Lori Stevic-Rust's Blog

It’s Not Political–It’s Moral

We all know that talking about politics and religion is the fastest track to sparking debate and at times conflict. However, for months I have struggled with the concept and have decided that in the end what is happening in our country is not a political issue but rather a moral issue.

We are the greatest country in the world. The land of the free and the home of the brave. We pledge allegiance to a flag that stands for “one nation under God, indivisible with liberty and justice for all.” Unless, of course the “all” refers to women who are Bimbos, Mexicans, Blacks, Hispanics, Gays, people with disabilities, and the list goes on.

It is the year 2016 and we actually have a person running for President, Our President, somebody who will be Our face, Our voice, Our leader in the world who cares about only one thing—himself.  And more frightening to me is that my fellow citizens and human beings are standing behind him, saying, “Yes, we support your bigotry, hatred and ignorance.” How did we get here?

A review of history clearly demonstrates that leaders rise to power when they are effective at doing two things. Exploiting people’s fears and increasing anxiety about all that is not going well for them and then assigning blame for their problems. Hitler was the master of this technique. He convinced human beings to systematically exterminate other human beings for a greater purpose. And he succeeded because he planted seeds of fear that it was the Jews who were to blame for their economic struggles. It was an intelligent and well-crafted message that was very successful.

“The receptivity of the masses is very limited, their intelligence is small but their power of forgetting is enormous. Consequences of these facts, all effective propaganda must be limited to a very few points and must harp on these in slogans until the last member of the public understands what you want him to understand by your slogan.” Adolf Hitler

How can we be drawn to, supportive, clap and cheer for a “leader” who is bigoted, cruel and ignorant? Is it simply that as a country we have become so sick and tired of the stale politics and corruption that exists in government and we want change? Maybe. Is it that we like the “shock value” of somebody who “tells it like it is” because we believe different will set the stage for change? Perhaps. Or maybe it is that a pathological narcissist knows how to manipulate us for their own gains.

A narcissist is somebody with a pathological sense of self-importance who tends to have a significant preoccupation with unlimited success, power and brilliance. They require excessive admiration and they view themselves as incredibly special. What is often viewed as confidence is actually a sense of entitlement and a belief that he does not have to follow the rules that others follow—they simply do not apply to him.

When it comes to others, a narcissist tends to use others to achieve his own needs and goals. They tend to lack empathy for others as the needs and concerns of others is essentially irrelevant. They are seldom able to receive any criticism or hear opinions or ideas that are contrary to his own. In the end, the ideas of others are irrelevant as he believes he knows the right way.

The danger of of pathologically narcissistic leader is their ability to identify those who are angry, biased and scared and then they strategically point them in the direction of who is to blame. The propaganda draws attention away from issues and strategies to unite and solve problems and puts the light on Fear. Fear is the seed of hate and aggression. Mr. Trump has been successful at sparking that Fear and has successfully risen to power with millions following and chanting and spreading his messages of hate. However, American can NEVER be great when hate is at the core.

In the words of my dear friend and Holocaust Survivor, Rena Finder, “It takes Moral Courage to stand up to hate and indifference to be an Upstander for all.”

I choose Moral Courage. I choose to say, ‘Mr. Trump you may represent and be followed by people who are biased, hate filled, prejudice and bigoted –but I hold tight to my faith in humanity that in the end this country we will not support Hitler propaganda.”

We are the United States of America!

I Am the American People

Politics and Religion—the two topics that we are often cautioned against discussing at the holidays, at business functions or really just about any place where we want to keep peace. We all know that these discussions are often fraught with emotional responses and beliefs that may or may not be grounded in facts or logic. And for the brave or foolish who dip their toes into the dialog, they risk offending someone and evoking feelings of anger or resentment.

I, like many of you, try to avoid discussing or writing about these topics for many of the above reasons. But for the past several weeks I have been battling the voice in the back of my head that reminds me that sitting quiet while others are bullied and humiliated is in essence being the bystander who is complicit in the message. Moral courage–the kind of courage that it takes to stand up to a bully and defend ourselves and each other is what our nation has always been about and I pray will continue to represent. This morning as I stared at the American flag that is folded in the shape of a triangle hanging in a glass case in our hallway—the one that draped my father-in-law’s casket, I found my voice. I would like to offer a few of my thoughts as a citizen of the USA.

I am a white, middle aged, middle income, mid-western, spiritual, family and sports loving psychologist. My family is filled with many brave men and women who have served our country during times of war and peace. Some lost their lives, some lost their limbs and some lost their emotional peace because they believed in the words, “One nation, under God with liberty and justice for all.”

So, when a candidate for the President of the USA stands up and says he speaks for the American people and proceeds to preach intolerance, defame women, mock those with disabilities, spew hate and bias against Asians, African-American and Muslims or quite frankly any group that will rally the angry mob, I would like to ask him to please clarify that he speaks for himself. As an American, I am proud to say that you do not represent me or my beliefs. This may simply be a fun ride for you to enjoy the power of insulting, bullying and ridiculing people while ignorant and angry fellow human beings applaud you. But I respectfully ask you to remove the American flag from behind you when you speak, so the world does not come to believe that you and your words do in fact represent the American people. I am the American people and I am proud to say that you do not represent me!

 

The Danger of Fear and Indifference

“They were educated, cultured and family loving people. They kissed their children and wives goodbye and then went to work–some engineered and built gas chambers, some worked on the railroad system that transported people to death camps and some placed human beings into the gas chambers and burned them. They looked human. They did all the things that human beings do —they prayed, they laughed and they loved and they also participated in the work of killing people. They were the soldiers who worked in the concentration camps. It was unthinkable then and unthinkable now,” she said.

Rena Finder, the youngest and last Holocaust survivor from Schindler’s list, shared these sentiments with me during an interview last year. Rena, at 10 years old, became an enemy of the state because she was Jewish. Alongside her mother, naked, bleeding and filled with terror, Rena was marched into what they were told was the gas chamber. The door was locked and the lights went out as the women screamed in horror waiting for the gas. She would die for the crime of being Jewish.

For many of us, when we hear these stories we think of a time in the past, a time in history when people were not as enlightened and easily drawn into propaganda and fearful behaviors. But are we really different today? Will future generations look at us and shake their heads and wonder how we could have been so indifferent to the needs of others and allowed our fear to drive our behavior?

A survivor of starvation, cruelty and torture, Rena continues to share her story in the hope that the world will understand the real danger—indifference. At the age of 87, Rena reflects on the beginning of a journey that ended with the extermination of millions of human beings. The journey began with messages of fear and blame. Propaganda that started subtle and gained energy and momentum as fear and anger increased. If there were not enough jobs or shelter, blame was placed on the Jews. In fact the aim of the Ministry of Public Enlightenment was to remind people of the struggle and danger of foreign enemies and Jewish subversion. These messages were shared in art, books, movies, music, the press and sources that people trusted –churches and political leaders.

The messages were repeated often and played to the fear of self-protection and superiority. Rena’s neighbors who once invited her into their home to play with their children, now closed their blinds and pretended not to see when guards pulled her out of her home and took her away. Those who lived near the camps where human ashes floated in the air denied that they knew anything about what was happening. Fear led to indifference which led to the worst crime of all—the separation of us and them.

“Before my father was killed he held me and whispered in my ear that the war would not last —the world would learn about what was happening and would save us,” Rena shared. It was the voice of her father that kept Rena’s spirit alive through the starvation, the torture, the daily humiliation and the vision and smell of death that floating over her head. “I would close my eyes and in my mind, move myself from the concrete bed of the barracks and into his arms,” she said. It was his voice and message of holding on to hope and putting faith in humanity that kept her spirit alive from one moment to the next. “My father believed the world would save us,” she said.

Throughout history, there are stories of many individuals who risked their own lives to save a life. Many countries, but not all, opened up their borders and gave fellow human beings a chance to live. Our history books are filled with stories of many morally courageous people who stepped into their humanity and made a difference. The danger of fear and hate is that it robs us of our very humanness. When we turn our back to others and look only inward, we may save our lives but lose our soul in the process.

I am afraid. I am afraid of terrorists. I am afraid of living in a world filled with violence. But mostly I am afraid of allowing my fear to turn me away from knowing the needs of others. I don’t want to be politically led by those who preach anger for their own ego and power. I don’t want to be guided by religious doctrine that says love thy neighbor—but only if they look, think, love and behave as you.

Fear is the seed of hate. It gives us permission to close our eyes and pretend not to see what is in front of us. But moral courage, gives us clarity and true power. Today, I fought for my courage. I put my youngest daughter on an international flight and through the tears and anxiety, reminded myself of the importance of living our lives and not becoming paralyzed by the trap of fear. In similar fashion, I will continue to battle through anxiety and fear to help save the lives of others including refugees who are fleeing from danger in an attempt to save their lives and the lives of their family. I am not naïve to the danger of our world and the complexity of the solution. But living at the expense of others is only about existing not truly living.

One day as Rena stood in line in the bitter cold weather, starving and waiting for death in Auschwitz, she found her moral courage. When a guard slapped the young girl standing next to her for talking, Rena recalls feeling a moment of clarity. “I spoke up and said to the guard —but she didn’t say anything,” Rena cried. She knew the punishment would be severe but at her young age she also understood that just living was not enough—she wanted to survive. “They could take my sanity and my life but I wouldn’t let them take my soul. I would not stand by and do nothing,” Rena said.

What Happened to Professional Football?

I love football. Everything about the game is exciting to me. I grew up in a household where Sunday was about church and football—and certainly as a lifelong Cleveland Browns fan that partnership made sense. The meatballs would be cooking on the stove and by the 1:00 kick off we were all positioned on the couch with our Sunday meal on snack tables and it would begin.

As I got older, I only dated guys who liked football and would be willing to sit all day on a Sunday and watch the games with me. I hit the lottery when I found my husband who turned out to be even more passionate about the sport. He played in high school and college and knew more about the game than anyone I had ever know. So, of course, I married him. It was not unheard of that throughout our 30 years together that most Sundays you would find us on the couch watching all three consecutive games. It was Sunday. It was game day.

Over the years, I have become a bit disenchanted with the NFL as a business. I, like many fans, have felt irritated with the childish antics on the field by grown men and the hero status that our athletes have been afforded. But still I would continue to watch and enjoy the sport I love. But in the last year, we have witnessed violent and vile acts committed by our athletes in their personal lives. These acts in their own right should be intolerable but worse is the seemingly covert sanctioning because they are our heroes. After all, we need them on the field. We need to win.

The NFL is a billion dollar business but somehow can’t seem to figure out how to run the business. They employee only part- time referees, there is seemingly rules identified for the business but no strategic plan in place on how to enforce those rules. What we as fans are left with is a business that is corrupt and sport that has lost the essence of integrity.

It appears that the old adage of “may the best team win” has been replaced with “may the team with the most money and the most unethical leadership win”. Perhaps the most efficient business strategy would be to simply buy the ring and not even bother putting the players on the field.

It saddens me to say that the NFL has lost a fan. As I sit down to enjoy my Sunday meatballs in front of the TV, I will be looking for something else to watch.

Life Lessons from the Velveteen Rabbit

 

In just a few short weeks, I, like many of you, will be joining the elite group known as the “empty nesters”. This colorful and descriptive term was originally coined in the 1970s. It actually refers to a syndrome of symptoms including depression, sadness, and loss of identity associated with the last child leaving home—hence the nest being empty.

Traditionally, mothers have been the focus of this syndrome. This stands to reason as historically a mother’s role was defined as the creator of the nurturing home (the nest) and much of a woman’s identity was tied to the caregiver role. It is of no surprise then that when there is nobody left to nurture and care for, that a woman would have to begin the painful process of creating a new identity and purpose for herself.

However, current research clearly demonstrates that while both men and women can experience sadness and loss over sending the last child off to college or out into the world, it can also be a time of reinvention. In fact, a 2008 study revealed that because many women today have fulfilling careers and identities outside of the home that symptoms of the empty nest are significantly less. Also, the advancement in technology and the ability to digitally stay connected has made the transition easier. Subsequently, many couples actually reported a higher rate of marital satisfaction and stronger relationships with their children after they were out of the house (Parker, 2008).

Many articles have been written on how to cope with becoming an empty nester. In summary, they focus on the following:

• Discover your own passions and cultivate them. With more time on your hands, rediscover what you enjoy. Learning new skills is an important component to creating purpose.

• Focus and nurture your relationships (marriage and friendships). Make time to establish new routines including lunches, romantic dinners and spontaneous trips.

• Let children take the lead on communication. Hovering or attempts to parent from a distance can only serve to undermine their confidence in themselves and often will create a wedge in the relationship. Remember they will make mistakes and experience failures but don’t cheat them out of them by trying to fix and rescue. Coping with failures is critical to the development of life long skills.

All of these strategies seem practical and useful, but I would also add that this should be a time of reflection. After all, the emptying of a nest demarcates the end of active parenting.

As with most transitional points in life, it is a time often filled with a myriad of feelings. Of course, there is the exciting prospects of having sex wherever and whenever you want and no more waiting up with worry until the car lights pull into the driveway. There is the reduced responsibilities of cooking and cleaning, and the list goes on. But it is also a time of reflection on the ending of a phase of life— active parenting. While my 102 year old grandmother reminds me that we are parents for life, the active part of parenting changes when we become empty nesters.

For all of you who are sending that last child off into the world, let me offer a few thoughts to think about this transition in a slightly different way.

First, if we stay with the image of emptying the nest, we need to turn the clock back and examine the creation of the nest. After all, this is the beginning of the life long journey of parenthood. Our job has been to create a safe haven for our children. A place where they felt secure, loved and nurtured. Unfortunately, the creation of that nest does not come with a manual that guides us through the process and the journey can feel long and tedious. Parts of the journey seemed intuitive, some lessons we learned through trial and error but most of it was a process filled with patience, commitment and unwavering love.

If we are successful, our children leave the nest prepared to face the world and all that it offers. Throughout this journey of parenthood, our goal is to develop and train our children to become independent and to no longer need us in the way that they once did. It is the double edge sword of parenting. We want them to be independent and self-sufficient as long as they still need us, ask permission and follow our guidance. It is no wonder that this phase of life creates such anxiety for both parents and children.

As I started to think about the ending of the active phase of parenting, words from the book, The Velveteen Rabbit rang through my head. I pondered the words and thought perhaps the years in between creating and emptying our nest, is actually our transition as parents into becoming Real.

“What is Real?”’ Real isn’t how you are made. It’s a thing that happens to you when a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, you become Real.”

“Does it hurt? Sometimes, but when you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

“Once you are Real you can’t become unreal again —It lasts for always. “

My answer now to people when they ask how it feels to become an empty nester. I tell them that I feel like I have completed the most important phase of my life. I tell them that I loved until it hurt, that I knew I couldn’t break because somebody needed me to be strong. I tell them that becoming an empty nester has made me Real.

A New Twist on a Birthday Celebration

My grandmother is ten days away from celebrating her 102nd birthday. For her 100th birthday she threw out the first pitch at a major league baseball game. Last year she spent her 101st birthday with a celebrity chef exchanging recipes and sharing stories about life in the restaurant business.

This year when asked how she would like to celebrate, she paused for a few minutes and then smiled. For the next several hours we talked about her life. She reminisced about the things in life that gave her joy, the sources of pain and ultimately the things that made her life worth living and worth remembering.

“I now realize that my life has had a purpose. I was here for a reason. What a gift to realize that now before I am gone. I have lived my life trying every day to be compassionate to others—but being compassionate is a conscious act.  Compassion is not something that happens when we are busy, self-involved or too tired to notice the needs of others. We have to look around and see what others need and then care enough to do something about it. When I am gone, I want people to remember me as a compassionate person—somebody who took the time to notice the needs of others and then care enough to do even the little things. That will be the nicest way to celebrate my life.”

She went on to remind me that this birthday could be her last (which she says every year and then laughs and says one of these times I’m going to be right) and then added I want to make it a good one. I want to celebrate by encouraging others to engage in the things that matter.

My grandmother has lived 37,220 days and her wish for her 37,230 day is that she can encourage others to live their compassion #consciouscompassion. Live life will full awareness of others and show your compassion.

In honor of her upcoming 102nd birthday, grandma is issuing the 10 day Conscious Compassion challenge. Each day she will offer a compassion challenge. Please follow the link below and share your stories of how you met the challenge.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Dr-Lori-Stevic-Rust/460331347319503

 

Raising a Woman

The room is cheery with bright sunshine coming through the windows. There are colorful pictures on the wall and a circle of carpet squares on the floor. I feel the grip of the little hand in mine tighten as we walk through the door.

Her little face looks up at me as she gives the teacher a tentative smile. Slowly, I pull my hand away from hers and release her grip. I know I have to let go and give her the confidence to enter that room.  She follows the teacher to her seat but her eyes never leave mine. She searches my face for signs that she is safe and that she will be ok. I feel the knot tightening in my stomach as I struggle to keep the smile firmly planted on my face. I give a wave and quickly turn away just in time for the tear to fall. It was the first day of school for my baby.

Maybe because she was my youngest, maybe because she seemed more nervous than my other child or maybe because I had experience as a mom. I was now painfully aware that although it was only the first day of preschool, the clock was activated. Time would now begin to move quickly—with or without my permission.

I was right. As if looking at a trailer to a movie, I see images of my tiny, petite, blond little girl playing house with her first preschool friend.  She taught him to vacuum, dust and cook on the little plastic kitchen set in the corner of the classroom. This became their daily routine. (Today, he is a six foot tall 18 year old young man who I believe has plans to start his own cleaning business).

There are images of her holding her ground each morning and insisting that she wear that little red dress again for the fourth time that week. Conversations in the kitchen as a packed her lunch filled with only plain bread and certain snacks. She would scoop up the lunch bag, flash me a big smile and ask, “Did you put my note in the bag.” Of course there was the note.  There was always a note with a variation on the same theme —some messages were silly with stick figures drawn, some were more love notes but always signed with a symbol of a heart and the word “mommy”. Now, I admit that although the frequency of the notes changed over the years, I am not beyond sticking an occasional note in the backpack of my senior in high school. I simply act is if I don’t notice the eye roll. Because what she has never really understood is that the notes, while cherished and important to her, they were also for me. I needed her to know that I was thinking of her.

As I looked out the window, watching my grown daughter run to the mailbox with great anxiety, looking for the much anticipated letter from her number one college, I felt that familiar knot. I held my breath with full awareness of the intuitive need and desire of a mother to protect our children from pain and disappointment. Through the snow covered branches of the tree near the house, I saw the big orange envelope emerge from the mailbox. She let out a big yell and began to run back to the house and into the kitchen carrying the orange package. I knew this image would become part of so many others in my mind, not even the passage of time would erase it.

 Standing in the kitchen watching her cry I flashed back to another image. It is the image of little girl winning the spelling bee, taking first place in the geography contest, receiving an award in a writing contest in middle school, excelling in her honor and AP classes but always with a bit of anxiety and self-doubt.

Watching her standing there holding her acceptance letter with tears streaming down her face, I saw the little girl in the back seat of the car “pretending to be sleeping” as I drove through the drop off lane to the entrance of the school. I knew she struggled with a mixture of loving school and anxiety with separating along with a subtle fear of the unknown. Sometimes I would bribe her to get out of the car, sometimes yell and sometimes physically carry her into the building. But each time I would drive out of the parking lot, brush away a tear and remind myself that she would be fine.

Time. Today, the scene in my kitchen is different. While still my beautiful, petite blond little girl, the exchange between us is different but yet still familiar.  This time, as we both stand in the kitchen crying and hugging, it is me that has to look up at her. Our eyes meet and I find myself scanning her face for signs that she will be ok or maybe more accurately that I will be ok. She smiles at me. With far more tears running down my face than I had ever expected, it is she who breaks the hug first and gently pulls her hand out of mine this time.  She smiles again and scoops up her phone to begin to share the news. She dials the phone to call her dad, her grandparents, her sister… She is smiling, crying, nervous, laughing and happy. I moved away from the counter to give her some privacy and I watched her from a distance. In that moment, I realized the letting go process had begun. I have raised a woman.

 

Valentine’s Day: Redefining Romance

Now I get it!!! I finally understand why Valentine’s Day has never felt like a romantic event to me but rather a symbol of compassion, love and family. Without even realizing it, my sentiment has its roots in the history of why we celebrate Valentine’s Day in the first place.

Historically, the celebration of Valentine’s Day began with St. Valentine, who was a Roman priest. He was tortured and imprisoned after being caught secretly performing marriage ceremonies for young soldiers. Apparently, soldiers were forbidden to marry because it was believed that single soldiers made better fighters as they had nothing to lose. The married soldiers on the other hand, tended to be more cautious in battle for fear of what would happen to their wives and children, if they were to die. They had a sense of commitment, compassion and concern for their family. The celebration of Valentine’s Day began with a belief in the importance of relationships and family.

When I reflect on Valentine’s Day, memories from childhood flood me. I remember going to the drugstore with my mother to select the box of colorful and cool valentine cards to share with friends. I would rush home and gentle lay them out on the carpet for examination. I would select the right message for certain friends and then careful choose the one that I would give to a special boy in the class. They would each be signed and candy taped to the envelopes. The cards would then be placed in a brown lunch bag and put into my back pack for delivery at school. You remember the drill. The excitement of the valentine party, the cookies, the sharing and receiving of fun cards from friends.

Then, upon arriving home from school, I would wait with great anticipation for a special dinner and my father to come home from work. I knew he would enter the house with a whistle announcing his arrival and his hands would be behind his back. As he made his way to the kitchen, he would gently place a red heart shaped candy filled box for each of us three girls and a big box for my mother on the counter. This would be followed by a special dinner and Valentine’s Day dessert.

It is not surprising to me when I am asked what I am doing for Valentine’s Day or what gifts my husband and me will share with each other, I am somewhat at a lost. It occurs to me that Valentine’s Day in my marriage has been about many of the same things as it was when I grew up—family. My husband will buy the girls flowers and candy today as he has every day since they were little girls and we will take time to reflect on each other. Ok, so maybe that is romantic. But not romantic in the typical flowers and candy way (although I do love the dark chocolate). Rather, romantic in the truest spirit of what makes a man attractive and desirable. For me, the top three most romantic and loving things about a man include:

A strong guy. Yes, like most of you women I do love the appearance and feel of solid muscles.  But the bigger turn on, is a man who has a strength about him because he is kind and gentle at his core. A man who on Valentine’s Day remembers his children, his friends and the widowed woman at work with candy and treats to let them know that they are important. A man who can wish the servers in the restaurant a happy Valentine’s Day.
2.       A man who can cook or at least try. Come on ladies you know that when a guy throws a towel over his shoulder and begins to chop something in the kitchen—he turns into a hot, sexy man. In our house, my husband really doesn’t know how to cook but he certainly can wear that towel on his shoulder well.
A great listener. Research has been very clear that there are certain regions of the brain that are rich in dopamine (the feel good hormone) that light up when we feel connected and engaged to others. Listening, really listening is the truest form of respect. The most romantic and loving thing about a man is often his ability to be fully present and engage in conversations. The man who at the end of a long work day can listen to endless stories from his children, wife or even mother-in-law.  Really guys, if you pay attention and hang on our every word, we find you more attractive and desirable. It is win-win.

So, on this Valentine’s Day, find a way to honor the memory of St. Valentine and his commitment and belief in the union of loving each other. Make it a day to celebrate the power of connection and love with your family, your friends, your partner. Express your gratitude to those who have given you the gift of love.

At the Bedside: Redefining Miracles

Her words were soft and slow in coming, as she struggled to breathe. Her body weak and frail that the effort seemed to take hours. But when the words finally came, they hit me with a force.

She said, “For months I have prayed for a miracle. I prayed that I would wake up and this cancer would be gone. That I would jump from this bed and step back into my life. A life filled with busy and full days of rushing to my daughter’s softball games, yelling at my boys to clean their rooms and balancing phone calls from the office while trying to grocery shop. All the things that in the moment would have seemed stressful and annoying, but in my memory today meant a normal and healthy life. Such a contrast to the tubes, the pain and the energy that fades from me each day. Today, as I accept the ending of my journey I no longer pray for the miracle that I wanted, I accept the miracle that has been granted to me.”

I reached out and held her cool, frail hand as she took another breath and continued.

“I have had the blessing of a life filled with people who love me. I have been given the gift of parenthood and the privilege of knowing unconditional love. I leave this world now fully knowing and understanding that I was here for a reason. I had a purpose. Realizing this before I am gone has been my miracle.”

As she closed her eyes, I sat for a while thinking about her words. At first it seemed odd to me that she used the word miracle as she did. When I think of the word miracle I focus on the traditional meanings and connotations. That is, a miracle as a powerful outcome that defies logic and the powers of nature or human kind as if guided by a spiritual power. An event that is statistically unlikely and for which there is no logical or human explanation.

As I left the hospital, I took a deep breath of the cold air that hit my face and I thought about the many faces of those that I have sat bedside with through their dying process. Some struggled with the fear of dying and held onto anger and resentment that this had happened to them. Some clung to the hope of a miracle, a cure, and asked for every medical intervention to facilitate the cure while others resigned themselves and accepted the ending of their life– some in defeat and some with peace.

This 42 year old woman who was only days away from taking her last breath was gifted with the awareness of her value and her worth. Her miracle was the realization that life, her life, had purpose and meaning. A reality that she did not recognize when she was running through her hectic days but became clear to her as she laid in her hospital bed.

Her miracle was a mindful focus on the moments and events that mattered. A powerful reminder that despite our best efforts to control and manage our life’s path, much of it is not in our control. What we do control is the moments that exist in the present. These are the moments that sustain us and often the ones that are reviewed at the bedside.

My New Year’s wish for all of us is that we mindfully and consciously live in our moments. Perhaps we need to pay attention to how much energy we expend on anger and frustration at the traffic, the annoying boss and our financial struggles. How many times we hear ourselves saying I wish it was Friday, I wish it was summer, I wish it was retirement, etc. But what if our greatest and most cherished bedside moments will happen on a Monday morning or in the winter or during our work life. What if our purpose and the difference we will make occurs during those moments?

Just maybe we miss opportunities to see and hear people right in front of us as we bury ourselves in our electronic devices and put our energy into future activities and plans with only a casual recognition and glance of the present.

What a blessing to have our moments and the recognition of them a miracle.

Unwrap Holiday Stress

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lori-st...