RUSH Week

by Joanie Butman

Until this year I had never heard that term. For the uninitiated like myself, rush week is “a limited, high-pressure period when people in Greek letter fraternities and sororities recruit, or rush, new students in hopes of nabbing a good crop of pledges to keep their organizations alive and kicking for another four years.” Many colleges hold rush week at the beginning of the second semester of freshman year. Much like the opening of the envelopes at the Academy Awards tonight heralding the Oscar winners, the end of January unveiled the anticipated results indicating who was accepted into which sorority, a painful experience for some. Rejection is never easy to accept. One mother I spoke to claimed rush week will be responsible for years of therapy for mother and daughter. Sounds like one of my family vacations!

My daughter’s experience was a positive one, though not without stress. Just helping her gather the required wardrobe for the undertaking was more painful and costly than I deemed necessary. Unfortunately, clothing issues were the least of many other mothers’ plight. I’ve heard horrific stories of late-night, tear-filled phone calls, and crazed mothers doing things that would make Dance Moms look sane. Come to think of it, there is excellent material here for a new reality show.

Prior to last year, I had no knowledge or exposure to sororities. In fact, when my daughter started looking at colleges and told the counselor that she was interested in Greek Life, I thought she was expressing an interest in Greek mythology and made the mistake of voicing my surprise. This was not the first ‘blonde moment’ in my parenting life despite the fact that I am a brunette. It was just another embarrassing-mother-moment to add to my lengthy list of parenting faux pas.

I have never been a club-type person so Greek Life was an anathema to me. It goes against my nonconformist attitude. The only club that ever appealed to me was Lucille Ball’s Friends of the Friendless. I wonder if there is a Greek equivalent? I find the entire application process to any kind of club daunting and embarrassing, and rush week has got to be amongst the most angst-producing. Applying for entry into a society or organization feels like participating in a beauty contest – and don’t think rush week doesn’t have a lot to do with appearances.

I remember my first foray into a club when my daughter was in middle school. Another mom approached me to see if I would be interested in joining the National Charity League, a mother/daughter service organization. I nearly choked when I found out I had to be sponsored in order to join this philanthropic organization, as if there might be some personality defect that would prevent me from baking cookies, delivering food, or any other of the worthwhile efforts this group provides. The very idea that I needed to join a group to perform acts of charity always rubbed me the wrong way, particularly after I saw firsthand the creative ways people managed to satisfy the required hours of service. Don’t get me wrong; during my brief tenure, I enjoyed every hour of service and was exposed to countless ways my daughter and I could contribute to improving the quality of people’s lives in our own backyard.

Nevertheless, I did not get off to an auspicious beginning. During the new member meeting, after they outlined the required hours we needed to earn before the end of their fiscal year, I timidly raised my hand: “Has anyone ever been kicked out for not completing the required hours?” My question was received in stunned silence. Apparently, I had just revealed the personality flaw that should have barred my entrance into this noble sorority. Determined not to be awarded the dubious honor of becoming the first person in NCL history to be expelled, I dove in headfirst.

The problem I noticed is that I became so concerned with fulfilling the hour requirements, I overlooked opportunities for acts of charity right in front of me – bringing dinner to a house-bound neighbor, extending a listening ear to a friend in need, opportunities for random acts of kindness that I was too busy to notice because they didn’t “count.” I witnessed a new low when our group was approached after the December cookie exchange and asked if we could drop off poinsettias to one of our community service groups on our way home.  I am embarrassed to say, being overwhelmed by our holiday schedules, we all remained mute until the woman informed us we would earn an easy hour by delivering the poinsettias. Not surprisingly, she was then swarmed with volunteers (myself included). I took my plants and put them aside while I collected my daughter. Upon returning, I found the plants gone, along with an opportunity to earn extra credits. Obviously, someone needed those hours more desperately than I did. In reality, I was relieved because I was ashamed of my initial refusal to help. This incident taught me a valuable lesson: if I just concentrated on minutes of kindness, the hours would take care of themselves. I resigned midway through my second year.

Our next attempt to join a club was not much better. It took more efforts and favors than getting into a good college, and all we wanted was a place to swim. Much to my surprise, one of the people I put down as a suggested reference not only refused but went so far as to write a letter opposing our nomination. The reason was never revealed to me, nor was his or her identity – until recently. Who knew the person sitting in the same church with me all these years didn’t want to swim next to me?

Regardless, at the time this veto prompted lots of finger pointing at the dinner table as my family unanimously assumed I was responsible for this burp in our social status. This club was a place to play tennis, paddle and swim. What could I have done to cause an objection? Had someone seen how scary I look in a swimsuit? I’ll never know, nor am I sure I want to. The real issue is that everyone in my family was so convinced it had something to do with me!

Our most recent foray into the club scene was more successful – in that they let us in. Even so, the application process still felt stiff and awkward like I was pretending to be something I’m not: a mature, responsible adult. Obviously, you don’t portray an honest picture on your application because who in their right mind is going to write down anything other than a glowing description of themselves and their families? I’m still fearful that someone is going to figure out we grossly exaggerated our normalcy or suitability. When I have lunch there, I’m worried I’m going to do something ‘against the rules.’ I’ve never fully outgrown my natural tendency towards nonconformity. Given my guilt in my family’s eyes for our earlier rejection, they keep a close eye on me to ensure I am on my best behavior at all times

Despite my initial reluctance to embrace my daughter’s enthusiasm for Greek Life, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. My impression of sororities being shallow, exclusive and snobbish was based solely on that awful movie Legally Blonde. I suppose there are those that might be, but I was the one being a snob by making a judgment about something I knew nothing about. Just because the associations in my own life don’t boast Greek names, they share the same purpose. They are a group of people with whom I share similar interests, traditions and values. It could be a friend group, a community group, a political group, a bible study group or a church group. People are tribal by nature. Being surrounded by like-minded individuals offers a sense of family, community, security and support. It doesn’t prevent you from enjoying plenty of friendships outside that group. It is merely a safe haven. In addition, during my fifteen years of Community Bible Study and 55 years of life, I have been nurtured by a number of mentors – my own versions of a sorority ‘big.’ And now I do the same for my own new ‘littles.’ Who doesn't need a big sister in life? In a world rife with intense competition and assertive individualism, couldn’t we all benefit from being part of something bigger than ourselves?

In keeping with my daughter’s accusation that I can make anything about God, I mentioned to her that Christianity is my sorority/fraternity rolled into one. I couldn't see it, but I could feel the eye rolling long distance. If I had to give my groups a Greek assignation, I suppose Alpha Omega would be a good one. Here was an exception to Groucho Marx’s famous quote, “I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.” It’s the best club I’ve ever been blessed to join. Do you want to know why? First of all, it is not exclusive. They accept anybody. Second, your sponsor and two seconds come wrapped up in one person. There is no dress code. You can’t earn your way in, nor do you have to earn the right to stay. The only requirements are a sincere desire to get to know a loving and merciful God who is just waiting for your application and an acceptance of His Son as your savior. Did I mention no annual fees? Price has already been paid in full on your behalf. This is one club I didn’t need to be intimidated to join. The member list boasts people from every walk of life who, though they make every effort, are frequently not on their best behavior and often bend a few rules. I will be in good company.

Finally, the choice issue here is where and with whom we choose to align ourselves. W. Clement Stone said it more eloquently than I ever could: 

"Be careful of the environment you choose for it will shape you; 

be careful the friends you choose for you will become like them.”

*Big: Each new member is given a “big” sister that is a mentor to her throughout her new member period.  The new member is called a little. This bond remains even after the new member has initiated.

Love is an Action

by Joanie Butman

This past week I celebrated Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday with my usual gusto. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, Mardi Gras is French for Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. The term refers to the last chance to eat rich, fatty foods – and for some, the last chance to drink copious amounts of alcohol -- before the Lenten season, which for many includes giving up something for the 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter.*

Truth be told, I celebrated Fat Friday, Fat Saturday, Fat Sunday and Fat Monday as well. The recent blizzard contributed to that phenomenon as I sat by the fire sipping cocoa and plowing through a stack of books and a well-stocked fridge and wine cellar. On more than one occasion I wondered, “Who couldn’t love a good snowstorm?” It was my own little version of a New Orleans Carnival where moderation is thrown to the wind in anticipation of Lent. Could there be more polar opposites than Mardi Gras and Lent. Does the excess of one cancel out the sacrifice of the other? Hardly. If that were the case, it would take a lifetime of Lents to cancel out the excesses of my youth.

Not all Christians choose to participate in the observance of Lent. In fact, some even look at it with disdain considering it an effort to earn God’s favor, which couldn’t be further from the truth. But we are all susceptible to that kind of thinking because, let’s face it, who couldn’t use a few brownie points in the hardest course you will ever take:  life?

This week also heralded the celebration of Valentine’s Day.  Cruel timing as many give up sweets during Lent. Even so, the confluence of Valentine’s Day and the beginning of Lent this year couldn’t be more appropriate as St. Valentine’s message is a call to love. Prior to teaching religious ed when my children were young, I knew nothing about St. Valentine other than the cupids and chocolates associated with the holiday honoring him. Thinking this was going to be one of the easier lessons to cover, I showed the class the requisite movie.

The First Valentine tells the story of Valentine, a priest who defied Roman law forbidding marriage. Roman Emperor Claudius II thought married men would want to stay home to be with their wives and children rather than leave to become soldiers, which he desperately needed. Nevertheless, Valentine believed in the sanctity of marriage so he chose to marry couples anyway, conducting secret nuptial ceremonies. (Hence the loose connection to cupid I suppose.) Roman soldiers interrupted one such ceremony and arrested the couple. While they were in prison, Valentine sent them messages of love and encouragement. When it was announced that the couple was to be executed, Valentine persuaded the Emperor to allow him to take their place. Before his execution, he was given one last chance to renounce his faith, which he refused. He was killed on the 14th of February in the year 269.

As instructed, I followed the film with a lesson on St. Valentine’s message that “Love is an action, not an emotion.” All was going fine until I mentioned how difficult it is to love others sometimes – especially our enemies. Guess who chimed in, “She’s hard to love sometimes too!” I was being heckled by my third-grade daughter! Unruffled, I continued until she then blurted out, “Don’t believe her. She doesn’t act that way at home!” At this point I was feeling anything but loving toward her, and love certainly wasn't the action I was considering. I vaguely remember her defending herself on the tense ride home. “But, Mom, it’s true.” I switched to second graders the next year. My son was much more forgiving.

There is no better example of love being an action, not an emotion than the response of the Newtown community to the December 14th tragedy. Returning from Boston recently, I noticed a huge billboard proclaiming, “We are Sandy Hook, We Choose Love.” One would imagine that love was probably the last emotion they were feeling in regard to that horrific event, yet love is the action they boldly choose rather than acting out of despair, bitterness or revenge. While the rest of the world is holding candlelight vigils on their behalf, they are the ones shining the brightest light of all as an example for the rest of us.

I’ve learned an enormous amount from my children over the years (not the least of which was that I am hard to love sometimes! Really, who isn’t?) Regardless, their pure, simple, uncluttered view of the world allows them to see what adults are often too busy to notice, remember or embrace. Jesse Lewis, one of the young victims at Sandy Hook is teaching a valuable lesson posthumously. “Nurturing. Healing. Love.” is his Valentine’s message to the world. His mother, Scarlet, has begun a foundation which embodies Jesse’s message. It is called the Jesse Lewis Choose Love Foundation. The website explains:

Just days prior to the tragedy, Jesse wrote three words on his chalkboard at home: "Nurturing. Healing. Love." We understand these final words as a calling from Jesse that says, ‘I have something for you to do for us. That’s to consciously change an angry thought into a loving one’ because it is a choice.” The Jesse Lewis Choose Love Foundation collaborates with professional educators to bring lasting meaning to Jesse’s murder by developing school-based educational programs to change our current culture of violence to one of safety, peace and love for everyone in our world. This is the single guiding principle, the sole purpose and motto of our work: Teaching Others to Choose Love.

This mirrors beautifully St. Valentine’s call to love everyone – especially our enemies.

Finally, the reason I think Valentine’s Day falling at the beginning of Lent is so appropriate is because it is during Lent that we make a conscious choice to express our love as an action(s) just as St. Valentine advises. I don’t view Lent as an extra credit project. I don’t choose to give something up or do something special for someone else during Lent to earn favor or forgiveness. I choose to do it because I already have them. My efforts are simply an expression of love. It is a Valentine’s gift to God given with gratitude in response to His love and sacrifice for me. It’s no different than wanting to do things you know any loved one would appreciate – something that tells them how much you treasure them and how grateful you are for their presence in your life.

How do you choose to put love into action?

Visit their website to learn more about the:

*http://www.nola.com/mardigras/index.ssf/2013/01/mardi_gras_faq_answers_to_the.html#incart_river

Divine Sequence

by Joanie Butman

In the divine sequence of life it is only natural that I follow up last week’s Double Nickels by looking at its sequel. 70 might be the new 50, but after a certain age that logic doesn’t necessarily apply. At some point there is just no denying what your body is screaming, “You’re OLD!” And you're left wondering "How did that happen?" There is a myriad of jokes about old age; but in reality, it isn’t a laughing matter. It’s the ultimate betrayal as your body and mind surrender to the effects of time. There are plenty of good reasons many people become grumpy old men – and women.

It is an interesting exercise to study how people choose to deal with their failing minds and bodies – when brain farts become more frequent than digestive ones. I’m only 55 but when I called my girlfriend last night, in the few seconds it took for her to answer I forgot why I called. When parking, I forget my space number before I get to the machine to pay. On the other hand, you never run out of books to read because you can’t remember them. When discussing his failing memory with my Dad, he said that his only fear was that he would forget God. To which I responded, “But He will never forget you.” That’s a truth we can all choose to hold onto regardless of age or infirmity. You don't have to be old to feel forgotten. We all experience loneliness - sometimes even in a crowd.

I mentioned being part of the Sandwich Generation last week. This might be a new term, but it certainly isn’t a new experience. It’s been a reality of life for generations. It’s the natural order of things. It’s funny how similar teenagers and the elderly are. I remember my grandfather sneaking the car out while he was staying with us. And just recently, I called my parents a week after they arrived in Florida. I chided my mom, “You were supposed to call me so I knew you arrived safely.” I just had to laugh because it was the same thing I had said to my daughter when she drove back to college last month.

With teens, drinking and driving is a foremost concern in every parent’s mind. Well, I learned that DUIs apply to any kind of moving vehicle. My sister-in-law arrived at her parents’ assisted living facility once to find the police giving her father a warning that if he had another infraction, his Jazzy (motorized wheelchair) would be temporarily confiscated. No wonder they have a strict two-drink limit at their mixers. Taco Bell’s Viva Young Super Bowl commercial addresses the regression topic with humor. I doubt many octogenarians could stomach fast food anymore, but it’s a testimony to the adage, “It’s not the age, it’s the attitude.”

We’re all aging and will end up in the same place if we live long enough. It’s just a matter of how you choose to do it: kicking and screaming, limping along laden with complaints, sliding into home with gusto, peacefully content that you are here to enjoy another day, or like my friend’s dad, test driving a new vehicle after leaving the DMV where his license was revoked. He’s just cruising into his new normal. You’ve got to admire his spirit. He’s not going down without a fight. As my friend commented, “Good old George has a lot of moxie and determination to boot. Go George, go!”

I attended a meeting last week where another friend shared a valuable piece of wisdom that I’m tempted to tattoo on my body. I just can’t figure out where to put it. It’s hard trying to find a part of my body where it won’t be distorted in the not too distant future into some kind of Rorschach inkblot. She said, “Our life is defined by how we choose to accept God’s will.”We don’t have control over many things in life, least of all the passage of time. But we are always free to choose our response. If it is God’s will for us to live to a ripe old age, who are we to complain? An email I recently received ended with an excellent reminder, "Don't complain about growing old...few people get the privilege." 

I have no idea why God chose to give me the gift of time. Why am I still here when I should have been dead years ago? There must be something He still wants me to do is the only answer. I read stories everyday about people who “beat” cancer, attributing their victory to anything from positive attitude to an organic diet. A positive attitude certainly helps, as will a healthy diet and many other practices that are within our control - including finding a good doctor. I certainly didn’t survive because of anything Idid. As my doctor reminds me every time I pester him with questions for which he has no answers, "Ultimately, the decision and timing is God’s alone." True. No one can claim control over that, or predict it, for that matter. We can only honor it by choosing to use whatever time He gives us wisely.

The conclusion I’ve arrived at is that if you’re still here, there must be a reason. Something you may not have considered before is that at some point in life maybe our sole/soul purpose is to give someone else purpose. An infant is a perfect example. They can’t DO anything, but when they smile at you for the first time, it is an indescribable joy. People do the craziest things to elicit a smile from a baby. And if the purpose of our life is to become more childlike in our faith, old age certainly seems to be the remedy for that. In a recent Purpose Driven Life Devotional Rick Warren claims, “Let this sink in: Your first duty is not to do anything but just be loved by God.” Sounds easy, but it is harder than it seems in our task oriented society. Humans have an innate desire to feel needed, to be able to contribute in some way. Even my three-year-old buddy lights up when I ask for his help and is so proud to accomplish a simple task.

Throughout life our purpose is an integral element of our identity. Humans derive their value from their purpose. It must be the hardest part of aging – feeling without purpose. BUT, even though you may feel without purpose doesn’t mean you are. It just might not be the one you want. I haven’t liked every assignment I’ve gotten from God. Some are more fun or rewarding than others – but I think the way we choose to do the ones that aren’t fun reveals more about our character and our relationship with God than those we enjoy. Interestingly enough, the callings I eventually embraced despite my initial "Pick someone else" attitude turned out to be my biggest blessings and the most joy-filled - just not in ways I could have imagined.

Think about it this way. If there were no sick people, doctors wouldn’t have a purpose. If there were no students, teachers wouldn’t have a purpose. It’s the ying and yang of life. ”Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.” There is no greater gift than to show someone you value what they do and how they do it. That present can be given until you take your last breath. You can choose to bring joy to others simply by allowing them to serve you. Regardless of your age or circumstance, you can always choose to offer a smile, to give a word of encouragement, to pray for others,  to have a heart of gratitude and appreciation for your caregivers, to bring joy into the lives of those around you. Make no mistake about it, joy is a choice. It is not defined by circumstance. In fact, it defies circumstance. As Mary Neal states in To Heaven and Back, “Joy is a state of mind and a state of being. It reflects a conscious decision to believe in the promises of the Bible.”

Years ago in my bible study group, we were each asked to define the meaning of life. It was a fascinating assignment as the answers were as diverse as our group itself. It is a question we all have to answer for ourselves. I believe the general meaning of life is to serve God, but how you choose to do it personalizes that meaning for each of us. Our purpose(s) change(s) throughout our lives commensurate with age and ability. Plus, we are not one-dimensional beings, so we derive meaning from the many roles in which we serve: mother, daughter, spouse, sister, friend, employee, employer – all covered by our Christian purpose of loving God with all our hearts, soul, strength and mind; and loving our neighbor as ourselves. By carrying out this commandment we infuse God’s love, mercy, kindness and compassion into the lives of others, which is the true meaning of life for me. And I believe that is true at any age in any circustance.

 How do you define the meaning of life? Please share your thoughts below.

Double Nickels

by Joanie Butman

The end of January marked a milestone for me – my 55th birthday, Double Nickels. Sounds like a card game. Some of my peers are approaching the back side of fifty with horror. I, on the other hand, welcome it acknowledging the sheer miracle that I’ve survived this long – and not because of my dance with cancer. Some of the questionable choices I made in my teens and early 20’s were far more lethal than any disease unless, of course, you consider stupidity one. Truthfully, celebrating my 55th birthday is most surprising because I’m still waiting to grow up in so many ways.

Many women (and men) find encroaching middle age almost as daunting as the way I approach my scale at the end of the summer. Why am I so frightened? Because I know more or less what it will reveal: that I spent the past two months overindulging. I don’t need a scale to tell me what my clothes have been screaming loud and clear: “This little piggy went to Rockport!” The same holds true with crossing the double nickel threshold into middle age (that’s being kind because that would only be accurate if I lived to be 110 which is highly unlikely). Let’s face it, we all know how to count though some women conveniently lose this ability after a certain age. Acknowledging the event just reminds them of something they already know because their sagging, shifting bodies are daily reminders that you can run, but you can’t hide.

Even though middle age may not be mathematically correct, we are certainly sandwiched between our children and our aging parents – definitely a middle of sorts. But what’s the best part of an Oreo? The  middle of course. Even though I might think so, that is a personal choice that everyone has to answer for themself. In reality, it’s the blending of all parts that gives the Oreo its unique flavor, and the same can be said about life.

It is interesting to observe how different people choose to approach aging. There are those who are in permanent denial of the aging process as if they alone have discovered how to suspend the passage of time. They are the ones that choose to hide or lie about their age. If I were going to fudge my age, I would take my cue from a friend who threw himself a 50th birthday party at 40 so everyone would tell him how great he looked for his age. Not a bad strategy.

Another friend’s attitude is more honest, and you’ve got to love her spunk, “I’ve reached the speed limit and I’m not slowing down!” which she hasn’t and is testimony to the claim that 70 is the new 50. I admire her attitude, but I am slowing down, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It has its perks. When you no longer have the pressures, responsibilities and time commitments of a young family, it enables you to choose to concentrate on things you find most fulfilling – not a luxury readily available in the hustle and bustle of youth. There is now time to begin a new phase of life, to choose a new adventure – a second calling. Our second calling may not always be of our choosing or liking for that matter. It may be dictated by circumstances beyond our control, but the quality of our life will definitely be defined by how we choose to respond to that calling.

Personally, I find aging liberating. Among other things, age “frees us from the focus on appearances, so that we can become fullyourselves, inside and out.”  Yes, I could join the ongoing battle society is waging to keep time and gravity at bay. But why? It’s futile anyway. I exercise and eat healthy, but I have a strict ‘no sharp’ policy to beauty enhancing techniques. That means no needles, knives, electric shock, or even pouring hot wax on my body – nothing that involves unnecessary pain. I choose a kinder, gentler approach to my body – massage, yoga, reflexology and meditation. It’s less about what I see when I look in the mirror and more about what I see when I look into my soul. I’m not totally without vanity though. I still wear Spanx which pushes the boundaries of my ‘no pain’ rule.

With age and experience it becomes easier to accept ourselves for what we are and what we have to give to the world without feeling the need to please everyone all the time AND look good while doing it. Therein lies the definition of a crone. I was introduced to the concept of a crone years ago and embraced it enthusiastically. Croning isn’t necessarily attached to any particular age though 50ish is the generally accepted range. Becoming a crone is more about attitude than numbers. It is definitely a choice to view your age as a privilege rather than a curse. Some might consider themselves “croned” by 50, or others may not feel worthy of the title until much later in life. Either way, you will know you’re nearing it when it becomes less about you and more about others. It is a time of wisdom, maturity and Depends.

Crones choose to recognize and respect our limitations and rather than concentrating on our faults, we choose to celebrate our strengths and how they can be used in service to others. A crone is a wise woman who accepts the gift of her experiences and the knowledge she has gained through them along with the recognition that it needs to be shared with others. Her life becomes an expression of that wisdom.

Contrary to the ‘withered old woman’ Webster defines, crones are anything but. Weathered a bit for sure but not in vain. And it’s no surprise we’re weathered. There were no spray tans or SPFs when we were young. Tanning entailed coating your body with baby oil, covering an album cover with aluminum foil to maximize the rays, and baking until done!

While the generally accepted definition of crone has a negative connotation in our society, I correlate it to its sibling ‘crony’ which holds the exact opposite association. A crony is a close friend, a comrade, a pal. That is as close to a perfect definition of crone as I can muster. Crones have finally made friends with themselves overlooking all our imperfections, being as generous with ourselves as we are to others.

Enter to Learn, Go Forth to Serve is the motto that adorns the entrance to my son’s school. It was this attitude that attracted me to the school initially. Not because it is beautifully etched in Latin on the stone facade, but because it is etched on the hearts and minds of the school’s faculty, administration, and student body. Likewise, crones choose to embrace that same belief. They have spent the first half of their lives absorbing: ideas, knowledge, experiences. Now it is their turn to give back, to use the insight, talents, and life skills they’ve accumulated to serve others.

There is even a bona fide magazine dedicated to crones. “Crone: Women Coming of Age explores the gifts and concerns of women who seek to fully embrace Earth’s cycles of life and death and transformation. We honor the wisdom of long experience and the compassion of an open heart. Our readers are women who identify with a new, yet very ancient way of growing older and who wish to help effect a cultural change that will return wise elders to their natural and honored place in society.”

Finally, the last thing I’ll remark about crones is they choose to take time to live in the moment. They aren’t racing through life at the speed of light as in their youth. They’ve downshifted to a lower gear – no less powerful, just a different pace and focus. Personally, that allows me to recognize God incidents or Godwinks as I have learned to call them.

What’s a God moment you may wonder? Everyone has them – many just don’t notice them. Being aware of them is not a unique ability, but crones choose to take time to appreciate and recognize the wonder of an ordinary day, to appreciate the miracles each day has to offer. Sometimes it’s the sight of an incredible sunset, children playing, the vastness of the ocean, holding a newborn in amazement at the tiny perfection of God’s creation, or simply recognizing the hand of God in all circumstances – good and bad. God is in the details, of that I have no doubt. And if you choose to take the time to notice those details, you can appreciate the care he puts into each and every one of His creations. Pearl Bailey, a crone before her time commented, “People see God every day. They just don’t recognize Him.”

After I shared this essay with a friend, she asked if there was a male version of a crone. To the best of my knowledge, the term is gender specific. When I thought about a male counterpart, visions of Albus Dumbledore kept popping into my head. My only comment is that croning is a state of mind. Male or female doesn’t really matter nor is its designation. We all have life lessons to impart.

Why not choose to share your pearls of wisdom?

To learn more about Godwinks, read Squire Rushnell's When God Winks series.

Now What?

by Joanie Butman

Another public figure crashes and burns. It’s becoming an all too familiar scenario these days. I missed Oprah’s much talked about interview with Lance Armstrong and have only watched clips of  the highlights, which were more than enough. This might be harsh, but Armstrong didn’t evoke a lot of sympathy. He seemed defiant in his admission of guilt. I got the impression that he regretted the fact that he got caught more than his choice to use performance-enhancing drugs. He blamed  “the culture” of the sport as if “the culture” was a separate entity from those of which it consists. He sounded like a petulant teenager, “But everyone else was doing it!” as if that were a viable defense.  I can still hear my mom’s standard reply when I used that excuse: “If everyone was jumping off a bridge, would you do that too?”

Even if his career began tainted, once he became a leader in the field, he was in a unique position of power to expose, challenge and reform the cycling culture, but he chose to continue to glorify himself instead. The medals mattered above all else – much like the next drink to an alcoholic. Armstrong’s cocktail was just of another ilk. He became addicted to winning at any cost. His thirst was for adulation.

The shame of it all is that in trying to control his own destiny, he missed the opportunity to experience what might have been the true miracle. By trying to rob God’s glory, he sacrificed his own. Everyone loves a feel-good victory story. Armstrong’s tale had all the key elements – young, handsome, promising athlete struck with cancer during his prime defies the odds, and not only returns to competition but dominates his sport for seven consecutive years. Now that story is just what it sounds like – a fairytale. He made it one by doubting his God-given ability to win without drugs. He lacked faith in his own gift. Wouldn’t a drug-free win have been more meaningful and all the more miraculous? Too bad he didn’t have someone like Eric Liddell’s dad in Chariots of Fire to explain, “Don't compromise. Compromise is the language of the devil. Run in God's name and let the world stand back in wonder.”

Armstrong’s story could have been a testimony to the power of the human spirit, but instead it’s become a testimony to the destructive nature of hubris. Even so, depending on how Lance chooses to answer the “Now what?” query, his story can still change lives and inspire others. It can be a testimony to God’s grace. His story is not over – far from it. As with any fall from grace, it’s what comes next that will reveal what he chooses to take away from his experience and whether his contrition is sincere. Now is when we will see whether he chooses to live up to his own ‘LIVESTRONG’ branding. Will he choose to utilize his disgrace to help reform the cycling culture? Will he choose to use it as a platform to mentor others as to the cost and consequences of personal compromise? Will he choose to rebuild his character by using his infamy to benefit others? Will he choose to let his mess become his message?

There was another clip where Armstrong compared his penalty to that of his peers lamenting the inequity of his punishment. How someone who has just admitted to bullying, cheating and lying can talk about fairness illustrates a certain disconnect don’t you think? Yes, the penalty was steep. The price of pride usually is. Had Armstrong chosen to tell the truth from the beginning, maybe his sentence would have been less severe. He was undone by his own lies. The most painful consequence is not that he was stripped of his medals, but of his purpose and identity. There is no greater loss. He’s not alone in this kind of personal crisis though his was of his own making.

Everyone faces times where we are forced to change direction and re-examine who we are and where do we go from here?  It could be the loss of your health, your job, your home or your marriage. Maybe it’s a more gradual shift like your children leaving home creating a void pregnant with possibility as you sit and contemplate, “Now what?” It could be a retirement that you’ve worked your life towards (or worse, a forced one) to find yourself floundering in the emptiness created by the loss of focus that has dominated your life thus far - an integral piece of your identity gone. Perhaps, like Armstrong, it’s a horrid mistake that leads to your Now What? moment – infidelity, dishonesty, expulsion, legal problems, addiction issues, the list is endless, and no one is immune. Most of us don’t live in the limelight, but Mr. Armstrong has plenty of company in the poor choices arena. While ours may not be on public display (or maybe they are in our own communities), it doesn’t make them any less painful or soul-wrenching.

Maybe your Now What? moment is the result of aging in general, when your physical and mental abilities may not be what they once were and you search for ways to add meaning and purpose to your days. Perhaps that’s why so many elderly suffer from depression. They lack purpose. They don’t feel needed – and they aren’t, at least not in the way they once were.

I believe the key to happiness is choosing to adjust your expectations to your circumstances. You don’t have to be on top of your ‘game’ to have something to contribute. In fact, Lance Armstrong is poised to potentially make a bigger contribution to society now than when he was winning races – depending on what he chooses to do next. His admission was just the beginning of the longest, hardest, most humbling race he will ever attempt.

If you are staring into the vacancy of a Now What? decision, feeling a lack of direction and purpose, choose to remember that for the majority it’s not going to be grandiose. Reverend Liddell’s previously mentioned quote actually begins with “You can praise God by peeling a spud if you peel it to perfection.” As his statement aptly suggests, it’s not what you choose to do that determines your value, it’s how you choose to do it. Whether you’re changing your kids diapers or your own, we all have value and add value.

How do you choose to add value? If you are struggling for an answer as so many of us do, choose to ask those around you. Their answers will surprise you.