retirement lifestyle blog – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

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 🙂

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!

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.

Dear Blog Readers:

In my last post, I discussed some of my Lenten journey this year. Today, I wanted to mention another Lenten discipline I have been embracing.

Every few years, I use Lent as a time to reflect on my blessings. I like to think of the people that God has put in my life who have positively impacted my spiritual growth. I send a thank you letter each day in Lent to someone who has inspired me, helped me, or just loved me through something.

Today, I want to thank you all. Thank you for reading my blog. Thank you for encouraging me. Thank you for making it safe for me to experiment and consider the big issues of life- big issues that are sometimes displayed in the smallest of silliness. It has been such a blessing to have this creative outlet. Sometimes, it has been a veritable lifeline of mental health. At other times, it has been a pure escape to the lighter places in my befuddled brain. The act of writing, in itself, is an excellent emotional processing vehicle. Knowing there are people reading and caring makes it even more effective. Hoping that maybe I am inspiring someone or helping someone feel less alone or even just making someone laugh- these are all dreams of mine.

In short, thank you all for being part of my dream. All my life I have wanted to write, but I never had the confidence to do so. It takes a certain amount of arrogance for me to believe that anything I write could be of the slightest interest to anyone else. That may be why I started using the name Terri LaBonte. Terri LaBonte might have the confidence that Dorry Curran lacks.

Blessings,

Dorry/Terri

The Lightening Lent

A Lightening Lent

Although I have been an Episcopalian for nearly ten years, I grew up in an observant Roman Catholic family. I wouldn’t say we were especially devout or even consistent, but there were certain traditions that my family followed. One of those traditions was that my parents expected my brother and I to “give up something” for Lent. As I have evolved in my own spiritual maturity, I think about Lenten disciplines differently. However, I continued to make an intentional Lenten commitment before Ash Wednesday each year.

In recent years, I’ve struggled a little to settle into a special observance every Lent. It seems that I have not always found something to do for Lent, but I have to say Lent has ALWAYS found something for me to do for Lent. I have learned that, for me at least, this tends to be the most powerful Lenten discipline- trusting in the Holy Spirit to find me where my open heart is and giving me the curriculum for what I most need to learn.

This year has been a little different. I was more than a week into Lent, and I had not felt the Holy Spirit tapping on my shoulder. I was starting to get antsy. There were a few things I had decided to do- listening to a series of lessons comparing the parable of the Prodigal Son to the novel The Brothers Karamazov, helping to coordinate and teach a Sunday School series, finishing a Young Adult Spiritual Formation Course. These all felt like appropriate Lenten observances, but not THE THING that was going to grow my soul this year.

For several days it seemed like I encountered the concept of fasting in different readings, sermons, devotionals, prayers. I decided I might be getting the nudge I needed after all. Better late than never, I suppose. But fast from what, exactly?

Typically, people think of food. That is problematic for me because of my diabetes. Also, I have never found food deprivation makes me holier- just grumpier. I have nearly 60 years as an observant Roman Catholic. I have experience with the food fasting thing. I tried to be holy. I really did. I understood that fasting is supposed to feel uncomfortable and sacrificial. However, the uncomfortable and sacrificial feeling was supposed to be a vehicle to get closer to God. It never worked for me. I doubt it will now.

Last year, I did commit to a fast- no Facebook for 40 days. It was challenging and uncomfortable… and I did find it to be spiritually refreshing. So was the additional sleep that resulted from the Facebook fast. Coming back to Facebook after Easter did show me that I engage with social media differently now. I am much more discriminating about what I view. I do not simply scroll and kill time. I read and watch only content providers that I specifically find entertaining, informative, and/or truly uplifting. I post when I want to do so but no longer feel compelled to document everything good that happens. It is a pleasant shift.

This brings us to Lent 2026. I bumbled around in prayer for awhile and then an idea came to me. As part of my own journey of self-discovery and mental health, I am coming face-to-face with a scary, painful tendency of mine. I believe a lot of really cruel and negative things about myself- things I want to believe are lies, but I can’t quite get there. I think I’ve always known about this tendency of mine but never believed I could do anything about it. I didn’t believe I could do anything about it because I couldn’t quite shake the certainty that the negative assertions are true.

In my first draft of this post, I recounted a partial list of the fundamental truths or lies I believe about myself. However, I decided I would be breaking my fast by even mentioning them. You see, this year I am fasting from engaging in views of myself that differ from God’s view of me. I have this mantra that I produced a few years ago that I tell myself when I am feeling especially wobbly…. I am a precious child of God, and I bring joy to the world. He has created me elegantly and equips me perfectly to walk the path He sets before me. I suppose this mantra is the gist of my fast this year- reprogramming my brain to believe it and honor God in it.

I don’t know where these negative perceptions of myself originate. Maybe they are things that other people tell me because, of course, everyone else’s perception is clearly much more valid than my own. Maybe they are things I tell myself because they are true. Maybe they are things that people told me so long ago they are my own. Maybe they are things Satan is telling me. I say that only half-facetiously.

I can’t make myself stop thinking or feeling the negative things- I cannot control my natural reactions. I can control my responses, however. I can choose to recognize the truth-lies when they appear and banish them.

This is the work of Lent for me this year. The rest of my observances- the classes and the studies- are not wrong or unhelpful. It is just that they feel more like busyness. My fast from engaging with the lies is the heavy lifting that nurtures growth. I hope that heavy lifting creates a shift that survives long past Easter.

Please pray for me!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Living On The Edge

I have never been much of a thrill seeker, but I’ve been thinking it is about time I shook things up a bit.

I recently began teaching a spiritual formation course for a group of young adults. The participants are between the ages of 17 and 30. I am a 66-year-old woman who has never had children. Additionally, some of the participants are also students at a nearby college for students with learning differences. The wide range of ages, life experiences, backgrounds, learning styles, and personalities would be a challenge for anyone, but it is especially difficult for someone like me. I do so love a plan, preparation, and predictable processes.

I taught this same course to our parish at large last year. It is helpful to note that our “parish at large” consists of a plethora of senior citizens, many of whom have been churchgoers their whole lives. I knew going into my young adult class that the experience would be different. I was excited about it. I looked forward to learning from them and sharing with them. I looked forward to stretching my sensibilities.

The premise of the course is that adults, young and old, have plenty of ideas, life experiences, feelings, and assorted other mental material in their brains. There is no need for the instructor to “fill them up.” The role of the instructor is to help the participants look at the stuff that has been sitting in their brains for a long time and “stir it up,” to see if it is still within the “use by” date and if it can grow richer.

I could not have known what a blessing it would be for me. Plans, preparation, and predictable processes have absolutely no place in this adventure. In fact, the experience is wild, wooly, and completely unpredictable. I would say there is no process whatsoever, but that would not be strictly true. I believe there is a process, but it is not I who has designed it. It is the Holy Spirit. I often stop for a moment and think about what a marvel it is that I have been able to step back and let the Holy Spirit truly take the reins. It is good for me to get knocked off my perch.

We have just finished session five of a six-session program. So often, my carefully prepared lesson plan has gone completely by the wayside. This week, I do not think I even picked it up. The students are driving the bus. And that is a wonderful thing. Sometimes, the segues are non-existent and the gear shifting transitions threaten to destroy the transmission. Sometimes, I am not even sure what we are talking about. However, at least once in every session, someone says something so introspective and profound that it is clear Grace has entered the building. Additionally, the students’ kindness, sense of ownership, and accountability are inspiring.

Sometimes, there is a clash of world views, even from all of us in the arms of Jesus. Sometimes, it feels a little too intense for comfort. I’m talking about my world view as well as those of the different students. We haven’t quite figured out how to settle all that, but everyone is unfailingly kind. That, perhaps, is the best world view to have. Besides, don’t “they” always say there is no comfort in growth and no growth in comfort? These students are stirring me up AND filling me up!

A Little Slice Of Heaven In Orlando

Thoughts, feelings, and words can be slippery things. Sometimes, I have an experience that ignites an explosion within me. I want to blog about the internal inferno but I struggle to gather sufficient shrapnel to craft a coherent response. This is one of those times, so please grant me some grace.

I recently attended the annual convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Central Florida. Some of you know that I converted to the Episcopal Church in January of 2018 after spending my life as an observant Roman Catholic. My blog body of work probably clearly screams that I am a “churchy” kind of gal. My relationship with God is the most important thing in my life. One of my highest priorities in retirement has been to find out how I can grow closer to God and to serve Him.

The Episcopal community I found in 2016 seemed to speak to my soul. For the first year or two, I largely consumed. I allowed God to feed me. I did not engage much with the other church members because my mother was on her end-of-life journey. The only life I had then was walking beside her during her time in the shadowland between life and death. Gradually, I connected with the church community and became attached. I blossomed spiritually. I began shouldering more of the family responsibilities- getting involved in activities, tithing, serving. I feel nourished by my church. I enjoy the worship and the fellowship. I have nurturing relationships with people I now believe are my family, including my pastor and his actual family. I have been very active in ministry since at least 2019.

That is the pretty picture. It is a accurate, true picture. But it isn’t the whole picture. There have been times of brokenness and despair. Sometimes, loving means hurting. Jesus talked about the blessings that are intrinsic in the painful places in life. He, himself, gave us the greatest blessing- beyond anything any of us can conceive- in the most painful place imaginable when He gave himself over for crucifixion.

I am certainly not Jesus. I am certainly not even complaining because my pain seems insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I am certainly not oblivious to the blessings God provides me- in the good times AND the painful times.

Let’s just say, though, that I’ve had my share of hurt in the church because I loved and because I tried to answer my baptismal call. There have been times when people feared me. There have been times when people misunderstood me. There have been times when people attacked me. It is difficult for me to express the beauty and depth of the bond I share with most of the people in my church… which makes it all the more painful and jarring when something happens to show me that the same brush does not paint everyone.

Over the past couple of years, the crucible of congregational development sucked me into its flashpoint. This period of metamorphosis turned a blinding spotlight on some of the more uncomfortable facets of “being church.” I got scorched by the spotlight. It took me an unreasonably long time to work my way through that period.

As my congregation grew in numbers and vibrancy, I could see so much good happening. The opportunities for personal harm paled in comparison to what I could intuitively feel happening. Church attendance seemed to be increasing. New ministries commenced. The love seemed to be growing. I spoke to my pastor about the way events played out over the past couple of years. I came to the conclusion that I would not have changed a thing. I believe most of what I tumbled through was necessary for our church to achieve this new growth. Also, I achieved much growth. Despite the pain, anxiety, and drama- probably even BECAUSE of it.

As I observed all the positive movement in my congregation, it was easy for me to think it was all in my head or to attribute it to “just happening.” Up until the diocesan convention, everything I thought I observed was intuitive rather than cognitive. Still, my gut saw it as a win and all felt right in my world.

On the first day of the convention, a social scientist famous for analyzing the dechurchification of America, discussed depressing statistics about church attendance and Christian identification. The bishop addressed the delegation on the morning of the second day to present a more optimistic perspective. He relayed a conversation he had with the presiding bishop of the United States. Our diocese has the fourth highest average Sunday attendance in the entire nation. This is a positive sign, in and of itself. The presiding bishop went a step further. He explained that, if we look at that statistic by congregation, we have the highest average Sunday attendance in the nation- over 20% higher than the second diocese on the list. I could take it even a step further. My church has a congregation that is approximately 30% higher than the average for our diocese. The bishop went on to explain that high average Sunday attendance is attributable to three factors- excellent preaching, genuinely welcoming congregations, and vibrant ministries.

As the impact of his words traveled from my ears to my brain, I felt something akin to hope warm my whole body. I even started to cry quietly. What I heard was that what my instinct observed at my church is not all in my head. My intuition now had hard data to support its truth. What I also heard was that it wasn’t “just happening.” God is using His people to make it happen. And I get to be part of that. That thought was so transcendent, my body could not contain it. The tears overflowed my spirit.

What a perfect, exquisite glimpse of Heaven!

TinkerBell Trauma

My favorite fairy has been discon-tink-ued.

People who know me IRL understand that it is “all Tink all the time” in my world. From the time I was a baby, my parents called me TinkerBell. For years, I thought it was sweet and cute. As I got older and read the original play by J.M Barrie, I questioned that characterization. TinkerBell is not always a very nice fairy. Still- good, bad, and ugly- TinkerBell has always been my alter ego. I have endless pictures of myself with TinkerBell. I have a TinkerBell wardrobe that is the envy of four-year-old girls everywhere. Some of you may even recall that I visited the “Bippity Boppity Boutique for grown-ups” a few years back to get Tinkifying makeover. I have an adorable lime green car that I call the “Tinkmobile.”

I also have a lovely little Chase VISA card that earns Disney reward points that I save up each year to pay towards our annual passes. The uber-adorable thing about this credit card is that TinkerBell’s picture is on the front of it. Every time I pull out my credit card, I get a green glimpse of the perky pixie princess. It reminds me that there is a TinkerBell persona living inside of me. Surely, despite my frumpy elderly exterior, there is a feisty, flirty, flittery, fun fairy bursting to get out.

Tragedy struck. Somehow, my Tinker card got compromised and I started getting charged $25 per month for some weird horoscope type service. I contacted Chase to report a fraud and dispute the charges. They agreed to reverse the charges, freeze my account, and send me a new card with a new account number. When the new card arrived, it sported Cinderella’s castle and not TinkerBell. I called the bank, thinking it was an error. There are several designs a cardholder can choose for the card, so I figured the person issuing the new card just accepted the default instead of specifying my TinkerBell choice.

Sadly, this was not the case. The lady on the phone confidently said she could help me get a card with the correct design. As she scrolled the options, however, she realized that TinkerBell HAD BEEN DISCONTINUED! I cannot begin to express the dismay I felt. It was as if I had lost my identity.

Ever since that conversation, I have been trying to fill the TinkerBell-credit-card-sized hole in my heart. I have barely worn anything other than Tink-themed clothing. I managed to wear appropriate church apparel to the Sunday service. Before I returned to the church that evening to lead the young adult study group session, however, I changed into my custom-painted TinkerBell and Periwinkle (Tink’s fraternal twin, for those of you who are not up on your pixie lore) sweatshirt that boasts that “I am the third sister.”

It still isn’t working. I am feeling unmoored by this turn of events. The bank advised me to destroy the old card. I have not been able to bring myself to comply; I doubt I ever will. Grinding TinkerBell through the shredder is not on my bingo card.

I am in mourning. Max immediately started googling to find some sort of replacement product to ease my pain. The best he could find was a new floral TinkerBell spirit jersey. One could argue that while a Tink-design credit card and yet another article of pixie clothing are both nice but not exactly interchangeable. I don’t care. If my Tink credit card was my heroin, the new spirit jersey might at least function as my methadone.

We are going to Disney Springs today to buy the jersey- lest the delirium tremors begin!

The Big Crabapple- Part Four- The Grand Finale!

Monday was our last full day in New York. We had an early morning because we had a scheduled tour of the Statue of Liberty at 9:00am. After all our transportation mishaps, I was nervous about making our way to Battery Park in time to meet the tour. I had particularly arranged this guided tour because Max really wanted to go inside the statue and the surest way to do that seemed to be taking a commercial tour. It was clear from the National Park Service website that entry to the statue itself was extremely limited.

After trains, taxis, and automobiles, we arrived at Battery Park just in time. We joined the horde of people standing around our tour guide and listened to his introductory spiel. The first disappointment of the day was that the tour of the Statue of Liberty did not, in fact, actually enter the Statue of Liberty. We could have ridden the ferry, walked around the base of the statue, and visited the Ellis Island museum all on our own for much less money and at a time that did not require us to rise with the chickens. Instead, we hiked around in the crowd while our tour guide plied us with apocryphal stories about his wife and, parenthetically, the Statue of Liberty.

We still made the best of things. I know Max was sorely disappointed, but he did an excellent job of pretending it was okay. I felt crushingly guilty, of course, because that is what I do. Take on the responsibility for everybody else’s feelings- especially the feelings of the people I love. We did enjoy seeing the scale and majesty of the statue. We did enjoy a quick run through the Ellis Island museum. The tour guide took a couple of cool pictures of us, so he was good for something. He also insisted on taking a group picture of the whole horde of us and offered, for a small fee, to share it with anyone who wanted a copy. I am not sure why anyone would want a picture of themselves and thirty of their closest strangers on the grass in front of the Statue of Liberty. I certainly did not.

After we finished the tour and took the ferry back to Battery Park, I had an agenda. We did not make it to the carousel in Central Park, so I wanted to at least ride the carousel in Battery Park. The Google Machine told me that this carousel was a fanciful trip under the sea on fish and other marine creatures. That intrigued me. This was apparently not the run-of-the-mill merry-go-round, but a magical adventure. I looked at the map of the park and found the location. Unfortunately, spotting a location on a map and getting my brain to direct my legs to that actual location is not that easy. We wandered around for 45 minutes trying to find it. To be fair, we spent part of those 45 minutes with an Orthodox Jewish missionary who stopped to try to recruit us to Judaism. There is the first time for everything.

When we finally reached the carousel (Christianity still intact,) it was not overwhelming at first. The carousel was small. The marine creatures were made of some sort of translucent plastic material. They also seemed small for carousel animals, but I acknowledge they were massive for fish. Still, after 45 minutes of searching, I was not about to leave the park without riding that carousel.

Things changed when the carousel started. The animals began lighting up with morphing pale pink, blue, green, and purple shades. The music with other-worldly. It was what I imagine a merry-go-round on LSD would be like. It was a pleasantly bizarre experience. I don’t think I got stoned from it. Although now that I think about it, I did have the munchies afterwards… and the last thing I wanted to eat was seafood.

This was our last Manhattan adventure. We even found a cab to take us back to Penn Station on the first try. We had Carvel ice cream at a shop near the train station and ate supper at a cute diner near our hotel. We slept reasonably peacefully through our last night in New York. The next day, we drove back to the airport. The first stop was to return the car. I could see the car rental place, but there seemed to be no way to get there from the road. I kept wishing we were living on Star Trek, and I could just ask them to beam me up. On about the fourth circle around the airport, I finally found a way off the main road into the car rental place. Relieved, I got rid of the car as quickly as I could. After another squeamish ride on the air train to the terminal, both Max and I let our shoulders release and our breath exhale. We were going home where we knew what to do and how to get places.

When we reached the Orlando airport, we got our bags and went to retrieve my car from the parking structure. Normally, we use valet parking, but the valet parking area was full when we left Orlando. We parked in the structure, noted the level and row where I left the car. We took pictures of the area. We thought finding the car would be super easy.

It was not. We wandered, hauling our suitcases behind us, trying to find the coordinates we noted when we left. We found the level and the row, but my car was not there. Both of us were tired, hungry, and sore. I felt like I should have stayed on Ellis Island. Pulling a suitcase, struggling with a backpack, and slinging a carry-on bag over my shoulder- I felt like I just got off the boat.

After 20 minutes of searching, I realized something. We were in the rental car parking structure, not the passenger parking lot structure.

I should not be allowed to leave my house without adult supervision.