Soccer mom, retired

My oldest now 18 and in college, I’m no longer driving the bus. At least not for her anyway. I’ve still got a 16-year-old soccer playing-slash-drama girl and a son who, if he’s not playing two sports a season, considers it taking time off.

My firstborn began soccer at age 4, and never stopped, even when the going got tough. Not when we moved to another state and there was no real playing season that fall – she endured a tortuous “training” season – and not after a sudden relocation back to Texas had her searching in vain for another team.

The first team turned her away (a divine intervention, we came to learn). So even after finding one – if you can call that rag-tag group of mostly beginners and half-hearted middle-school girls, a team – game-after-game, goals were elusive. Then came the day coach put her in as goal keeper. Would that be the end, we wondered.

It was not. In fact, it was the beginning of a long, very successful soccer career with more wins than losses, fun travel, even more fun teammates, and tournaments to remember. Last year was her final bittersweet season of competitive youth soccer. Most of the girls would head off to college. The end.

Now for part 2, the best part of all. She’s now helping coach a U9 girls team in College Station, making me an official soccer coach’s mom. Why’s it the best?

1. She can drive herself to practice.
2. No more uniforms to buy, no more $$ goalie gloves.
3. Fewer trips to the ER/podiatrist/orthopod/physical therapist.
4. I can watch the games. Or not. Nobody gets hurt.
5. But I do get to watch her get excited to share what she knows with the next generation.

As they say, priceless. (So thank you, coaches Walter Koenigs, Dixie Jensen and Ken Ewell, and countless assistant coaches, teammates and parents, who taught, encouraged and played a role in making me a soccer coach’s mom.)

Read The Help, just know there is more to the story

So the coast was clear last night, the house all to myself, only small piles of laundry waiting. I slipped out to the patio with “The Help” in hand, pried open to the halfway mark I had reached earlier in the busy week. This time, surely I would find my grandmother in the pages.

The End. Well, no such luck. Never did the poor working-class white make an appearance this story.

If the author had turned her story ever so slightly to the one behind the counter at the drugstore serving the League ladies, we might have glimpsed her.

Or, she could have been the one organizing other ladies to deliver dishes for Louvenia and the one driving her blind grandson to his doctor appointments. She did that you know.

My grandmother founded the local ladies club. But she was not Mrs. Hilly. And, though she caught and killed, or planted and grew, much of what was fried-up and served at her laminate dinette set, nor was she Aibileen or Minny.

Of course, she was not formally educated like Skeeter either. She married at 17 to a turnip farmer and she took care of her own children, all 10 of them, plus a few grandchildren who came along a little too early.

And she was a friend to her poor black neighbors. Even as she lived day-to-day among people who, like the Hilly character, would never, ever consider themselves a racist.

I enjoyed the book very much. I really did, for many reasons. The voices, the scenes, the foods, and yes, the attitudes, took me back to a childhood, dancing across a greasy linoleum kitchen floor or bringing in the eggs. Oh, you can find my grandmother’s name in lots of church cookbooks today. But she remains the one important character you won’t meet in books like “The Help” — a Southern white woman whose role in the dynamics of that society deserve at least a chapter or two.

Grant writing: My verbs in action

I write newspaper articles and press releases. I write ads and brochures. I write scripts, websites and social media content.

You name it, something happens somewhere, someone creates something, or plans something, and I tell the story.

When I write a grant, I make something happen.

Yesterday, I attended my first pre-bid conference for construction work that will begin as a result of grant money we won last year. It was a well-deserved prize and the funds will be put to very good use.

Short of wearing hard hats, I could already see the ground being broken and the change being made. It’s really going to happen, I thought, and the sun shone a little brighter, I’m just sure of it.

When I write a grant, it’s most always and every where a team effort of which I’m blessed to be a part. It starts with an exceptional cause, and people who are dedicated to a mission matched up with generous people and organizations who give because it’s the right thing to do – all the ingredients that make any story easy to tell.

And that’s where it really begins. With people making a difference in our community. I didn’t make it happen just because I filled in the spaces on some grant application and penned a compelling cover letter.

But now I am part of the story, and I take that to heart.

Why God does not want you to give up Facebook for Lent

This I know to be true: God did not invent Facebook.

What God did do is make us social creatures. Communication technology in all its forms is a manifestation of our dependence on one another and the God within each of us.  We are the best we can be, and more like Him, when we are communicating with one another.

A few years ago, I lost a dear friend. Few others in my circle knew him. So I don’t have people with whom to share his memory. Except on Facebook, where I’ve been able to connect with his family, people I barely knew but who indulge me because they, too, feel the loss.

So on those days when my mind wanders to him, and how much I miss him, I have a place to reach out and find him, a community that bears him in their hearts as I do, and a shared place to feel his presence.

Give up chocolate, your video game addiction and talking about your coworker behind his back. Resolve to eat less, exercise more and do daily meditation. But, for God’s sake, and the 382 people on your friends list, keep those status updates, vacation pics and direct messages coming.

That’s what builds community. And if your community, on Facebook or otherwise, is building you up, giving you joy, bringing you closer to others and to Him, providing a network of meaningful relationships, that’s not something to sacrifice.

But to celebrate.

Some friends I follow

Business coaching classes can teach you a lot about marketing your business well, coming up with better ways of doing business, and how to find customers for your business. What I did not expect to get from the class I took is the people I met, and the personal gifts they shared. If you don’t know them already, let me introduce you to these leaders and tell you why I would follow them (if I were you).

Aida Zorilla – an inspired writing style and approachability endears you to her, but what I respect most is her yearning for continued learning.

Matt Stigliano – infectious enthusiasm, and reliable source for tech insights and pizza-place tips. Stigliano is going on tour again, folks, and I look for him to take downtown by storm.

Charles Weisinger – a dedication to his work, his coworkers and the service he provides his clients is to be admired. Steady as a rock, this guy really cares about what you think and say.

Jeanette Honermann – a never-met-a-stranger and a let’s-get-this-done attitude, all the while thinking and exploring and making connections. Jeanette gave me the postcard (above) that now hangs in my cubicle.

Shelley Cook – to know her is to love laughing at her dry wit; she’s got more cylinders firing upstairs than most of us could ever hope to have. Ask her anything: She’s a giver.

Melanie Mendez Gonzales – besides being gifted with an assuring voice and an open mind, she wears a beautiful smile and rocks some pretty great shoes.

Alicia Arenas – talented beyond compare, yes, but a teacher who is wise enough to understand that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

A Postcard to Camp

Dear fellow Campers,

I am sending you this postcard from the edge because I wanted to share with you the trials and tribs of my 10-mile hike up and back down Mount Emory in Big Bend this week. To reach the summit, you have to take one long, ascending switch-back after another until, eventually, you begin to wonder, “Who moved the mountain?”

 It was a journey I began with my family, the teenage members of which soon found that iTunes provided the necessary motivation (distraction?), so while that peace and quiet allowed me to focus ever deeper on the pain in my aging lower extremities, we met some nice people of all shapes and sizes along the way. “You’re almost there!” and “It’s worth it when you get to the top.” Even the park ranger who stopped during one of our many fig-newton and water breaks – we had to carry enough food and hydration for the entire day – was slightly encouraging in a stern, ranger-y kind of way.

Yet, it would take blood, sweat and tears – oh yes, we saw them all, including a bee sting – to keep putting one foot in front of the other. As I climbed, my apprehension about getting back down the rocky, slippery trail on weak and tired legs grew, and the realization that there was no ski patrol there to rescue me weighed as heavily on me as my backpack. There were times I could feel eyes watching from the underbrush – I’m sure they were hungry mountain lions ready to move in for the kill.

Then, at one of my lowest more-painful-than-childbirth moments, a fat bluebird came along, and seemed to follow us for a bit, bringing a little happiness to our climb. We managed to make it to the peak by mid-afternoon, exhausted and relieved.

Guess what, there’s no T-shirt shop up there, no certificates or cash rewards. But you could see clearly for miles, you could rest, you could proclaim victory. Oh, and the getting down? On a difficulty scale of 1-10, the descent was about a 2, far less than I had imagined, and I even found the strength to jog the last bit after a lion was spotted in the area.

That night, a super moon shone for us.

Sanera Camp is a journey to the top, even if you can’t always see the top.

There’s a lot of help along the way.

Don’t worry, don’t look back.

Stay ahead of the competition.

Ultimately, it’s up to you alone.

If you seek the rewards within first, bigger rewards will come.

(No, I haven’t done my homework yet.)

See you on Wednesday.

Lessons from a Renaissance man

A woman I know* compared good writing to how Michelangelo described his sculpting — he believed that every stone had a sculpture within it, and that the work of sculpting was simply a matter of chipping away all that was not a part of the statue, to reveal the beautiful work inside.

I’m no Michelangelo-of-Words to be sure. But the comment, taken as a compliment, made me curious about the man, what was known about him, and what else he can teach us.

Michelangelo had a competitor
When your competition is none other than Leonardo da Vinci, do you throw in the paintbrush and head for the hills? If he had, how would St. Peter’s Basilica look today?

He could do it all
And he did. Sculpture, architecture, drawings, paintings and poetry all survive him. But at different times for different clients. I have a hard time picturing him multitasking while revealing The Statue of David. No pun intended.

Though he was pulled in many directions
While working on the Pope’s Tomb, he was constantly interrupted for other tasks. Not e-mails mind you. Whatever it was, it kept him from finishing the work for 40 years.

He was inspired by his faith
Much of his work is biblical, like the masters of his time. Yet, his beliefs inspired him to the point that when he was commissioned to paint the 12 Apostles, he lobbied for Creation instead. Though some say it was a political move, you can’t look at Sistine Chapel ceiling and not be moved.

His biography was written during his lifetime
They called him The Divine One. Apparently, he did not shy away from attention and publicity, and it helped his career.

Others imitated him
You could say he was a trendsetter, kicking off the style known as Mannerism.

He was censored
The “fig-leaf” campaign actually started with Michelangelo’s works.

He took on bad clients
And regretted it. Pope Leo X commissioned Michelangelo to reconstruct the façade of the basilica of San Lorenzo in Florence. Michelangelo agreed reluctantly. The three years Michelangelo spent in creating drawings and models for the facade, as well as attempting to open a new marble quarry specifically for the project, were among the most frustrating in his career, as work was abruptly canceled by his financially strapped patrons before any real progress had been made. No façade was ever built.

Good days and bad
As any writer who has ever struck the laptop in an attempt to make the words flow faster or better, there are some days when you rock and roll, and some days, you don’t. Know you’re in good company. It is said that when finishing the Moses statue in Rome, Michelangelo violently struck the knee of the statue with a hammer, and shouted, “Why don’t you speak to me?”

*Credits and gratitude to Alicia Arenas for inspiring this post.

I know a woman, part 2

I know of a woman who spends her evenings perched behind a sheet of plywood that blocks curious eyes.

I wish I could say that I do really know her. Where she was born, what she enjoys doing, how she feels. If I knew her, I would tell you how old she is and maybe even her nationality. If I talked to her, met her, I could at least tell you those things and give her that small piece of human dignity.

Instead, I turned away from the carnival booth declaring “Smallest woman in the world!” and refused to pay the admittance to step behind the plywood and look upon her, or even to see if the promises were true: “You talk to her, She talks to you!”

I could only stand there and wonder how this woman’s life came to this. What circumstances could have led her to this circus of a life. When did her disability became an oddity on display. How does she feel when they peer at her, night after night, like an animal at the zoo.

And, how does she feel that I won’t look at her? That my discomfort borders on nausea.

The truth is that my shame is greater than hers. I am ashamed that I live in a society that allows her situation. I am ashamed that my community that is usually so caring, and the rodeo organizers, accepts it. I am ashamed that I can’t turn my disgust into action.

Now look who feels like the smallest woman in the world.

I know a woman

I know a woman who is battling cancer. It’s a fight to the death. She is a wife and mother. So of course.

One of the last times I spoke with her before her most recent hospital stay, I was on a beach in Florida, not my usual quiet home office. Toes in the sand, I listened as she gave me a writing assignment, and watched 11 bikini-clad teen-age girls I had brought there for a soccer tournament dip their toes in the winter-cool water.

The girls’ laughter, the seagulls calling above and the surf hitting shore were sounds surely she could hear. So I fessed up. I’m the team manager, I told her, and I’d be returning home at the end of the week when the girls finished their four soccer matches. Then I would get started right away.

That’s when she told me that her own son once played a lot of soccer. When her battle began, however, several years ago, he gave it up. Not, she tells me, because of the logistics of getting to practice and games and all the time that playing youth soccer can suck out of a family’s schedule.
But because he knew she couldn’t be there.

Like a blast of sea air, she delivered a gift to me that I will carry for the rest of my mothering years. Out went the frustration of planning this team trip. Gone was the worry about the time I was spending away from my desk and the money it was costing us. Forever banished were the thoughts that I would never volunteer for such a task again.

The call ended and I stood up. Years’ worth of playing soccer-mom and all that means flashed past my eyes. The sun shone, and as I approached the water’s edge, I could see my beautiful daughter, now almost grown and nearly ready to leave for college.

And I could see this chance I had with her, and the team she’s played with since middle school, in a whole new light.

Test anxiety

As with most high school and middle school students in San Antonio, the Providence Catholic School planner shows it’s time for final exams. Most of us can still relate to the annual stress of wondering how you will recall everything you learned way back in January and answer all questions before the buzzer goes off, then pray for a grade that will move your average up at least a little more.

But a cause for tears?

For some, sadly, yes. Certainly not because they didn’t learn the material. In a school like Providence Catholic, where class sizes are small, homework is considerable, teaching styles are geared to single-gender tactics, self-discipline apparent, and the caring faculty willingly provides 1:1 tutoring, the students know not just the basics, but college-level material as well.

And, according to some studies, graduation from both high school and college is ultimately more likely to happen for Latino students who attend Catholic schools than those who attend public schools. In a city like San Antonio, where the drop-out and teen pregnancy rates remain some of the highest in the country, a Catholic education can have an exponential impact on a girl’s life, her current and future family, and her entire community.

San Antonio is blessed with many good Catholic schools that have a long history of contributing much in the way of leadership and brainpower to the community, and will continue to do so. Yet, for families who choose Catholic school, and commit to paying monthly tuition for the opportunity, this time of year can be stressful for those whose accounts are not yet paid in full. Per policy, the schools cannot administer final exams to such students until their tuition is paid.

Providence, like most Catholic schools, does its part by offering payment options and tuition assistance. The bleak reality is that the economy has hurt enrollment in all private schools, and it costs more every day to operate a school, attract new students and pay teacher salaries.

In recognition of these challenges and the impact these schools can make, the San Antonio Area Foundation recently awarded Providence Catholic School with a grant of $10,000 in Bridge Funding that will make a tremendous difference in many families’ lives. Other donors this year include area foundations like Goldsbury, Strake and Scanlan, generous alums, and friends to the Congregation of Divine Providence.

In one recent situation, a struggling family saw their tuition account paid up with grant money, creating a brighter future for a student whose focus is now where it should be for a 16-year-old girl: She will study and take her final exams, and keep working toward that college-prep diploma.

Previously, the student had planned to drop out and take on a minimum wage job to help support the family. That was her solution. We gave her a different, more hopeful, one.

She has dried her tears and sees her future a little more clearly now.