Terri – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

Bearing

Today is my birthday. It is one of those times when I especially miss my momma. When you think about it, the day you are born is the first and most unique moment you can share with your biological mother. I understand that there are different scenarios that might complicate this theory, such as surrogacy or adoption. For most people, the partnering of mother and child during the birthing process cannot be shared by anyone else in quite the same way. My life coach says that strong intimate relationships are based on “shared experiences” and “mutual vulnerability.” Childbirth surely counts. It might even be the definitive example. I know, for my mother and me, that intimate, shared, vulnerable experience ushered in a lifetime of strong relationship.

People talk about birth trauma. I think it can happen to babies and mothers. Childbirth is a physically grueling experience for both the birther and the birthee. The mom and baby both undergo fiercely jarring changes in their bodies and environments, even in the most ideal circumstances. Both parties labor. However, it has always seemed clear to me that the mother has the more difficult job. I used to tell people that I didn’t know why I had a birthday celebration on September 30^th. It was my mother who did the lion’s share of the work. In fact, while my mother was alive, I always gave her a present on MY birthday.

One of those “thank you for birthing me” gifts was a Vermont teddy bear, custom-made especially for my mother. The bear was wearing a pink sweater, engraved with “Dorothea 09-30-59.” I gave it to her with an “It’s a girl” baby congratulations card. I thought it was super clever and adorable. I’m not sure Momma quite saw the appeal but, being who she was, she made a big fuss over it. In fact, that bear became a symbol of our relationship and an inside joke. The bear traveled with her through at least six moves, including her move to Florida. One morning, I came over to her Florida home to find that there was a problem with her heater. She had Dorothea Bear wrapped in a blanket- “to make sure she didn’t catch a chill.” Point made, Mom. I’m calling the home warranty company.

Of course, Dorothea Bear went with Momma to the skilled nursing facility where she spent the last ten months of her life. Even as my mother gradually edged away from engagement with her surroundings, she would smile when I mentioned Dorothea Bear and pointed to my fuzzy little doppelganger. I don’t know if she was responding to the bear or just to the love in my voice, but I like to believe the bear continued to have some small part in our connection.

After my mother died, I went to collect her things from the facility. It took me a couple of weeks to make it over to the residence, since that location was the last place I wanted to be. After looking around the storage area, I found a couple of cardboard boxes of completely unimportant items. I found some old photos I had placed on the wall next to Momma’s bed. I did not find Dorothea Bear amongst Momma’s belongings. It saddened me, as I sifted through the detritus in the storage room, but my loss was so much bigger than the bear. I felt an overwhelming, suffocating need to get away from the skilled nursing facility and never come back.

Over the next few weeks, my level of depression and grief increased in size and volume. I was experiencing that aspect of grief in which you realize that you have not only lost your loved one, but you have also lost so many other things tangential to your loved one. I would have no more adventures with my mother riding shotgun. I would no longer be able to call my mom to share a funny observation. I would not get Christmas surprises anymore. As my birthday drew near, a little over three weeks after my mom died, I realized that we would never again celebrate the anniversary of our uniquely intimate shared vulnerable experience. All of a sudden, the loss of Dorothea Bear took on more weight than I could hold. At the same time, I did not have the emotional energy to call the nursing facility and advocate for the return of Momma’s bear.

My brother, Ernie, happened to call and ask if there was anything he could do from California to help. He had no idea that the bear was an issue. I am pretty sure he did not remember there ever was a bear. Still, when he asked the question, I started sobbing. I bewildered him, I am sure, as I had spent the last year of my mom’s life holding things together pretty well when I spoke to him. I tried not to swallow my own tongue as I choked on my tears. I explained the Great Dorothea Bear Mystery. I forlornly related my saga and my resignation that I would never see her again. “Never see her again” was, I am sure, a deliberately ambiguous statement. I told him that I could not face returning to the facility. He said he would call and get them to find the bear and mail it to me.

Ernie, who has also since passed away, had a wonderful heart and just the fact that he offered to help in this way lightened my desolation. However, I can’t say I expected anything to come of it. He wasn’t always great at following through with good intentions. Also, I doubted the nursing home would be able to locate the bear six weeks later.

Much to my surprise, Ernie called me a few days later. He did contact the nursing home and insisted that the Director of Nursing locate the bear. I can only imagine how that conversation must have gone. Ernie did have a kind, wonderful, absolutely loyal heart. He could also be quite forceful… some would say even a little scary. Amazingly, the Director of Nursing did find Momma’s Dorothea Bear. That was the good news. The bad news was that she would not mail it and I would have to go pick it up. He assured me that the Director of Nursing would have the bear readily available, sitting at the reception desk so that all I had to do was walk in the door, take the bear, and leave.

Ernie’s action prompted some courage and initiative in me. I decided I could do that much… as long as I did not have to talk to anyone. I went to the facility and marched bravely through the door. My hope was that I could be stealthful and secretive. I, ninja-like, wanted to get in and out without being noticed. Of course, that did not happen. It was like an alarm went off when I entered the building. Although no noise went off, the reaction was as palpable as if I had tried to leave a department store with the security tag still attached to an article of clothing. A shoplifter could not have compelled so much attention. I was swamped by every employee who had so much as said good morning to me or my mother in the past year. It was exactly what I feared- an effusive outpouring of sympathy, affection, and concern.

Yes, it was exactly what I feared. But, in a strange way… it didn’t hurt at all. The kind words did not shatter my carefully cultured courage. The hugs did not hurl me into a pit of despair. It turned out that there really was nothing to fear. Instead, the care of those sweet people who walked my mother’s end of life journey with me began to lift me out of the valley of sorrow.

Terri/Dorry 🙂

And hugging my Dorothea Bear did not hurt, either.

Have I Finally Become A Floridian?

We have made it almost to the end of summer without my annual weather whine. Most years, I can’t make it until actual July before publishing my ubiquitous rant. I’m starting to wonder if I have finally become used to summer in Central Florida and become a Floridian.

The answer is no.

I will say that this summer does seem to be milder than previous years. The temperatures have been higher, but there has not been as much humidity. Also, the Florida Somme seems to have finally received the memo that World War I attacks concluded in 1918. We haven’t had day after day of thunder bombing our backyard. And we have not yet been attacked by a hurricane threatening to destroy life as we know it. I don’t know if this milder version of the Florida summer sweat-a-thon will continue through the coming weeks, but I’m a lot more cheerful than I usually am at this point in the year.

My more seasoned Florida friends- those who have been residing in this air swamp for most or all of their lives- would argue that I am (and will always be) a Northerner. They hold firmly to this belief, even though I have not lived in the North since 1965. I lived in California most of my life- Southern California. I spent most of my childhood and a great deal of my adulthood without air conditioning. It was common for temperatures to top one hundred degrees in July and August. It was different though. Usually, the temperature the thermometer reported was roughly the same as that sadistic statistic, “feels like” temperature. I watch the differential between these two numbers hit double digits virtually every day here in Florida. Often, the “real” temperature has been in the upper 90s and the “feels like” temperature is between 105-110 degrees. That is just wrong.

There is also the concept of “growing season.” In the summer, we can watch the weeds and shrubbery grow like genetically modified turkeys. I love gardens. Other people’s gardens. I even love paying a reasonable price of admission to wander public gardens. I do not, however, love the process of physical gardening. I hate weeding and cutting back branches on the shrubs. This task, which takes about 10 minutes per week between late October and the end of May, becomes a grueling, sweaty, forced labor camp activity for at least 40 minutes weekly in the extended summer that is now my home.

The foliage is not the only thing that grows in “growing season.” Bugs grow, and so do my extremities when bitten by them.

I discussed lovebugs about six weeks ago in my blog piece Blooming (www.terrilabonte.com/2026/08/blooming-2/). At least the love bugs are a self-limiting condition. It is easier to tolerate an infestation that predictably dies out within two weeks. Mosquitoes are another matter. There appears to be something about me that attracts mosquitos as if I am the insect all-you-can-eat buffet. I used to say it was because I was so sweet but, when I am less delusional, I think it is more likely because I am especially salty due to all that humidity and sweat. They are like vampires in that I am usually pretty safe during daylight hours. It is rare that I am outside after dark, but, when I am… I am the appetizer, entrée, and dessert all wrapped up in one chubby little body. It is not unusual for me to be able to count twenty or more bites on my legs and arms after 20 minutes in the church courtyard in the evening.

This year, I’ve noticed another insect problem. Fire ants. One Sunday after the church service, I was on the verandah of the parish hall signing people up for a class I am teaching. It was the middle of the day. I was standing on the substantial patio- far away from any dirt or grass. Suddenly, I could feel an itchiness growing on the tops of my feet. In addition to the itchiness, there was a stingy feeling. I didn’t see anything when I looked down. I thought it was my archnemesis the mosquito, but it seemed strange because the sun was shining its vampire death rays. It itched and burned for a week after that encounter.

A couple of weeks later, Max and I were out in the yard wielding garden clippers in an attempt to tame the tree and shrub overgrowth for the week. He was up on a ladder to tackle some of the higher boughs of a tree. I was clutching the ladder to give it a little more stability than the uneven earth and rock hardscaping provided. Suddenly, I felt that sensation on my feet again. I looked down and there were fire ants crawling all over my feet. It was obviously an ant conspiracy. I was not standing on an anthill. These ants had to go out of their way to attack me.

It was insect gang violence aimed specifically at me. They even waited for the prime opportunity- me holding a ladder. I tried to push them off the tops of my feet with the bottoms of my shoes but that only, predictably, pissed them off further. Max got off the ladder quickly and I had two hands free to “encourage” the ants to disperse. My feet were so red and angry that I could not immediately assess the damage. It turned out to be eighteen visible bites on my feet and ankles. Despite ice, hydrocortisone cream, calamine lotion, and prayer- those bites plagued me for ten days before the itch finally started to subside.

When I was considering a move to Florida, a friend of mine expressed immense concern about the number of bugs per square foot here. My experience at that point led me to assure her that the mosquitoes were really the only difficult part and they tended to be a problem only in the evening, especially near water. For my first several years in Florida, that did generally prove true. This year, though, the bugs have definitely increased the summer degree of difficulty. It is like I was in the insect witness protection program for 11 years. Now, they have clearly located me and put a contract out on me. These are not bugs. They are tiny hitmen.

I should really stop whining. Fall, cooler weather, and a decrease in homicidal bugs should be coming. The calendar says that there are only a couple of weeks left of summer. However, I’ve lived in Florida long enough to know better.

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Some Doors Are Simply Heavy

Nine years ago today, my mother died. Those of you who know me or who read my most recently published book, Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go (Amazon.com: Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go eBook : Curran, Dorry: Kindle Store), understand something of the relationship between my mother and me. You also know the story of our final journey together after she suffered a catastrophic stroke and pulled herself through a painful 13-month struggle towards the end of life. This time of year is always tough on me. Her birthday was August 22, the anniversary of her death is September 2, and my birthday is September 30. I seem to always spend this season with a constant low-grade emotional fever.

This year, I think I have felt it even a little more than most years. It is not one of those momentous numbers. It isn’t like I’m balancing any other grief along with the anniversary. There is truly no open emotional wound that is tied up in my grief. I loved my mom very much. She loved me in a way that is difficult to explain.

I have come to understand that my mother was not a perfect person or a perfect parent. Nobody is. She did her best and her best was pretty damn good. One of the challenges of parenting is deciding how to choose between several equally “right” actions in any particular set of minutely unique circumstances with any particular child or any particular day. This is the stuff of all relationships.

My mother got the most important thing right… all the time. She always made me feel like I was loved beyond all possible understanding. In fact, I believe that my mother loved me more than she loved anyone else in this world. If I am honest, there are probably other people she also made feel like her favorite person ever. Today, of all days, though, I prefer not to be that honest. My mother loved me so deeply that her love could not die with her.

Grief is difficult to reckon. It has been nine years. In general, I am living an active, rewarding, joyful life. There are still times when the first thing in my mind is, “I can’t wait to tell Momma.” There are still times, like today, when the heaviness of mourning burdens my spirit. That heaviness is not pathological. That heaviness does not need to be fixed. It just is.

I don’t suggest that living in mourning as a permanent residence is a healthy or satisfying way to walk through life. On the other hand, visiting grief now and again can be a good thing. It is like grief is this extraordinarily heavy door that we struggle to open. Opening that door is hard work. It makes our emotional muscles sore and in need of rest. However, when we do get the grief door open, we often find that it is the portal for the happy memories and the love that did not die with the person. I know I, for one, would rather find easier access, but there is none. I must “put my back into it” to force the door open to experience the joy that remains of my mother.

If you are standing on the lonely side of the grief door and have been pushing on that door with all your might but have not been able to get it to budge, there are a couple of things that you might want to consider.

Know that there are people who can help and want to help. In fact, there are people who would genuinely consider it a blessing to push with you. Don’t keep trying to do it all yourself. Talk to a local hospice provider. Even if your loved one was not in hospice care, you are likely entitled to their grief counseling services at no charge to you. Find friends, clergy members, a therapist, a life coach, a Stephen Minister, a support group, or anyone who can normalize grief and the work it takes to move the door.

Another consideration is that you don’t have to do the pushing all at once. The idea is to help you get past that heavy door to access the joy. When you push relentlessly, there is a point where exhaustion makes the pushing torturous but not productive. Do something fun and light to let your emotional muscles rest and recover. When your emotional muscles are resting, don’t try to load something else on your plate. Prioritize recovery, not the bandwidth you think you are “freeing up” when you take a rest from mourning. When you allow yourself the rest periods, you are not giving up on your journey. You are not giving up on your loved one. The rest and recovery are critical steps in the process. It is like glassblowing. If the artisan did not periodically cool the glass during the process, there could be no beautiful final product.

Lastly, it does get easier… even when you believe it never will. Once you open the door a few times, the hinges are more cooperative. Your emotional muscles are stronger. Most importantly, you’ve witnessed the beauty that is on the other side and that is hugely incentivizing.

Still, nine years later, today is heavy. The door is a little more sticky than usual. My muscles are a little older and sorer. I may need to put my back, shoulders, and heart into it today. So, I’m asking you…. Please help me push.

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Blooming

I always imagined a life for myself that looked significantly different than the one I am currently living. I imagined a happy marriage and children. I imagined living my entire life in California, where I was familiar with the routine rhythm of the days. I imagined living in a house with my husband and children. I imagined I’d be an elementary school teacher, writer, librarian, or director of religious education. I imagined that my husband would be the primary breadwinner, but that I would go back to work after the children started school to supplement the family income.

I often say, “Terri proposes and God disposes.” My imaginary life sounds wonderful, but there was a fundamental flaw in my thinking. That fundamental flaw? Life happens. Sometimes life happening is a delightful swirl of serendipity. Sometimes, not so much. Here are some of the curves in the road that laughed in the face of my imaginary life:

A husband who was pursuing advanced degrees, requiring me to support us immediately after earning my undergraduate degree
A difficult marriage ending in divorce
The stratospheric cost of housing in Southern California
A move across the country to central Florida
My lack of confidence and resiliency in overcoming barriers

This all sounds pretty grim, I know. However, I long ago accepted the fact that imaginary lives are not always what they are cracked up to be. Another axiom I’ve espoused is “Bloom where you are planted.” These curves in the road were extremely difficult and painful, but they are richer than that. They may not have been stretches of road that I wanted to travel, but there were some benefits.

I don’t think that I am a scholar at heart. I am an intelligent person. My brain works more than passably well. I did well at every level of school. However, I don’t think I was ever a person who luxuriated in the process of studying. Yes, I enjoy learning interesting things. Overall, though, education and degrees always seemed like more of a means to an end rather than an end in and of itself. It may be that pursuing the additional degrees necessary for most of my imaginary life jobs would not have been joyful to me. The job I got right out of school might not have been dream job, but it led to a meaningful, successful career. I did it well. It enabled me to grow and explore some uniquely wonderful parts of myself. The work did not always mesh well with my unique disposition, but it did give me something that has always been important to me- security. My career also gave me some of the best friends I have ever had- friends that carried me during some difficult life challenges.

I confess that seeing the bright side of a painful marriage is not easy. I’m not sure I bloomed through that particular curve in the road. I may have wilted, but I did not die. That must be the win, I guess. I believe that, somewhere in that experience, something was planted in me that has enabled me to evolve and grow into the person I am now. I am an empathetic person. I am a loving person. I am an intuitive person. I am a person who reads nuances well. I think God put all those things inside me, but I am not sure I would have learned to use them as effectively had I not experienced my marriage. It took me many years to figure that out, but here we are.

A divorce? The silver lining, although I could not see it at the time, was that I needed to be free. I railed against that freedom for some time, much to my detriment. Today, I am so grateful for the divorce, which gave me the space to start living who I am rather than what I thought a wife should be. There probably was nothing wrong with my vision of marriage, but the marriage I had was not the vision. Also, a divorce meant that, many years later, I got to build a life with a man who is my partner in happiness.

I never bought a house in California- largely because of financial limitations. I made decent money, but I did not have the benefit of being part of a DINK (double-income, no kids) household. I bought a tiny little condominium, which became pretty crowded when Max moved in with me. Still, it was a cozy, happy little home where we went from being girlfriend/boyfriend to being life partners. When I eventually sold the condo before our move to Florida, I cleared enough money to start our new life in Florida in a debt-free house and a nest egg to buy furnishings. That little condo was good to me and my memories of it will always be soul-warming.

The move to Florida was scary and jarring. I left the known and steeled myself for the unknown. You have heard the saying, “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know?” I’m afraid my personality tends to take it even further- “better the devil you know than the angel you don’t know (because who can really trust an angel, anyway?)” The first eighteen months or so were brutal. I had an existential crisis practically every day. Everything was so different and more complicated than I expected. Right about the time the mental overload was receding enough for me to see that not everything about Florida was trying to kill me, my mother had a massive stroke. This tide rolled in again on my medulla oblongata. It was hard not to blame Florida for this constant state of brain flood. The cortisol running around in me kept screaming at me, “UNSAFE! UNSAFE! UNSAFE!”

Still, today I am so happy we moved. I love our little house. I love my church. I love my Florida friends. I love the ways I have been able to develop my talents and passions. I love how safe I feel.

So, the only real hairpin curve that remains to examine is my own lack of confidence and resilience in facing challenges. I’m not sure if the lack of these traits is a circumstance on its own or simply a natural result of the other circumstances. I suspect the latter. And, given the analysis I have just relayed here, I think lack might be a fallacy. It seems to me that I have been more confident, resilient, and positive than I might have thought all those years. I have spent years coming to that realization and shoring up that realization to make it more stable and lasting. If I am honest, I know that some of the curves in the road I’ve experienced have brought some of the opportunities that helped with the shoring up.

So, bloom where I’m planted? Maybe God planted me exactly where I can bloom best.

Tourist Of Lives

I kind of like tourist traps. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like sweating. I don’t like overpaying for things. But I do like seeing the things everybody goes someplace to see. And a good gift shop never hurt anyone. Maybe it is because I grew up in the shadow of Disneyland and now live forty miles from the “Most Magical Place On Earth.” Maybe it is because the only time I have been out of the country, I went on a nice, safe, prefabricated bus tour. Maybe it is because I do not trust my own ability to entertain myself and others. Anyway, my travel orientation has always been touristy. I have a fine, virtually invisible line between “kitschy” and “tacky.”

When people visit me, I tend to take them to the kind of touristy places for which Florida is known- Disney, beaches, Universal, waterfront dining, outlet malls. I live close to The Villages, which is a retirement city on steroids. It has become its own tourist attraction. I take people through the gob-smacking experience of the themed town squares.

My very dear friend Judy has a completely different perspective on tourism. She and her husband do quite a bit of traveling all over the world. They do some tours but have also done extensive traveling on their own. I’m sure they enjoy seeing the things that everybody goes places to see, but they tend to prioritize experiences that show them what it is actually like to live in the location they are visiting. I must admit; the idea intrigues me. Still, I have always struggled to slip the leash and trust myself to create such an experience. As I get older, I become more keenly aware that the time I have remaining when I will be able to navigate leash-slipping is limited.

A couple of years ago, we went to the Great Smoky Mountains. I thought I was being very adventurous because I booked a mountain cabin on Vrbo. Also, I made the brave decision to drive us all the way from central Florida to Tennessee. These choices were both outside my comfort zone and I congratulated myself on my courage all the way there. When we entered Pigeon Forge, however, I was amazed to find out that my tolerance for tackiness does actually have a limit. The aging sparkle and whimsy on the main drag and the huge hordes of crowds on the sidewalks grated on me. There was a seediness about the place. It kind of gave me the “ick.”

It was odd that the Dollywood, which one might imagine to be the crown rhinestone in the Pigeon Forge plastic tiara, was quite restrained. Well, maybe “restrained” is not exactly the right word for anything affiliated with Dolly Parton. However, the park was immaculate, the décor and theming beautiful, and the crowds were not overwhelming at all. The days we spent in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park and Skypark in Gatlinburg were amazing. No taint of tack at all.

Overall- despite the oppressive vibe of the main tourist drag (consisting of “roadside attractions” junk food, and Great Smoky Mountain made-in-China gift shops)- I left the state of Tennessee feeling that the trip was a triumph of Terri brand tourism. It felt good to have a few adventures mixed into my normally staid trips to see the things everybody goes places to see. And I did get to see the things everybody goes to the area to see- just maybe a little more than I wanted to see!

Recently, I traveled to Vermont to see my dear friend Delcie. I was in Vermont twice before when my goal was to see the sights that people always want to see. I decided that this was the time to try my friend Judy’s Modis operandi- I wanted to see what Vermont was like up close and personal. I wasn’t going to see VERMONT. I was going to see Delcie’s Vermont. My priority was to see her life in Vermont, not the Vermont Department of Tourism and Marketing’s Vermont. Since I had a safety net- Delcie would make sure I made it out alive- it could be carefully controlled adventure.

It was a huge success. We did sightsee. We went on a quest to find the Cabot Creamery store. You honestly don’t get kitschier than driving a couple of hours to see a mega store dedicated to cheese. I admit to insisting on a return trip to the Vermont Teddy Bear Factory. I may or may not have also spent a rather long time in a Christmas store that looked like the North Pole had vomited all over Vermont. On the other hand, we explored a number of places that I doubt figure prominently in any tour book. They all delighted my soul.

We went to the Robert Frost Interpretative Trail in the Green Mountain National Forest. We spent an hour or so hiking through an absolutely gorgeous forest, alight with dappled sun and sparkling brooks. Wildflowers danced in meadows and beneath the canopy. Every hundred yards or so, there was a wooden post with a plaque engraved with a Frost poem. The poem on each post fit what it overlooked.

One day, we took a ride through Smuggler’s Notch and stopped at the side of the road to explore. It is one of the best proofs ever that God’s architecture is superior to anything man can build. Winding through a corridor of the Green Mountains, you see that the walls around you are chiseled sheets of the most exquisite stone. The shading of the stone is remarkable. It is silver and gray, with hints of sage, rust, and garnet weaving through it. It could be a jewelry grade gemstone- all the way up the mountains all around you when you stop at the side of the road. The precise, oddly angular traveling of the stone to the sky is striking, as well.

We drove out to Delcie’s cabin on Lake Champlain. I got to glimpse her summertime life out in the woods. I was instantly enveloped in the peace and beauty of her very own forest. I learned about the difficulties in maintaining this breathtakingly sacred space. I learned about invasive flora. I learned about septic tanks. I learned about snowplowing. I learned about winterizing. I also learned about feeling like a different version of oneself simply by changing one’s environment.

I attended a church service with Delcie. I met one of her daughters and sons-in-law. I loved on her sweet dog Coco. On several evenings, I walked the community track across the street from her home for exercise. I enjoyed the fresh, cool evening air. I reveled in the sweet fragrance of lilac outside Delcie’s verandah. I drank in a beautiful sunset on St. Alban’s Bay while eating a “creemie”- a Vermont gourmet soft serve delicacy. I ate more than my share of delicious food. I came home over-snacked, but I enjoyed it while I was in the moment.

I liked coming home. I love my own life. Still, I am a tourist at heart. I always thought that meant touring amusement parks, museums, historical monuments, internationally famous landmarks, and the all-important gift shops. I find that being a tourist can be more intimate than that. I am learning that I am a tourist of lives!

Vocations

Recently, a very dear friend of mine was ordained a priest in the Episcopal Church. She honored me tremendously by choosing me to present her to the bishop at the ceremony as a representative of the church laity. I was to attest that my witness of her journey convinces me she will be a good priest.

When my friend invited me to do this, I cried. I felt so blessed and cherished. I met her shortly before she entered the ordination process. She and her husband had moved to Florida from Virginia. After retiring from her career as a dentist, she felt God calling her to Holy Orders. She is a year younger than I am. She is so accomplished. She might be an overachiever. If she is, she is God’s overachiever and I am sure He is well pleased with her.

I immediately recognized that her invitation was one of the two biggest honors of my life. The other instance was when I won my governmental agency’s highest award in the training arena for my work in leadership development. I have since considered what the two instances have in common and how they are different. The biggest similarity between the two honors is that they both recognized my contribution to things that are very important to me… so important that they are viscerally part of who I am. I love teaching. I love creating. I love mentoring true leadership that inspires followership, not just compels compliance. I love my friend. I love the process of spiritual growth. I love the experience of the Holy Spirit expressed through His people. I love His Church.

There is one key difference. As much as all these loves of mine feel like who I am at the very core, winning the award for training was about what I accomplished. I accomplished at a high level because my love drove my efforts. Still, the metrics evaluated were tangible. The award was based on behavioral evaluation of my teaching, the participant feedback ratings, number of classes taught, number of courses developed, and additional work products that could be observed. When my friend asked me to be her lay presenter, the honor was recognition of truly who I am, not of what I’ve done.

The ordination was a pivotal experience for me. This sounds self-centered about something that was so not about me. I don’t mean to push my personal benefit to the front of the blessings line. Clearly, the ordination focused on God’s agenda and my friend’s experience. I think God is wonderful enough to widen His net with collateral blessing. I am sure that every member of the congregation who witnessed the event felt a wave of renewal. For me, recognizing the value of who God made me to be, quite apart from any achievement, ignited the Holy Spirit within me. I felt the movement of my soul. That movement unleashed something- a new clarity and peace.

When I was a senior in high school, I took a career aptitude assessment. The instrument revealed that I should be a priest- or, since I was a girl- marry one (it was the 1970s, after all.) Since I was a Roman Catholic at the time, neither alternative seemed viable for me. I wandered away from the path the wise folks at the career aptitude assessment company advised.

That pull towards priesthood never completely disappeared. I preserved it carefully and locked it away in my mind’s attic. It was one of those things you are pretty sure you will never use but can’t quite make yourself throw out or give away. Bits and pieces of it have manifested in my real life now and again.

I stayed an observant Church member my whole life, even when most of my peers fell away. Whenever my work life allowed (and sometimes when it didn’t,) I volunteered. I taught junior high school confirmation classes. I facilitated the adult course for people wanting to join the Roman Catholic Church. I created Lenten devotionals. I shared my faith more openly than most people. I read about church history, personal spiritual development, and liturgy. Since converting to the Episcopal Church, I’ve engaged in many different ministries, most of which center around pastoral care and Christian education. I thrive on supporting and encouraging in God’s name- hopefully projecting at least a pale reflection of His love. My own spiritual study and prayer life is immensely important to fueling my life’s engine. I don’t say any of this to tout my piety or fish for compliments. The bottom line is that I wrap myself in these pursuits because I love doing them. They bring me joy, peace, and purpose.

Since becoming an Episcopalian, I have been curiously aware that the limitations on ordination that I faced in my youth no longer exist for me. I have wondered if God would now have me pursue ordination to the diaconate or even the priesthood. I went spelunking for a vocation in my heart. I didn’t settle onto anything definitive so I left the door ajar while I just kept living and exploring.

When my friend told me that she was beginning the ordination process, we discussed it. She encouraged me to consider embarking on the journey with her. It was tempting and it was easy to get caught up in it. There was something, however, that didn’t feel rich enough or deep enough or irresistible enough to convince me. I talked to my pastor about it. In talking it through with him, something more concrete occurred to me.

Part of the pull I was feeling was a desire for credibility. I have been blessed to contribute to the work of my Church in ways that fit exactly who I am and who God created me to be. I have been able to develop, facilitate, and teach interesting, engaging, meaningful courses. I have been able to make genuine, warm, loving connections with people who need an accepting, loving heart to journey with them for a season or a lifetime. I have been able to work on teams that have been more than the sum of their parts. I have been able to meet practical needs. All of these blessings have been soul sustaining. However, I have had to push my way through some painful barriers to gain acceptance for my efforts since I didn’t have any standing. After all, who I am to be teaching or doing Church project management? I am not clergy. I do not have any relevant initials after my name. Maybe, if I went through some sort of education program culminating in ordination as a deacon or a priest or certification as a master catechist, I’d be qualified to do the things I loved to do and would be seen as qualified to do the things I loved to do.

My pastor agreed that there were courses I might be able to take and I could pursue an ordination program, but he also said he didn’t think I needed to do so. He pointed out that, for the large majority of people, my qualifications for the work I had been doing were completely undisputed. He stressed that, while I might not have the “right” credentials, I did have qualifications. They are the qualifications God embedded in me. My own independent study, past training experiences, God-given spiritual maturity, and genuine engagement with people are those qualifications. He believed that, rather than pursuing ordination to gain acceptance and credibility from a small group of people, I could better spend my efforts doing the work and trusting God to use what He has given me.

This conversation lightened my spiritual dilemma. It enabled me to lean into my own instincts about what God was calling me to do in the Church. I stopped worrying so much about overcoming the credibility gap. The feeling of living in the moment and responding to what I discern as God’s unique call to me is liberating. Most of the time, I feel wildly peaceful about it all, if such an oxymoronic statement makes any sense.

Still, every now and again, ordination has crossed my mind. Maybe part of it is that my current approach to ministry feels like I might be a little too peaceful. Maybe I am clinging to comfort instead of rising to a challenge God calls me to meet.

During the ordination ceremony, I suddenly felt certain. God is not calling me to the priesthood. He is happy with how I am using the gifts He gave me. I am using them to His glory and to the welfare of His people. Maybe I had a vocation once, but I do not have a vocation now.

Wait. I do have a vocation. And I am living it. It is just not a vocation to Holy Orders.

A Love(Bug) Hate Relationship

Warning: This blog post is rated PG-13. It discusses mature subject matter that might be offensive to some readers.

When I first mentioned moving to Florida to my friends in California, I frequently heard, “But what about the bugs?” Apparently, there is a widespread belief that Florida is a hotbed of insect infestation. I had never really noticed a significant bug problem during my many trips to Florida. I did not factor “bug population” into my decision-making matrix when I considered where I would live in retirement. Still, the naysayers got inside my head a little bit. I do admit that I was a little concerned in the wake of these comments.

We moved to Florida in December. I was pleased to discover there seemed to be no more bugs in Florida than in California. In fact, there seemed to be fewer types of insects than I battled in California. I won’t say there were never any ants, spiders, or mosquitoes. Still, I didn’t experience a big problem. I am a mosquito all-you-can-eat buffet. If there are mosquitoes in the general area, they will swarm around to feast on me. Maybe it is because I am not typically outside at night or hanging out next to standing water, but the mosquitoes seemed pretty manageable here. I do recall once or twice when I ended up with a completely new topographical environment on my arms and legs resulting from standing in the church garden after an evening event, but there was nothing a little calamine lotion could not assuage. The legendary talk of cockroaches the size of Rhode Island was overstated. Even as the weather warmed, insects did not seem to be a substantial problem.

Then, I experienced the semi-annual lovebug swarm.

Lovebugs are tiny, amorous menaces that have no shame. Twice a year, an entire generation of lovebugs rises from their larval state and starts spreading the love for 2-3 weeks. They do not bite. They do not sting. They do not eat things. They just have no sense of boundaries. You never see a solitary lovebug. They mate… and mate… and mate… in mid-air while flying EVERYWHERE. They mate for 3-4 days at a time. I’m not sure if that qualifies as endurance or annoyance. They are known as the two-headed bug for obvious reasons.

As I write this, there is insect porn happening all around us. And, frankly, inside us. I hate to be this gross, but I am positive that anyone who has lived through even one of these events has ingested enough lovebugs to come close to meeting the USDA’s definition of a serving of protein. If you keep your mouth closed, they can still flit into the nose. If you somehow avoid breathing by keeping your mouth and your nostrils closed, there are always ears. This discussion might lead some of you to contemplate other orifices. I hope not. However, I can’t deny that those thoughts have occurred to me too.

One could say that I am being too hard on the lovebugs and their prurient endeavors. I’m sorry, but if you are going to have sex in public, you must expect pushback… even if you are an insect. Also, despite the romantic moniker, I very much doubt the bugs are forming long-lasting love relationships. I don’t think there are lovebug soulmates. For one thing, an entire lovebug life cycle is about 150 days. Once a lovebug leaves the larval stage and takes wing as an adult, he or she has about 5 days left in this life. I think it takes longer than that to fill out the questionnaire on Harmony.com.

Lovebugs may not eat things, but they can still be destructive. Of course, given their preoccupation with the business at hand, they are not very good at staying out of the way of traffic. Since swarms are so large, there is no way for a motorist to avoid running into them (even if braking for bugs was a thing.) Floridians usually drive around with a coating of deceased lovebugs all over their car grilles and windshields for a couple of weeks each May and September. Apparently, arousal produces some sort of acidic chemical in their bodies that is corrosive to vehicles. It is certainly resistant to standard windshield wiper fluid. Washing a car before the end of the lovebug extravaganza is folly; the car will look exactly the same by the time you get back from the carwash.

The good news is that lovebug infestation is a naturally self-limiting condition. All the randy lovebugs will be dead within a couple of weeks. Our current insect orgy is just about finished for the spring. I wish these critters practiced safer sex. The lingering annoyance of a lovebug invasion is that all that mid-air passion leads to a whole new generation of lovebugs to love among us in the fall!

Sometimes, A Lent Is Not Just A Lent

I think I’ve talked about my Lenten journey nearly every year since I’ve started my blog. Those of you who have been following along in your bulletins probably understand how valuable the season of Lent has always been to me. In the past several years, especially, God has worked mini miracles within me in the weeks leading up to the Easter celebration.

As Christians, we are an Easter people. We believe that we live with the joy of Easter not for a day but for a lifetime- even a lifetime that extends beyond the one we are currently experiencing. I think the best Lents are the same. We give a special forty-day period to God, surrendering a piece of our own will, and make an intentional effort to open ourselves up to Him. If we are honest, we often feel like we are counting down the days until we can eat ice cream again or until that Lenten class is finished. I have found, when I really give myself over to the experience of Lent, I am not counting down days until it is finished. I am in love with Easter and all it means. I cannot and will not discount that kind of joy. Still, Lent can be a time when we lay the kindling for the fire of joy that re-sparks within us each Easter. The Lenten experience will continue to burn, just as the Easter joy should continue to burn, throughout our eternal lifetime.

That all sounds pretty esoteric and abstract, I know. I am not sure I have even articulated what I mean in a relatable way. That is the problem with prying something profound and individual from one’s soul and trying to share it with the blogosphere. Let me give you this year’s example and see if that helps.

Some of you may have read my piece on my Lenten fast this year. If you would like to revisit the content, you can catch it at www.terrilabonte.com/2026/03/the-lightening-lent/ . This Lent, my special observance was to fast from perceptions of myself that would differ from God’s perceptions of me. I didn’t succeed perfectly. I still had times when I slithered into doubt and self-loathing. However, overall, it was an excellent experiment, and I think it was a worthy discipline. If I want to go to God and give Him the Terri/Dorry that He created me to be, I want to do a better job understanding and honoring that version of myself. After all, He created me elegantly and equips me perfectly. I may not always use His factory-installed or after-market equipment to their maximum effectiveness, but I’m going to keep trying. I did not want to stop this fast when Lent was finished. I want to continue.

As a reminder to myself that this Lenten devotion is part of the kindling for God’s Easter promise to me, I bought a t-shirt several weeks ago. The t-shirt proclaims, “first of all, Jesus thinks I am a delight.” I think it was supposed to be snarky, but, for me, it was an exclamation point for the end of Lent… something to tether the message to my messy mind and wrangle it towards God rather than towards Darkness.

The t-shirt has been hanging in my closet with the tags still on it. Somehow, I could not summon the emotional ownership and courage to wear it. I wasn’t ready to make a public declarative statement.

Until yesterday. I pulled it out of the closet, snipped off the tag, and pulled it over my head. I went out of the house. I looked at myself in the mirror.

Nothing bad happened because- first of all, Jesus thinks I am a delight.

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Wild And Unpredictable

We recently went on vacation to Las Vegas. I craved this vacation like a crack addict craves cocaine. Not in the way you might think, though.

Many of you know that I am a pretty risk averse person. It isn’t that I can’t throw caution to the wind now and then, but only when it is safe to do so. In other words, I like strategically scheduled spontaneity and carefully controlled adventure. Our last several vacations tried my sensibilities. I do think it is a good idea to have new experiences and broaden one’s horizons. I try to do that. However, my bar between “stretching beyond one’s comfort zone” and “reckless abandon” tends to be only a smidge higher than a worm’s belly.

In the fall of 2024, we went to the Great Smoky Mountains. I drove about 650 miles- further than I have ever driven in my life- just to get there. The Airbnb I booked was a mountain cabin. Apparently, I’ve lived in Florida long enough to completely forget how mountains work. A mountain cabin, especially one that boasts a beautiful scenic view, is likely to be at the top of a very steep, narrow, and bumpy road. Let’s remember that this was pre-cataract surgery. In retrospect, I did not have sufficient vision- much less intestinal fortitude- to navigate either the Atlanta metropolitan traffic or a mountain that clearly did not want to be navigated. The trip was wonderful in many ways. The area enchanted me. Still, I don’t think I will ever be quite the same. Any adventure gene I might have possessed decided to resign in protest… or at least to take an extended leave of absence.

In the spring of 2025, we visited Southern California. This was more familiar ground, as I lived there for 50 years. Since we flew to an airport about fifteen miles from our destination, there was not a lot of driving involved in getting there. I did have to get a rental car. This was still before I had cataract surgery. Even though I was familiar with the general area, I had this vague sense that someone had rearranged the furniture in a room I thought I remembered. That could have been simply a matter of modernization and ever-expanding development. Or it could be that I couldn’t see well enough to read street signs. Luckily, my wonderful friends Judy and Bob generously (or with a healthy regard for their self-preservation) offered to drive when we traveled any significant distance.

Finally, after cataract surgery and a season of recovery, we went to New York last fall. I have told you the tale of mini disasters that followed in our wake. Let’s not dredge that up again. I just bring it back into your memory so that you will see that I have been on three vacations that were not exactly rejuvenating.

Most people probably would not look at Las Vegas as a “relaxing” vacation. It is not low key or subtle… to state the obvious. For many people, the idea of going to Las Vegas would be the most adventurous of the past several vacations. However, I was looking forward to Las Vegas mostly for one main reason- abdication of responsibility.

Before anyone starts clutching their pearls of gasps in horror that the Terri they know as one of the most responsible people on the planet turned into a girl gone wild in Las Vegas, let me explain.

For most of our non-Las Vegas trips, I am the point person. I make the decisions. I make the reservations. I do the driving. I do the navigating. I figure out how to do stuff. Max is supportive and encouraging, but the bulk of the emotional load falls on my back. Las Vegas is his wheelhouse. He has been vacationing in Las Vegas for about forty years. He plans early and well. He is confident in his decision-making. It is not that he takes over and doesn’t consult me. He always has me weigh in, as he is always determined that Las Vegas will win me over as the ideal vacation locale.

Also, in Las Vegas, hospitality and customer service are their bread and butter. And they know it. There is always someone who seems genuinely happy to help with anything you need because they know people are paying good money that they could spend elsewhere. The idea is to make you so happy to be there and so comfortable that you keep shoving money into slot machines. Since I enjoy playing the machines for brief periods of time and then get bored, there is no danger of me overspending in that arena. Nice dinners, merchandise, shows, upgraded experiences, conveniences, pampering- probably. Gambling- no. Yes, I understand that it is all still money out of my pocket. Still, it is easier to budget for experiences than gambling. The internet makes it quite easy to know how much pampering I can afford before I ever leave the state of Florida.

Sin City does not exactly live up to its name in Terriland. I do minimal gambling. We avoid the people on the street hawking advertising for more risqué “entertainment opportunities” (read into that what you will- what you are thinking is probably right!) I have yet to drink myself into oblivion or throw up all over myself. My health requires that I moderate my carbohydrate consumption. Typically, if I have the choice to eat ice cream or have an alcoholic drink, the ice cream is going to win.

This trip to Las Vegas, I must confess, I had two “adult beverages” in four days. I also ate ice cream. I felt very racy. A fair amount of bread and pastry also entered my mouth. I ate things I really wanted to eat but stopped when I felt satisfied instead of forcing myself to keep eating if there was any deliciousness left on the plate. Since I was walking more than eight miles a day, I felt perfectly fine and my blood sugar agreed.

Aside from these venial sins, you could say our Las Vegas vacation was pretty tame. Tame does not mean boring, pedestrian, or joyless. In this case, it was quite the opposite. Tame was the chariot by which beauty, joy, love, and wonder expanded my mind. Because I felt safe and comfortable, I could let myself just be. I didn’t have to make anything happen. I could allow the special experiences to wash over me and fill me with amazement. Here is where tame took me:

We spent a day and an evening with my bestest friend from California and her husband. We enjoyed companionship, a delicious dinner, a lightening show of music by a Billy Joel/Elton John tribute performer, and an excellent breakfast. They drove nearly six hundred miles round trip to spend less than 24 hours with us. Just because we love each other.

We went to a magical immersive moving art museum right on the Las Vegas Strip. The museum consisted of a series of dark, mirrored rooms in which art and lights and projection techniques created a fantasyland that enveloped us into its essence.

We spent a morning surrounded by more beauty at the Bellagio Conservatory. Every season, the hotel revamps the garden in the conservatory to reflect a new story. I have seen multiple renditions of Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter over the years. It usually feels like I went up the beanstalk and wandered into the giant’s Fairy Land. This year, we saw floral Easter eggs bigger than cement trucks and a carousel with larger-than-life-size horses.

We visited Venice and took a gondola trip through a remarkably realistic Piazza San Marco. The gondolier sang to us. We kissed under all the bridges. We looked through the shops on the replica Rialto Bridge. I bought a piece of jewelry for myself for the first time in years.

These are just some of the highlights of our tame trip. Tame does not have to mean subdued and broken. Tame can choose to surrender to the moment.

part of the enchanted forest in the Arte Museum of Las Vegas- he is not only gorgeous, he bounded around us like a real deer!

literally surrounded by beauty- this bridge picture was in the art gallery room of the museum… it was about the size of a full-sized movie theater screen and changed lighting/colors

At the Bellagio Conservatory- the carousel moves and towers over me

My favorite part- having my wonderful friends of my heart with us for part of it!

The Great Chasm

I hardly know how to act. A week or so ago, I looked at my calendar and realized that my life has become underscheduled. This is a cataclysmic shift in my Universe.

I knew this phenomenon was coming. I wanted it. I planned for it. For a long time, I have been trying to capture a season of stillness. I have been telling myself to concentrate on the people most important to me. I have been telling myself that I should only take on commitments that speak specifically to my soul. I have been telling myself, as far as ministry goes, I should only do what only I can do.

The talking-tos I’ve given myself don’t usually land. More often, they crash. There is always someone who needs a little extra love and attention. There is always some activity that sounds interesting. There is always some need that cries out for me to meet it. I get caught in a weird dichotomy. I never think that I am the person who is best qualified to do anything, yet I always think that disaster will ensue if I do not volunteer.

Now that I’ve finally found some breathing space, I was not prepared for how it would feel.

As usual, Lent was a busy time. I had my array of Lenten activities to fulfill. I have also been leaning into a quiet ministry that I feel is my calling right now- providing support one-on-one to people who need love. I know a lot of people going through difficult circumstances right now. I try to be intentional about providing support and tender loving care in a way that speaks a language that the recipient best understands. Also, a very close friend in Florida picked this time to move back to Delaware. I was trying to spend as much time as I could with her and I wanted to participate in all the farewell events leading up to her departure.

As Lent wound down and I finished the planned activities, I realized that I was no longer having to look three weeks forward in my calendar to find a time slot when I wanted to arrange a date for something. I have plans on the schedule, but there ae no longer days when I have the calendar booked with back-to-back activities. I won’t have to break basic laws of physics to meet my scheduled commitments. My first reaction was a feeling of elation. For a few days, it felt so good to know that the wind of life was going to still to a gentle breeze.

Then, I got uncomfortable and flustered. I felt empty. I struggled with some decrepit demons about appearance and worthlessness that refuse to die. Finally, I realized that this reaction is rooted in a wave of insecurity. Some people fly into a flurry of activity because they feel their value comes from doing. The act of completing tasks and achieving and “being important” helps give their lives meaning. I’m not exactly one of those people. In fact, I dislike “being important” and the attention it brings. What I love and crave is connection. Attaching to people and becoming interdependent with them feeds my soul. Relationships are my coin of the realm. More scheduled on my calendar suggests more connections. When my calendar doesn’t feel overfull, I worry that my relationships will disappear. I feel I must force an intentional opportunity to keep me at the forefront of people’s radar screens, or they will detach from me.

If I am being rational, I know that more activity does not necessarily translate to more connection. I also know that the people with whom I am in relationship love me and will still love me even if they go more than a few days… or even a few weeks… without the awesomeness of my presence. I know that I have value and worth to a relationship that does not depend on busyness.

But…

What I know rationally has very little value in a conversation about insecurity. Neither does anyone else’s assurances. The fact remains that I am having an internal experience that is not congruent with reality. I can’t change it. Certainly, no amount of thinking is going to change it. Believe me, I have tried. It does not work. My stubborn heart does what it does. This time, I am not even going to waste the emotional effort of trying to force myself to feel the way my brain insists I should.

So, I go along for the ride. I pray. I meditate. I inventory my blessings. I move my body. I try to get enough sleep. I eat things that are going to make me feel holistically better instead of worse. I am gentle with myself. I surf the wave until it crashes to the shore. It will pass and I trust that I will be okay. I know I will recall the truth of my rational self. I know that God equips me in mysterious ways to be the person He created me to be.

This Lent, I realized I was standing on one side a rickety bridge. Beneath the bridge is a huge chasm of nothingness. The bridge looks shaky and difficult to maneuver. Truth be told, however, the ground on which I am standing- the ground of insecurity- is much more shaky than the bridge. On the other side of the bridge, there is steadier ground- an internal land in which I have a secure foothold on my sense of self and my worth. The other side of the bridge is the land where God’s perspective of me resides.

I would like to say that, during Lent, I courageously crossed the bridge and am happily on the other side. That isn’t quite true. This Holy Week, though, I did take enough steps to truly see the other side and begin to appreciate what living on that side feels like. This Easter, the work of my Lent culminated and the fruit ripened.

At the same time, Easter invited me to continue. Ripe fruit is delicious and I want more.