Peace by Piece

Earlier today (I’m in Texas visiting family for a few days. Yee haw!) in an attempt to be friendly, I asked my brother’s teenaged stepdaughter (whom I’ve met only a couple of times) if she’d like to have a bite of lunch with me in the kitchen. (Her mom and stepdad–my brother–were at work.) She politely declined, having eaten not that long ago, so I took my book for companionship and ate quietly at the dining room table.

Several hours later, I found that I had the munchies, so I headed back to the kitchen to see what I could find. In their snack stash were fancy almonds coated with some sort of seasoning. Delicious! After gathering a handful into a small bowl to take to the family room where I’d been reading, I headed toward the hallway when suddenly I felt impressed to approach the girl again in her room to see if she’d like some of the almonds. My past experience informed my reaction: “She’s not going to want any,” I thought to myself. “I should leave her in peace.” But the impression remained, with an additional word of encouragement: “Don’t fear rejection.”

I instantly sensed that offering her something was more about caring than it was about food.   Mustering the courage of kindness, I knocked on her door and asked if I could come in. “I’ve just tried these almonds in the kitchen, and they’re to die for! I’m wondering what spice is on them. Would you like to try one and share your guess with me?” I said lightly, extending the bowl toward her.

She agreed and ate an almond. “These are good! You found them in the kitchen?”

“Yep, in the snack tin,” I answered. “Shall I get you some?”

“No thanks. But I’ll have to see if I can figure out what they are.”

“I’d love to know,” I replied. “I just can’t place the flavor.”

My stepniece and I smiled, and I departed. Back in the family room, I remembered a similar experience I’d lived a couple of years ago when I’d gotten the idea to invite some extended family members to dinner last minute but gotten a negative in response (they’d already eaten). At first disappointed that my invitation had been rejected, I soon concluded, “At least they’ll know I was thinking about them.” I’m wondering if there are times when caring offers to serve are just as helpful as actual “doing to others.”

It appears that, sometimes,

it is the thought that counts.

A friend of mine, Carole Jensen, sent me an interesting discussion chain a while back in which several people were addressing the importance of respectful communication, even (or especially) when the subject matter is emotionally-charged. A woman who owns a secular publishing company specializing in homeschool materials had received several death threats as well as phone messages warning that she will “burn in Hell” for publishing a science curriculum for grades k-2 which introduces them to the concept of evolution. The woman lamented,

I am willing to sit down with anyone and exchange ideas and to respectfully disagree, whether it is in respect to evolution, religion, or which laundry soap does the best job on grass stains. Clearly, there are those who cannot respectfully disagree and must resort to insults, threats, or worse. Do I wish those who have sent us threatening messages would be willing to sit down and share viewpoints and agree to disagree, while we still keep an open mind to actually hear the other’s point of view? Of course, but I just don’t see it happening outside of my safe UU [community].

Another woman noted that even UU congregations are not always the havens of religious tolerance they claim to be: “In my congregation . . . something will happen or something is said that causes our theist/Christian members to feel hurt, offended, and/or marginalized. In the cases I’m specifically thinking of, the hurt and offense was not necessarily deliberate — the person wasn’t going out of their way to hurt anyone, but nonetheless hurt was caused.”

Reading their words made me want to consider, once again, what constitutes respectful communication—safe, “save face” communication–that is a foundational building block for meaningful and enduring relationships.

Here’s what I came up with:

I guess the key to being respectful is to “own” our opinions and allow others the right to own and explain theirs.

It involves remembering that ‘what appears true to me may not appear true to you’–as well as the more obvious converse. It is based on the recognition that what people need more than the conformity of our convictions is the loyalty of our love and our willingness to hear them out. Respectful communication inspires compassion in human relations, and keeps people from demonizing one another.

Fictional examples:

Disrespectful, offensive language

“You deserve to die for what you’re doing! You better watch your back because, as Revelation 18:21 states, ‘with violence shall that great city Babylon be thrown down, and shall be found no more at all.’”  (speaking to the publisher)

“You’re insane to believe God would try to test faith by placing dinosaur bones from other planets on earth!! Didn’t you go to school?!” (speaking to the “young earth” believer)

“You will go to Hell for publishing anything supportive of evolution! ‘Better that a millstone be hanged about his neck than that he should offend one of these little ones!’” (speaking to the publisher)

Respectful, tentative language

“I think it is damaging to teach evolution to children. I can’t imagine there being any benefit to telling children that humans came from apes. Would you be willing to explain to me your perspective? I’m baffled.” (speaking to the publisher)

“What makes you distrust carbon dating?” (speaking to the “young earth” believer)

“Do you feel concerned that God will judge you someday for eroding the faith of children with this curriculum? I’m a little worried for your salvation.” (speaking to the publisher)

“Owning” our statements, our perspective, and asking open-ended questions is much more palatable to others than condescending remarks that assume one reality only. Simplistic platitudes which leave little to no room for debate tend to silence the meek, anger the assertive, and put off those used to more equitable exchanges. (Teenagers especially hate “one-reality” answers. It is very frustrating for them to hear, by way of explanation, “. . . because that’s the way things are around here.” It is much more respectful—though time consuming–to share with them a broader picture of an issue: “ . . . because, honestly, I don’t feel like it’s a good idea. It sets a bad precedent—an unhealthy habit—which I would hate to encourage. But I can see you have strong feelings about this. I’m willing to listen to your thoughts, though I’m not promising I’ll change my mind.” etc.)

It’s fairly easy to talk about effective communication strategies, but it’s another thing to catch oneself at the point of departure. Last night I felt tempted to “correct” one of my children who shared an opinion with me. I began to counter her comment but, thankfully, soon noticed her body language—her emotional reaction—and switched gears from correcting to inviting: “You seem to be really concerned about that, [daughter]. Can you tell me why that bothers you so much? I’m ready to listen.” What she shared with me was enlightening—I learned much about one of her current struggles, of which I’d been oblivious—and I was stunned to think that I would have missed out on that relevant information, and the opportunity to grow our relationship through our discourse, if I had just proceeded with my retort to her opinion. There is an opportunity cost to being pedantic, preachy, or absolutely obstinate in our conversations: failure to learn from and understand others.

Making  soft, “safe” statements invites sharing and inspires mutual understanding.  Ideally, we’d all learn to say, “I love you and value you. This is my understanding, but feel free to share your perspective with me if you think there’s more to the story.”

I’ve heard it said, “Love is a verb.” I like that better than the idea “Love is a feeling.” Passionate feelings come and go–they’re cyclical—but true love, per my definition, is constant, devoted commitment to the happiness and wellbeing of one’s chosen.  It is an emotional bond grown of shared experience, respect, and intimacy.  It is manifest in small, daily acts of caring.  It feels good, yes, but that is the fruit of living love.

One of my favorite love scenes is one I saw played out in my grandparents’ nursing home bedroom a few weeks before Grandpa died. Grandma had dementia and could not take good care of herself. A multitude of bed sores were now on her legs. I had come to visit them with my children, and while there we witnessed the ultimate image of devoted love: Grandpa–himself dying of cancer yet ever the dutiful husband–slowly leaning his frail, emaciated body over toward his beloved to dab ointment on her sores. No matter his own discomfort, he wanted to take care of his wife of 69 years. Thank you, Grandpa Edward, for your example.  Kindness, to me, is the epitome of love.

Jim* was a tall, assertive, somewhat intimidating man who lived across the street and down a couple of houses from the home which my husband and I had recently purchased. After becoming acquainted with the neighbors, I soon noticed and appreciated the care with which Jim, his wife and kids cared for their lawn and flower beds. I was impressed with how clean they kept his large pick-up truck and trailer. I was pleased to learn that the family attended church faithfully. However, I was perplexed that whenever I attempted to make eye contact to greet him, or whenever I waved at him as he drove by, he never returned the salutation. He’d act as if I wasn’t even there.

This hurt my feelings, of course. I tried to imagine what I had done to offend him or cause him to lose respect for me. ‘Do I testify too long and too often in church? Is he put off by my frequent comments in Sunday School? Does he have some personal reservations against people who homeschool?’ I couldn’t be sure, but it was troubling and painful to always be given the cold shoulder.

After several months of this—during which time I never gave up on saying Hi whenever I saw him—I devised a plan. I’d heard it said that

the best way to lose an enemy is to make him your friend.

Having no reason not to like and be-friend this man, other than his inexplicable indifference toward me, I decided to give the truism a try. Figuring that the problem lay in his not knowing me well, I decided to invite him and his family to dinner so we would get the chance to visit and become better acquainted. His wife was always sweet to me. Maybe Jim could learn to enjoy me, too.

Feeling rather nervous (because I hate confrontation), I called his number. I had hoped his wife would answer the phone, but no such luck. Gulp! “Uh—Hi, Jim. This is Shaunalei Andersen. I don’t know if you guys are busy next Monday, but my family and I would like to invite you, Selma*, and the girls to dinner at our house. I thought I’d make Navajo tacos, if that sounds good to you.”

This was so awkward. What should I expect from this guy who refused to even look at me? A flat out “No”? The excuse “We’re busy”? A rude “We’re not interested”? What?! Since I was throwing this at him out of the blue, how would he react?

“Navajo tacos?! I love Navajo tacos. Let me talk to Selma to make sure we don’t have anything going on.”

“Thanks, Jim. That’ll be awesome if you can. I’ll talk to you soon.” We hung up. Yes!

Monday night, our two families sat down to eat. I had prepared not just by making scones and chili, but also by thinking of subjects of conversation which might interest Jim—such as “What should we look for when deciding upon a camping trailer?” (We were hoping to acquire one in the next year.) Jim seemed to really enjoy himself! He was chatty and engaging; such a contrast from his former coldness. Watching us all have a pleasant meal together, an onlooker would never have suspected that this man had been ignoring me for months.

After that experience, whenever Jim saw me coming down the hall at church, he was the one to go out of his way to lean over (making sure I saw him) to say Hello. Each time I was outside when he drove by, he would wave in my direction. Our families didn’t become bosom friends after that, but the cordiality and friendship that came to exist between us as neighbors was gladdening to my soul.

In my mind, it was a miracle. I had lost an enemy and gained a friend!

* Names have been changed to protect privacy.

A few weeks ago I shared with my friend, Stacy, a new perspective I’d recently come to about myself and my life:

I’m mentally ill and not going to be “fixed,” even with therapy.

Ouch, right?

No.  Surprisingly, the idea that I am mentally ill brought me relief.  “If I’m mentally ill, I shouldn’t expect more from myself than is reasonable.  If I am mentally ill, that means I don’t have to keep up the unending, self-incriminating attempts to discover and solve the underlying causes (behaviors? thoughts?) which have brought about my years of depression. I just need to work through the symptoms of my depression (and creative mania) as they show up.  Take one day at a time.  Give myself a break. Be grateful for the good days, amazed at the occasional accomplishment, and kind/gentle with myself on the days I am having a hard time.”

Ironic though it may seem, I experienced tremendous relief, sustainable self-compassion, and renewed commitment to my wellbeing when I concluded that I’m not fixable.  I now expect (rather than lament) that there will be days of depression, and when they come, I take note; talk with my hubby about what I’m experiencing; decide what I want to do during the depressive episode (go to bed? take a hike? talk things out? make a planning list?); and trust that it will pass before long.

Not sure if I am officially mentally ill, but at least today I’m okay with that hypothesis.

I learned recently that two of my acquaintances, a mother and daughter, have the misfortune of suffering from frequent insomnia. Mentioning this news to my children on our drive to school this morning, I added, “The next time you go to bed and find it very easy to fall asleep, be grateful you don’t have insomnia!”

Did that sound too callous—not to mention impossible (noticing that you’d fallen asleep easily)?–

Be glad you don’t have what they have?

Not liking the sound of that, I thought of a way of expressing the idea in slightly more positive terms:

We all have our challenges–being human, as we are. But there are always positive things in our lives to be noticed and enjoyed, if we pay attention.

I went on. “For example, since Monica* and Cathleen* don’t have the blessing in their lives of being able to fall asleep easily, the challenge for them is to notice frequently the blessings they do have—such as a husband/daddy who loves and supports them. What a blessing!

“Unfortunately, there are people who don’t have a spouse or daddy to love and support them. Their challenge is to notice the blessings which they do have in their life, such as cool co-workers who make going to work more fun than drudgery for them. What a blessing!

“But there are plenty of people who hate their jobs, finding them absolutely tedious and unfulfilling, and who have no cool co-workers to make work bearable. What is the challenge for them?”

“To look for what is going right in their lives!” my kids answered. (Clever kids!)

“Right! Maybe for those job-haters, the challenge for them is to realize what a blessing it is for them to have music in their lives—and functioning ears to hear it! Maybe they go home after work and play their guitar for hours, singing along. What a blessing!”

I liked this on-going story we were creating–a fun challenge coming up with less-obvious blessings. Reminds me of Betsy ten Boom in The Hiding Place. To her grateful mind, even fleas were considered a blessing—since they kept the cruel German guards out of the barracks. When parts of our lives are undesirable, Yes, we can work toward positive change. Yes, we can seek solutions. But in the meantime, we can smell the roses. Noticing and enjoying what we’ve been given, especially during the valleys of lifes’ poignant challenges–perhaps that is The Challenge.

*Names have been changed to protect privacy.

Some of you may know that Erik’s and my marriage got a major reboot five years ago. I’d like to write a book about that sometime, but in the meantime (today) it’ll suffice to just say that I went from taking Erik for granted to caring deeply about his happiness—especially my part in it.

I remember having the thought–after the reboot had happened and we’d taken a second honeymoon and ordered a new wedding ring set and were having a grand old time in bed every day,

Who would have thought that my happiness was to be found in my marriage?!

I had suffered so much depression, stewed over all the possible causes and all the potential solutions for years, and yet “enjoy and pamper your spouse” had not even entered my mental radar as a means to lasting happiness. What a shock, then, what a revelation when I found myself in 2006 delightfully happy by being delightedly grateful for and passionately re-in-love with my spouse!

Beautiful story, but, unfortunately, not “end of the story.”

Things were great for months, but after a while I started returning to some of my old mental habits. Fortunately, Erik and I have remained close and emotionally intimate–spending most evenings talking together, as best friends—but that hasn’t prevented my depression from rearing its ugly head.

So, I was remembering yesterday that thought from five years ago—that my happiness could be found in my marriage—and realized it’s about time I started enjoying my marriage the way I did at that time. I want to throw away my worries with hopeless abandon and get seriously in love again! So I’m going to start applying some sexy thought filters throughout the day:

• “How can I feel more connected to Erik right now while I’m doing _____?”
• “What could I do for him today to make his life lighter and happier?”
• “What romantic comedy could we watch tonight?”
• “What memory of Erik do I want to hold in my heart today?”
• “Erik loves me, wants me, and thinks of me throughout the day . . .”
• “Erik’s such a stud. I love his . . .”

Sounds fun. Being in love is fun!  Charging up one’s marriage is a great way to get happy.

I’ve always wanted to be important. To do something “important.” Is that a sign of neuroses, or merely indicative of a passionate personality? I liked to read The Boxcar Children series as a kid, but as an adult I’ve turned almost exclusively to non-fiction. Maybe that came of believing “I can figure things out,” as a reaction to the depression and mental stewing that have overtaken me for years. I’m getting a little bored of trying to figure things out, though—at least in terms of “what’s wrong with me.” I think I’m ready to do things differently.

But can I escape it? Here I am, with time on my hands with which to “do something,” and I’m writing a journal entry on what’s going on in my head. Pathetic.  No. Just habitual. Time spent on stewing has reinforced the neurological pathways between “I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing” and “There’s-something-I-should-be-pursuing.”

I read the other day of the importance of self-compassion. There’s a website with guided meditations, but I think I’ll create some of my own here. [I'm a rugged individualist--always wanting to do things my own way. Hmmm. Better yet--I'm a fearless experimenter.] Here goes:

• It’s going to be okay. Worrying is painful and unproductive. Life has a way of teaching us all things we need to know.
• Uncertainty is in the Universe’s game plan, it appears. Trying to force certainty is vain—in both senses of the word. I don’t have to know everything, or even what tomorrow holds. Each day presents me with lessons to discern, interpret, or ignore. Maybe the lessons add up to one great whole. Maybe they are magical merely for the meaning they give in that moment. (Don’t I love feeling connected with grander things when I am given a lesson that seems supernaturally in sync?) I can enjoy the ambiguity-laden lessons, without understanding all things.
• It’s okay that I’ve been confused of late—and of longer. It is evidence that I have a keen mind, a discerning mind, which is willing to do the work of exploring. I can be kind to myself by emphasizing the explorer in me rather than the neurotic personality.
• I can identify the feelings and circumstances that trouble me. I can keep track, but I don’t have to solve them all at once.
• I am blessed with people who need me. Our lives intersect regularly, which strengthens the web of human sympathy and support. I am part of an entire ecosystem of lives, and derive much of my energy from the symbiosis.
• I’ve come a long way, baby—even if the steps are hard to trace. Who I am today is so much more interesting than who I was at an earlier date.
• I like my mind. I can help it to be kind.

I feel a little better. Time to go pick up my kids.

or “Overcoming an obsession with a result”

Some of you on Facebook know that Erik and I ran a marathon last year—almost exactly a year ago (Sept. 11, 2010). It was a great blessing and a thrill to be able to complete the 26 mile race, which was a goal we had set together and prepared for for over 8 months. But I must be honest in relating that I started to get anxiety that spring as I worried whether or not I’d be able to complete the goal since there were so many things that could go wrong during our training—in terms of injuries. I remember thinking that the outcome was outside my control, which made me really nervous, anxious, and almost hesitant to invest in all the effort if I couldn’t be promised the outcome. Has that ever happened to you? The cold-feet of a control-freak?

Fortunately, an idea came to mind that became a saving grace for my continued commitment to my goal. It was this: I had set goals in ninth grade seminary—including the lofty, challenging “Graduate from high school with a 4.0”–but I had not experienced anxiety then. What was the difference? I realized that when I’d set those earlier goals, I had expected I could do it. I was counting on success. I hadn’t immediately worried, ‘Oh, there’re a thousand things that could prevent me from getting my 4.0–I could get sick, I could get in a car wreck and have to miss class for a long time, etc.’ Perhaps I was simply naïve, but my confidence carried me forward with enthusiasm and commitment toward my goal. When this thought occurred to me last spring, I realized its applicability to the current situation. ‘I should just plan for success with this marathon, moving forward in the positive energy that it’s going to happen, and not allow myself to be anxious.’

Not long after that, I came across an online article written by a marathon professional—a trainer—which again challenged my marathon anxiety. The author mentioned how, so often, people put all of their focus on the day of the race—the marathon itself. She wanted to remind people, she said, that the great benefit of a marathon is not actually the day of stuff, because the long-distance race actually puts a tremendous amount of strain and stress upon the body. The real benefit of running a marathon is all the necessary preparatory training at shorter distances in the months preceding it. It’s what builds up the heart and the lung capacity—the stamina. People with a regular regimen of vigorous walking can be just as healthy as marathon runners, she asserted. The regular, moderate cardio training is what provides the long-term benefits, not the race itself.  Reading these comments was inspiring.  My training alone was what mattered most!  What an important point to help me stop worrying about my personal outcome in the actual marathon. It inspired me to start telling myself, ‘I am engaged in marathon training. I am a marathon trainer <wink, wink>,’ and to lose concern over the results of the race.

As I started getting closer to the actual marathon, I told Erik, “I’d like to re-state my goal. Rather than have it be ‘Run a marathon,’ I want it to say ‘Run in a marathon.’ Finishing the race would be nice, but I don’t want my goal to hinge on that. I have trained for, prepared for, and will actually run in a marathon. That’s what counts.” He smiled at my semantic games, but understood where they were coming from.

The night before the race, I had a hard time falling asleep. The paper thin walls of the Price hotel we were staying in did not dampen the noise of the noisy teens next door—darn it—but I imagine they were not the only cause of my insomnia. I’m not cognizant of all the reasons for it, but I’m guessing the idea of going 26 miles was a bit daunting. Would I be able to do it? We’d never run that far before (the marathon training schedule we’d been using limited the longest preparatory run to 22 miles, to avoid strain), so I knew I didn’t know what those last miles would be like. Maybe the unknown is what scared me, more than a fear of failure. Not sure.

Well, we both were able to finish the race. What a thrill! The last 3 miles were extremely painful for me, however, when the tendons on the sides of my knees began throbbing and sobbing, “Overload! Overload!” Not. Fun. But, fortunately, it wasn’t so bad that I had to stop. My training had given me sufficient stamina to finish. Hurrah!

I wanted to blog about this incident because I think that we, as perfectionists, too often obsess over outcomes. I guess, if I think about it honestly, that is the definition of perfectionism: being unsatisfied with anything less than the ideal [a measurable outcome state]. When we have an ideal—a desired goal, an expectation—we measure ourselves against it. Even if we acknowledge that the ideal is something we can work toward, we feel anxiety about the uncertainty of our reaching it. Placing emphasis on the end result rather than the learning/training process can truly thwart us—as it almost did me last spring. It’s an unhealthy way to evaluate and experience life—making us ungrateful for all that is good in our lives, and overwhelmed by the pressure to be more.

This summer our family spent some time down at Fish Lake. One of the mornings, when the kids were duly occupied with either cousins or the literary Harry Potter, I found myself alone. Being in the mood for a little diversion (since Erik was home working and I had no cell reception within the campground with which to call and interrupt him to explore “life, the universe, and everything”–which is really my favorite diversion), I pulled out Yahtzee.

I like the game. Having three chances to shake the dice and strategize about the most likely scenario for earning points, I often manage my risks and do fairly well. Having no control over the dice, though, keeps the game unpredictable and interesting.

Interesting, that is, as long as I am at least occasionally graced with a great roll. For some inexplicable reason, NONE was coming that morning. I could not believe how poorly I was doing. Despite my best theories and most elaborate shaking schemes, I repeatedly missed the necessary runs or sets to earn a respectable amount of points. No upper section bonus. No large straight. No full house. Don’t even ask about a Yahtzee. I finished with a score of 131. Pathetic!

Well, that wasn’t any fun. So, hoping to get the happy endorphins rolling again (assuming, as I was, that I would of course do better this time), I quickly started a new round. I do not exaggerate when I say (and In Case You Didn’t Know, I’m quite incapable of lying–at least 99.9% of the time), that I honestly believe that I was well on my way to receiving the absolute worst score anyone has ever earned in a completed round of intending-to-winYahtzee. What the heck?!

As the nightmare was happening, I found myself trying to will the dice (in a sort of self-imposed trial of faith) to produce the numbers I was desperately needing. It didn’t work! Nothing worked! Realizing that my final score was likely to be even worse than the previous round, I started to panic. (Note: Only slightly hyperbolic language here.)

Now you non-type-A personalities may not understand why I was getting so emotionally involved in the game. It’s only a game, you may be thinking. Yeah, right! Just like it’s only a song for the American Idol aspirant who is blowing it, utterly blowing it on the final contest of the season–for some inexplicable, perverse reason for which she cannot account given that she’d prepared fully (I’m talking vocally, emotionally, mentally, wardrobally) to nail the song, wow the audience, and win the glory. While I concede it might not appear that the stakes of my Yahtzee game were anywhere near those of a final song on the final night of American Idol, I will try to explain their similarity for me.

For a perfectionist personality, expecting oneself to do well and then doing well is the name of the game. Anticipating-and-then-accomplishing provides immediate-though-temporary evidence that one is worthwhile. Perverse, isn’t it? So whether it’s a second game of Yahtzee or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on American Idol, the mental and emotional stakes are very high when a person depends on successful outcomes to validate one’s worth and importance.

It was this state of reality that led to me sobbing uncontrollably for over an hour! Not while at Fish Lake, not during this game of Yahtzee, but around the age of 15–after messing up on a self-accompanied vocal solo in a sacrament meeting featuring our stake’s youth activities committee.

I had prepared to play the song from memory but, unfortunately, I messed up and lost the flow of the memorized piece.  An awkward silence ensued as I scavenged my brain trying to come up with any feasible place where I could resume my song. (A day-old cadaver would have a hard time feeling as mortified as I did in that morgue-like silence!) Somehow or other I started again, finished the piece, and then dragged myself back to my seat in the choir—only to endure the torture of public tears during the duration of the meeting.

When my dad came to pick me up and I had the privacy of the car to keep me from public view, the small semblance of self-imposed composure I’d forced upon myself during the meeting gave way to Sobs! Heaving chest! Convulsive breaths! The Works!–for over an hour. I had completely humiliated myself–I believed–in front of not only an entire ward but, more importantly, in front of my peers on the activities committee. My externally-oriented personality judged that I was a worthless failure—and I reeled in panic and pain.

* * *

Now, Twenty-five years later, a crazy, double whammy of epic Yahtzee failures was again threatening my sense of self. With only a few turns left in that second game—minute opportunities for my Importance to reveal itself via a good score or two–I was suddenly graced by Wisdom:

“Why are you are getting emotionally involved in this game? The outcome has nothing to do with your worth.”

Moved, I paused to consider that thought. Of course it’s true, I mused. Sometimes people win, sometimes people lose, but does that mean they’re any more or less valuable because of it? No! Silly of me to have forgotten. Grateful for the reminder, I smiled and rolled the dice—curious, as an observer is curious, to see what Life was Going to Deal Me this time.

Five sixes landed face-up in the box. One single shake: a Yahtzee of sixes?!!

A shiver ran through my body. Holy Cow! This is a transcendent experience! What does it mean?!

I became (and continue to be) deliberate in my analysis. When I gave up my emotional involvement in the game, I was given the highest possible roll—like a hug from on high. But, ironically, I couldn’t use it in its ideal spot–the Yahtzee field –since I’d already zeroed that out. Was this a reminder that Scores and Success don’t determine my Soul Significance? But since the 6′s slot was still open, I experienced a “Redemption”: 30 points there to make possible my attaining the upper bonus!

All this was amazing, fascinating, otherworldly! It suggests to me that Grace comes when and where it will, and that I can Know Love regardless of my success or failure. (Or Something Along Those Lines.)  I’m very grateful for my Yahtzee lesson, but if I forget it again (as I undoubtedly will), Grace will provide!