It's Not My Timing

Have you ever had a moment or experience that reaffirmed your belief in miracles? After just spending my second weekend at Comfort Zone Camp, or CZC (see this post for an overview of the organization/a summary of my first weekend back in June) I am brimming with the peace and hope that can only come from spending less than forty-eight hours with some of the most courageous and inspiring kids and adults on the planet.

To further the "miracle" argument, I should probably mention how I originally found out about Comfort Zone in the first place. I saw a story about the organization on the Today Show exactly two years ago now, a month before my own loss. (It's worth mentioning that I hardly ever watch the morning news in the summer, so this was a very isolated incident). I was so deeply moved by the organization's mission that I made getting involved a goal for my impending post-loss self.  I made the nearly two hour drive to Waltham for the day long training, despite intense nervousness. I had no idea what to expect, but after that day, my desire to go to camp increased exponentially.

This is the perfect example of how a moment can change your life (in this case, a four minute news story). This weekend, I heard countless other involvement stories from other volunteers. Each of us heard about CZC in vastly different, and yet similarly incredible ways.  Another college student in my group, who lost her dad when she was five, saw the same Today Show story while on vacation in Myrtle Beach. Still another heard from a friend who had just lost his own parent, and randomly saw a CZC billboard in New York City.

Along with my recent realizations of the inherent goodness of so many, I have come to appreciate timing. In this case, "timing" is referring to life's timing. I am the first to admit that sometimes I can get so caught up in the "what-ifs" (a theme I can almost guarantee will define many entries in the coming year) that I forget that I am not in control and just have to trust that what is meant to happen will happen. And that's that.

My "little buddy" at CZC and I were originally matched for my first camp last August. We had even spoken on the phone two days before camp, and her sweet, angelic voice moved me in a way I could not explain. I was so anxiously awaiting the privilege of meeting her and sharing in her grief journey.

Fast-forward twenty-four hours later: I receive an email from CZC that the weekend had to be cancelled due to the foreboding Hurricane Irene that was making her way up the coast. Devastated is not a strong enough word to describe how I felt in that moment. I already felt such a such a strong connection to this little girl, and believed that she was "lost" forever.

Now, just over a week ago, I receive my match assignment: the name from last August appears in my file. I was matched in August 2012 with the same girl.

No way, I thought. Just the odds of being matched for a weekend are relatively slim, as the number of volunteers far exceeds the fifty-five or so campers that can attend any one weekend. Not only was I matched with this girl once again, but I later found out that she almost didn't come this weekend; she was one of the very few accepted off of the wait list.

Someone wanted us together.

And as the weekend progressed, it became clear why. My little and I are so similar, it is downright frightening. She even speaks some Italian (which was not on her profile, or mine that I submitted originally). We are both goofy in the same offbeat way.

Because of her and CZC, I am beginning to trust in timing again. Why did I have to wait until 2012 to meet my little? Why couldn't it have happened earlier? I'll never know. Perhaps I was not ready to fully support a grieving child a year ago, when I was still in a state of emotional turmoil myself. I am sure it still would have been fine, but helping others when we need help ourselves presents its own set of challenges, challenges that may have been better met alone at that time.

But what is meant to be, will be.

So tonight, I am grateful for connections. Those connections that give me the comforting feeling of holding the end of a bunch of strings extending in infinite directions, a type of never-ending spiderweb. It is a small world out there, and the world in my eyes seems to grow smaller as I get older. I am choosing the be reassured by the fact that so many unseen forces are at work in my life, forces that may come to light in an hour or tomorrow or ten years from now. I am choosing to trust that I am in the right season, a season of waiting and anxious anticipation and millions of unknown possibilities. I can only pray that the kids at CZC will trust in their own timing, timing that will not always involve the frantic uncertainty that comes with grief, but will eventually lead to a life of wisdom and fulfillment that can only come with learning to live.

Maryland Weekend

It's already been a week since my trip to Maryland. Having not been down South since my Grandma's funeral in June 2010 (which wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs) it was nice to take a celebratory trip for a change. It was a pretty last minute excursion (story of my life this year), and, due to flight delays (see last entry) I only had just over thirty-six hours with my family in the end. But time with us all together is a special treat that distance does not always allow for.

My Maryland family (Papa, aunt, cousin) lives in an adorable suburb of Baltimore. We have many wonderful memories of weeks spent there in the past. I love that grandparent homes are like time capsules; there are so many photo treasures (including blackmail-worthy pictures of Jules in the 70's).

Part of the epic picture wall. See if you can spot little Maria. (Hint: 3).

My aunt is basically a rock star now. We essentially made the trip down to see her perform with her band she plays with on the side. They were amazing! I arrived halfway through, but was still able to enjoy most of the show (and thoroughly reap the benefits of being legal).

Four of my cousins were also present, including my cousin Kelly. We are less than three months apart, and spent our childhoods writing letters back and forth (Lisa Frank stationary, anyone?)

We spent Saturday at the Inner Harbor in the hot sun. What a cool place! To further cement my nerd status, I have to admit that the most exciting discovery was a massive Barnes and Noble housed in an old factory.

But the rest of the place was great, too.

I so almost did this

The ride back on Sunday was actually very peaceful (except for the fact that I hate New Jersey). Joey no longer has to pee every five seconds during long car rides (those of you lucky enough to have heard the "bottle story" understand this) and it gave us an excuse to consume both Dunkin Donuts and McDonald's on the same day (I have to say, I sure as heck love the occasional Chicken McNuggets). Unhealthy eating and drinking aside, we arrived home refreshed and revitalized.

Gotta love family.

Lessons in Patience. Courtesy of Logan Airport.

Let me start by stating the following: I know I'm lucky. In twenty-one years worth of air travel, I have never experienced a delay. Not one. I realize that some people may want to smack me whilst reading this declaration (I have heard countless travel horror stories from so many). But I can assure you, my luck changed this weekend. I experienced my first significant travel delay in the form of my flight to Baltimore. And it wasn't pretty.

When you've been fortunate in a certain area of life, it is easy to think "that will never happen." For example, since I've never been delayed before, I don't normally walk into airports thinking, "I hope I'm not delayed." Not even under the dark, threatening skies looming over me on Friday as I rolled through the automatic doors and into the air-conditioning.

Then I saw the board. My 5:45 flight had been delayed until 6:55. No matter, I thought. What's one hour? I have my laptop. There is a beautiful bookstore right over there. No matter.

After perusing said bookstore for over and hour (and I could have easily stayed longer), I went to the board again just to double-check before going through security. I saw my flight number. I blinked. I looked again. But it was true. My flight was delayed another three hours.

You know that split second when you are in the process of receiving bad news? And you think, wow, everything is changing in this split second. I wish I could have been myself three seconds ago when I wasn't being informed of this news. That's how I felt. I knew this meant that I would be missing the first half of my aunt's show (she and her band had a gig that night, and I had yet to ever see her play). I knew that I would miss the big family dinner with my cousins.

But there was nothing I could do about it.

Nothing I could do. After my initial moments of frustration including a frantic call to Mom (who was already in Maryland), I realized that no matter what, the delay would happen. Regardless of my attitude. So I might as well be positive.

This may sound strange, because people don't often think of airports as brimming with good will and calming energy. But there were so many great things going on around me.

I'm sitting in a seat at the gate next to one of only a few coveted wall outlets in the area. A young man in a suit frantically runs towards me, coffee already in hand. "Will you be here for twenty minutes or so?" Yes, I reply. A whole lot longer, actually. "Do you mind if I plug in my iPhone and leave it with you?" No, I don't mind at all. He gives me a smile and says, "It is so wonderful to be in a place where people trust each other." He then walks away to go do whatever he had to do, and I am left with his phone and my thoughts. I didn't have the heart to ask him if he was out of his ever loving mind, or where the heck he came from before to make him feel that way. While I certainly do not distrust people on the whole, I would never leave my expensive electronics with strangers. But hey, if he was paying me a compliment somewhere in there, I'll take it. Sometimes, it is nice to meet someone who is not a cynic.

For the record, the nice man came back for his phone. I did not steal it. He had just come from ROME and thus began a long conversation about my Italy travels, the Red Sox (he's a fan), his accent and how he came to the US (he's from Spain). He showed me a picture of his daughter on his iPhone that I did not steal.

(Speaking of daughters, I have to sidetrack and give major props to the people I saw traveling with children under the age of eight. Let's just say that while I can't wait to have kids someday, I am enjoying my solo travel right now. Because some of those airport child-pushing devices are bigger than me. I now know why long-distance travel in my family ceased exponentially after my brother was born. My parents traveled a lot with me when I was an only child; we would go to Houston, California, etc. to visit family. I guess it's easier when the parents still outnumber the children, although for someone with a strong immune system, I always seemed to pick up pink-eye and ear infections on every trip. But two+ kids is a whole different ball game, as I witnessed. One needs to be fed, the other is throwing a tantrum, and still another is sprinting away with toilet paper stuck to his shoe).

As I am listening to Spanish man tell an amusing story about his daughter that involves silly string and her cat, I can't help but notice that spirits are unusually high at the gate. I am not the only one in an upbeat conversation. The delay seemed to create a united team of sorts. We're all in the same boat, so let's drink our coffee and care or not care together.

And people did rally to the occasion. Almost every flight at Logan was delayed that night due to weather. As we found out, however, our flight crew was not the original crew; they had scrambled a group together so that we would not have to wait even longer. These people had probably already worked a full day, but they were flying us to Baltimore anyway. And I am so thankful.

Annoying doesn't have to be the end of the world. It may just teach you something. There were other family dinners to be had that weekend. And as I hugged and kissed my relatives and had drinks with my cousins and danced through the second half of my aunt's show, the frustrations of the day evaporated into thin air. Everything was fine. Just like it always is. And that's all I can ask for.

Then and Now

Over the last week or so, I've been lucky to spend some time with people who were such a strong presence in my life growing up (and still are). I think that what's special about having childhood/very close family friends is that these people know you over a long period of time; they've witnessed your growth and increased independence, but will still always remember you as the little girl with long flowing locks (down to my hips in my case) or the missing front tooth.

With all of these meetings and milestones, I've been feeling pretty nostalgic lately. Take last night, for example. We visited our really close family friends who have two daughters. I started babysitting for these cuties when I was eleven. In fact, I accidently locked this one in her bedroom on one of my first jobs ever (Jules had to come bail me out by swiping a credit card through the door). Luckily, she was asleep at the time and had no idea what was happening. Therefore, the little trooper (and my guinea pig in the babysitting world) suffered no lasting psychological damage from this experience. The incredibly scary part? She is now eleven herself.

On Friday, my childhood best friend's older brother got married. Laurie and I met when we were four. I'll spare her the picture I'm tempted to post of us at my sixth birthday party (I am wearing a hideous daisy dress, she is sporting a purple tank top with shorts pulled up to her stomach and a thick yellow 90s style headband). Many frightening fashion choices later, here we are just a few days back.

If I'm talking milestones, it's worth mentioning that I was at Laurie's ninth birthday party when Joey was born. I didn't find out until after the party, when her family drove me home and she was by my side as I welcomed my new sibling into the world ("Wait, his middle name is Giovanni? Seriously?" I exclaimed to her). In the same way (though not), I am honored to be a part of her upcoming wedding next year. Our drastic height difference does nothing to our shared values and experiences.

 Someday, there will be more graduations and weddings and kids and jobs. But for now, I'm just relishing in some touching memories with those who are special enough to continue to stick around for the ride.

Not Just a Ballpark

Last Friday, I attended my first Redsox game in a few years with my very close friends. While my team lost that night, I was reminded of the reasons I fell in love with the Sox so many years ago. On my ride home in the back seat, somewhere between awake and asleep, a flood of memories overwhelmed me. Memories of a bitterly cold night in late October, 2004.

I am thirteen, a few inches shorter back then. My three cousins and I are a few paces short of a slow jog, striving to keep up with Dad who knows the bustling streets of Boston like the back of his hand. Almost as well as he knows me.

"That was a good idear, pahking the cah there," he says to us with a sideways glance. By this point in our lives, we are used to decoding our Dads and their heavy Boston accents. The accents sound like home, just like the noises on Yawkey Way that could only come with eighty-six years of built-up energy; Redsox Nation had been pulling for this moment for generations. A World Series. We took our seats.

I am so ready for this. A die-hard fan, I have spent the better part of the last week saying Hail Mary's and Our Fathers in my bathroom, hardly able to take a peek at the television screen that was broadcasting a feat that screamed divine miracle: the Sox, originally being down three games to none, had just won the American League pennant. I guess I didn't think that God had anything else to worry about in that moment. And then came the announcer's cry, every ounce of professionalism gone: "AND REDSOX NATION CAN REJOICE TONIGHT!" We are all children now. Jumping and hugging, a tangle of arms and legs. We can hear the neighborhood's collective cheering. It is a school night for Robbie and I, but for once, nobody cares.

Nearly a week later, I still have the same raw energy. But I also have pneumonia. "I will NOT be missing this game," I announced to my concerned mother earlier that day as she took my temperature for what seemed like the millionth time. If Curt Shilling could pitch with an injured ankle and a sock saturated with blood, then I could certainly brace the cold for my beloved team. And so, with a heavy dose of Tylenol in my system and two thick coats on my back, I brave the weather and my failing immune system to watch history unfold before my eyes.

Wow, there are so many families here, I thought. A toddler in her mother's arms. A grandfather with his arm around his grandson's shoulder, pointing out the various plays. Four generations of fans compose one family sitting behind us.

In true Rob Papapietro fashion, Dad has already made friends with at least five people in every direction. I love that about him. His easygoing nature, his smile that stretches from the park to his childhood home in the East Boston projects a few miles away. He and a fellow Bostonian are exchanging life stories in the eighth inning when he breaks away for a moment, watching my face grow increasingly pale. He knows I am slipping away.

The coughs start. Coughs that seem to rattle my bones. Not now, the Sox are making their comeback, I think to myself. But I have to go get warm somehow. Without a second thought, Dad takes me inside the stadium as we stand, father and daughter, in a spot that allows us to still hear every play.

The Sox win. In fact, they win four games straight. The title of "World Champions" belongs to them.

I think anyone who is a Sox fan will agree that the 2004 team had an unparalleled magic. The players meshed; they had handshakes and shaggy hair and a shared resolve. And the fans united too. From all different walks of life, the fans at Fenway that night had a common passion for the game and for their team.

It's funny though. Because Fenway is just a ballpark. It is just a century old building, with tens of thousands of seats and a giant Citgo sign. But it's so much more than that. It represents priceless memories for so many.

More specifically, it is a century of memories between children and their parents.

And I am no exception.

It's amazing what you remember when your parent is no longer with you, at least in the physical sense. The moments you remember when, at least in this life, you won't get any more "moments."

But this realization only makes those memories that much more vivid, like a dream that you never want to lose. I have never remembered Dad's strong hand so well as I held it in mine. Or the smell of peanuts. Or his deep brown eyes, eyes that are reflected in my own.

It is now, at twenty-one, eight more years of love and life under my belt, that I can lie in the back seat and smile, waves of joy seeping through all corners of my heart, remembering a night of unconditional love in the form of a team that gave me hope, and a father who I will always be infinitely proud to call my own.

It's the Thought

A few weeks back, we had a returning camper in our class. This little boy has hit a bit of a rough patch in his young life, a rough patch that his behavior certainly reflected. To make a long story short, he and his mother came in this morning to us counselors with an apology and a bag of cookies.

To further set the scene: the boy who was downright disobedient for three weeks was now cowering behind his mother's legs, looking fragile and embarrassed.

His mother explained that it was very difficult for him to come to apologize for his behavior, but that it is an important lesson that he has to learn. Owning up to his mistakes, and setting things right. Or at least taking the first step.

And those chocolate chip cookies were some of the best I've ever tasted.

I've learned that people show their feelings in highly varied ways. Some people apologize through words, others through actions. When you love someone, you learn how they tick.

Or let's go beyond apologies entirely. Another related lesson? Different people can be there for you in different ways (and you for them). Some people may let you lean on their shoulder and just cry. Others may listen while you try to work through your feelings out loud. Or on the phone. Or through emails. Still others are blessed with knowing just what to say at just the right time. Still others don't do emotions so well, but will bake you a cake and deliver it with a hug.

In my opinion, no one act of love outdoes another. It is the intention behind the action. If the apology is sincere, what does it matter if it is through a letter or through baked goods?

When you have special people in your life who love you, you learn that this love is all around you. No matter what form it comes in.

It's really about acceptance. From accepting an apology to accepting help. And realizing that everyone is in a different stage in life. And we all have unique strengths regarding caring for others or relating our feelings.

When we know better, we do better.

And that realization tastes pretty sweet. Kind of like gooey chocolate chip cookies.

You and You Alone

At church this morning, I sat next to an elderly woman sitting alone. On her other side sat a beautiful Vera Bradley purse. While I am constantly smiling at complete strangers, I'm not typically inclined to actually begin conversations due to my moderate level of shyness. But some voice kept prodding me to talk to this woman. Have you ever had those really out-of-nowhere inclinations that you can't explain? So I complimented her purse. She sounded so appreciative, and then went on a joking rant about how it weighs 100 pounds because she stuffs everything inside (I sympathized). Then mass started. And that was it.

Or was it?

This is just a guess, but my "voice"  this morning may have stemmed from a very recent event. The word "event" doesn't seem to fit, actually. But whatever you want to call it, I cannot pretend that I am not utterly horrified by the tragic shooting in Colorado. My heart skipped several beats as I heard the details while sitting in traffic on my way to the Sox game Friday night.

As the traffic jam continued for a good half hour, my mind wandered. Though the two tragedies are very different, I could not help but be reminded of the shooting at Columbine High School in 1999. Yes, I was only a second grader at the time. But I remember that day vividly, though teachers and parents were able to shield many of us from the gory details.

 Many years later, I would read a book written by the parents of one of the Columbine victims, a sixteen-year-old girl named Rachel Joy Scott. It is not an overstatement to say that this one book drastically altered the way I view my time here. "Rachel's Tears" features Rachel's own profound journal entries and drawings, many reflecting her intense drive to live a life of compassion. This girl exemplified the mantra "practice what you preach." As expressed in her writings, she always had this strange feeling that she would die young. Her journal would be retrieved from her backpack after her death, a bullet hole piercing the cover. Written on it? "I will not be labeled as average."

I have this theory, that if one person can go out of their way to show compassion, then it will start a chain reaction of the same; people never know how far a little kindness can go.
-Rachel's Tears

I remember reading an article around the tenth anniversary of the Columbine shooting. It spoke of a "Columbine Generation," referring to those children and adolescents who attended high school during the shooting or anytime later. This generation (that includes me), according to many, is characterized by highly protective parents and anxious school climates. In a way, people would be looking over their shoulders for years to come.

And who can blame us? Take Columbine. Rachel sitting in the courtyard eating her lunch? Dead. Students eating in the cafeteria? Alive. Or the movie theater in Colorado. Some of those sitting in front of the big screen in Aurora? Dead. Those watching Batman ten minutes down the road? Alive.

Cafeteria, courtyard, this movie or that one...whether directly or indirectly, realized or unknown, our "life paths" involve being in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time.

But we cannot worry about that.

Heck, someone could have started shooting at the Sox game I attended this weekend. But it's not about scaring anyone. It's about taking the time to reflect on why we're here. What are our dreams? What do we want to give to the world today?

That's the real point. Life is full of everyday activities: eating lunch, watching a movie, doing our best job at work, playing peek-a-boo with the chubby cheeked baby sitting two pews in front. When I hear people tell stories of others who've changed their lives, it is rarely the celebrity. More often than not, it is the parent, the teacher, the stranger, the friend.

We don't need to be Superman or accomplish some feat from another universe. We just need to live intentionally, and create lives that are uniquely ours. Whatever your job, whatever your age, whatever your place in life...do your best and use everyday to do good. No one else can fulfill your special purpose in life. Because there will never, ever be another you. 

Just some food for thought on this beautiful Sunday.