to refinish the floors and rework the counter tops, being stood up by landscapers and painters (at the north house) and trying to figure out how to fix the elusive leak (ranch home) I’m whipped.

Wait! I’m not whipped, am I? How dare I say so.

It’s true that every person’s existence is different and we’re trapped in these bodies for our entire lifetimes for good or bad. Our problems are big to us because although we can sympathize or empathize with others’ situations, we can’t experience them firsthand. It’s not like we could trade brains and circumstances for a day or two, although virtual reality might help with that.

But to say that I’m whipped is just arrogant.

• Slaves in the U.S., they were whipped. I have no right to even compare my trivial travails with the pain and gross injustices they endured.
• Victims of the Spanish Inquisition were whipped, stripped of flesh by the Spanish tickler and publicly garroted. My small setbacks don’t measure up.

I know I’m living a life of entitlement and I thank God every day because I also know I don’t deserve it. As I was lying in bed this morning and trying to distract myself from the to-do list, my brain fell upon when I met the legendary comedian I’ll be going to see this evening to honor his 40th year in the industry. (Run on No. 2!)

But I cringed thinking about the good ol’, not-so-good-ol’ days. Damn, I was a wild-child! That led to me thinking of all of the stupid things I did in my 20s and even later. And that made me realize — not that I hadn’t before — how very gracious God was as Gabriel and the other angels and my ancestors protected me.

That means I need to do better and I need to do more and I’m still trying to figure out what that is. I’m guessing feeding the birds despite their species doesn’t rate very high in that area.

This summer, we’ll be selling the north house that our children and grandchildren have been living in. They’re going to buy a house in a less expensive area with better schools. Thank you God!

If/when the home does sell, we’ll be able to help two of our children put down payments on homes, stash more money into our IRAs and pay down the mortgage on our current home. Thank you God!

We’ll pay off the cruise to the Caribbean we’re going on in February with friends. Thank you God!

We’ll trade in our Forte for a seven-seat Subaru Ascent because we have not two, but three more grandchildren on the way — including a set of twins. Thank you God!

Why a Subaru? Because the only reason Ellen and I survived that car crash in Florida, the mechanic told us, is because we were in a Subaru. That crash gave me just enough funds in reparations to move into my own place for a while as D and I took a good look at ourselves, fixed some things, then moved ahead together. Thank you God!

It all seems downright gluttonous, doesn’t it?

If anyone were to have read my New Year’s resolutions and prayers, babies and financial security for my children were top of the list. How often do we lose sight of the fact we’re getting what we prayed for . . . and more? (Note, the third baby. Note also, the twins are from the couple who thought they were done having kids and not the couple who are still trying.)

On the flipside, we won’t be able to contribute much to IPF research or fix the porch and the concrete in the two driveways and garages at our house. We won’t be able to take the entire family on a trip to Disney World.

*Shrug* Can I really allow myself to be bummed about that?

With D out of town attempting to fix the ranch home, I’ll be dragging my weary @$$ to Auraria Campus all by myself to pay homage to a two-thirds-of-my-lifelong friend. My buddy not only has cerebral palsy, but has survived and thrived, even though his mother died at birth, he lay unconscious for who knows how long after falling out of a high-chair because they thought he was sleeping, had a father who tried to keep on touch only to get my friend’s disability money, is a recovering alcoholic and so much more. (Run on No. 3)

They’ve done a film on him and it’s previewing tonight. I’ve prayed this movie would go through (it was on hold for a while) because it tells his story and it’s one of tenacity and resilience and once it airs he’ll have financial security. Thank you God!

Being whipped also means losing, or giving up. With God as my guide, I will allow myself to feel overwhelmed, frazzled, stood up, disrespected and remorseful. But whipped? That’s not going to happen.

I smile at the sparrows that sit alongside the pigeons and doves on the branch of the birch, as if they should care or appreciate me.

All are welcome.