jinnyhenson

My Father’s Wise Words

October 5, 2013 jinnyhenson

Both my children and my parents are October babies. My father who was born on this day passed away in 2002. Graciously he left behind a life time of sentiments to ponder. Most were eh..ahem…borrowed from other sources but still impactful none the less. Here are just a few of his pithy sayings:

-You have the seeds of greatness within you.

-I have three kids. One of each.

-I will pay for any college you can get into. (Little threat of Harvard tuition here)

-Life will hand you many daggers. You can take them by the handle or take them by the blade and be cut to shreds.

-A boy chases a girl until she catches him.

-Birth control with your mother was easy. Whenever she laid an egg we didn’t want I stepped on it.

-If some guy doesn’t like you, you don’t like him back twice as much.

-Don’t sweat the small stuff.

-You, you, you, I’m in love with you, you, you. No one else can make me feel like you do. I’m in love with you, you, you.

Who can you tell today that they have the seeds of greatness within? How can you be an encouraging father? How did your father encourage you? #beingagreatdadmatters

Christian Faith, Sharing God's Love

I am Rich in Fabulous Women Friends. Like Fortune 500 and Forbes List have a Baby Named Oprah who Marries Bill Gates Rich

October 4, 2013October 4, 2013 jinnyhenson

I am rich in fabulous women friends. Filthy rich. Like Fortune 500 and Forbes List have a baby named Oprah who marries Bill Gates kinda rich. Re-Itch. Today God sent a barrage of love notes to me in the form of these women.

During last night’s thunderstorm I raised the blinds, got a pillow, shucked my bra and watched the storms roll in. The lightening and rain were a glorious sight. The show reminded me of my Senior year in college when Jen, Gina, Stork and I would hear thunder, drop our homework, light taper candles in Clearly Canadian bottles and experience the storm. It didn’t take much to pull us away from the books and after a few moments of silence into deep discussions. Common themes covered were which one of us had the best shot at a Nantucket wedding with the Waspy J.Crew model and how Christie Brinkley could still look 18.

Our Senior year was all about cookie parties where we invited 50 guys and no girls and Scott Phegley’s guitar on the roof outside the storm-watching window. “Wow-this screen pops right out!” was my discovery the day I moved in and the screen wasn’t returned to its rightful place until the day I moved out after graduation. It took no time for us to designate the roof as the premiere hang out for us and 10 of our closest friends. We felt like such avant garde, naughty little hippie Baptists sitting on the roof of our condo drinking Purple Saurus Rex sugar free kool aid, singing and all. (and what I mean by kool aid is actual kool aid embarrassingly enough and not code for trash can punch. ) Our harmonizing at times warranted the broom banging from our first floor neighbors, a non-verbal request to ratchet our kum ba yah down a notch. There was a fleeting, unique texture to those days. Perhaps the texture of composite roofing particles embedded in our Umbro shorts.

I group-texted my three room mates last night as I remembered our roof times. Though once scattered half-way round the world, we now live within just 4 1/2 hours of each other. Last night’s message spilled over into today’s ongoing conversation: true status updates and prayer requests too personal to ever launch out there on Facebook. The disentangling of a relationships, concerns for our kids and the need for God’s specific intervention in medical conditions of friends we know. What began as a throw-away “I’m missing you women! I totally realized that I have a roof here and I want you to come sit on it with me when John isn’t looking” expanded into a deeper level of communication wrapped in echoes of encouragement.

I emailed my faithful 7th grade friend Colleen when sleep escaped me. I knew she would sew my concerns in the soil of God’s keeping and not leave them fallow in her Gmail account. Four years ago when tragedy struck, Colleen and each of my dear friends rallied around us in Jackson, Mississippi. When Colleen eventually returned home to Texas and we remained in Mississipppi, she stayed up praying for us all night long while I watched a ventilator breathe for my first born. She texted me Bible verse after Bible verse after Bible verse of hope. She said she was committed to go through this with me and she certainly did. Likewise just three years later I had the privilege of being with her in Houston the day her Mother died. I told Mary Grace that she looked sexy in her night-gown which evoked one of her last smiles on Earth. Colleen and I have walked down the intimate thoroughfare of loss with each other. We are sisters born for joy as well as adversity.

My friends are sweet enough to share their daughters with me. They encourage the girls to friend me on Instagram and engage in other potentially embarrassing-to-them behavior. They allow me to help with paint colors, encourage rainbow loom bracelet production and ask for my help with humorous monologues for acting competitions. One asked for prayer coverage for her daughter’s brain surgery and believed me when I said that God knows I can’t walk through this again so I’m sure she’ll be fine. And thankfully Kathryn has been.

As if this bumper crop of true friends slogging through the joys and pitfalls of life weren’t blessing enough, a brand-new friend came to help in Maggie Lee’s Closet today. Petite yet strong she hauled her weight in bags upstairs to Joe Cooper’s van. We get credit for the bags of pajama bottoms and leisure suits which kids cannot use but Goodwill can. This is a program my friend Tina made us aware of. Amy and I did the heavy lifting and then rewarded ourselves with a trip to Starbucks. She had my respect when she decisively picked a table outside while I aimlessly fiddled with my straw wrapper. I left feeling like I had been in the presence of an honest, caring woman the likes of which fill my life.

While we sipped passion fruit tea and solved the world’s problems, my phone was on silent. It so happened that during that hour I had missed calls from not one but two women asking if I still needed help with hauling Goodwill bags. Upstairs. Both of these women called between other obligations and told me that they could help on their lunch hour if I still needed them. These are women whose full plates do not outstrip their desire to serve the least of these. Both Peyton and Michelle stood ready to give of the little free time they had.

My day also included Lee carpooling Jack to football, a task which Stephanie, Ashley and I share. Mostly to eavesdrop, I’m not gonna lie. This freed me up to spend time with The Lighthouse Kids. Even though Jeremiah asked me disgustedly why I was wearing the same t-shirt I wore last week, I felt the love. After that I had an exchange of text messages with my wonderful Mom who is more tech savvy than I ever imagined. Let’s just say she’s got the selfie down pat and we rejoice that the era of the throw-away camera is a distant memory for Mimi. A second new player in my life, Emily, brought her two little girls to work in Maggie Lee’s Closet as well. Though her kids are only in second grade and pre-K, she wants them to be a part of something bigger than themselves. A virtue present in all of the significant women in my life.

I am ridiculously blessed with a group of secure and loving women, confident in who they are, faithfully living out the imperfect life which God has given each one of them. They voluntarily link arms with the likes of me down this yellow brick road which is sometimes flying-monkey-infested. They love me, correct me, believe in me and inspire me. And somehow, ridiculously enough, I do the same for them. Though life is not at all what I thought it would be on that roof 20 years ago, even still I am richly blessed with friends excited to watch the storms of life pass with me.

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Five Years of Maggie Lee for Good

September 30, 2013October 1, 2013 jinnyhenson

Five Years of Good

Maggie Lee for Good Day 2013

Duck Dynasty’s Sadie Robertson Threw out a pitch for Shreveport Little League’s Maggie Lee for Good Invitational in early April. This event raised clothing donations for Maggie Lee’s Closet a free boutique for underprivileged children in Shreveport, LA.

Maggie Lee for Good Day began five years ago after the First Baptist Church of Shreveport bus accident in July 2009. Several of those headed to Youth Camp in Macon, GA were seriously injured and Brandon Ugarte and Maggie Lee Henson were killed as a result. MLfG Day was launched as a way for friends and strangers alike to bring good out of tragedy. So far over 25,000 people have celebrated Maggie Lee’s birthday, October 29th, by performing a kind deed for someone in need.

Each MLfG Day brings heartwarming sights in the Shreveport-Bossier area. “Happy Birthday Maggie Lee!” shoe polished on cars, throngs of kids in MLfG t-shirts, bake sales, school events, and Chick-fil-A Signs encouraging good deeds. Each School in Tifton, GA participates in MLFG Day and last year I was honored to spend their MLfG Day (October 16th,) with them and meet those so passionate about this event honoring someone they had never even met. It was absolutely incredible and thousands of dollars were raised for the Ronald McDonald House in Macon, GA.

Maggie Lee for Good Events once more spanned from Houston to Chicago, Seattle to New York and many locations in between. There were food drives in Tifton, GA, a Doucet Family hot chocolate stand in Flower Mound, TX, FBCS Cheerleaders in MLfG Shirts with Kelly & Michael Show in New York, N.Y., Jessie Keener’s fun run in Fayetteville, North Carolina, senior bingo for The Carters in Dallas,TX, a bake sale in Escuelo Campo Allegre in Carracas, VN and a food drive by students of Mary Hardin Baylor in Belton, TX just to name a few.

Fast-forward to Spring: Community Renewal International’s Maggie Lee Henson Celebration of Caring brought Shreveport’s first flash mob (yes I danced and whoa… was it ever ugly.) The Caring Angel Award was presented to Shalon Lewis and hundreds of Shreveport-Bossier Residents from every walk of life enjoyed a free picnic courtesy of Red Ball Oxygen.

This Spring a year-round opportunity for good was birthed: Maggie Lee’s Closet. Last Fall John noticed children in dire need of uniforms as he officed in The Highland Center. Some of these kids only had one set of clothes to wear Monday through Friday. Starting with just a $500.00 donation of uniforms and a passion to clothe kids, Church for The Highlands volunteers renovated a basement space in The Highland Center to house Maggie Lee’s Closet. Academy-Award Winning Moonbot Studios painted a beautiful mural, a donor gave the mirror, John and our son Jack built the runway stage and uniform and clothing donations came pouring in. MLC is currently open on Thursdays from 3-6 pm to correlate with the Highland Blessing Dinner (a free, hearty homestyle meal).

Maggie Lee’s Closet is a learning experience for the many different children who give their time to straighten racks or Lysol shoes. There has been a tremendous response to the positive benefits of hands-on kindness, perspective-enlarging service which happens in Maggie Lee’s Closet each week. Volunteers from Church for The Highlands, Cathedral of St. John Berchman’s, St. George Greek Orthodox, King’s Highway Christian Church, St. Marks Episcopal, Noel UMC, First Presbyterian Church , FUMC Shreveport, Bel Air Baptist Church, Asbury UMC, Broadmoor United Methodist, St. Joseph’s School, Church of Latter Day Saints, Southfield School, FBCSchool, Caddo Middle Magnet, Byrd High School, Broadmoor Middle School, Eden Gardens, Youree Drive Middle School and Alpha Chi Omegas from LA Tech and others have donated their clothing and time organizing the closet. Cosse-Silmon had a clothing drive for MLC as well. Nearly 500 children have been served in this free children’s boutique where children find love and self-esteem not just a new pair of jeans.

Shreveport Sports Icon Tim Fletcher and Duck Dynasty’s Sadie Robertson threw out pitches for the Shreveport Little League’s Maggie Lee for Good Invitational in April. Clothing donations were collected for Maggie Lee’s Closet.

The book Maggie Lee for Good which we wrote 2 years ago tells the story of loss and God’s ongoing redemption. One night I was struggling to write the closing for a book whose story was ongoing I was stumped. I went to bed and dreamt that Maggie Lee and I were sitting in a closet just talking. She kept interrupting me and saying, “Jesus is so awesome.” When I awoke, I knew that was the one message I needed to communicate. And it still is. Both time and The Holy Spirit have brought healing beyond anything I could ever imagine. Though there are still bleak days there are far more grateful ones as we try to communicate Jesus’ awesomeness through service to the least of these. Please join us…for good.

Please like the face book group https://www.facebook.com/MaggieLeeforGood

for the latest information.

http://www.maggieleeforgood.org

friendship

The Power of Encouragement

September 10, 2013September 10, 2013 jinnyhenson

Three encouragers overhear, fly to Peter, and implore him to keep trying

“Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.” –The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter

Upon re-reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit, I was struck by a new revelation about this beloved, disobedient icon: Peter was really kind of wuss. It didn’t take very much for this bunny to throw in the towel. You’ve heard the story: Mrs. Rabbit needed to run errands, left the sisters in charge and forbade the children to go to Mr. McGregor’s Garden (where her husband was caught and cooked into a pie.) While his sisters were distracted on their blackberries Peter snuck out and ran straight to the forbidden garden. Once there, he ate too much, lost his loafers and got stuck in a net. Hope vanished and Peter gave himself up for lost. Loudly. With the big rabbit tears apparently.

As I glanced at the image of Peter’s corpse-like body which looked hot-glued to the net I recognized something: myself. I recalled times in my not-so-distant past when I was the one helplessly horizontal and utterly discouraged. While the girl in those Baylor pictures with the big bad hair would have singularly identified with the sparrow, now I know what it feels like to be on the needy end of the encouragement equation. What also took me no time to recognize was that while I have logged time in the net, I have never done so without the company of someone who was quick to listen and share in my distress.

Although I have been falsely accused of reading too much into things (You’ve seen the cartoon where God, watching a preacher sermonize on Sunday morning leans over to St. Peter and says, “Can you believe how much this guy is getting out of that one verse? I never meant any of that!”) there are some notable cues we can take from the birds in this story. First of all, the sparrows were first responders, they heard Peter’s cry and rushed to investigate. These friendly guys “flew to him in great excitement” when they heard his sobs rather than ignoring his very loudly-vocalized needs.

Also, the birds “Implored him to exert himself. ” I imagine that there was little in the way of opposable thumbs the sparrows had to offer. I mean, really, what tools did these birds have to help Peter? Nothing save intentional encouragement. Only Peter could free himself but he would never be free if he quit. Sometimes the stuck among us have simply lost heart to try. But if someone cared enough to arrive on the scene without condemnation but rather with a few words of earnest encouragement, change could surely take place. God can take our concern and liberate the lonely and stuck.

Just as the sparrows found Peter in his hour of need perhaps this will sentiment will find you. Even in a ridiculous over-interpretation of 32 words written 100 some odd years ago about a fully clothed rabbit whose mother uses and umbrella and buys currant buns. Really? Perhaps.

Conversely, if you are the strong one out there today don’t forget to lend an ear. Listen and if you do hear that sob today, fly swiftly and implore. Don’t think too much about it or you will talk yourself out of it. Perhaps all the hopeless struggler needs is the simple message that they will not become a pot pie today.

“He comforts us in all our troubles , so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” 2 Cor. 1:4

Charity, Sharing God's Love

“I Don’t Want Nothin’ Red”

September 4, 2013 jinnyhenson

I get to work Thursdays at a job I love as volunteer coordinator for Maggie Lee’s Closet: a fabulous and free children’s clothing boutique in a basement room of The Highland Center in Shreveport, Louisiana. Renovations to the space began a year ago and even before the paint could dry, gently used clothing donations came pouring in. The closet is recycling in its most beautiful form; people give gently worn kids clothes to those who desperately need them. We fill in essentials like uniforms, socks and undies through monetary donations (the beautiful Briery girls on the left along with friends Georgia, Anna & Sally) held a lemon & loom stand and raised close to $60.00 for MLC!)Thanks to Moonbot Studios’ brilliant mural, clothing donations and hundreds of volunteer hours the place sparkles like a high-end boutique. And I get the glorious job of helping kids shop and watching deeply relieved parents check an item off of their burden lists.

Last Thursday a volunteer Maggieleesta and I had the privilege of outfitting two kids who had recently lost everything in a rental house fire. While Beth helped the youngest with uniforms and play clothes, I loaded up big brother with things he would need this Fall. I am acutely aware that a loud white woman holding up boxers and bellowing, “these gonna work?” may be seen as embarrassing to some so I try to be discreet with the undertreasures. Try. In this case I just pointed him in the general direction of the drawers and told him to grab what he needed. The eighth grader was humble, hesitant to take anything and truly grateful. Kids like that can have last penny. I LOVE serving polite young people and have met throngs of them in this endeavor.

After taking my client next door to Men’s Gear for khakis that would fit, (sometimes our eighth graders are grown men) I got to know the single Mom and hear a little bit about her story. She told me that the best clothes her kids had were the uniforms she had received from MLC during Khakifest last month. Then the fire happened. When I asked how the blaze started, she answered in a matter of fact tone. She plugged an extension cord into a rarely used bedroom outlet and went to the kitchen. When she returned the room was full of smoke. She grabbed her boys, called 911 and got out. With just the clothes on their backs. Now a few weeks into school her family was left with nothing. “We’re gonna make it though. We’re gonna make it.” She repeated in a calm, persevering tone like this was clearly not the biggest challenge she had ever faced.

While I listened to this woman who lost the little she had to begin with I was struck by her composure. In just a few days she had taken steps to find a new home for her children and replace some furniture. Today she would secure uniforms and wash those the boys had been wearing which still smelled of smoke. While I was enthralled in the survival story, Beth was on the other side of the closet having the real fun. In full-on personal shopper mode she stationed herself in front of the size ten tops, offered shirt after shirt to the younger brother and tried desperately to elicit feedback. Any feedback. Think: help me help you. The distracted little guy was tunneling through the clothes rack like The Caddyshack gopher when the next suggestion stopped him cold in his tracks. Beth took a plain red Polo and held it up in his direction. “Ok, how about this one? Can you see it? What do you think?”

Crooning his neck he popped out of the circular rack and offered a firm “No. M’am.” She thought he was simply being picky but his emphatic reply was quickly explained as he continued.

“No red. Red is for Bloods. I don’t want nothin’ red” The third grader stated as he dismissed the crimson shirt and burrowed on. Beth swallowed hard and persevered, suggested a few more items until little man found something he liked. She bundled up the uniforms, socks, briefs and street clothes and tucked them neatly in his bag.

They thanked us, left and as I filed away their application alphabetically in our client book Beth relayed the story of the red shirt. It was arresting to think that this child was already aware of the specifics of gang violence. At just eight years of age, he already knew that the wrong color shirt could cost you your life. Eight. What must daily life look like for this child? He is not in a dangerous foreign country but rather in my city where my child goes to school with no fear of mortal repercussions for his wardrobe choice.

I realize that I cannot solve the expansive litany of this city’s much less this world’s problems with gently used jeans and even the cutest of T-shirts. So many needs abound that it can be utterly paralyzing. But we can in this small way through lemonade stands, closet clean-outs and volunteer hours be somebody’s answered prayer. In this case the answered prayer of a determined Mother striving to protect, educate and provide for her children.

“Never believe that a few caring people cannot change the world. For, indeed, that’s all who ever have.” -Margaret Mead

The Briery Girls & John and Maggieleesta Beth

friendship

The Weirdest Thing Came in the Mail

August 28, 2013August 30, 2013 jinnyhenson

My first thought when I held the envelope was that this was one of those sales ads with handwriting font posing as a personal letter (You know those heart breakers: Pizza Hut coupons hiding deceptively in an envelope.) But when the sticker- adorned flap caught my eye I realized that this was no Big Lots Buzz Club circular but rather an actual letter.

Three weeks ago my friend Elisa stumbled upon a storage tub of old papers. A few layers deep in the polypropylene time capsule were notes from me. After reading the decades-old sentiments she decided to go retro and write to me. In this letter she challenged me to join her in bringing back the art of letter writing. I immediately texted her that this idea didn’t have legs.

No, actually I wrote Elisa and it felt pretty great. So great in fact that I wrote seven more epistles to cherished friends. All the while I wondered why something so gratifying had fallen out of Vogue. Here are my thoughts:

1. Too much equipment is needed.

School just started so we are flush with composition notebooks and Bic pens now but just wait til November and I’ll be scratching my grocery list on the back of a crumpled Target receipt with a jagged eyebrow pencil. One in need of a go with the sharpener no less. Since dirty blonde Kohl Kajal does not an impressive correspondence make, I tend to skip the personal letter. In my alternate universe I have a marvelous stationery wardrobe bursting with monogrammed Crane notecards so thick that one could dislodge a filet mignon shard from one’s 1st and 2nd Premolar. In reality I lack the essentials to communicate anything greater than “this notepad is being used only because it was too large to get sucked up in the neighborhood car wash vacuum and bent in the middle because I unsuccessfully tried.” Not to mention securing the postage stamp, a veritable field trip in itself. It seems the impractical hassle of securing the proper equipment prevents me from writing letters more often.

2. It takes too much time to string together sentences into a coherent communique.

Not that this will scroll across the bottom of Brian William’s desk tonight as breaking news but writing a letter takes time. The act of composing a note requires not only an actual pen but an unhurried chunk of time to properly write, rewrite and un write. Not since the second grade have I ever been remotely pleased with a first draft of anything I have composed. Self-awareness blows. I have penned entire three-page letters only to notice at final review that my vacillation between cursive and print s’s made me come off like a dysgraphic Sybil. The opening greeting matters, the penmanship matters and obviously the content matters. Certainly a personally written note requires more profound contemplation than that which is needed for a flippant text. Tufts cognitive neuroscientist Maryanne Wolf states that “It takes time to think deeply about information and we are becoming accustomed to moving on to the next distraction.” While text messages are perfect for relaying short bursts of vital info like, “U sure its ok 4 Jack & Pat 2 filet catfish unsupervised?” as John Ortberg says, “We cannot listen or love in a hurry.” I would also add that neither can we write a letter in a hurry.

3. The delayed gratification.

It seems so archaic to send a message through the postal system with so many other correspondence venues at our finger tips. Kind of like choosing to ride on an Amish buggy when a Bullet Train is readily available. Email and text messages offer the recipient the option of instant response and even futuristic George Jetson-like face time is an option for those desiring visual as well as verbal communication feedback. Not sure about which shirt to buy at Old Navy? Put pictures of both of them side by side on Instagram (via Instacollage) and let your friends vote on their favorite. #crucial decision. Have something witty to tweet about Miley Cyrus? Something profound like “Don’t judge a man’s daughter until you’ve walked a mile in his mullet.” Launch that nugget out there and most likely someone will give you their thoughts on your tweet. Immediately. We’ve become spoiled rotten by swift feedback from Face book posts and people’s knee-jerk repins of our pins on Pinterest boards. No wonder the effort to write a letter for an audience of one which may take weeks to be acknowledged seems to us a poor ROI.

Strangely enough today when I checked the mail I received another hand-written letter. This one from a lady my mom’s age who lost one daughter in her 40’s to breast cancer and whose other daughter is now battling the very same disease. At the end of her note she told me that I didn’t have to write her back but that I could email her if that were easier for me. Yet since I’m warmed by this tangible treasure in my hand, sentiments written and rewritten in ink on stationery and everything, a response in kind seems only fitting. Plus I have all of these stamps and it’s not like they will last forever.

Uncategorized

Proof of Heaven

August 22, 2013 jinnyhenson

Proof of Heaven

A Neurosurgeon’s Journey into the Afterlife
Eben Alexander, M.D.

I absconded this book from John while we were on vacay in Wyoming. I was riveted from the first chapter.

Dr. Alexander is a skeptic whose scientific training prevented him from believing that Heaven was anything more than peoples’ delusional coping techniques when facing death.

When attacked by a rare virus which left him unconscious, the scientists eyes were open to a spiritual reality including a trip to Heaven and a meeting with Om (his chosen name for God.)

The message he received in that place was this:

You are loved and cherished.
You have nothing to fear.
There is nothing you can do wrong.

I encourage you to read this book and let the eternal message sink deep within your soul. Drink it in, let it shape, restore and challenge you today.

Uncategorized

Ain’t No Party Like a DMV Party

July 27, 2013July 27, 2013 jinnyhenson

So my wallet goes missing. Passive voice. After tearing up house and car, retracing routes and rifling through fermented trash bags like a rabid raccoon on Monster, I admitted that it was lost. From search and rescue to replacement and recovery. Debit card cancelled, I sought to once more be a legal vehicle operator and trepidatiously ventured to no man’s land: The Department of Motor Vehicles. I arrived at the DMV and quickly located the “reception” area. I fully anticipated a hostile reception by a disgruntled employee but was so taken aback by the personable lady that I was lead to comment.

“You are in FAR too good a mood to work at the DMV. ” I said as I called the moment.

She laughed and replied, “You know, Virginia, that’s what everyone tells me.”

After she pulled up my personal information, Patricia further impressed me with her ability to notice the things we shared in common. To start, we both had birthdays in December. I raised up my fist for her to bump and said, “You me & Jesus. December babies rule!” (I know, theologians, Jesus was not actually born in December. But we do have his party then.) Secondly her son’s birthday was actually on my birthday and thirdly, she went to Byrd High School right down the street from my Gladstone home.

I said, “You have such an engaging personality. I can tell that you must really enjoy your job.” Then Patricia dropped some profound truth on me. “Not neccesarily, but like I tell the people I work with – hey, you gotta be here, you may as well make it a good time.” I agreed, we finished our exchange and I turned to find a seat.

After Patricia’s fresh perspective it was back to the stale reality: a sea of flat-affected drones waiting impatiently. I noticed the only empty seat on the front “row” as it were. Embarrassed to promenade in front of the crowd, I dashed over to the one available chair, quickly sat and inhaled deeply. The gentleman to my right laughed knowingly and I was arrested by his halitosis. Which I could actually taste on my tonsils. Like a tiny yet profuse sulfur bomb which sent me reaching for the Dentyne.

Chewing frantically, I then glanced up at the 15 customer service kiosks which actually had 12 vacancies. I imagined those folks holed-up, nervously chain-smoking somewhere avoiding the angry crowd. One of the more vocal among us even belted out, “I notice they all take lots of breaks.” in a loud-enough-for-you-to-hear-me-but-I’m-not-brave-enough-to-be-rude-to-your-face sort of maneuver. Others mumbled in agreement. Tough crowd.

The placid voice of the “now serving E 451” lady echoed in profound juxtaposition with an impatient mob. Perhaps because my number was three letters down the alphabet did she strike me this way.

A quick sweep of the room revealed a population locked into their cell phones, avoiding eye contact with each other. Patricia’s philosophy to “make the most of where you must be,” had clearly eluded these individuals.

So there I waited with the tired and poor huddled masses longing to breathe free. The guy to my right breathing perhaps a bit TOO free.

Anyone needing a new or replacement licence or vehicle registration must pass through this place. Present were anxious 16-year-olds as well as the anxious 76-year olds, and every age in-between. Not Moms wanting a fun new spot for playdates or a hp hang out the Sigma Chi’s would choose for a mixer. No. No one particularly wants to be at The DMV. No one would gladly go to a location such as this. People really just have no other choice.

There are those places in our human experience. Unwanted, unsavory locales only populated because there are no other options. Unpleasant spots which we could get through faster if only other people would but do their jobs or could have avoided all together but for another’s negligence. There because of our own fault or simply our own fate. Unavoidable places like death. Desperation. Disappointment. Devastation.

A place full of bizarre odors and discomfort and misery. THAT we are there is not our choice but HOW we choose to live there is. The reality confronts but the interpretation of that reality determines attitude. The truth at the core of the receptionist’s quip was simple: how happy we are in this world is not something handed to us like a freshly laminated licence. It is by and large a decision we make.

Personally, I am far too selfish to be unhappy for the rest of my life. I just cannot be. It is way too taxing to recount the ways which life has wronged me. It doesn’t take long for any of us to learn that second guessing is a sure fire way to waste a life. To fantasize about going back in time is a certain means to waste the time you have left as well as the life you were meant to live today. How much better to see those unwanted visits to undesired places as the temporary moments that they are in the vast goodness of the balance of our lives. Small dark flecks on the broad canvas of light.

Meanwhile back at The DMV…. my number eventually came up. My picture from 2009 could not be used. The horrible one where my hair was done, makeup flawless when I was still in my 30’s. So I got to take my drivers licence picture on a day when my bangs looked like a wedge salad, wilting the opposite direction of the acne patch on my forehead.

But I just really had to smile, reflecting on a great psychological truth conveyed by the attitude of a bouyant DMV receptionist. As long as I’m here, may as well have a good time.

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Swimming with dolphins and Golden Girls-Our Christmas Vacation. So What if I Don’t Blog in Real Time…

July 7, 2013July 7, 2013 jinnyhenson

I always dreamed of an Atlantis vacation, water slides through the shark tanks, the bed-sheet-sized sting rays, the sun and fun. But most of all, I just wanted to swim with the dolphins.

Months ago, I booked our dream vacation through my companies’ discounted travel website. Free airfare promotions and very off-season prices made it a doable trip for the three of us. I set our departure for December 19th figuring that if The Mayans were right that we’d spend December 21st sliding down the pyramid slide and all go out together. It seemed fitting.

Upon arrival we quickly learned that there were two kinds of guests at Atlantis; those who pay full price and actually shop at the Rolex and Gucci boutiques on property and the Priceline.com riff-raff like us. The tell was the hideous stares we encountered as we dragged unmatched luggage ourselves through the two mile treck to our room. Reminiscent of peasants on third class passage we had seen pictures of at The Titanic Museum in Branson the year before, I have no doubt that there would have been no lifeboat for the likes of us.

Our first night after dinner at The Caribbean restaurant “Johnny Rockets” we wandered to the closed water park, eager to map out a plan for our first full day there. The moon was a flashlight, reflecting squarely off the three-story pyramid. We turned the corner and were amazed by the azure glow of the illuminated shark tank. Extremely dark and utterly deserted like a scene from “The Bachelor,” it was as if the whole place had been rented just for us.

We spent the next few days at the water park and beach. I rode my share of watersides whose tubes served as megaphones, intensifying my screaming on the way down. The Bahamian lifeguards doubled over in laughter which Jack found rich. I was only thankful to be allowed to keep on the security blanket of my formal-length sarong carefully around my pear.

The last day held a special treat for me; a swim with the dolphins. To be honest it was more like a meet and greet photo op really. In true Atlantis style it was all about the pictures but I enjoyed it none the less. Since neither John nor Jack had “The Atlantis shallow-water dolphin encounter” on their bucket list, I flew solo. John gave me that experience for my Christmas present which was a splurge and came along to document.

The 3:15pm group consisted mainly of young families: men and women, children and a few stragglers like me. The Dolphin Encounter Guides instructed us on locker usage then motioned to the racks of wetsuits and told us to get dressed. As a group. Clearly no woman dug this plan. It was gym class all over again. I took a deep breath and shucked my sarong.

That week I had done pretty well avoiding omni-present mirrors, not worrying about foisting my pale body out there for the world to see. I just wanted to relax and enjoy life. I tried to channel the confidence I’d watched Honey Boo-Boo display in her new pageant swimsuit days before when she raised the royal blue curtains of her tankini top, slapped her protruding belly and exclaimed, “I look go-o-o-o-d!”

The wetsuits were indeed wet which was like pulling on Spanx saturated in Liquid Nails. Only those who did yoga routinely had the flexibility to reach behind their backs and clutch the slippery zipper. It was a battle against sprung back-fat as every other millimeter of ones’ body was already compressed tightly into the spandex turtle neck / bike short get up from hell.

I noticed a beautiful older lady who needed a zip and desperately took a chance. “Hey there, I’ll zip you if you’ll return the favor.” She was relieved and readily agreed, one orphan to another. We then thigh-clapped into the training room and watched the instructional dolphin video.

The trainer educated my class in dolphin physiology and interaction etiquette. The main take-away being that you never touch the dolphin’s face. She delved into the mucal layers of the eye just to drive it home. Half way through the presentation another older lady emerged from the dressing area and sat with her friend the zipee. The latecomer had a purple streak in her curly gray hair and a 3D rhinestone manicure like Christina Aguilera. She was awesome.

Employees divided the group into subgroups and I was happy to be with The Golden Girls. Together we met our dolphin. The trainer told stories of women who believed this dolphin was their reincarnated husband and that several weddings had been performed between widow and dolphin. While I enjoyed greatly my experience I got more of a friend vibe from the guy.

We got to touch, feed and pose with our dolphin in the cement “beach” incline. He was a beautiful creature with very empathetic eyes and perfect teeth. Sleek, kind and as intelligent as a nine year old the video said. We each had our chance to interact and pose with the animal. The photog barked out directions as the trainer used fish to keep the subject in place. Good thing they have perpetual smiles.

When our dolphin fled, the other trainers in the group kept the party going by slapping the water to summon another one. Several appeared including a mother and her baby right behind her, checking on her. Exactly like me except for my baby was enthralled in The Lord of The Rings back at the room at that moment. The 3:15 group reconvened as the eight dolphins put on an incredible show for the final portion of our interaction. It was breathtaking to be in the water, mere yards away from these powerful creatures, a beautiful end to the trip.

I had always wanted to meet a dolphin. I’d loved them since my early childhood when reruns of the TV show Flipper kept me enthralled. My shallow water dolphin interaction did not disappoint. Neither did my vacation. Even though Jack was the only one on the entire Island of Nassau to wear camouflage and the soles of my feet were perpetually blackened by the $1.00 Walmart flip flops and my husband voiced his disgust over a $3.00 banana, all told it was an unforgettable trip. From the time we trotted our mismatched luggage in until Christmas Eve when we made our welcomed exit. That’s just the way The Hensons roll.