Sometimes A Post Needs No Words

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Burner Club

I was six when I wrote my first song and I’ve written over a hundred more since then. Although I like most of what I’ve written, a couple of the songs are extra special to me because they were carved from deep places of vulnerability and pain. Like A Blanket is one of those songs. Not only does it speak from my own struggle, it has also connected with thousands of people walking their own paths of pain.

A few years after I wrote the song it was recorded by a group who has appeared with Bill Gaither and is well known in Southern Gospel circles. I was honored when they said they wanted to record it and especially excited to know that the instrumentation for the song would be provided by a live orchestra in Prague!

So. The song was recorded, got some radio play, and was even turned into an accompaniment track that people can buy and sing themselves which is pretty cool.

That all happened about eight years ago. Let’s fast forward now to a couple Sundays ago when Steve was away in Pennsylvania picking up his newly repaired car. Sarah and I were hanging out at home together where I was reading the blog of a columnist/music reviewer who just happened to mention the group that had recorded my song. In the course of his remarks, he referred back to one of their earlier CD’s that he had reviewed which immediately made me curious as to whether he had ever reviewed the CD that Like A Blanket was on.

I did a little search and it turned out that he had, indeed, reviewed that project. I eagerly scrolled down to see what he had to say about “my baby” and was pretty much knocked senseless as soon as I saw his first sentence. He basically ripped the song to shreds, leaving no verbal stone unturned as he communicated its utter awfulness and its utter unworthiness to be included on any high caliber CD.

A few of his prime quotes were: 1) Instead of being a masterpiece, the song was a disaster-piece 2) The song exemplified “loopy tautology” 3) My writing trivialized the voices of the group who had recorded the song 4) The song exhibited marshy spiritual logic of genuine but undisciplined imaginations.

I’ll spare you the rest.

Now let me just say that I am all about constructive criticism. In fact, when we were doing music full time, I went to great effort and expense to hire professional songwriting coaches to listen to the songs I was working on and tell me what wasn’t working. And while those sessions weren’t always the most pleasant (in fact, they were often downright painful) I gladly took my medicine because I knew it made me a better writer.

But in this particular case, what really hurt my heart was the over-the-top snide and sarcastic tone of the review. There was never an attempt to point out any positives, it was just a slash and burn romp through words that are precious to me—words that I had rewritten countless times, words that I had agonized over, words that I had cried over and prayed over.

It was like I was saying, “This is the best I have to offer” and his response was saying, “Well, guess what? Your best stinks.”

After I finished the review I pushed aside my feelings of discouragement and said sternly to myself, “Becky, you’re a big girl. When you choose to allow your words to be ‘out there,’ you open yourself up to all sorts of opinions from all sorts of people. You’ve had your songs critiqued before so this is nothing new. Pull yourself together and get over it, girlfriend!”

And so I did.

Sort of.

For a while.

I went downstairs and ate dinner with Sarah and we spent a peaceful, pleasant evening together. I kept quiet about the review and I was so proud of myself for not shedding even one tear over that guy’s ugly words.

But the next day?

There were tears.

All of my attempts to stuff the hurt down and tell myself not to care were for naught. Because I really did care and it really did bother me that a song that was so valuable to my heart had been so thoroughly shredded by the scissors of sarcasm. In addition to the song issue, I was also dealing with an unrelated challenge and as a result of those two tough things, I ended up fighting back tears for most of the day. When Steve got home from Pennsylvania that evening, he could tell something was wrong; however, he didn’t push me when I said, “I’m fine.”

Tuesday came and I was still struggling, still trying to decide whether or not I should even tell Steve and Sarah about the whole scenario because, really, it just wasn’t that big of a deal. I just needed to grow up and move on.

Didn’t I?

But then I thought, “Well, for crying out loud. What is a family for if not to share my burdens with? Why am I insisting on carrying this alone?

And so while we were sitting around the table after dinner Tuesday night, I pulled out two copies I had made of the review. Explaining briefly where it had come from, I asked Steve and Sarah to read it.

Well, Sarah bless her tender heart, was almost immediately in tears. The more she read, the more her eyes filled up. She would read a few words, glance worriedly at me, cry a little, read some more, glance at me again, and cry some more. Steve didn’t cry but he snorted in disbelief a few times at the overall tone of the writer and cast many loving glances at me as he read.

As the three of us started discussing the review, I started crying all over again; however, it felt wonderfully therapeutic to share tears with my family instead of shedding the tears alone. After a few minutes had gone by, Sarah suddenly sat up straight in her chair and made a startling declaration. “Mom! We need to go outside right now and we need to burn these words!”

I stared at her for a moment and then I said, “You know what? That sounds like a good idea to me!”

And so the three of us grabbed a lighter and went out to the back deck. Sarah held on to her copy of the review while Steve handed his copy over to me. As we gathered around the grill, I took that lighter in my hand and with a wonderful sense of release, lit the page on fire. Then Sarah (my beloved fellow writer) took her copy and set it ablaze, too.

For a few quiet moments, the three of us watched as the hurtfulness disintegrated into ashes. Then Steve made a little quip into the ensuing silence and all three of us burst into giggles—tears to laughter in a matter of moments.

And do you know what?

That was a week ago and over these past seven days, I have barely given that review another thought. It was so wonderful to be able to share my struggle with people who loved me, people who were indignant on my behalf, people who affirmed to me that I am still a good songwriter. The act of burning the words brought a wonderful closure and provided me with a way of saying,“I am not affected by what this one guy thinks. His words don’t have power over me and his words do not define my gift.”

The bottom line? You and I will never be perpetually admired and affirmed by all the people in our lives. However, when hurtful words enter your life, just remember—you are not defined by those words.

And remember this, too. If you ever feel like writing those words down and taking ‘em out back and burning them, well, join the club. The Word Burner Club.

You’ll feel better.

I promise.

Daughters, Pooches and Porches

Yesterday when I came downstairs, I looked through our front window and saw this sweet sight.

A porch swing.  A laptop.  A daughter.  A dog.

Sarah was hard at work on her novel (which she started when she was ten) while Snowy was doing his diligent utmost to be of assistance.  Sarah didn’t have the heart to inform him that typing around six pounds of fluffy fur is not really the most efficient way to write a book; she didn’t want to damage his little doggy self esteem.

Finally, after a few minutes had passed, Snowy made the executive decision that he’d lent enough invaluable help to his sister for one day and went off to secure the porch perimeter.  After he left, I appeared on the scene to photograph my lovely daughter/writer;  she continued to stay hard at work, even as I meandered all around her in fine picture-taking form.   She is a very focused young lady.

Finally though, the fact that she was being stalked by a rabidly enthusiastic member of the mamarazzi burst through her writerly consciousness and she favored me with a few glances.   

Sideways . . .

. . . and upward.

. . . and forward.

I may be just a wee bit biased, but I think she’s one of the loveliest writers I know.

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I’m working on a longer, more serious post in which I share the story of how I recently burned some words that had been hurtful to me.   And you know what?  I highly recommend that particular practice.   More on that to come . . .

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And finally, a few things from the Comments Corner:

Jodi said, Where are the "soon to be" bride and groom registered (about a month left, right)?

Yes, the wedding is just a little over a month away!  Hurray!

In addition to Jodi’s question, I’ve gotten several e-mails on this subject as well so I’ll go ahead and let you all know that Nathan and Meagan are registered at Bed, Bath, and Beyond and Target.  I believe they are listed under “Meagan Hawley.”  

They’ve already gotten a couple gifts from members of the Smithellaneous Family which just completely blows me away.  You guys are just the most thoughtful and amazing blog readers.

Catharine said, “How is the wedding news developing? Such excitement this summer for your family.
So the new Mr and Mrs Smith will live in FL with in laws? Have they a honeymoon planned?

Catherine, the wedding plans are coming along great.  Since we’re getting so close, I imagine I’d better get out soon and do some dress shopping!   It’s been so long since I’ve bought something that wasn’t at a thrift store—I hope I still remember how to shop at a “real store.”

For their honeymoon, Nathan and Meagan are taking a 4-day cruise from Miami to, well, somewhere.  I really can’t remember their destination at the moment but as we all know, the location will not be as important to them as their special time together.

For a few months after the wedding, Nathan and Meagan will live with Meagan’s sister and brother-in-law; they have a large house with plenty of space and thankfully, the four of them get along famously. (Plus, John and Joy have the world’s cutest little baby boy, so that will be an added bonus.)

Here is little Spencer with Frank, Meagan’s Dad.

The Golden Retriever Puppy Son Pot-Stirring Plot

Our family has always said that having Nathan around is just like having a Golden Retriever puppy; he is the world’s biggest tease and loves to stir something up if something isn’t already stirred.

Case in point?  Our family’s visit to Jockey’s Ridge when Nathan was home in May.

Steve and Sarah were striding purposefully, peacefully, and contentedly along.

All was well.  All was grand.   The Golden Retriever Puppy Son was not up to his usual tricks.  He was walking along with unusual calmness and restraint.

Until he glanced over and noticed the peace and calm emitting from The Dad and Sister Tableau.

And then?  The puppy instincts kicked in!   He thought of a plot to stir the pot! 

Yes!  It was a Golden Retriever Puppy Son Pot-Stirring Plot!

See if you can possibly guess what the plot consisted of.

If you guessed, “Running in circles” you were oh so right!

And then to make him even happier, he actually compelled Steve to join him in the circle chase!  Nothing makes a Golden Retriever Puppy Son any happier than to be chased!  In circles!  Yay!

Sarah waited for the Golden Retriever Puppy Son and his father to cease and desist in the continuing circling of her person.

Finally.  The excitement was over.  The circling ceased.  The Puppy Son trotted off to ponder his next moves.

 

Have I ever mentioned how much I love this fella?

 

 

 

Tree Wranglin’

Around our house, there are no pesky Child Labor Laws in place to protect our delightsome, delicate daughter from performing toilsome and tedious tasks. And since Nathan moved away to college four years ago, her toilsome and tedious task list has grown a bit since she is the only Smith sibling remaining on active duty.

Last week, when Steve was clearing out some small trees from behind our house and needed a little help, he stopped for a moment to contemplate his helper options.

Snowy? No.

Becky? Naw.

Sarah? You guessed it.

And since this was a chore beyond her usual weekly household jobs, Steve told her he would pay her $7.50 for each hour she worked. Visions of iTune cards and thrift stores danced through her head and she said, “I’m your man! I mean . . . um . . . gal!” (It’s not quite so hard to replace a big brother when big bucks are on the line.)

We renamed her Sarah Bunyan and the work began.

Sarah learned that you have to be very firm with trees. You have to show them that you are the boss of them.

You have to swing your ponytail authoritatively and wrangle those rebellious branches until they unequivocally opt to obey. Sarah was a natural at it. She never had a younger sibling to boss around so she had plenty of pent up bossiness to unload on those unruly, unsuspecting limbs.

The two of them made a great team.

In the midst of all the work, there was one moment of great drama and excitement when Sarah had to step back from her wrangling duties and exam her hand for signs of grievous injury. Or at least a broken fingernail.

Thankfully, all was well.

Of course, whenever anything even remotely interesting happens at the Smith house, I have to be there to photograph it and so I was hangin’ out with the tree wranglers for a few minutes with my camera. At one point I wanted a posed shot so I asked Steve and Sarah to stand together at the back of the pick up. My goal was to try and get a shot from a little lower down but since my ancient knees no longer bend in any sort of a supportive manner, I usually have to lean sorta sideways in order to get my “low down” pictures. (It’s a very attractive look, I might add.)

Steve liked the look so much, he mirrored it. Sarah just looked confused.

Then when I bent a little further, Steve did too. Sarah was asking herself, “Do these have to be my parents?”

She finally decided that unless she humored said goofy parents and joined in their parental goofiness, the day’s work would never get done. And hence, this photo.**

As you can tell, the whole “Becky Bending Over” incident brought immense merriment to Paul Bunyan and Daughter Bunyan.

At long last, after the photos and the smiles and the wrangling, the first of three loads was ready to be taken to the dump. (Happily, someone from church loaned Steve a pick up while his car was being repaired.)

As they left, I waved a fond farewell and then wandered around taking a few pictures of a nearby flower.

I really loved this flower because unlike the trees, it not require wrangling . . .

. . . and unlike my family, it did not make fun of me when I leaned over sidewise to snap the photo.

However, it also did not break out into gales of merry laughter as I took my pictures. Which I sort of missed.

So all in all? I think I prefer my family over the flower.

Just thought you’d like to know.

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** You may remember that I posted the "leaning sideways" photo a couple days ago and asked if anyone had any guesses as to why Sarah and Steve were behaving that way. I received the following two guesses:

Random said, "My guess is that Sarah and Steve have noticed that the world is tilting a little bit off its axis, and they're attempting to remedy its spin. Tell them to lean really hard and maybe we'll get an extra-long summer!"

Jodi said, "Anything is possible with those two! Perhaps, the photographer is doing something odd, thus, causing them to react the way they are."

Random wins the award for being randomly entertaining and Jodi wins the award for being right!

Here.

I'm still here--just snowed under a bit.

We're gearing up for a really big event on Father's Day and I'm speaking for a women's group Saturday morning so my little ol' spare moments are getting eaten up pretty fast.

Steve made it to and from Pennsylvania safely (flew out at 3:30 pm Sunday; drove back home by 6 pm Monday) and the car is working great. So we got that particular mini crisis straightened out.

I've have a "real" post up soon.

What Are These Crazy People Doing?

This is a picture I took of Crazy Sarah and Crazy Steve a few minutes ago.

You may be asking, “So just what exactly are they doing?”

Well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait for my next post to find out!  (I know, I know.  You’re going to lose all kinds of sleep waiting for  the exciting answer.)

I want to thank all of you who chimed in with great comments and suggestions about possible ways to deal with the Great Stain Trauma Drama.   We are definitely going to put your suggestions to work because, as a couple of you said, the quilt is already ruined so it won’t hurt anything to try a few experimental things on it.

And speaking of comments, I also want to mention a comment on another topic that Karen left; she shared the link to a special website you might like to visit.  It has been recently started by a 15-year old girl who has terminal cancer; since she knows she doesn’t have long to live and has started a Bucket List. The number one thing on the list is, “To Make Everyone Sign Up To Be A Bone Marrow Donor.”

As Karen stated, reading this girl’s thoughts as she faces the end of her life is a good reminder for us to live each day to its fullest.

Life isn’t always perfect and sometimes it can be painful and disheartening and even devastating—but regardless of the heartache that it throws at us, it is still life. It is the only life we’ve been given. And having to deal with tough stuff means at least that we are alive.

If I had a choice between dying at fifteen or growing older and facing really difficult things in life?  I’d choose the tough stuff every single time.

Because life—even with all its sorrows and joys—is the greatest gift.  The fact that we wake up every morning with air in our lungs and strength in our bones is nothing less than a miracle. 

And you know something else?  Each one of us is terminal.  Each second that ticks by walks us one step closer to the place in the ground where our bodies will someday lie.

So write out your Bucket List.  Read it. Memorize it.  Do it. 

Because life is far too precious not to be fully lived.

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Drop by Sarah's Spot to find out why this was a special week for her.

 

The Transmission. And A Bad Thing.

Transmission Saga

Let me start with a quick update about the Saga of the Broken Pennsylvanian Transmission.

Earlier this week, the mechanic at the garage in Pennsylvania pulled out the transmission. And worked on it. And put it back in again.

And it still didn’t work.

Oh happy day.

Since he is a master mechanic and very serious about doing his job well, he was back and forth on the phone to GM about the problem all the way through the process. On the umpteenth phone call, he finally managed to wrangle out of them some sort of instructions that “they don’t tell everybody.” (What’s that all about?)

At any rate, he pulled the transmission back out, fixed it using their “secret instructions” and put it back in.

It works perfectly. And he’s only going to charge us $1,000 instead of $1,500 because GM is going to pick up the rest of the cost.

And so I booked a flight for Steve to fly from Norfolk to Pittsburgh Sunday afternoon. He’ll land at 8 pm, stay with his aunt and uncle (who have already picked up the car for him) and leave the next morning at 6 am to drive the car back home.

I begged (and pleaded) (and also beseeched) him to let me fly there and drive the car home myself because I love a long road trip, especially when it involves driving through splendid Pennsylvania scenery. He had no problem with me doing it except for the fact he didn’t want me being the one to drive a newly repaired transmission 600 miles by myself.

Which I know is wise. But I still am sorta sad about missing out on a road trip.

A Bad Thing

When Nathan graduated from college, part of our gift to him was the mattress and box spring from his room (which he has always loved) along with his bedspread, pillows, and matching curtains. Which meant that we were left with a guest bedroom that had a bed frame, but no mattress, box spring or bedspread.

And so when Nathan came home with us for a week after graduation, we purchased said items so that he would have somewhere to sleep. And also, so that our guests would have a place to sleep. Which it seems that most most guests expect when they come to one’s house.

So that was all fine. Not to mention dandy. Until. The Bad Thing happened.

A Bad Thing that involved a beige quilt . . .

And a red sweater . . .

. . . and a leaky water bottle.

Some of you may already be filling in the blanks as to what The Bad Thing is all about but just to be sure that you’ve done your blank-filling accurately, let me share a Few Bad Thing Details.

Tuesday morning, I went into the guest room formerly known as Nathan’s room and picked up a water bottle from the bed where I had casually tossed it the night before. I noticed that the side of the bottle seemed a little wet but I didn’t think a whole lot about it. I mean, a little leaking water never hurt anyone, did it?

Later that day, Steve walked into the guest room to look for something and said, “Um, Becky. Why is there a big pink stain on the bedspread? It’s right beside this red sweater that was lying there.”

I thought about the leaky water bottle. That had been lying right on top of the red sweater. And I got a really bad sinkin’ feeling.

Sure enough. When I walked over to look, I saw a Bad Thing. A Very Bad Thing.

I saw this.

That water bottle, lying on the red sweater, must have done a slow leak the entire night because the bed and the sweater were soaked. And of course, it couldn’t have been a nice beige or white sweater that I threw on the bed—no, it had to be a RED sweater. A red sweater that leaked color.

ACCCKKKKK!

Now mind you, this was not a quilt that we had bought at a thrift store fifteen years ago and had gotten plenty of use out of. No, this quilt was only three weeks old and purchased from a real store. And while it wasn’t the most expensive thing out there, it wasn’t overly cheap either because it came with a bed skirt, matching throw pillows, a coordinating blanket and pillow shams. And did I mention it was only three weeks old?

ACCCKKKKK! Again!

Although the quilt is machine washable, I took it to the dry cleaners to see if they had any advice. After two employees had stood for a few minutes looking at the quilt mournfully and clucking their tongues in unison they basically said, “That stain is not going to come out.”

But I took it to the Laundromat anyway, found a large capacity machine and gave it a whirl.

And guess what?

The stain didn’t come out. At all.

I guess our only option at this point is to hit some thrift stores and try to find a plain-ish, beige-ish, tan-ish quilt that will sort of tie in with all the accoutrements that we bought with the set.

Sighs of sympathy are welcome. Not to mention appreciated.