Odd man out.

(This is not a depressing post. This is just a feelings post, good grief. – R)

My life has been defined by that description. It rears its ugly head every now and then, and when it does, God brings me back to myself and reminds me that I chose that definition.

When I was an elementary student, I dreaded PE class. I was not an athlete, and my memory holds the moments when I was among the last chosen for dodge ball teams or scooter relay races. When an organized game of Red Rover happened at recess, however, I remember being chosen – the weak ones rarely break through the line.

I attempted sports in junior high and was the bench warmer, mostly. Dr. Schrag, our coach, put me in when the game wasn’t on the line. I loved playing, I just didn’t love the suicides we had to run. I am not a fan of sweating.

One of my enduring positive memories from that time period was a beautiful “swish” from the perimeter, by me, seeing Dr. Schrag cheer me on in front of the scorer’s table, and hoping Mom had seen my moment of athleticism up in the stands. I was so starved for any attention and to “belong” to the team.

In softball, I could catch the fly balls, field the grounders…but I wasn’t one of those who could throw to home plate from the outfield, and I was delegated to right field, always. Track, I don’t remember a lot, because it involved running, and I sucked at running. Sweat and me do not agree.

I recall that I was the in-between friend, and I guess that is a good thing…I guess. I was sometimes friends with the popular girls, and sometimes friends with the not-quite-as-popular girls, but my perception is that I was never really a part of either group completely. That trait carried on into high school, too. I wanted to fit in so badly, and I adapted to whomever would have me. Oh, if I could go back and re-do.

Most of high school is a blocked out blur, and I think God designed us with that added shield of protection so we are not crushed by the weight of our past, when our past is a heavy chain of regret. I conformed to fit in, in an attempt to rid myself of “odd man out,” all the while craving the attention I desperately wanted, hoping someone would love me. My life was defined by that title, it seems. Choices I made, words I spoke, patterns I built, all in an attempt to fit in and be included.

It defined my adulthood, those choices I made. And my adulthood became a reality of living with that definition and figuring out a way to be okay with the path I had chosen. If you know me, you know…

Fortunately for me, I had two parents who did not give up, a family who did not turn their backs, and a God who saw me, not as I saw myself – as the odd man out – but as He created me, one of His own.

Over the years, I continued to crave the unattainable in this personality that is background material, but I also learned to find comfort in the aloneness. I mostly prefer time by myself now. It is time that I do not have to worry that I am the third wheel, the odd man out. It is easier.

The chapters of my life cannot be re-written. My experiences, my memories, my choices – they are part of who I am now. My identity includes all the experiences, not just those I want to hold onto, but also those I wish I could forget or remake. I am the benchwarmer. I am the 3rd string. I am the worker bee, not the Queen. I am the third wheel. I am the one on the side, looking in. But I also hope I am always the friend to all, the one in the middle.

I look up to the mountains—does my help come from there? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth! He will not let you stumble; the one who watches over you will not slumber. Indeed, he who watches over Israel never slumbers or sleeps. The Lord himself watches over you! The Lord stands beside you as your protective shade. The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon at night. The Lord keeps you from all harm and watches over your life. The Lord keeps watch over you as you come and go, both now and forever.
– Psalm 121, NLT

On these days when I am definitely the odd man out and feeling like the third wheel, I am grateful God sits on the bench beside me.

I am grateful He chooses me to be on His team.

I am grateful He is throwing the ball to me to “make the basket.”

I am grateful God is cheering me on.

Thoughtful Thursdays could be a thing, I suppose.

Let’s build bridges, not walls. – MLK, Jr.

Neighbors are trying to finish their back patio. Our son offered to help move dirt…for free. It didn’t hurt that they had rented a machine that lights up a 20-year-old’s enthusiasm, but still.

Same neighbor needed help with his lawnmower. Sam did not hesitate.

Dad’s neighbor needed help cleaning and sorting in her apartment, an opportunity for my sister and I to do something nice, just because.

We needed help pulling off a wedding shower this summer, and I needed help knowing what to wear to the wedding. Karen gave me time off from work, took a day off and helped me shop and prepare for the shower, and then she let me borrow shoes and a beautiful outfit for the big day, because that is who she is.

Michelle cleared her weekend calendar, drove 3 1/2 hours, just to hold my hand the weekend of the wedding. She wasn’t invited to the big event. She just came to help us feel loved and less stressed, because that is who she is.

My sister lives here, but here is relative. It is a good 30 minute drive from her home to ours. And still. When we are out of town for more than two days, she drives the drive to check on Banana and Split, because that is who she is.

Thursdays are piano therapy day for me. After work, I drive over to Dad’s to play my piano for awhile. I am usually greeted by a handful of residents who graciously sit and listen to my hymns and random musical therapy. Now, I have added in an hour of Bingo calling, because it has been missed – by me, and by the residents who need something different to do in the evenings. It makes for a long day, but it also makes for a full heart day, too.

Great acts of love are done by those who are habitually performing small acts of kindness.

I am grateful for opportunities to extend a hand and cross a bridge. It is nice to extend & receive, to cross & be on the other side, welcoming.

I am also grateful for a deer this morning that wasn’t too scared to let us get a little closer as we walked.

And of course, I am grateful for tonight when Cindy and Keith are on our couch and we are all watching the CHIEFS.

For the mountains may depart and the hills disappear, but My kindness shall not leave you.
My promise of peace for you will never be broken,” says the Lord who has mercy upon you. – Isaiah 54:10

Build a bridge by extending your hand. – Poirot

Last night at 10 pm, my husband did something that not many people would do at bedtime. He got in his pickup and drove 20 minutes to go check on someone who was not answering their phone, and then helped them find their phone, got it plugged in to the charger, reset their bedside clock, and left with a promise to check in again in a couple days.

He has a heart as big as Dallas, and I am so very grateful for my husband.

Compassion means to lay a bridge over to the other without knowing whether he wants to be reached. – Henri J. Nouwen

It’s gotta be true love.

What started out as just another routine appointment accompanying my husband, turned out to be a few of my least favorite adventures ever.

What a morning. I feel like between 8:00 am and 9:30 am, I was in a battle. Whew. I survived, barely.

If you know me at all, you know I have a very strong aversion and traumatic inner response to guns, among a host of other things. And balloons. But most definitely guns. Long story for a chapter in a someday book, but not here. HOWEVER. We arrived at the doctor’s office on this beautiful and sunny Monday morning and after filling out the forms and visiting with the elderly lady about how cold she gets, another patient walked in the office and stood at the counter to check in. Sam looked at me wide-eyed. I had not noticed…yet.

I know it to be true and among us, I just had not experienced “open carry.”

Cue the inner alarm sweaty palms heart palpitation response for no reason other than my visual trigger.

I only panicked internally, and shortly thereafter, the nurse was at the gate, calling Sam’s name. Most definitely, I went with him and left the wild, wild west out in the waiting room.

This appointment was not earth-shattering like so many of his appointments in the past five years. This was just a simple, “Doctor, please do something about my toenail fungus” appointment. Easy peasy, look at the feet, write a ‘script, see-ya-later-alligator-toes.

Au contraire mon frere. Not when Rhonda’s already in distress enough.

If you know me at all, you know I have a very strong aversion and traumatic inner response to all things toe nails, among a host of other things. And balloons. But most definitely toe nails. Never have I ever had a pedicure. Never have I ever clipped nails of any kind in public. It is meant to happen in the privacy of a sound proof bathroom…if you ask MY opinion. Apparently, most people do not care about my opinion.

When the doctor and Sam and Rhonda determined the treatment at the conclusion of the exam, and he finished with, “The nurse will be in to trim down the nails before the laser treatment begins,” Rhonda must have been in La-La Land, or else she is in love.

Ohmagoodness.

trau·ma

/ˈtroumə,ˈtrômə/

1. a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.

When the nurse entered the room with gardening pruners and began her work, my stomach began to flip. When a nail flew through the air and landed on my jacket, I gripped the chair. Sam suddenly realized Rhonda was in distress, began laughing, and insisted I step out of the room. I COULD NOT EXIT FAST ENOUGH.

I stood outside the door and listened to him explain my ailment to the nurse, while I braced myself against the wall to keep from nauseating in my mask. The doctor walked by and asked if they had kicked me out. Sheepishly, I had to explain my “issue.” Another nurse was nearby and offered me a chair so I wouldn’t faint.

As soon as the gardening was done, the nurse exited, and I re-entered the room to take my seat once again. When the next nurse arrived to begin the laser treatments, I was more than happy to put on the dark glasses and stare at the floor. He was such a nice nurse, telling us all about his jaunts around Colorado, explaining the meaning of his really cool tattoos, taking my mind off the elephant in the room.

Nay, nay, I say. Not when Rhonda’s already in distress enough.

If you know me at all, you know I have a very strong aversion and traumatic inner response to women being treated as possessions, among a host of other things. And balloons. But most definitely to women being treated as possessions.

He said the unsayable. As the lovely nurse is going over the next steps in treating this horrific malady, he explained the $35 cream that is recommended but not required. Being the concerned partner I am and wanting Sam to have the best possible outcome since I have had to endure such trauma, I gave the nurse an energetic thumbs up yes-we-want-the-stuff-add-it-to-the-bill. Sam was going to be Sam and decline because $35 is $35 and no he doesn’t need it. HOWEVER. The nurse saw my gesture…and he said…

“The wife says yes.”

The WHO???

I am not a THE.

I have a name.

I am not Sam’s possession.

And you, lovely, kind nurse, are now in MY internal red hot laser beam of trauma therapy.

All this…because of love.