tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1661680152596440112024-03-13T23:17:27.284-07:00HopeHorner.comOfficial Blog of Writer & Musician Hope HornerHope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.comBlogger233125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-60418553313163467462024-01-13T17:45:00.000-08:002024-01-13T17:45:35.304-08:00No Surfing in Heaven?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mWnRJpTxt0_KAJNGA1ebni_eID9zpygLiCsHKWwLpdHfatacNMYMpZxcpK3SXy0be8xphCpGQDE8bIKEPHGIzIWj0YunObQXRbtngPhc7rqi-cbf_mIUkKthfpps-FP_am25Ge5ynGOtQHj3bkvZqZ-p80SaDrECaaP2MDZ8mROSVr27crMomIe2BEs/s862/Screenshot%202024-01-13%20at%205.03.34%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="862" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1mWnRJpTxt0_KAJNGA1ebni_eID9zpygLiCsHKWwLpdHfatacNMYMpZxcpK3SXy0be8xphCpGQDE8bIKEPHGIzIWj0YunObQXRbtngPhc7rqi-cbf_mIUkKthfpps-FP_am25Ge5ynGOtQHj3bkvZqZ-p80SaDrECaaP2MDZ8mROSVr27crMomIe2BEs/s320/Screenshot%202024-01-13%20at%205.03.34%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I was shook. To my core. My mouth fell open. My head jerked his direction.<div><b>"There won't be any oceans in heaven." </b></div><div>Those were the words that shook me to my core.</div><div>"What?!" I asked. My eyes wide with disbelief.</div><div>He continued. "In Revelation 21 it says, 'Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and first earth had passed away and there was no longer any sea.'"</div><div>While I was still processing this literal revelation, he added: "Yeah, the surfers won't be happy when they find that out."</div><div>I'm a native Californian. I LOVE the ocean. I live 45 minutes away from the ocean but I go to it monthly, like a pilgrim returning to the holy water. I feel like it re-centers me, calms my soul and reminds me to put life in perspective. <i>I am small. Ocean is big. God is in charge.</i> My mom tells me that when my parents would try to get me to come out of the ocean as a child, I would act like I couldn't hear them so I could stay in longer. I am not a surfer, unless you count the time I tried to surf in Hawaii and fell off my board and scratched myself up on the coral. But I was a boogie-boarder. For my thirteenth birthday I got a new boogie board and insisted my Dad take me to the beach that very same day so I could try it out. My birthday is in February.</div><div>The thought of no ocean in heaven was shocking. I stammered my disagreement.</div><div>"But wait, God created the oceans; why wouldn't they be in heaven?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, it doesn't appear there will be oceans in heaven according to Revelation, maybe rivers or lakes but not oceans...oceans were very destructive in ancient times. We're kind of romantic about them now but they meant floods and storms and shipwrecks to the people of the Bible."</div><div><br /></div><div>"True, but water in general can be destructive and even the earth with earthquakes and what about fire? All that is destructive too. Isn't that just because the world is not the way it is supposed to be after the fall? I mean wouldn't heaven have a perfect ocean - one that doesn't destroy? No storms, no tsunamis? My goodness, no ocean. What about all of God's creatures in the ocean? The dolphins and fish and..." I was trying real hard to save the whales.</div><div><br /></div><div>He continued: "Hard to say. There is a river in heaven based on Scripture...that has to run somewhere."</div><div> </div><div>The dogs barked at a package delivery person at the door and the conversation ended. At least out loud. The voice inside my head was still talking. What? No ocean? NO OCEAN? Do I even want to go to heaven if there is no ocean? How can this be? God created the ocean and he said it was good. Now he's just going to get rid of the entire ocean and all the creatures in it? What a waste! </div><div><br /></div><div>When I got home, I cried. Sobbed actually. No ocean! I felt like a kid who waited his whole life to go to Disneyland. Mom and Dad pack him in the car, they drive in, park and run to the front gate only to find out Disneyland is closed. FOREVER. </div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as I could pull myself together, I had two thoughts. One, GET TO THE OCEAN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE GIRL. The darn thing won't be around forever. Even to type it now it makes my eyes water.</div><div>My second thought? I am going to have to look into this theory about no sea in heaven. Does every Christian believe this? Read Revelation this way? Could this be true?</div><div><br /></div><div>Then I prayed a short prayer to God. "God please help me know if this is true and Lord, honestly I pray it isn't."</div><div><br /></div><div>The first Christian I ran across online who believed there WAS an ocean in heaven was a giant of the faith--Charles Spurgeon. The "Prince of Preachers" says something so beautiful and comforting I am going to share it verbatim here:</div><div><br /></div><div><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(42, 41, 39); color: #2a2927; font-family: "Whitney A", "Whitney B", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><i>Scarcely could we rejoice at the thought of losing the glorious old ocean: the new heavens and the new earth are none the fairer to our imagination, if, indeed, literally there is to be no great and wide sea, with its gleaming waves and shelly shores. Is not the text to be read as a metaphor, tinged with the prejudice with which the Oriental mind universally regarded the sea in the olden times? A real physical world without a sea it is mournful to imagine, it would be an iron ring without the sapphire which made it precious. There must be a spiritual meaning here. In the new dispensation, there will be no division–the sea separates nations and sunders peoples from each other. </i></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(42, 41, 39); color: #2a2927; font-family: "Whitney A", "Whitney B", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><i>To John in Patmos the deep waters were like prison walls, shutting him out from his brethren and his work: there shall be no such barriers in the world to come. Leagues of rolling billows lie between us and many a kinsman whom tonight we prayerfully remember, but in the bright world to which we go there shall be unbroken fellowship for all the redeemed family. In this sense, there shall be no more sea. The sea is the emblem of change; with its ebbs and flows, its glassy smoothness and its mountainous billows, its gentle murmurs and its tumultuous roarings, it is never long the same. Slave of the fickle winds and the changeful moon, its instability is proverbial. In this mortal state, we have too much of this; earth is constant only in her inconstancy, but in the heavenly state all mournful change shall be unknown and with it all fear of storm to wreck our hopes and drown our joys. The sea of glass glows with a glory unbroken by a wave. No tempest howls along the peaceful shores of paradise. Soon shall we reach that happy land where partings, and changes, and storms shall be ended! Jesus will waft us there. Are we in him or not? This is the grand question.</i></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #2a2927; font-family: Whitney A, Whitney B, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(42, 41, 39);"><i>Then I found this article: </i><a href="https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/will-heaven-have-oceans/" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Will There Be Oceans in Heaven?</a><i> </i>(Highly recommend you read this article - it's a short, profound read.)</span></span></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #2a2927; font-family: Whitney A, Whitney B, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started to feel better. Sounds like there ARE Christians who believe the verse about "no more sea" simply means no more chaos, destruction and separation of mankind - what the sea in ancient times represented. I also found it interesting to read about no more <u>saltwater</u> seas in heaven (because we don't need its purifying benefits in heaven) - wouldn't it be great to explore a fresh water ocean? You could open your eyes underwater like you're swimming in a pool! </span></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #2a2927; font-family: Whitney A, Whitney B, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And let's remember--God said his creation was good. This included oceans and all the life teeming within it. When the rainbow appeared over Noah's ark after the flood, God didn't just make a covenant with the people of the earth to never destroy them again but with the earth and its creatures. I believe that covenant includes the ones swimming and floating around in God's big beautiful oceans. And my final thought is this: If I love the ocean so much, doesn't God also love it at least as much as I do? I believe he does. Why wouldn't he include the oceans he he created in his new heaven and earth? Because it would divide us from each other? Because they are tumultuous and dangerous? Do you know how small that makes God sound? You don't think the God who created them can calm them or make it possible for us to fly over them or walk on them? I do.</span></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #2a2927; font-family: Whitney A, Whitney B, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But still, just in case, I will pray for an ocean in heaven. <span style="caret-color: rgb(42, 41, 39);">After all</span>, God wants to give us the desires of our hearts.</span></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #2a2927; font-family: Whitney A, Whitney B, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>God, don't forget the seas when you create the new heavens and the new earth. Make them new too. The ones we have now are amazing but I can't wait to see what your perfect sea is like...the one without storms, the one without pollution, the one without shark attacks and oil spills, shipwrecks and destructive waves. Instead one that is a swirl of emerald and turquoise, glassy and pure, teeming with life. One with gentle waves to cradle surfers, propel dolphins and lap heaven's shores while shimmering in your light. Amen!</i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqaA9F1lwXwzz035pDsStcADfJuhBlstsckRg6IEf2jDHqWdcXgonWnHLcb6dxLmFUpu_DkrdhZRpylycpkwC2Rw0Kh3mXBvo3vUAkj1nvsHyiQkqukO2TTkZvOwbUmtYCXRSvHFPIM3VQ6D_lyp2aCNzVRoTE4pgp47d8G19N6SxGG6AArBrXBQcoAw/s796/Screenshot%202024-01-13%20at%205.04.59%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="796" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqaA9F1lwXwzz035pDsStcADfJuhBlstsckRg6IEf2jDHqWdcXgonWnHLcb6dxLmFUpu_DkrdhZRpylycpkwC2Rw0Kh3mXBvo3vUAkj1nvsHyiQkqukO2TTkZvOwbUmtYCXRSvHFPIM3VQ6D_lyp2aCNzVRoTE4pgp47d8G19N6SxGG6AArBrXBQcoAw/s320/Screenshot%202024-01-13%20at%205.04.59%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #2a2927; font-family: "Whitney A", "Whitney B", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Hope A. Horner, copyright 2023. Contact author on X for use at Hope Note.</span></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #2a2927; font-family: "Whitney A", "Whitney B", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">#heaven #oceans #oceans #Revelation #oceansinheaven #surfers #gospel #spurgeon #faith #God #Jesus #church #believe #hope #newheaven #lifeafterdeath #newlife #creation</span></p><p style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 24px; padding: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #2a2927; font-family: Whitney A, Whitney B, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(42, 41, 39);"><br /></span></span></i></p></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: #202124; caret-color: rgb(232, 234, 237); font-family: "Google Sans", arial, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-10172792433692419182023-11-19T18:47:00.000-08:002023-11-19T18:47:57.227-08:00Sedona<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlO5zw3VaHr1hdiSDnDrmaSTbg8pJxSU0GAjqub7E2ieQQFFo-OziZRngjYq8diIrSh8w4DgM5jG15DTriMCrOO1dFWNhG4nszamFDJUaLiLnYgmXneyVipjdxl9PacYs7KIHMDRlEW2INDkg2oQIXKlapLFseMec1uvDvqHBPCIMaS2WgR_F4yWzKrY/s4032/IMG_1029.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlO5zw3VaHr1hdiSDnDrmaSTbg8pJxSU0GAjqub7E2ieQQFFo-OziZRngjYq8diIrSh8w4DgM5jG15DTriMCrOO1dFWNhG4nszamFDJUaLiLnYgmXneyVipjdxl9PacYs7KIHMDRlEW2INDkg2oQIXKlapLFseMec1uvDvqHBPCIMaS2WgR_F4yWzKrY/s320/IMG_1029.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Sedona was on my bucket list for years. I finally got there in November of 2023. It was everything and nothing like I expected.<p>I am not a fan of the desert, so I was wholly unimpressed with the dry, flat, barren area surrounding Phoenix. As I disembarked my plane and headed toward the hotel, I asked myself: "Who could live here?" "Where are the mountains?" "Is there any grass here?" Way off in the distance I noticed a jutting rugged mountain sized red rock, but that was about it. Everywhere I looked it was flat and desolate. Housing tracks and shopping centers provided the only elevation change. Luckily, it was November so it wasn't hot. The weather was pleasant as I unloaded my car and settled in for the night in Scottsdale, just down the road from the Phoenix airport.</p><p>The next day I would head to Sedona. I had done a little research and read that the Sedona sunrise was second to none so I decided to leave at 5AM to try to catch the 7AM sunrise. I threw on a sweater and headed out into the dark desert night.</p><p>Getting there was a whole adventure in itself. It started with a nearly straight shot out of town until I hit the winding highway 17 over the northern Arizona mountains. My headlights shone on nothing except the black tar road and the occasional sign that said "Stay in Lane" warning me to think twice before I veered off into the desert to do some nighttime off-roading with the coyotes and lizards. There was construction being done on the road, but no one was working this early, so cones and reflectors were my only guides around many twists and turns. The road was 2 lanes each way, and I passed no more than four or five cars for over and hour. When the road peaked at the top of the mountain, I noticed a perfect crescent moon hanging in the sky above the darkness. I could tell exactly where the sun was because it shone so brightly on one side of the moon. I found it comforting. Off in the distance beneath the moon, the perfectly straight horizon had a blue glow. The sun was headed up to greet the desert. I better hurry.</p><p>After a downhill drop of over 15 miles, I hit the endless rotaries. Round and out. Round and out...about every mile or so for what seems like 10 miles. Then I started down another highway until a road sign popped up to tell me that Sedona was only a few miles away. I grew excited, peering down the road for any sign of the town I had longed to see for so many years. The sun slipped up higher on the horizon making it light enough to see without headlights.</p><p>And then there it was.</p><p>In all it's red rock glory.</p><p>Sedona.</p><p>This was Arizona? Where did all these colorful mountains come from? The mountains were large and looming and had layered rock striations - black, cream, brown --with their tops almost always red. Some shot up like spires, others looked like they had been shaped with human hands, like lumps of clay. And trees! Big beautiful trees in all shapes and sizes showed off their yellow and orange fall leaves over green lawns and old west style buildings. Large saguaros popped up on rocky cliffs and along roadsides, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups. As I drove through town, I noticed some mountains were lighting up with the sunrise while others were still in the early morning shadows. I drove to the first trail head I could find and hopped out. </p><p>Wow! Was it cold!</p><p>Quite a temperature drop from Scottsdale. I discovered later I had climbed over 4,000 feet in elevation. That explained the cold crisp air that bit my nose and fingertips. I had only a sweater to cover me, but it didn't matter. I was here. I walked down the dusty red trail and looked up at the jagged rocky mountains. The colors were starting to become more vibrant as the shadows faded. I heard a whooshing sound out in the distance. What was that? Over a hedge of trees in front of me, a giant hot air balloon began to rise, like a carnival moon. It had yellow, red and orange stripes and the whooshing sound was the hot air being released into the balloon. I stood in awe as it lifted less than 50 yards in front of me, the orange flame appearing and disappearing above the basket as the balloon rose above the tree tops and drifted away. I heard the muffled sound of happy tourists chirping like birds in their rising nest. What a view they must have, I thought.</p><p>I popped out of that trail and drove a half mile down the road to another trail that looked like it would have a great view of the red rock mountains. As I headed up the hill, I could see the hot air balloons off in the distance. They seemed to be stationary in the air, hanging in place, in the shimmering light blue morning sky. After a few hundred feet the path dropped back down and became very rocky. As I descended, my shoes covered in red dust, I thought: "My dog Cali would have loved this!" and my eyes welled up with tears. Cali had passed away just a few months before this trip. Losing her was like a heavy backpack I carried with me everywhere. I could see her happy face as she walked the trail with me--long pink tongue out, floppy ears dancing as she looked back at me with a wide eyes and an even wider frothy smile. I could hear her collar tags jingle, hear her panting. I could feel her pulling on the leash. The memory was so vivid, I started sobbing. But I didn't stop walking; I kept going, letting the tears fall, wiping them away with my sleeve, and taking deep breaths. Her presence was so strong there; I can't explain it. </p><p>I grabbed a big breakfast of sweet potato pancakes at Jose Cafe and headed for uptown Sedona in the morning sun. A "Monster Sale" sign caught my eye and I followed it to a house that was tucked away in an older, but very well manicured neighborhood. It was Saturday and there were only a few people there, not the usual madness I am used to at California yard sales. Sedona has only about 10,000 people so there isn't as much competition. This was a house sale, not a yard sale. Each room was full of vintage maps, blankets, dolls, doilies, glassware, sheet music, books and costume jewelry. Prices were circa 1970 and the senior ladies running the sale were well organized, polite and cheerful. They were dressed up for the occasion in colorful blouses and pressed slacks. Hair pins held their gray hair back in strands and their wrists were covered in metal bracelets. They said they were cleaning house because "They had too much stuff." "Time flies!" they said. "Jim used to love these old maps." "I remember reading Swiss Family Robinson as a child." The nostalgic chatter continued. I got a small bag full of CDs and antique books for $1. I hoped I could fit it in my backpack and get it all home.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUc8GqdRHKzMYmNHp9uTSrKqx3NE9nRGoXwY5fcGHgjRnDUTxRLXQd60In1Hza1btqBEjR9deQo_XcOVapMKhuvUaQhX-NOHvvtmTXMg0N8UbU3-dq5rU8TMBXEz0a0xkdaPtSvwLSzENm102sihFOqWWq2nFvvuMVHAXRqtLe6bFA2BdStDqkfBdMoc/s4032/IMG_1055.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUc8GqdRHKzMYmNHp9uTSrKqx3NE9nRGoXwY5fcGHgjRnDUTxRLXQd60In1Hza1btqBEjR9deQo_XcOVapMKhuvUaQhX-NOHvvtmTXMg0N8UbU3-dq5rU8TMBXEz0a0xkdaPtSvwLSzENm102sihFOqWWq2nFvvuMVHAXRqtLe6bFA2BdStDqkfBdMoc/w150-h200/IMG_1055.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div>A short walk from the house was a small history museum highlighting local Sedona founders and their contributions to ranching, the movie industry and chuck wagon slop. The Daughters of the American Revolution were there to help honor veterans with music and sandwiches. Four large American flags, staked in the ground, blew in the wind next to an old telegram office. I walked through the museum and signed the guest book. Then I got in the car and headed to Chapel of the Holy Cross. This large Catholic church appears to be cut out of the red rock mountains and is perched way up high, so high you have to either walk or drive a long steep road that winds to it. Luckily, I caught a golf-cart style shuttle which took me to the top. The church was very busy. People were taking pictures of the surrounding scenery including the "Mother and Child" rock and other amazing desert formations surrounding the chapel. Inside the church it was smoky from all the lit candles and incense. People were quiet as Jesus hung over us on a large cross that leaned out from the front of the church. Behind him were giant rectangular windows that looked out on to the bright blue sky. People sat in the wooden pews and prayed. Mass was still held here and I thought of the people who had to walk up and down the hill every Sunday. Better wear comfortable shoes! I took a shuttle down and headed for another part of Sedona, called Tlaquepaque. T-Paq is a shopping center full of locally made art, jewelry and sculptures. The Spanish architecture makes the place feel like it is from another country--maybe Spain or Portugal? I loved the rust colored plaster archways beckoning me into the plaza, draping green ivy plants overhead, and the variety of gray stones that formed fountains, walls and walkways. You had to watch your step and head everywhere you went. The velvet ash trees gave plenty of shade; their bright yellow leaves shimmering in the afternoon sun. I didn't buy anything, but enjoyed walking around this Spanish stye paradise.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95ChII-Og9I_lfA1LxFZaGW4eya8p9tgGYLtNkMF_3XKIsjfyHxhB5Oc7y5tT87yHL1-1gD1tMa00Vi8162RaPCBWE8W5kZEnISfmDA87uEH6HC0O6h39bqpgRHm5H9cTiSibBigjDfxhdAdV-2bTgv9QSd_68ABTmH4VBTq__Z7X6h6CNixz3xO5pRU/s4032/IMG_1083.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95ChII-Og9I_lfA1LxFZaGW4eya8p9tgGYLtNkMF_3XKIsjfyHxhB5Oc7y5tT87yHL1-1gD1tMa00Vi8162RaPCBWE8W5kZEnISfmDA87uEH6HC0O6h39bqpgRHm5H9cTiSibBigjDfxhdAdV-2bTgv9QSd_68ABTmH4VBTq__Z7X6h6CNixz3xO5pRU/w150-h200/IMG_1083.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">While I wanted to see the sunset in Sedona, I did not want to drive back in the dark. The twists and turns around flashy construction signs had been enough excitement this morning. Plus, I had an early flight to catch the next morning to head home. So after stopping to walk on one more red dust trail that featured pocket gophers and a winding crystal clear creek, I headed back to Scottsdale. It takes about two and a half hours to make the journey and I was glad I still had plenty of sunlight and would not have to depend on the light of the moon and the tiny high beams of my rental car. </span></p><p>About an hour into the drive on highway 17, traffic stopped quickly in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and wondered what was going on. On google maps there was no sign of traffic. Something must have just happened. Cars began to move forward slowly and then pull over to the left lane. After we crawled forward a few hundred feet, I noticed debris in the right lane next to me and in the dirt alongside the road. Pieces of plastic maybe? I heard a siren coming up behind me and saw flashing lights in the rear view mirror. As my eyes returned to the car in front of me slowly rolling forward, I saw the handlebars of a motorcycle lying in the roadway to my right. Then, a broken helmet. Chrome and metal pieces I could not identify were scattered around. A few cars were parked off the roadway. Standing on a dirt berm near the side of the road were two women. One woman reached out to hug the other woman as they looked down into the canyon. A man a few yards away from them was frantically gesturing, waving his arms at the cop. <i>Come here! Over here!</i> Another man behind him was pointing down into the canyon. The cop pulled up, jumped out of his car and ran down the hill out of sight as the man continued to point. The women hung on to each other tightly, not able to look.</p><p>Oh no. I said. Someone just died here.<br /></p><p>I knew by what I had seen on the road and on the faces of those at the scene that it was very, very bad. Frantic horror is the best way I can describe the contortion of their faces. I began to cry and pray. "Help this person survive God and if they can't survive, please help their family."</p><p>It took me almost a half hour to stop the tears as I continued to wind down the desert mountain road toward Scottsdale. The farther I got from Sedona, the more the earth seemed to flatten out, get dryer, more barren and harsh. The autumn colored ash and juniper trees were replaced with prickly, scarred saguaros and rolling tumbleweeds. Red dust turned gray. A reminder that we will all face the barren darkness. No one escapes. Like a desert moon though, we will rise again.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs9Du_uyA7CI9lXy1J6nDOiS_7_lXfHHZuECAUd2t8BXXJkxV_3U417XDVPRVY6wS9Tcq59Yk3Qj6SlHvYX4BrmgH8YKYq1Xu519YxmppiVvfZcyrKtSIB66UCRfQzutqtJjQ6IuZHGKyo1Bkcnbip_6Uhz9zDAvden8VSUJV8C8aYJ_0mQXn7MUk8Qy4/s574/Screenshot%202023-11-13%20at%205.44.04%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="424" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs9Du_uyA7CI9lXy1J6nDOiS_7_lXfHHZuECAUd2t8BXXJkxV_3U417XDVPRVY6wS9Tcq59Yk3Qj6SlHvYX4BrmgH8YKYq1Xu519YxmppiVvfZcyrKtSIB66UCRfQzutqtJjQ6IuZHGKyo1Bkcnbip_6Uhz9zDAvden8VSUJV8C8aYJ_0mQXn7MUk8Qy4/w148-h200/Screenshot%202023-11-13%20at%205.44.04%20PM.png" width="148" /></a></div><p>-Hope A. Horner, Copyright 2023</p><p>To use, report or print article contact author on Twitter (X) @HopeNote.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-32546319812877922132023-07-18T20:18:00.004-07:002023-11-19T18:49:21.924-08:00$25 Bundle of Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9WABoZM5QTHyN_f8tgIq_FufVxsh3W7ddQTqMB_-l_FlWqM6HyLVmXrRuTDLBMGGDBoXGvot2UfHSGyrsYYw1j41tkvJX48BTFiCGUnyAeVGk2lPvK-tWlqClinjxnl0jMm_8KT-gkQ3tYzIRkz7up7_6pq1XYhjJS-1mrievnFjx8sD3sh_CpYW8HWU/s2856/IMG_2884.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2142" data-original-width="2856" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9WABoZM5QTHyN_f8tgIq_FufVxsh3W7ddQTqMB_-l_FlWqM6HyLVmXrRuTDLBMGGDBoXGvot2UfHSGyrsYYw1j41tkvJX48BTFiCGUnyAeVGk2lPvK-tWlqClinjxnl0jMm_8KT-gkQ3tYzIRkz7up7_6pq1XYhjJS-1mrievnFjx8sD3sh_CpYW8HWU/w246-h185/IMG_2884.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br />I always wanted a Whippet. They're hard to come by in America, but in Europe they are like Golden Retrievers. You see them everywhere.When I stopped by the West Valley Animal Shelter in December of 2013, I hardly expected to find one. As I stepped into the large main lobby, an employee greeted me and asked if there was a specific dog I was looking for. I told him. He said: "Oh, you mean like this one?" And beckoned me to follow him down the long hallway. My heart beat sped up. They actually have a whippet? The shelter was typically full of Pitbulls, Huskies, German Shepherds and Chihuahuas. What was I about to see?<p></p><p>We walked into the long kennel where they kept the dogs. It was cold, dark and noisy. Dogs barked and howled. Metal bowls clanged. I followed him to one of the last cages on the left side. As I walked up to look into the cage, I was greeted by a leaping, licking, happy, little "Whippet." As I stuck my fingers through the cage, I looked at her card. It said "stray" and "Whippet" and that she had a week to go in the shelter before she could be adopted. The man explained she had been running the streets of the west valley when she was caught by the dog catcher. I thought to myself, "And no one has came looking for her?" She was frantically licking my fingers as I leaned down to look through the metal bars and into her eyes.</p><p>It was love at first sight.</p><p>She had dark brown olive eyes to match her dark brown seal-smooth coat. A white stripe divided her dark chocolate face and ran all the way to her belly, spotted along the way with dark brown freckles in various shapes and sizes. She had the cutest upright--but floppy at the tips--ears. She had the slender build of a whippet with the slightly arched back and thin legs but she also had a barrel chest - not a large barrel like a dog that would rescue you in the snow, but one that meant business. She was muscular but trim, probably from running in the streets and jumping up and down, which she continued to do. I tickled her forehead between the bars. I HAD to have her. </p><p>"So I can come back Saturday for her?" I asked the man still standing behind me.</p><p>"Yea, she'll be up for adoption first thing in the morning. I do expect there to be an auction for her though. We hardly ever get dogs like this, so get here early. If no one else shows up and wants her then there won't be a bidding war and she's yours. You know what..." His voice trailed off as he motioned once again for me to follow him. He led me back to the main office where he printed out Cali's intake card and handed it to me. </p><p>"Here," he said. "Bring this in and take it straight to the first employee you see when you come in on Saturday and say you want this dog. They'll go get her. Once you pay, she's yours." I thanked him numerous times and promised I'd be back on Saturday.</p><p>On Saturday morning, I showed up a half hour before the shelter opened. It was raining and miserable and my nervous anticipation was making me nauseous. Every car that pulled up I thought: "Are you going to be bidding on the dog I want? Are you? Are you?" I started to try to figure out how much I would be willing to bid for her. 150? 200? No you would hate to lose her for that...$300, $500? I settled at somewhere around $400 and tried to stay calm.</p><p>The front doors opened at 8 and I jumped out of my car. I went inside with several other folks who were also hustling toward the kennels and the front desk. I saw an employee standing between the lobby and the kennels. Like a kid on a pool deck, I speed walked over to him, handed him the shelter card and said I wanted to adopt this dog. He said he would go get her and that I could stand in line at the front desk to pay for her. I got in the line. I listened carefully to the few people in front of me wondering if they were interested in the same dog I was. Would there be an auction? A few minutes later, the employee came back with the dog on a leash and handed me her official kennel card. She was all hops, wiggles and kisses. She took short prance-y, happy steps as he took her behind the counter and out of site. I was on egg shells waiting to pay for her. I finally made it to the front counter and handed the lady the kennel card.</p><p>"Driver's license please?" she said. I handed it to her. What else do you need? I thought to myself. Birth certificate? AAA card? Proof of home ownership? I got it.</p><p>"That will be $25." She said. </p><p>$25? That's it?! Turns out it was a December special they were running. Adopt any shelter dog for $25 which included spaying and neutering.</p><p>I handed her my credit card and she processed the transaction.</p><p>The Whippet was mine!</p><p>She told me that the dog would need to be spayed and that I could pick her up later that day. She gave me the address to the pet hospital where the dog would be having surgery, just a few miles away. As I stood waiting for her to process everything I had just signed, I tried to think of what I was going to name my new pooch.</p><p>It came to me in an instant. I'll name my favorite dog after my favorite state.</p><p>Cali.</p><p>Somehow, I just knew she would be my favorite dog of all time. Turned out I was right.</p><p>I took Cali home later that afternoon. She was tender from surgery but still full of kisses and energy. She was 10 months old. Her tongue was too big for her mouth and her right eye was slightly smaller and not quite in alignment with the other--It was the only thing lazy about her. She had three white "sock" paws. Clearly, she had lost one sock while running the streets of the valley.</p><p>After she got her strength, I proudly took her to the dog park in her purple sparkle collar and purple harness. Someone was coming out of the park as I was going in and asked me "What kind of dog is that?" "Whippet" I said. "At least I think so. She's a puppy." He didn't say anything. Just looked at her a bit confused. Maybe he didn't know what a whippet was.</p><p>Once inside Cali challenged every dog to a race. Big dogs, little dogs, dogs that didn't want to race. Some gave chase and she left most of them in the dust. She wasn't just fast, she could turn on a dime. People would stop and make comments about her speed and agility and say she must be some kind of a greyhound breed. I told them her kennel card said she was a whippet. They would just nod. I was thrilled to have her, but curious if she would grow a bit more; if her back would arch a bit more; like a Whippet, but no matter what, I would love her, however she turned out.</p><p>Awhile later, I posted pictures of her on Facebook and asked people to tell me what kind of dog they thought she was. I kept getting the same responses: "I see Staffordshire Terrier" "I see staffie plus maybe a greyhound breed of some type in there?' "Pocket Pittie?" Turns out they were right. I had her DNA analyzed through one of the doggie test kits and sure enough she was NOT a whippet.</p><p>She was 50% Italian Greyhound, 25% Pitbull (Staffordshire Terrier) and 25% Jack Russell.</p><p>Or in short, she was a Jack Pit Russel. Or an Italian Jack Pit. Or a Italian Bull Russell.</p><p>She wasn't a Whippet. She was a "Jippit." I didn't care. </p><p>She was the best dog I had ever had. Pure joy on a leash. Pure bliss off. My constant companion. A well-behaved eye-catcher with a heart of gold. She was friendly to other dogs, loved everyone and easy to train. She learned sit, come, and stay in ten minutes. She walked perfectly on a leash without classes. She was fun and energetic. She wasn't destructive and rarely peed in the house. She slept in her crate that first night at home without a peep. She was a love bug, with endless kisses and leg hugs to give even to strangers who stepped into her radius, especially if they were wearing black pants. She'd roll over so you could rub her freckled belly. She had a face that could melt butter and looked good in every picture. I called her "Sears photo puppy" for that reason. She was my "bestie."</p><p>I took her on early morning runs with me-- in fact, there was a time this dog ran 3-5 miles a day with me 4-5 days a week. She didn't stop to sniff when we were running, just trotted alongside me like she knew the drill. Many times I had to pick her up and carry her as coyotes would cross our paths or chase us as the sun was coming up on the horizon. I've run over a half mile with her in my arms until I felt it was safe enough to put her down. She'd take care of me during the morning runs, too. The one time I heard her bark on our run was when a stranger stepped out from behind a bush into our path and she thought she had to protect me. Her bark was strangely aggressive. I didn't know she had it in her. I used to say: "You protect me from the bad people; I'll protect you from bad animals." She has been on trails all over California. She has run off leash on a few beaches and parks because she always came back when I called. I'll never forget her off leash time at Peter Strauss Park in Agoura Hills. No one else was there and she ran free in between the oak trees, scraggly bushes and shallow creek, sniffing and leaping and trotting and running as free and happy as I had ever seen her. I remember thinking "She is in heaven." Her overt joy brought me to tears. </p><p>OK, she wasn't always perfect, but as biased as I am, I thought even her flaws were cute. She only brought balls back half way. She was PETRIFIED of referee whistles so I could never watch sports on TV. She hated the rain. Even in a rain coat, she wouldn't go outside without a lot of coaxing, or in some cases--carrying. She would lick any exposed skin on your legs, face, arms--which not every guest in my house appreciated. But she was only an aggressive kisser - I could trust her with anyone because I knew she did not have a mean bone in her body. She never growled at anyone or tried to bite. She was a total sweetheart to her core. She knew when I was sick or sad and would sit with me to comfort me, not just with me, but on me. She would lean in and look up at me with those dark olive eyes. The ones that looked in to your soul. She's seen me through eye surgeries, sprained ankles, stressful days, sad goodbyes and COVID. It's hard to describe, but she wasn't just a dog living in a dog's world that overlapped with mine, she was actually in this world with me--she really looked at me, really looked at others, paid attention to people and emotions and moments in the human world and reacted to them--in a way I had never noticed a dog do before. She was present and interested- not just a fur ball lying on a couch or under the kitchen table. I know everyone says this about their dog, but Cali was special. I have never known another dog like her.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LSMJpzVcmt-WuEcotpSqqxCjZo4U92ifx8Bo_OwcdOo0aZ1C8509poUiK8iFzZVq1E5_lCEdWhcu8lcdvRQSG2kG4TdxEeT-GyrBzhAuFCU4y1Yy6PGdvDgRdNq9vnSVFVtq-Qy4G3m4NIQTF7x-xY5bfMKggHHVpO7Rx29siRkoid1deISwrCrbRGE/s2856/IMG_6241.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2142" data-original-width="2856" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LSMJpzVcmt-WuEcotpSqqxCjZo4U92ifx8Bo_OwcdOo0aZ1C8509poUiK8iFzZVq1E5_lCEdWhcu8lcdvRQSG2kG4TdxEeT-GyrBzhAuFCU4y1Yy6PGdvDgRdNq9vnSVFVtq-Qy4G3m4NIQTF7x-xY5bfMKggHHVpO7Rx29siRkoid1deISwrCrbRGE/w150-h112/IMG_6241.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>She was also a great travel dog. She loved to go in the car and LOVED being in hotels. I always had to pick hotels where dogs were welcome because there was nothing Cali liked better than running into the room and jumping up on the bed, and spreading out on the comforter like it was hers. She has been to Carmel, Monterey, Solvang, Buellton, Los Olivos, San Diego, Ventura, Carpinteria, Paso Robles, Malibu, Conejo Valley, Pismo, Camarillo, Santa Monica, Newport Beach, Manhattan Beach, Venice, Tehachapi, Palm Springs, San Luis Obispo (allowed inside a record store), Cambria (loved the "chipmunks"), Cayucos, and many, many other places all over California. She's also been on TV. She and and my other pup Denali made the KTLA morning news as the featured pups during the weather segment. She didn't let it go to her head.</p><p>Cali endeared herself to everyone she met along the way-- "To know her is to love her" I used to say. She loved and was loved by my family, friends, the MIMs running group, neighbors, sitters, anyone she met, even the staff at the vet's office who saw her regularly the last year of her life. If you met her and didn't love her, well then we probably couldn't be friends. As a result of having so many people who loved her, she had a lot of nicknames:</p><p>Cali-Coo and Hard Licker (my sister gave her these names), Coco, Cocolicious, Cocolatte, Coconuts, Coconuts, Cali Girl, CaliCoo, Cal, Calorific, Roo-Roo, Roo-Dog, Nena, Beauty, Pocahontas (don't ask), Lovebug, Skipper....the list goes on an on. </p><p>I even named my online record collection and store after her - Coco's Records. Her picture is on mugs, t-shirts and inside a small charm, a precious gift my sister gave me.</p><p>On Monday, July 17, 2023, I had to put her down. After a five year battle with Cushing's Disease, ongoing bouts of pancreatitis, along with liver problems, kidney failure and a heart murmur, she was done. The vet confirmed there was nothing else that could be done after all the meds, IV's, fluids, antibiotics, and everything else that went into keeping up this beautiful girl's quality of life for the past few years. Not a single staff member at the vet's office had a dry eye when they found out it was time to let her go. Cali had touched each of their hearts just like everyone else she crossed paths with, and they called her "part of their family." I will never forget one of the Vet Techs coming in the room to say goodbye to Cali as she lay in her bed on the exam table. She leaned over her, called her "sweet mama" and kissed her forehead with big tear drops falling down her face and on to Cali.</p><p>She went peacefully surrounded by people who loved her. I kept the promise I made to her years ago that I would not let her suffer, but it doesn't mean that my heart didn't shatter into a million pieces having to let her go. She was the best $25 I ever spent and a blessing from God.</p><p>I will always love you Cali. </p><p>You may not be a whippet, but you're the best dog ever.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03ijBNcIyLY5rlpr60OmqoI_wRmBz28EZl65vuztWsfmJ9ub8gU9hAEXANAPQsgstVNK5J0E9H6sTvHi_dpRSCGGgBNCg7KS07iiV1ZHGeJ0hP439E5E1D7p1EqTdwHmg9Ulc0V0o8CMB84yHD_pj8KYSvN7qhumrMjwGfEGE-44s88n5mDjYj65BgAk/s1086/Screenshot%202023-07-17%20at%204.08.35%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="862" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03ijBNcIyLY5rlpr60OmqoI_wRmBz28EZl65vuztWsfmJ9ub8gU9hAEXANAPQsgstVNK5J0E9H6sTvHi_dpRSCGGgBNCg7KS07iiV1ZHGeJ0hP439E5E1D7p1EqTdwHmg9Ulc0V0o8CMB84yHD_pj8KYSvN7qhumrMjwGfEGE-44s88n5mDjYj65BgAk/s320/Screenshot%202023-07-17%20at%204.08.35%20PM.png" width="254" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cali <br />2/14/12 - 7/17/23</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrKlQgjbUsuDYHMDA8JnrLHSG_t8aIf7jGlhmtgJVQg3zPHuGy3fGDp9jKDCoNUQ_V8HsVPElRlLiATR1tXr60gg7UkL1sbePlXHiVnMEJ_e7ApYXh976qpQ9i0tuHLWVdXp1HG79sbz4M-zQnxQVpWvutV6p_4E-rfqrgBSLB49wc3B2FVhuxPaBgrQ/s393/IMG_3834.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="393" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrKlQgjbUsuDYHMDA8JnrLHSG_t8aIf7jGlhmtgJVQg3zPHuGy3fGDp9jKDCoNUQ_V8HsVPElRlLiATR1tXr60gg7UkL1sbePlXHiVnMEJ_e7ApYXh976qpQ9i0tuHLWVdXp1HG79sbz4M-zQnxQVpWvutV6p_4E-rfqrgBSLB49wc3B2FVhuxPaBgrQ/w160-h157/IMG_3834.jpg" width="160" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhleiAAX9O77MVb7ZbiRGAfQo5D1Prc1l07RDVafLledj2qIlJoUvnOrAn0YndzpAKPFjxwKKsQFDYag40qWTdzsrq8RXD7XZSvWp0ifBAA-ojwgB_OCFqOOGpe968fMgwaz15fwqVoGYnEW4LYcKUVrpptMSHlmmc7DnVyu-CLFyRLT3jTvkgC5HtE_Bk/s3024/IMG_1203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="2268" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhleiAAX9O77MVb7ZbiRGAfQo5D1Prc1l07RDVafLledj2qIlJoUvnOrAn0YndzpAKPFjxwKKsQFDYag40qWTdzsrq8RXD7XZSvWp0ifBAA-ojwgB_OCFqOOGpe968fMgwaz15fwqVoGYnEW4LYcKUVrpptMSHlmmc7DnVyu-CLFyRLT3jTvkgC5HtE_Bk/w198-h264/IMG_1203.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><br /></div><br /></div><p></p><br /><p><br /></p>Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-37255422856752917642023-04-01T09:39:00.000-07:002023-11-19T18:51:50.797-08:00Do I Have to Call Myself a Christian?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UJ6cjV0nHgQ/UDg-JrMt4EI/AAAAAAAAAjU/B2q7yPfu_iY/s1600/unchristian.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UJ6cjV0nHgQ/UDg-JrMt4EI/AAAAAAAAAjU/B2q7yPfu_iY/s1600/unchristian.jpg" /></a></div>
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<em>"Yeah, I believe. It's just that when I think about calling myself a "Christian" it makes my stomach turn. It just has bad connotations for me. I guess I could become a Christian, but if I did, I would have to call myself something else. I could call myself a Lutheran, maybe, but not a Christian. I don't like what that word has come to mean."</em><br />
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These are the words I heard this week.<br />
And it broke my heart.<br />
I couldn't argue with this person. Her reasons for not wanting to allow Christ into her life were because she thought she would have to label herself a "Christian" and that was not something she wanted to do. To her "Christian" meant:<br />
<em>Republican</em><br />
<em>Narrow-minded</em><br />
<em>Judgmental</em><br />
<em>Hypocritical</em><br />
<em>Arrogant</em><br />
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And she didn't want those labels on her.<br />
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Now, I know this is going to upset my Lutheran brothers and sisters, but think about this a minute...<br />
<strong>The person quoted above would rather be identified with Martin Luther than with Jesus Christ!</strong><br />
Martin Luther was a remarkable, courageous, pillar of the faith. A history changer. The Father of Protestantism. Used by God.<div><br />
He was also an anti-Semite. <br />
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In his treatise entitled <u>On The Jews & Their Lies</u> (1543), he said he believed Jews to be "an idle and lazy people, such a useless, evil, pernicious people, such blasphemous enemies of God." This is just one snippet. There are many more. My point is not to beat up on Luther, but to just let you in on where my thoughts went when my friend said she would rather be associated with Luther than Jesus. She would rather be identified with a great man, albeit a flawed one, than with the perfect man, God incarnate, who was without flaw, Jesus Christ.</div>
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That saddens me.</div>
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And sadder still is her reason why.</div>
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It's our fault. We Christians blew it. We made "Christian" a dirty word. In the book <u><strong>UnChristian</strong></u> by David Kinnaman, he reveals that 16-29 year olds perceive Christianity to be anti-homosexual, judgmental, hypocritical, too political, sheltered, and proselytizing according to Barna Group Research ( <a href="http://www.amazon.com/unChristian-Generation-Really-Christianity-Matters/dp/0801072719/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1345861680&sr=8-2&keywords=unchristian">Get Book Here</a> ) I can see why. I've been judgmental, narrow-minded and arrogant at times. (See my blog entry entitled member of the AKC Club for one example.) </div>
<div align="LEFT">Why is she OK with being called a Lutheran? Because the ones she knows are loving. Open minded. They are service-oriented. Humble. She knows them and would be willing to be called one of them. Just don't call her a "Christian."</div>
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Yesterday, a Christian I love and respect called to tell me that she and her husband are leaving a church because they found out the Sunday School teacher was a Calvinist. (Not the pastor mind you, the Sunday School teacher!) This would be the second church they have left because of "Calivinism." She and her husband believe both pre-determinism (Calvinism) and free will are in the Bible, but lean toward Arminianism (Free will). She said, "You know, most Calvinists say that if you don't believe the way they do that you're not a Christian!" I said, "Most CHRISTIANS say if you don't believe the way they do you are not a Christian!" She didn't respond. During the silence I thought...<em>Oh, all the reasons we divide. And the world is watching.</em></div>
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And while they watch us argue, point, divide and accuse, they are running to identify with someone, something, anything that helps them find their purpose, meaning and hope for living --- money, a career, artistic expression, spiritual healers, individualism, church, love, meditation...none of which are bad, just not enough. None of them can be. They are just reflections of a greater light. Simple shards of the complex, perfect original --the wholly wonderful, beautiful Truth. </div>
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Jesus Christ is what they're searching for.</div>
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But when they find Him, they don't want Him because of me, because of "Christians." </div>
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That kills me.</div>
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And it's killing them, too.</div>
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They die lost and hungry while we argue about whether we choose God or God chooses us.</div>
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They die in despair while we debate whether or not you have to be baptized to be saved.</div>
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They languish away in loneliness without a friend in the world, while we link arms in friendship to take a stand against Prop. 8, abortion, homosexuality, immigration.</div>
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They chase a dollar while we chase our tails.</div>
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We tell Democrats, Liberals, gays, feminists, heck even <i>divorced </i><em>women</em>, they can't possibly be Christians.</div>
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We yell "Sinners!" and hold "God hates fags!" signs at funerals while families weep.</div>
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We build million dollar mega-churches with giant auditoriums and Bose sound systems while just down the street, 6 people sleep on the floor in one small room, curled up in bed-bug infested sheets.</div>
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We get caught sleeping with someone who is not our wife, molesting kids, watching porn, stealing money to support our lavish lifestyles. When we get caught, we lie. Then the truth comes out and the jig is up so we shed big fat tears on national TV and ask Jesus to forgive us. But the damage is done. Jesus may forgive, but the world won't. Those who would want to know Jesus, say "not if it means I have to be ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE." Can you give me something else to call myself? Can we invent a new word or something? </div>
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The truth is, there are so many wonderful Christians out there. I know many of them. They don't just throw money at the poor, they sacrafice their time, talent and treasure. They lift the poor from the floor and place them in beds. They get rid of the bed-bugs, build houses, and fill gas tanks and refrigerators for those in need. They repair homes after floods and hurricanes. They take sports equipment, food, job skills training to the far corners of the earth. They dig wells and pass out mosquito nets. They sit with their arm around tearful widows.They buy baby formula and Christmas gifts for immigrants. They adopt kids with special needs born to drug-addicted mothers. They are loving and welcoming and reach out to all with the love of Christ. Their life reflects his love. They are peace-seeking, peace-making and peace-giving. Some call themselves Lutherans. Some Baptists. Some Catholics - ALL call themselves Christians.</div>
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As do I.</div>
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So c'mon Christians, let's take back the name from the ones who stole it away for their own purposes and tarnished it. Let's put an end to the bickering over theology. Let's stop pulling Jesus left and right in the political world for our own selfish purposes. Let's stop judging. Lying. Cheating. Dividing. Let's keep giving, serving, loving, hoping and praying. Let's be loud about our love for Christ and for the world. Let's drown out the haters. Let's shine like lights in the darkness - like a city on a hill! Let's answer the prayer of Jesus in John 17 and UNIFY. Not for our causes, but for the cause of Christ who came to seek and to save. </div>
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<strong>Let's put CHRIST back in CHRISTian!</strong> </div>
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<div align="LEFT"> -Hope A. Horner</div><div align="LEFT">copyright 2023 - Contact author for publishing authorization on g mail - hopeh1122</div>
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</span><br /></div>Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-36190723328002247592022-07-15T09:05:00.000-07:002022-07-15T09:05:20.971-07:00Love Me Like My DogWe all want to be loved by someone who is just like our dog. Think about it.<br />
<i>Dogs love us just the way we are.</i><br />
<i>Dogs do what we tell them to do (most of the time.)</i><br />
<i>Dogs have two priorities: 1) You and 2) You </i><br />
<i>Dogs follow us around and think we are the BEST EVER.</i><br />
<i>Dogs get excited to see us, even when we're only gone for a minute.</i><br />
<i>Dogs are affectionate with us, but will go away and leave us alone, too.</i><br />
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In other words, we are selfish.<br />
We want someone to love us the way we want them to love us.<br />
We want it to be simple: LOVE ME AS I AM.<br />
<br />
And love is not that simple.<br />
Finding true love is next to impossible. In fact, it probably doesn't exist. Don't get me wrong, I believe in love, but there is no PERFECT person out there. No one is going to love you like your dog. No one.<br />
Instead, at best, you can hope that someone loves you like your CAT.<br />
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Cats love you when they WANT to love you, which is when they are hungry or want attention.<br />
Cats do NOT do what you tell them to do. Sometimes, you can coax or sweet talk them into doing things, but even then, they'll only do it if it is in their best interest or involves food.<br />
Cats could care less when you get home. Unless you are bringing home the bacon or smell like some other cat.<br />
Cats have two priorities: 1) Eat 2) Sleep<br />
Cats love you just the way you are. Yeah. As their servant.<br />
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Cats want YOU to follow THEM around. Until nap time, then leave them the heck alone or you'll regret it.<br />
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Cats are affectionate when they want to be, and usually at the worst possible times--like when they stick their butt in your face right in the middle of the season finale of your favorite show.<br /><br />
So, try to be realistic if you are seeking love. Look for someone who loves you, but don't expect Lassie or Benji. But don't settle for a fickle feline either. Maybe someone like Garfield? At least he's rich, likes Italian food and has a great sense of humor.<br />
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Hope A. Horner, copyright 2022<div>Contact author on Twitter @HopeNote</div>Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-90289190368364488282022-02-03T09:58:00.236-08:002022-02-03T21:07:31.351-08:00My Little Greyhound<p>The ad in the Pennysaver said "Little Greyhound. Free."</p><p>"Yay!" I thought. "Someone has a whippet or an Italian greyhound up for adoption and they don't know what it is!" Whippets and Italian greyhounds look exactly like "little greyhounds" and are hard to come by, not to mention expensive. I called the number in the ad and got the address of the house where the dog was located. I was living in the San Fernando Valley at the time and this "little greyhound" was just a few miles away. As I drove, I realized I was heading into a part of the valley where prostitution and drugs were common transactions and several notorious L.A. gangs rivaled over turf. I decided it was worth the risk to get my dream dog, so I drove on. I parked near an apartment complex and walked around until I found the right apartment number. I could hear the rush of traffic on Sepulveda Boulevard, police sirens, and the echo of people yelling in the complex. I knocked lightly.</p><p>The door opened almost immediately. A woman was holding a small dog in her arms.</p><p>It was not a little greyhound.</p><p>It was a chihuahua.</p><p>"Hi! Come in!" She said brightly and beckoned me to come inside. I stepped cautiously into the house wondering if this was a set-up. Would I suddenly be grabbed and robbed?</p><p>The living room was sparse with a full size couch on one wall and nothing else in the room but carpet. The woman handed the dog to me and said, "She's really sweet." I took her carefully and asked if it was OK to sit down. I wasn't good at holding babies or puppies. I always worried I would drop them. She said it was fine so I placed the dog on the carpet, crouched down and sat cross-legged next to her. This tiny brown dog ran into my lap, stood up on her hind legs, and licked my face with a few teeth included in the kiss. Then she jumped out of my lap and started to bolt around the room. As she did, I heard a door slam and looked up to see a man walking toward me. He had just come from outside and I could see out the sliding glass door behind him. There was a large pit bull staring through the glass at me, fogging it up with each snort.</p><p>"Hey," he said flatly. His white t-shirt was dirty and he had on long black Nike shorts. "We have to get rid of her." He pointed at the chihuahua who was now circling back toward me. "We just got Butch and he tried to kill her. Bit her back leg as a matter of fact last week and so you may notice sometimes she doesn't walk right." I nodded and gulped down my shock as she made her way back into my lap, crawled in and sat down. I petted her soft, short fur. Around her neck was a huge brown leather collar with silver spikes meant for a dog three times her size.</p><p>This was not my dream dog. Not a little greyhound. I mean she was thin, light brown, could move quickly but for goodness sake how do you mistake a chihuahua for a greyhound of any size? My first thought was to say, "Thanks, but no thanks." But now, I knew her life was in danger. And she was in my lap. </p><p>"Oh wow," I said, stroking her back. "Yeah, she's very small. Doesn't take much for her to get hurt." The man sat on the edge of the couch next to the woman and crossed his large muscular arms.</p><p>"Yeah," he said. "Butch was just letting' her know he's boss, but I know it's only a matter of time so..." as his voice trailed off, this little pup got up from my lap, turned around and put her paws on my chest. She looked me in the eyes as if to say: "He's not kidding. Get me out of here!"</p><p>I played with her for a little bit and made small talk. This dog was clearly spunky and adorable. She had big chocolate brown eyes, a white stripe down the middle of her face and was the color of a camel. I said I would like to adopt her. The woman stood up from the couch.</p><p>"Kids! Come say goodbye to Cinnamon!" She bellowed toward the hallway.</p><p>"What?!" I thought. "Her name is Cinnamon?" That was the name of the rabbit I had as a child. My <i>psycho </i>rabbit. The one that would grunt, claw, and bite and one time kicked me in the face with her sharp claws leaving a one inch scar in the shape of a "y" just below my left eye. Was she being reincarnated to torment me again? </p><p>I looked up to see a child's eyes poke around the hallway corner about half way up the wall. Then another. And another. And another. I could see only the eyes and hair of what appeared to be about four children of ascending heights and ages. It was like a totem pole of curiosity. </p><p>"Come out here!" The woman yelled. "Cinnamon is being adopted. Come say goodbye."</p><p>The kids walked out slowly into the living room and almost in unison said "Goodbye Cinnamon!"" A few knelt down on the carpet and she got up from my lap to walk toward them. They took turns petting her and saying goodbye in high pitched voices as she scampered in and out of their clutches.</p><p>I felt awful. They weren't crying but I almost was. I was taking their dog.</p><p>But like the man, they seemed resolved to the fact that Cinnamon had to go. So I picked her up after their goodbyes and said "Thank you, I'll give her a good life..."or something like that and walked out the door and toward my car.</p><p>I drove Cinnamon home and plopped her in my living room. I removed her giant collar and gave her a small pink collar with a bell. A cat collar.</p><p>That was the beginning of the 17 years I would spend with her. </p><p>Right from the get-go she was feisty, but in a playful, funny way--like the cousin who loves to pull pranks at family dinners, putting balloons on your seat before you sit down. She and my cat, Lucky, hit it off right away. Lucky was a black cat who thought he was a dog. So he got right to it and began playing with Cinnamon like his long lost pal had come home. They would chase each other around the backyard and on more than one occasion end up rolling around together as a swirled black and brown high speed fur ball. They never hurt each other and it was the beginning of a long inter-species friendship.</p><p>Cinnamon's ultimate display of feistiness came late one night when I let her out to go to the bathroom. As she trotted into the kitchen toward the doggy door to the backyard she found a raccoon eating her dog food. She chased it out the doogy door barking furiously. Before I could stop her I heard what could only be described as a scream, and then her yelping. I ran outside and found a raccoon on top of her. Now, this may sound made up, but mothers will understand. Without hesitating, I reached down and grabbed the raccoon by its fur. I managed to get a good grip on it's back and throw it <i>overhand</i> into the backyard away from Cinnamon. (I always wondered why I through it overhand, but I hadn't ever thrown "like a girl" and I wasn't going to start then.) The raccoon disappeared into the darkness. Cinnamon was injured. She had a huge gash on her belly and was bleeding. She would not stop moaning and whimpering. I felt dizzy and thought I was going to be sick. I covered the wound and wrapped her up. She got twelve stitches, antibiotics and a rabies shot as soon as the vet's office opened. Later that day, I noticed I had a deep scratch on my arm. With all the adrenaline, I hadn't noticed it earlier. Cinnamon recovered well and got her feistiness back. In fact, I discovered she had a full personality that included charming, silly, funny, playful, loving, bossy, stubborn, and everything in between. She was never a snappy, mean, loud-mouthed, possessive chihuahua like some can be. Just like her original owners, I don't think she knew she was a chihuahua. She was more pleasant and well behaved than any dog I had ever had. Her personality inspired a lot of cute nicknames:</p><p>Cinna-snap, Cinny, Cinna-bun, Silly-Billy, Cin-Cins, even Special Kitty (Don't ask.)...She earned them all.</p><p>Weighing only nine pounds, Cinnamon slept in a round cat-bed for most of her life. She loved to be wrapped in blankets. She loved her red "hoodie" sweatshirt. She loved sitting in the sun even though it would make her sneeze. Even in her sweatshirt and in the sun she would shiver to manipulate you into picking her up or holding her. She never played with toys or balls; she acted as though she was above all that and she preferred humans anyway. At the dog park, she would ignore all the other dogs, step right over tennis balls and go up one by one to every human to say hi while other dogs sniffed and jostled her. She would hop into the laps of perfect strangers. She could run like the wind and was fearless. She once fan so fast in a grassy park that she lost her balance and barrel rolled for what seemed like a quarter mile only to pop up and keep running, grass flying off her back. I discovered she knew how to parkour her way on to my kitchen counter tops when a macaroon cookie went missing and later she delivered a coconut laced gift in my backyard. Oh, Cinnamon. I often joked saying: "I jumped her out of a Van Nuys gang, but she jumped herself back in on a daily basis." </p><p>She went on plenty of walks--putting her paws in the sand, the mud, the rain, and the snow all over California. Sometimes, she would appear to skip, holding up her back right leg while she hopped for a few steps on her left. She definitely had a "hitch in her gait" and it always reminded me of how she had come to be mine. But she never let it slow her down. When I bought the house I am in now, the first day I moved in, she found a way out the front door and a neighbor brought her back. She seemed almost disappointed to be back. I think she wanted to scout out the neighborhood for raccoons and black cats. She didn't realize she was now 16 years old, nearly deaf, barely able to see through milky eyes and a bit disoriented. I watched her slow down over the next few years, go blind, grow weak and thin, but still have moments of her trademark feistiness. She tried to keep up with my other dogs, giving them a hard time when she could, reminding them who was in charge. But I worried about her getting hurt because she'd never known her limits, or maybe she did and just chose to race right through them. Once she jumped off the couch and landed with a cartoon like "splat" on my hardwood floors. Her legs didn't support her and she hit the ground so hard I thought for sure she'd be paralyzed. But she popped up and shook it off like she always did, without a whimper.</p><p>But a few days ago, she stopped eating and just wanted to sleep all day, curled up in a ball in her cat bed, which I had put inside a crate so my other dogs wouldn't accidentally hurt her. I knew it was getting close.</p><p>And this morning, after 18 years of adventures, she let out a final feisty yelp and then closed her eyes and died peacefully, wearing her hoodie, wrapped in blankets and love.</p><p>I'll miss you my little greyhound. </p><p>-Hope</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyE9Ttkie4uxQSm7MG5Kh3Q93XJIqdQfvwX_Zu1TyeS9P8Frnan4S8BEVXAMwAqka7Dlu0lPohhx2WuAgGBBQI_VJTiUALFTbm1_MfYZnA2xuujKKSK4tYyNiK1lAlE-Imltb0PLoksExrREsqhe8TMFnP--cmoffGaScbO4abd21ciZVjmEzcJUCV=s959" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="959" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyE9Ttkie4uxQSm7MG5Kh3Q93XJIqdQfvwX_Zu1TyeS9P8Frnan4S8BEVXAMwAqka7Dlu0lPohhx2WuAgGBBQI_VJTiUALFTbm1_MfYZnA2xuujKKSK4tYyNiK1lAlE-Imltb0PLoksExrREsqhe8TMFnP--cmoffGaScbO4abd21ciZVjmEzcJUCV=w320-h240" title="Cinnamon - Feb. 2004 - Feb. 2022" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Cinnamon </p><p style="text-align: center;">Feb. 2004 - Feb. 2022</p><p><br /></p>Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-6827052173558234722021-05-15T16:25:00.003-07:002022-02-03T14:13:45.796-08:00Magnitude of Loss: Notre Dame Burns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span face=""calibri" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">ORIGINALLY WRITTEN APRIL 15, 2019...</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face=""calibri" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">As the news brief flashed across my computer screen for the first time, I got goosebumps. The Cathedral of Notre Dame was burning. I watched in horror as thick, black smoke billowed out of the cathedral and the famous spire--the one that can be seen from almost anywhere in Paris--toppled down. When it landed in the </span><span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px;">middle</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> of the cathedral--a bright orange cloud shot up into the dusky twilight that was descending on Paris. </span></span><i style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Where are the firefighters?! </i><span face=""calibri" , sans-serif"><span>I wanted to scream from my desk. </span></span><i style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Where are the super soaker planes? Wouldn’t they have fire fighters “at the ready” 24-7 to save this place? Where are they?! </i><span face=""calibri" , sans-serif"><span> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">But I did not yell. I just sat there until the last few minutes of the free streaming on my computer ran out and then I got up to tell a co-worker.</span></span><br />
<span face=""calibri" , sans-serif"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">"Did you hear Notre Dame in Paris is on fire?" I was a bit breathless.</span></span></div>
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“Oh wow,” she said, “I’ll have to go check that out.” She didn't say it with as much urgency as I thought was warranted. It was almost as though I had told her American Idol just started.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I had to get back to work, but a few hours later in the afternoon, I logged back in to the news. Please God, let the fire be out, I quietly prayed, but as the live feed popped up on my screen I could see it was not over. The ancient cathedral continued to burn. Firefighters ran inside to salvage what they could, while I sat at my desk trying not to cry, wondering why this was affecting me so much. Was it my hormones? I am pre-menopausal. If I were twenty I would have blamed it on “that time of the month.” But then I thought about it. No, it wasn’t my hormones. It was my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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About three years ago, I visited Paris for the first time with a group of friends. It was right after the deadly nightclub shooting which scared away a lot of tourists, so we felt like we were the only Americans in town, racing around from our hotel to all the Paris hot-spots. Emotions were still raw for the locals though. Just like the heavily armed guards standing beneath the Eiffel Tower, they would need armor to cover up their vulnerability. One day, we were in line to get in to the Louvre, when a man in front of us turned around and asked, “Are you Americans?” We hesitantly said yes, having heard that the Parisians weren’t our biggest fans. He said, “Thank you so much for coming to Paris!” He pronounced Paris the way I had always heard it pronounced in movies--“Pair-Ree.” He went on to say that he lost his 19 year old daughter in the Paris nightclub shooting and started to get choked up. The line was moving ahead slowly and we presented our tickets, as he told us in broken English that he hopes that people will still come to Paris, the most beautiful city in the world. His love for his city and the pain of his loss were intertwined on his face. He turned away his wet eyes and disappeared, as we all stood inside the Louvre for a minute to process what just happened. I remember tearing up then too, and having to collect myself before we headed to some of the most famous artwork in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">A few days later, after touring the French countryside we found our way in front of Notre Dame. I took a picture and marveled at how small it looked from the outside. It wasn’t actually 'small', but something about the way the stone plaza was configured in front of it, or its proximity to other buildings, or maybe the Seine, made it seem smaller than I had pictured it would be. Inside was a different story. The cathedral towered high above us, our eyes adjusted to the darkness as we looked upwards, mouths open. A hush fell over me well before I realized a mass was in progress. A priest was speaking to a few hundred faithful who were sitting in wooden </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px;">pews </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">near the middle of the cathedral, and to our left was a tiered metal display of small white flickering candles. We walked over and several of my friends lit candles, placing them carefully on the tiered display. I finally looked around. The ceilings were gorgeous--arched wooden beams (or 'flying buttresses") drew long lines over the top of us toward the glistening stained glass windows on both sides of the church. I took a deep breath. A soothing, but serious voice came over the loud speaker “Shhhhhhh--quiet please.” This was repeated in several languages. I was already silent--muted by the magnitude of where I was standing. I thought about all the people who had prayed, sung, gotten married, been christened, and been weeped over in this very building. The many who had found solitude and others who had found Christ. As I walked around I marveled at the religious artwork including the glorious “South Rose” stained glass window the cathedral is known for. Voices all around me were hushed. Eyes were darting up and around. People were praying, gazing, whispering, shushing. I walked slowly, taking it all in, aware that I was in one of the most historic and beautiful places in all the world--a truly transcendent place, filled with more than 800 years of art, architecture, music. I was speechless at the power of this magnificent, ancient, house of God which did indeed make God feel closer and yet, unreachable at the same time. I knew I was somewhere that not everyone would get to be and I felt grateful and blessed to be there.</span><o:p style="font-size: 11pt;"></o:p></span></span></div>
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And today, as I watched flames leap from the roof and topple the steeple, I felt even more blessed that I got a chance to be within its walls--walls that are now scarred with ash, soot and debris. And yet somehow, I feel more devastated than blessed. Sure, like Jesus, Notre Dame will rise again. Tourists may stand inside a resurrected Notre Dame several years down the road--with a fire proof roof, emergency sprinklers and firefighter roof access, but they will never again be beneath the organ pipes, church bells and precious portals from hundreds and hundreds of years ago where kings, queens, sinners and saints stood. The flying buttresses burned just in time for Ash Wednesday. I remember singing in Sunday school: “The church is not a building, the church is not the steeple, the church is not a resting place, the church is the people." While that is true, this was no ordinary building. No commonplace steeple. No run-of-the-mill resting place. This was Notre Dame. And the magnitude of that loss, is not lost on me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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-Hope A. Horner</span></div>
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#ParisStrong #notredame </span></div>
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Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-52470083293586221862019-02-02T06:47:00.000-08:002022-02-03T14:14:24.975-08:00How A Neighbor Blew Me Away (And Didn't)A few days ago a young man blew me away by <i>not</i> blowing me away.<br />
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I was walking my dog on the sidewalk by his house where he was using a leaf blower to move a large pile of leaves and grass to the front corner of his lawn. My dog pulled ahead of me, unaware of the machine generated wind storm closing in on her, straining toward the green patches where she could leave her mark. He looked up, saw us coming and shut off the leaf blower. He wasn't blowing the leaves directly in my direction and his yard was raised above the sidewalk, at the top of a small slope, so we weren't even that close. But he shut it off anyway.<br />
Not by accident.<br />
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Not because he was done with his work.<br />
But because he saw me coming and did not want to disturb me or my dog with the noise or debris. I was in shock for a moment, then I thanked him and smiled. He nodded from the middle of his lawn and smiled back. He waited until I was several houses past his yard and then I heard the machine go back on again.<br />
I shook my head in disbelief. Wow. That was nice. And so unexpected.<br />
So kind.<br />
I immediately wanted to put this story out there because I have heard from so many over the last year that they feel this world is getting dark and harsh-- and getting worse by the minute. They say it seems the light of kindness, the flicker of common courtesy--has burned out.<br />
But just like my neighbor, we can change that one small moment at a time. Sounds so trite and way too simple, but it's true.<br />
We can turn off the noise and notice the need in someone else. We can do small things that can have huge impacts.<br />
Hold the door.<br />
Listen.<br />
Let someone go first.<br />
Pay for the coffee of the person behind you.<br />
Send a condolence note.<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bWI0YkruA8E/WrByVQM2FOI/AAAAAAAACd8/m06_kfQhrWsyXHT5lvbyESlNaw_4vCRIgCLcBGAs/s1600/kindness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="217" data-original-width="232" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bWI0YkruA8E/WrByVQM2FOI/AAAAAAAACd8/m06_kfQhrWsyXHT5lvbyESlNaw_4vCRIgCLcBGAs/s1600/kindness.jpg" /></a>Call an old friend.<br />
Post an encouraging comment online.<br />
Brag about <u>someone else's</u> achievements.<br />
Re-post good news.<br />
Say thank you.<br />
Leave a big tip.<br />
Talk nicely about someone behind their back.<br />
Give the gift of time to a family member.<br />
Donate.<br />
Remember the birthday of a co-worker.<br />
Pick up someone else's trash.<br />
Hand your gardener a cold drink.<br />
Smile at a stranger.<br />
Apologize.<br />
Volunteer.<br />
Here's another great idea: (I read this in my Neighborhood Watch blog.)<br />
<b>"It's hot!</b> <b>I challenge everyone to put an ice cooler full of cold drinks on their porch each day this summer with a sign that encourages USPS, Amazon, UPS and other delivery drivers to take one. So I did. How about you?"</b><br />
I immediately thought that was a great idea and have had a cooler on my porch every day since.<br />
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The recent mass shooting at the Walmart in the El Paso the other day made me cry on my couch this morning. Have we forgotten we are all children of God? I felt hopeless at the magnitude of this hate. I felt scared for the people I know and love who look exactly like the people targeted.<br />
So I thought I would repost this blog again today, hoping it would inspire others to respond with MASS ACTS OF KINDNESS.<br />
I am inspired by my neighbors' thoughtfulness. Both the one with the cooler full of kindness and the young man who didn't blow me away.<br />
Thank you neighbors, for <i>blowing </i>me away with your kindness.<br />
Now, can we all do the same?<br />
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-Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2019<br />
Feel free to forward and share. For offline or printed use, contact the author on gmail at hope h 1122.<br />
#kindnessisrevolution #inspireme #makeitcount #hopehorner #lightuptheworld #lovewins<br />
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<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-81556833224098527392017-12-17T16:54:00.003-08:002022-07-15T08:42:41.217-07:00Traveling with BaggageI felt bad even thinking it.<br />
There I was, sitting on a train looking at someone directly ahead of me and wondering:<br />
<i>Is he a terrorist?</i><br />
Gosh, how silly.<br />
<i>But wait. What if he is?</i><br />
<i>He looks the part.</i><br />
<i>He's definitely from that part of the world.</i><br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7IOd91Z2d68/Wjb71FVkdxI/AAAAAAAACYo/idQdUkPu3EYhmRaPNEa-ez3XhWEXS3smgCLcBGAs/s1600/metrolink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7IOd91Z2d68/Wjb71FVkdxI/AAAAAAAACYo/idQdUkPu3EYhmRaPNEa-ez3XhWEXS3smgCLcBGAs/s200/metrolink.jpg" width="200" /></a><i>Dark curly hair, large dark eyes, dark skin, dark five o'clock shadow on his face. Dark. Dark. Dark.</i><br />
<i>He's the same age as most of the terrorists, too. Mid twenties. Old enough to have had time to be radicalized and young enough to be fearless. I probably should keep an eye on him.</i><br />
Jeez, I'm an awful person. What is wrong with me? I shouldn't think that. He's probably a perfectly nice guy just headed downtown to shop like I am. He has a baby face. He's probably harmless and here I am profiling him. Poor guy, I bet he gets this all the time. I bet he can't go anywhere, or ride any kind of public transportation without getting looks. I wonder if anyone has ever reported him as suspicious? Can you imagine how horrifying that would be--getting shook down, probed, patted and questioned just because of how you look? I mean, he's probably just a student. Look, he has a backpack.<br />
<i>Wait, a backpack?!</i><br />
<i>Why does he have a backpack on the train? On a Saturday?</i><br />
<i>Oh God. He probably IS a terrorist. What should I do? He's just sitting there, facing me with a blank expression on his face trying to blend in with everyone else headed to L.A.'s Union Station on the Metrolink. Going downtown to do some shopping are you? Or do you plan to kick this weekend off with a bang?</i><br />
Oh stop it, Hope. You're being ridiculous. And racist.<br />
<i>No, you're not. You're just being vigilant. Remember "See something- Say something?" You need to get over the need to be "PC" and keep an eye on this guy.</i><br />
But the saying is "See Something, Say Something" Hope, not: "See SOMEONE, say something." And he's not doing anything, except sitting there. And for goodness sake, you have a backpack too, remember? Just calm down and look out the window.<br />
Through the glass to my left is the San Fernando Valley, a huge metropolis just on the outside of L.A. hemmed in by mountains. The train is currently racing along the back side of a run-down valley neighborhood full of stray bottles, walls covered in graffiti and houses pieced together with tarps, sheets of metal, and stray bricks. Every window I see has a blanket hanging in it as a curtain. Motorhomes are parked in backyards, their tires flat and their windows blocked with aluminum foil and cardboard. I can't see a single blade of grass anywhere. It's depressing. I check back on the suspicious man in front of me.<br />
<br />
He is still staring straight ahead. His eyes catch mine and I look away quickly, back outside.<br />
Below me now is a junkyard full of sand piles, wood, railroad ties, concrete blocks, and large yellow earth movers. Anything that has been sitting too long is tagged in large, spray-painted bubble letters.<br />
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;"><b>Risky</b></span></i><br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hdF5lHyOugw/WjcP2u0UAZI/AAAAAAAACZM/OCvlIhClhX4rIFT0BcAhFCwDXEDkUSLFwCLcBGAs/s1600/graffiti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="149" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hdF5lHyOugw/WjcP2u0UAZI/AAAAAAAACZM/OCvlIhClhX4rIFT0BcAhFCwDXEDkUSLFwCLcBGAs/s200/graffiti.jpg" width="200" /></a><i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;"><b>Ghost</b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;"><b>Baller</b></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;"><b><i>Life = Misery</i> </b></span>is tagged on a large chunk of concrete near an intersection where cars are backed up waiting for us to pass. Even the obviously new paved walkway that runs along the back of the neighborhood near the tracks is littered with trash and graffiti. Large fancy engraved stone signs announce the beginning of this concrete "trail" but it really looks more like an alley. Cement benches double as art canvases for gangsters and I still have not seen one blade of grass--green grass that is.<br />
<br />
The conductor announces that the next stop is Burbank. I know that after Burbank is Glendale and after Glendale is Union Station. I know all this because of a sweet elderly lady I met at the station where I first got on board. She told me in Spanish that she had been riding the train to Glendale every month for thirty years to get her hair done. She was dressed like she was heading to church--black sparkly turtleneck sweater, finely pressed beige dress pants, a Christmas scarf and a fancy leather purse which she clung to tightly. She told me to sit on the third level of the train. "No hay mucha gente alli." <i>There aren't a lot of people there.</i> She was right. Just she and I, a homeless man, a young couple, and <i>this guy</i>--the dark haired man sitting a few rows up facing my direction who still had no expression on his face.<br />
<br />
"Next stop Union Station!" The conductor yelled out. "This is the stop you have all been waiting for!" His enthusiasm made people chuckle. "Make sure you get off because this is the last stop and the train will be out of service." I waited for the train to roll to a gentle stop and then stood up. The man I had been watching stood up too, turned around and headed toward the stairs at the front of the car. I headed to the stairs at the back, going down one narrow step at a time, holding tightly to the guardrail. Quite a few passengers were waiting on the first level for the doors to open. People looked down, checked their phones, shuffled in place, hoisted backpacks on to their shoulders and tried not to invade anyone else's space with their eyes or body. I was here for a vinyl record show about five miles away and was anxious to get off. The doors opened and everyone surged forward to get out. I made it outside the train and followed a large throng of people down a concrete walk-way and into Union Station. I was amazed at two things: First, the large amount of people in the station on a Saturday (although it was nearing Christmas) and second, the fact that no one ever checked my ticket. For all anyone knew I didn't even have a ticket. I had one--a bar-code on my phone, but why hadn't anyone scanned it? Then I saw the signs warning about the $1,200 fine for anyone found riding the train without a ticket. <i>I guess they use the honor system</i>, I thought. <i>Great. No one is watching us or checking tickets. In this day and age? It's a free-for-all for thugs, thieves, and terrorists. Why not have more security? </i>Then I remembered to be careful what you wish for. It's expensive to have someone check tickets and view surveillance footage and walk around with a gun looking angry and as comforting as all that is, taxes are high enough in this damn state so I'll take the honor system and paranoia for free, please.<br />
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I made it into Union Station and marveled at how L.A. has its very own Grand Central Station. OK, not exactly but it still is something to see. High decorative ceilings, solid wood benches, brass fixtures, fancy cafes with candles, white linen napkins and wine glasses propped up to look inviting. I just wanted to get to the record fair. I had never taken an Uber before, but I was ready. I had downloaded the app, entered my credit card number, and now I just had to find my way out of the station. When in doubt about how to get out of a public place--follow the masses. I kept walking behind a crowd of people and before I knew it I was outside in the fresh air and bright Southern California sun. I squinted and looked around. There, right across the boulevard was Olvera Street--the historic Mexican marketplace made to look like Old Los Angeles with it's adobe architecture, murals, street vendors, and brick walkways. I'd been there many times and always enjoyed myself--as a child I remember purchasing confetti eggs from one of the vendors. These were decorated egg shells<br />
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that held confetti instead of yolk inside and gave parents an instant headache at the thought of the clean-up involved. That's probably why they always insisted children throw them at each other while still on Olvera Street. These messy souvenirs never made it home.<br />
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I asked the lady near the curb in the shiny black station security jacket where the best place to grab an Uber was. She pointed ahead of her and with a hint of sarcasm said: "Down there where the cars are." I hoisted my backpack and walked that direction while opening the Uber app. I clicked until I was pretty sure I had summoned a car. The app told me a silver Nissan Altima would be picking me up and my driver would be Radhouane. I wasn't even sure how to pronounce his name, but as long as his car didn't come rattling and backfiring into the lot with a <i>Make America Great Again</i> sticker on it, I was sure I'd be fine.<br />
Across the parking lot I saw a silver Altima about to pull into the street make a quick left turn and circle back in to the lot. <i>This must be my driver,</i> I thought. The traffic officer threw up his arms like "What the heck are you doing, dude?" but let him pass and sure enough, he was my driver. He pulled up to the curb right in front of me and rolled down the window.<br />
My mouth almost fell open.<br />
In the passenger seat right next to him was the guy from the train.<br />
"Hope?" the driver yelled through the window.<br />
"Yes?" I said a little less confidently that I wanted to. I didn't dare respond with his name as I would certainly butcher it. The closest pronunciation I had come up with for Radhouane sounded too much like Road Hound. I just nodded and stepped toward the car.<br />
"Same train, same car!" I said to the guy from the train as opened the door behind him. His shoulders bounced back like I startled him and he let out a nervous laugh, "Yeah." I got in and put on my seat belt.<br />
"Where you headed to buddy?" The driver asked the guy in front.<br />
"The Greyhound station," he replied.<br />
"Where you from?" The driver asked. He turned to look out the window before pulling away from the curb.<br />
"Originally, or do you mean where did I come from today?" The guy clarified.<br />
"Originally."<br />
"I'm from Bangladesh," the guy replied.<br />
"Me too," said the driver.<br />
"Really?"<br />
"Yup."<br />
"What part?"<br />
"No, not really. I'm messing with you man." The driver laughed way too hard at his little prank as he pulled out of the station parking lot into the street. The dark haired guy laughed just enough to be polite and asked, "Where are you from?"<br />
"North Africa," said the driver.<br />
I sat quietly in the back, sliding around a bit on the black leather, trying to remember what countries were in North Africa. <i>Morocco? Egypt? </i> I couldn't think of any others. <i>Why did he say North Africa and not the actual country he was from? Isn't that a little bit like me saying I'm from North America?</i><br />
"What are you doing out here?" The driver asked.<br />
"I'm a student." He shifted in his seat. "I go to Cal Poly."<br />
"What are you studying?"<br />
"Computer engineering."<br />
"Do you want to code or work on systems or what's your thing?" The driver asked. He obviously knew enough to carry on a conversation. I was out of my league at that point, but kept listening.<br />
"I want to code."<br />
"I used to be able to code," said the driver, "I could use C++. Still can do a little of it, but I'm rusty. Need to take some classes or something."<br />
"If you can use C++ you can still do a lot. You have the basics. Its still very useful." The man said.<br />
The driver nodded. "Yeah, that's true..."<br />
They continued talking in "code" and then the conversation turned to Bangladesh.<br />
"How long did you live in Bangladesh?" asked the driver.<br />
"About twenty years," the guy said.<br />
"Did you like it?"<br />
"No, not really, it is very bad there." The driver nodded and made a comment about Bangladesh being next to India. "So where you headed by bus?"<br />
"San Francisco."<br />
"Great, well here we are, my friend." He pulled into the parking lot of the Greyhound bus station and stopped by the curb.<br />
"How long is the bus ride?"<br />
"Seven hours," replied the man. He was opening the car door to get out.<br />
"Wow, do they stop?" continued the driver.<br />
"No, this bus goes straight through."<br />
"Straight through? Don't they have to stop so you can go to the bathroom?"<br />
"Nah, there's a bathroom on the bus."<br />
"Must smell great then!" The driver laughed loudly, obviously feeling like he was on a roll.<br />
The guy laughed one last polite laugh, thanked the driver and got out.<br />
"Good luck with your schooling," I said from the backseat. He had probably forgotten I was even there.<br />
"Thank you," he said and glanced back at me as he shut the door. I smiled. I hoped he would accept my well wishes and smile as an apology for my previous thoughts. The "terror suspect" was actually a Cal Poly student studying engineering probably getting an A++ in C++.<br />
<i>Jeez. I'm a schmuck.</i> I thought.<br />
"So miss Hope," the driver said, "Where are you headed?"<br />
<i>Wait you know my name but not where I am going? Should I be worried?</i> I took a screenshot of the Uber app that showed the driver and his license plate and texted it to a friend just in case I ended up needing to break a window and climb out to save myself.<br />
"5610 Soto Street," he interrupted my thoughts. "What's there?"<br />
"A record show," I replied.<br />
"Like vinyl?"<br />
"Yup, vinyl," I replied.<br />
"Wow, I may have to stop and check it out."<br />
"You into vinyl?" I asked.<br />
He turned his head toward me. He had a big round face with puffy cheeks and I could smell his cologne, which wasn't bad, but he should probably take it down a notch.<br />
"My daughter is into vinyl. She keeps asking me to get her a record player. You know, one of those old ones."<br />
"Oh yeah? How old is she?"<br />
"12," he replied.<br />
"12? And she is already into vinyl?" I remember when parents were throwing out their vinyl, not buying it for their kids who had barely entered puberty.<br />
"Yup," he said. "She loves it."<br />
We drove in silence for a little while and then I asked him about driving for Uber just to make small talk. He said he had been driving for two months and could only drive for an hour at a time before he had to pull over to get out and walk around. Otherwise, he said, fluid would collect in his legs and his knees and ankles would stiffen up. He was a big man, thick hairy arms and knuckles, brown callouses on his elbows and a full head of dark curly hair, just like the guy we had dropped off earlier. A gold chain peeked out just below his shirt collar. I made a comment about his Nissan Altima, saying that I used to have one in this same color. He told me he did not like his. The brakes squeaked and it got crappy gas mileage and all the parts were hard to reach so labor was always really expensive whenever anything needed to be fixed. "They probably made it that way so you have to go to the dealer." I nodded and told him I had a Nissan Rogue and he recommended that next time I buy a Toyota. He said he had a Camry that had almost 500,000 miles on it. "You're just going to have to give up the power and style of the Nissan if you want to save money." I nodded and thanked him.<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g4_iN850lSI/WjcGHa1s0gI/AAAAAAAACY8/jG8xTRPKhU0trwjJE2nSIKJggk3Jhnr0wCLcBGAs/s1600/record.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="224" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g4_iN850lSI/WjcGHa1s0gI/AAAAAAAACY8/jG8xTRPKhU0trwjJE2nSIKJggk3Jhnr0wCLcBGAs/s200/record.jpg" width="200" /></a>We shot through a signal light as it was turning yellow and he said to get ready because my destination was coming up on the left and he wasn't sure there would be anywhere to park. The area looked to be largely industrial and technically, we were now in downtown Huntington Park according to the map on my app. He did a u-turn in the middle of the street and pulled over to the curb in front of a large white wooden sign that said <b><i>Records</i></b>.<br />
"Here you are," he said. "Have fun!"<br />
"Thank you! Have a good one!"<br />
"You, too, he said, "Merry Christmas."<br />
<i>What? Don't you mean Happy Holidays? </i>I thought.<br />
"Merry Christmas," I replied. I opened the door and hopped out on to the curb. I threw my backpack over my shoulder. It was light, ready to be filled with dusty 33's and 45's. It was all I had with me. Sort of. I was traveling with more baggage than I realized.<br />
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-Hope A. Horner, copyright 2017.<br />
http://www.HopeHorner.com<br />
Twitter: @HopeNote<br />
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122 for on and off-line printing.<br />
#seesomethingsaysomething #equality #givehopeachance #justiceforall<br />
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<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-22764863980256557272017-11-11T14:40:00.001-08:002022-02-03T14:15:23.008-08:00Bienvenidos, Angel<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UuYtripsG2A/WePR1KU9VjI/AAAAAAAACYQ/Ja1kUSrg1UgXw7UzXy0VA1Ommvcu2leSwCLcBGAs/s1600/tacos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UuYtripsG2A/WePR1KU9VjI/AAAAAAAACYQ/Ja1kUSrg1UgXw7UzXy0VA1Ommvcu2leSwCLcBGAs/s1600/tacos.jpg" /></a>I wasn't going to be "human" much longer if I didn't listen to my growling stomach, so I asked a friend to join me at my favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican taco shop downtown. This tiny family restaurant made each taco the way they were supposed to be made--two small layered corn tortillas covered with diced chicken, special green salsa, cilantro, and way too many onions. I could taste them already. We parked across the street from the restaurant and jumped out. The sun was setting behind the library as we walked toward dinner.<br />
"Disculpe, Señorita?"<br />
I turned my head. Next to me on the sidewalk was a woman so short I could see the top of her head. Her ash brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was dressed in a plain white shirt and beige pants. She sounded like a small child.<br />
"Yes?" I stopped walking.<br />
"Do you know where is Lyons?" She asked in broken English.<br />
"Sure," I pointed directly ahead of me. "You're almost there. Just keep going and when you get to the end of this street, by the library, make a left. That's Lyons Avenue."<br />
She looked where I pointed, but her face told me she wasn't quite sure. I took a few steps forward, pointed again toward Lyons and said, "You're almost there." She looked in the direction I pointed and nodded. I continued toward the restaurant, my head dizzy with hunger.<br />
"Disculpe, uh, señorita um..." I heard her voice again and turned around.<br />
"Tengo hambre." She said softly. She looked at me briefly and then stared at the ground. I hesitated. <i>You're hungry? You probably just want money, </i>I thought.<i> </i>There were quite a few people who begged on the street corners and in front of the liquor stores in this part of town. A few weeks ago, a homeless man told me he was hungry only to turn down my food offer and suggest I give him the cash instead. I decided to call her bluff.<br />
"Quiere a venir con nosotros? Vamos a comer." I told her we were about to eat and asked her if she'd like to join us. To my surprise, she agreed.<br />
The three of us walked in silence a short block to the taco shop. There was a long line to order food as usual, and most of the tables were full and the ones that weren't, were dirty. Left over radishes, Styrofoam plates, and half empty salsa cups needed to be cleared off tables. I didn't care. This place was the real deal--messy tables and all.<br />
The three of us got in line and waited with the rest of the hungry guests. After a few minutes, we made it to the counter and placed our order in Spanish. My friend and I each ordered four "tacos de pollo" and our new dinner partner ordered a burrito. We all got different sodas. The cashier handed us our number and walked to one of the few open tables near the window. I used a handful of napkins to wipe off the table before sitting down.<br />
"Come se llama usted?" My friend asked of our dinner guest who was sliding into the booth seat across from us. I noticed her feet barely touched the ground underneath the table.<br />
"Faustina."<br />
"Mucho gusto Faustina." My friend and I said together. Faustina responded "Mucho gusto" and looked around the restaurant like a very small person in a giant's world.<br />
"Vive aquĂ?" (Do you live here?) My friend asked.<br />
"SĂ," she replied. She told us she had been living in the San Fernando Valley with a friend who lost her place so she had taken the bus out to this area to live with a friend who had an apartment just down the road.<br />
Our order number was called and I went to grab our food. It all fit on a green tray which I carried back to our table. Both my friend and Faustina were sitting in silence.<br />
I passed out the plates. "Where are you from originally?" My friend asked, continuing the conversation and trying to break up the awkward silence. I sat down.<br />
"Bolivia," she replied.<br />
"Bolivia?" I asked, my eyebrows raised in surprise. I was not expecting her to say Bolivia. She might as well have said Mars. She nodded. I used a radish to scrape a few onions off one of my tacos and wondered <i>How far away is that?</i> I didn't ask. I took a bite of the taco that now had just the right amount of onions and tried to picture South America in my head. Her eyes darted to me several times and I could tell she was uncomfortable. I wondered if my white skin told her I was judging her. My friend sensed the discomfort and began to share a little bit about her journey to America. She was originally from Mexico and had been brought here by family when she was very small. Faustina took a big bite of her burrito and nodded as my friend talked.<br />
<br />
When my friend stopped talking to take a bite of her taco, I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and asked Faustina in Spanish what part of Bolivia she was from. Faustina swallowed hard and held her half-eaten burrito in front of her.<br />
"La Paz." She replied softly.<br />
"Oh, La Paz!" I said, "Es el capital, no?" She nodded yes while her eyes searched my face.<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rj_P5ZrO2-c/WePRQz8eYMI/AAAAAAAACYE/Cw1BPVWHgBQg5ADmUCGkNptZmFJBOSmDACLcBGAs/s1600/bolivia2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rj_P5ZrO2-c/WePRQz8eYMI/AAAAAAAACYE/Cw1BPVWHgBQg5ADmUCGkNptZmFJBOSmDACLcBGAs/s320/bolivia2.gif" width="292" /></a>"Bienvenidos." I said with a smile. Her eyes softened and began to shine like dark, wet gemstones. A smile formed in the corners of her mouth.<br />
<br />
"Why did you leave Bolivia?" my friend asked.<br />
Faustina's smile disappeared as she answered in Spanish. "So much poverty," she shook her head. "Bolivia is so poor--one of the poorest countries in South America." With that, she continued to eat. She was obviously very hungry and not shy about taking big bites. We all ate in silence, occasionally looking up at each other and exchanging awkward smiles. She appeared to be in her thirties but I wondered if maybe she was actually much younger. She had a plain, but friendly face--like the face of someone you would trust with your children, but something about it--the lines in her forehead and the creases in the corners of her eyes told me she had seen and experienced a lot.<br />
My friend shared a little bit more about how she came to California from Mexico, talking about her father and the <i>Bracero</i> work program--the diplomatic agreement which allowed Mexican immigrants to come to America to work. Faustina did not elaborate on her journey, only saying that she came here all by herself. I tried to picture where Bolivia was on a map and how many countries she would have to pass through if she walked here or came by train. I wondered how long it took her to get here, if she had paid someone to guide her or if she had followed others. Recently, I had watched a special on CBS on the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dari%C3%A9n_Gap" target="_blank">Darien Gap,</a> the swampy, jungle pass between Columbia and Panama which thousands of migrants use each year to move through South and Central America on their way to Mexico and then on to the United States. Many never make it through this gap--succumbing to the roaring rivers, bitter cold, hungry tigers, or violent gangs. I wondered if she had passed through that area or if she had somehow found her way to America by way of the ocean, coming in through Florida. I thought about the courage it would take to come so far all alone and how bad--how desperate things must have been for her in Bolivia to take that kind of risk.<br />
"That must have been scary," I said in Spanish.<br />
"Si." Her voice was very soft. She looked down and took the last bite of her burrito as I finished my final taco. My friend nibbled on a radish, emptying her plate of everything but green specs of cilantro.<br />
"Listas?" I asked if we were ready to go.<br />
We stood up and emptied our trash carefully into the overflowing bin behind us. We pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool night. I was glad it was late September and the hot summer nights were over. I zipped up my jacket as a slight breeze brushed against me. That's when I noticed Faustina didn't have a jacket and was in a short-sleeved shirt. My friend noticed too, and immediately took off her sweater and held it out. Faustina seemed startled by the gesture at first, then slowly stuck her hands through the armholes. It fit perfectly, like it was made for her. She looked at my friend with a questioning look like she was wondering how she would give it back.<br />
"Keep it," my friend said.<br />
A smile took over Faustina's face. "Muchas gracias! "Dios la bendiga!" (God bless you.)<br />
"My pleasure," my friend replied. "Mucho gusto. Dios la bendiga, tambien."<br />
We both hugged Faustina and said goodbye as the breeze picked up and the street lights turned on. My friend and I stood and watched her walk toward Lyons Avenue one tiny step at a time, her narrow shoulders wrapped in a sweater, her hair pulled back into a small, tight ponytail that didn't move. When she disappeared around the corner, we turned around and the first thing I saw was the red wooden cross on the church across the street. My eyes filled up with tears as a verse from the Bible popped into my head: "Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so, some of you will have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it..." (Hebrews 13:2)<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Bievenida Angel.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
-H. Horner, copyright 2017. Use, publish or print with permission of the author only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122.<br />
<br />
#bodyofchrist #lutheranimmigrationandrefugeeservice #lirs #dreamers #immigrationcompassion<br />
Live in Santa Clarita and love street tacos? Get the BEST street tacos here: <span class="_xdb" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bolder;"> El Pariente, </span><span class="_Xbe" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">24375 Main St, Newhall, CA 91321</span><br />
<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-76149063535054166912017-08-15T20:51:00.000-07:002017-08-15T20:51:13.065-07:00Sticks & Stoics: 12 Tips to Beat Stress<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GXhPg0azENM/WYk1l6cKANI/AAAAAAAACXo/YudGju7fl_Q_1rI3MT0JFq7sllkEgWbnACLcBGAs/s1600/aurelius.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="116" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GXhPg0azENM/WYk1l6cKANI/AAAAAAAACXo/YudGju7fl_Q_1rI3MT0JFq7sllkEgWbnACLcBGAs/s1600/aurelius.jpg" /></a><b>As long as there have been people, there has been stress. </b><br />
I read an article today about first century Roman stoics Marcus Aurelius (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marcus_Aurelius" target="_blank">More About Aurelius</a>) and Seneca the Younger (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seneca_the_Younger" target="_blank">More About Seneca</a>). They took a "matter of fact" approach to managing stress--telling people to lean on logic, mindfulness, and emotion-free decision making to get through life. It's where we get the word "stoic." Their advice for dealing with tough people and tough times back around 100AD make a lot of sense all these years later. Not that I am stoic or anything. I can be <i>semi</i>-stoic when I am fully rested, not having a hot flash, and have had sufficient chocolate. That's precisely why I called this blog entry "Sticks and Stoics: 12 Tips to Beat Stress." About half of the helpful tips below come directly from the stoics and the other half--the "sticks" come from me. Why "sticks"? Because they are the reminders I need continually <i>beat</i> into my head. And I hope you find them helpful in beating stress. If not, get some rest and chocolate. It works for me.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: blue;">Sticks
& Stoics…12 Tips to Beat Stress</span></span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4enXLgC_uUQ/WYk1l5bMRVI/AAAAAAAACXk/7CmZW3WR-vcvebyGkWuTpGSfiaz4n_CmQCLcBGAs/s1600/stress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="217" data-original-width="232" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4enXLgC_uUQ/WYk1l5bMRVI/AAAAAAAACXk/7CmZW3WR-vcvebyGkWuTpGSfiaz4n_CmQCLcBGAs/s1600/stress.jpg" /></a>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Overcome
the paralysis of your negative imagination. More suffering happens in our
minds than in reality. Most of what we worry about never happens.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Choose
not to be harmed and you won’t be harmed. Don’t feel harmed and you
haven’t been.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Stop
staring at the problem and start focusing on the solution. Problems are
opportunities. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Get over
yourself. You have it really good. Really.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Focus on
what you can control and let go of what you can’t. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Don’t
assume the other person is “up to no good.” (i.e. Don’t assume bad
intentions.)<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Don’t put
your health in the hands of someone else by letting them control your emotions. Stress kills so kill stress.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Get
perspective: Consider that you could be wrong and that you are small
in the grand scheme of life. Humility is freeing.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Choose
your battles. If something/someone bothers you, make sure a response is
worth it. Does it violate your core values or just bug you? There is
a difference between a mosquito bite and a shark bite. Respond
accordingly. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Feeling
down? Lift up someone else. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Remember why you are on this planet. (Put things in perspective by thinking beyond this temporal world. What is your purpose? Passion? Faith?)<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Easy
choices, hard life. Hard choices, easy life. (Making a hard choice can be stressful, but it saves you a lot of stress down the road.)</li>
</ol>
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Feel free to share, forward and comment.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
- Hope Horner</div>
<div>
On Twitter @HopeNote</div>
<div>
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122</div>
<div>
Copyright 2017 - No offline use or online publication with author's consent.</div>
<div>
#beatstress #nostress #stressfree </div>
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Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-47680005746073441692017-05-07T10:53:00.002-07:002022-02-03T14:16:15.540-08:00Starbucks at 3:30PM and Other Things to 'Pour Over'At 3:30 p.m. I ordered a Starbucks coffee. Not a fancy mocha-latte or an iced coffee, but a traditional, run-of-the-mill hot coffee.<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oeKbPnER7-w/WQ8g9P2lVxI/AAAAAAAACXM/uwEQVnOhlEE-Fe7G63UNWCffRl6X4q-kwCLcB/s1600/starbucks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oeKbPnER7-w/WQ8g9P2lVxI/AAAAAAAACXM/uwEQVnOhlEE-Fe7G63UNWCffRl6X4q-kwCLcB/s200/starbucks.jpg" width="200" /></a>The employee who took my order stammered.<br />
"Ah, OK, well, let me check because we stopped serving our blonde roast at, uh, around noon so it means in order to do that, I would have to do a 'pour over.'"<br />
"A pour over?" I asked.<br />
"Yes, because we no longer have it brewing this late in the afternoon, I have to do what's called a 'pour over.'"<br />
I had no idea what he meant, but I pictured him going through the trash in the back to retrieve a filter full of used coffee grounds from the morning and pouring hot water over it. I did want coffee, but not that bad. Or maybe it meant that he was going to have to use some special pouring device to hand make my coffee? Either way, I wasn't sure so I asked.<br />
"What do you mean by a 'pour over'?"<br />
"It means I have to grind the beans and then pour hot water over them. I have to make it especially for you because there's none brewing. Hold on, let me ask if I can do that."<br />
He turned to a co-worker behind him who was busy pouring milk into a cup.<br />
"Hey Melissa, can we make a blonde roast right now?"<br />
"Sure," she said, "but you'll have to do a pour over."<br />
"Yeah, I told her that." He turned back to me and said he could do it. He sounded disappointed.<br />
"Thank you." I said.<br />
But that's not what I wanted to say. The sarcastic wheelhouse inside my head was spinning as I stepped away from the counter and headed toward the pick-up area.<br />
<i>You mean a 'pour over' is when you grind coffee beans and then pour hot water over them? Isn't that called 'making coffee'?! Wait a minute! Aren't I in a coffee house? Or did I make a wrong turn and end up ordering coffee at the service desk at Lowe's next door? Nope. Here I was in a brand new Starbucks ordering a short blonde roast at 3:30 p.m. and because it wasn't 7 a.m. or 9 a.m. or even 11:59 a.m., they were going to have to make it special just for me. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Yup, it's true.</i><br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8mSRjdtI6E/WQ8g9M-1baI/AAAAAAAACXU/D3IZbG5otHcKVdbjvvVgxWQyA5NjwGf3ACEw/s1600/starbucks2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_8mSRjdtI6E/WQ8g9M-1baI/AAAAAAAACXU/D3IZbG5otHcKVdbjvvVgxWQyA5NjwGf3ACEw/s200/starbucks2.jpg" width="200" /></a><i>They would have to make coffee in a coffee house.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
While I 'poured over' this absurdity waiting for my special order joe, I looked around at all the folks hanging out inside the store. A few were sitting at round wooden tables talking, but most were sitting alone--their ears plugged with headphones-- typing or scrolling on their devices or laptops. Everyone seemed to have a plastic cup full of melting ice or dissolving foam. Some people were only a few inches apart on stools, yet entirely in their own world. I thought about all the opportunities they were missing to talk, to get to know each other, to find out what they had in common. I sighed. Nothing wrong with doing your homework, answering a few emails, or typing up that report for work, but when did we start going to public places to do stuff privately?<br />
Probably about the same time fancy machines started making coffee.<br />
Is that why it's a big deal when someone orders coffee after lunch? We can't just grab it from the machine behind us. We have to grind and pour. By hand. Make it special. It takes time. A personal touch. Patience.<br />
So this makes me wonder...At some point will it become a big deal, maybe even a hassle, to talk to people instead of texting them? Will we get so used to machine-conducted communication that when we actually have to talk face to face we will feel inconvenienced? Will it feel old-fashioned, unfamiliar and slightly annoying? Will talking become a 'pour over'? We can do it, but we'd rather not?<br />
I see it happening already. Meeting in person is so "yesterday" when you can just Skype, email, text or Facetime. And by "yesterday" I mean 1990's. It really hasn't been that long since technology started changing how we communicate, including what we do when we're waiting. Speaking of waiting, my coffee was taking quite awhile. I was starting to wonder if they had to go out back and pick the beans. Now THAT would be asking a lot. I could hear my cell phone calling to me while I waited. "Check your email!" it said. "See how many likes your post got!" it beckoned. I resisted the urge to disappear into my own world. <i>I'm going to do things the old fashioned way </i>I thought. I'm going to TALK to someone in a coffee house. Engage. Be friendly.<br />
I looked around. There were a few people waiting for their coffee just a few feet away from me. I could strike up a conversation. Share my 'pour over' experience. Mingle.<br />
But I need my coffee first. Especially after noon.<br />
<br />
-Hope A. Horner, 2017<br />
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122 for reprinting, publishing or to comment.<br />
https://twitter.com/hopenote<br />
#starbucks #putdownyourphoneandtalkHope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-91043893585027001372017-04-15T10:32:00.001-07:002022-02-03T14:17:13.709-08:00Hermana (Sister)<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ryMqInaCFpc/WPJSRfKbwvI/AAAAAAAACW0/WlVtyLFS8IgCVD37M_qJX93DoAZ_o1VPgCLcB/s1600/store.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ryMqInaCFpc/WPJSRfKbwvI/AAAAAAAACW0/WlVtyLFS8IgCVD37M_qJX93DoAZ_o1VPgCLcB/s1600/store.jpg" /></a><i><span style="color: #0b5394;">They are sister and brother.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">They are sister and brother.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">Ellos son hermana y hermano.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">She is my mother.</span></i><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><i>She is my mother.</i><i></i></span><br />
<div style="display: inline !important;">
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">Ella es mi madre.</span></i></div>
<i><br /></i>
She was writing and didn't see me when I walked in the store. The man's voice coming from the small boom box behind her was pleasant and sounded young. He had only a slight accent.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">She is my sister.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">She is my sister.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">Ella es mi hermana.</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
After each sentence she wrote in a spiral notebook that was open on the counter near the register. I stood there until she lifted her head.<br />
<i>Te puedo ayudar?</i> (May I help you?) She had almond skin, short curly hair and a friendly face.<br />
<i>Si, por favor. Tiene usted cosas para la cocina? (Yes, please. Do you have kitchen items?) </i>I replied. I needed a few things for an upcoming dinner party.<br />
<br />
She smiled and nodded for me to come toward her. I noticed she had a variety of Mexican candies on the counter, including <i>de la Rosa</i> which is my favorite. They're a bit like peanut butter dust so you have to eat them carefully, but they are <i>melt-in-your-mouth</i> delicious. The man's voice behind her continued on.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">He is my brother.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">He is my brother.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">El es mi hermano.</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"I'm learning."<i> </i>She said and tilted her head toward the sound. Her accent was thick.<br />
"That's great! Que bueno." I said. I wasn't sure whether to respond in English or Spanish so I used both.<br />
She hesitated, then pushed her notepad toward me and pointed at what she had written with her pen.<br />
"Is right?"<br />
She had written a few sentences in the notepad. Her letters were large and curly. I noticed she had spelled the word "the" "tha." I told her to change the "a" to an "e." <br />
"Ay!" she exclaimed and crossed out the "a" and made it into an "e."<br />
She was confusing the English "e" sound with "a." "There" was spelled "thar." "Where" was spelled "Whar."<br />
I pointed these out and she corrected them.<br />
"English es muy dificil." she said.<br />
"Si, muy dificil." I responded. She shook her head. She told me in Spanish about her troubles with English vowels and flipped back a few pages in her notebook to show me where she had crossed out her mistakes and made corrections. I told her English was confusing compared to Spanish. In Spanish, you always know how the vowels are going to sound because they don't change. Not in English. The vowel "e" can be pronounced many different ways.<br />
<br />
She said she was taking English classes at the library and used these cassette tapes, which she also found at the library, to practice. She grabbed one and handed it to me. I looked at the label. They were from 1995 and called "English on TV." I hadn't seen a cassette tape in awhile so it made me smile. I remembered all my cassettes from back in the 1980's and how they would inevitably get 'eaten' by my tape players. She said she listened to the tapes here at work because she didn't have any other time to teach herself English. She said she was struggling to learn, but the classes and tapes were helping.<br />
<br />
The man's voice behind her moved on to new sentences and she wrote carefully in her notebook, occasionally pointing and asking me if her words were correct. Before too long, she was telling me her story-how she was brought to California from Mexico by her parents when she was 12 years old. She said her family settled in Bakersfield and when her parents sent her to middle school there she was so afraid she cried nearly every day for a year. She eventually dropped out. She moved here, closer to the coast, and opened this small business with her husband. The store sold party goods, snacks and dollar store items. In the window was a piñata of Chilindrina, a character from a famous Mexican TV show. Candles, cheap plastic toys and multi-colored paper plates sat on shelves. She told me that most of her family was still in Bakersfield and she felt it was a real shame that many of them, now in their 50's and 60's like her, no longer spoke Spanish, only English. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P5_e9FZb-qE/WPJSTXQSYSI/AAAAAAAACW4/CeN9P6E0ynIvG5GUE3Rz1uioeI03DhTkQCEw/s1600/de%2Bla%2Brosa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P5_e9FZb-qE/WPJSTXQSYSI/AAAAAAAACW4/CeN9P6E0ynIvG5GUE3Rz1uioeI03DhTkQCEw/s200/de%2Bla%2Brosa.jpg" width="200" /></a>"You need to speak English," She said, "that why I learn, but two languages is better, no?" I agreed.<br />
I had just gotten back from Europe where nearly everyone spoke at least two languages. My Italian tour guide spoke four, and was learning a fifth.<br />
"Como se llama?" I asked her.<br />
"Anita." She said.<br />
"Mucho gusto Anita."<br />
"Mucho gusto.Y como se llama usted?"<br />
"Hope..." I paused and then added "Esperanza."<br />
"Esperanza? Hope es Esperanza en español?"<br />
"Si." I said.<br />
"Oh, si Esperanza! Mucho gusto!"<br />
<br />
I smiled and walked farther into the store. She had forgotten I had asked about kitchen items, but I didn't mind. The store only had four aisles so I found my way to the right section easily. As I walked, I translated the man's English sentences into Spanish, waiting to hear the final sentence to see if I had gotten it right. I grabbed a small metal cheese grater and a orange juicer and when I returned to the register, I added a "de la Rosa" candy.<br />
"Gracias Anita." I said as she handed me my change and receipt.<br />
Gracias Esperanza!" She smiled.<br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">You are my sister.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">You are my sister.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">Tu eres mi hermana.</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
-Hope A. Horner, 2017<br />
Contact Hope on gmail at hopeh1122<br />
Follow on Twitter at http://twitter.com/hopenote<br />
<br />
<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-65694157409937805842017-03-05T10:39:00.000-08:002017-03-05T10:39:12.509-08:00I Just Paid $40 for Mercury and Arsenic PoisoningSushi.<br />
Love it or hate it; it's a national craze. Has been for awhile.<br />
And every time I have some, there is always someone to remind me there is "so much mercury in fish these days" and "that rice has high levels of arsenic."<br />
Really?<br />
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And by "Really?" I don't mean: "Really, sushi has mercury and arsenic?"<br />
I mean: "Really?! You had to ruin my lunch?!"<br />
For every food we put in our mouth to nourish our bodies, there is an equal and opposite reaction. And there is always someone to point it out, isn't there?<br />
<br />
I used to hate sushi. Not because I was worried about being poisoned by toxins, but because the thought of eating raw fish made me gag. I tried it once years ago and felt nauseated afterward; it probably wasn't because I had bad fish. It was because I looked at what I was eating. The friend I was with was eating octopus and squid and what looked like the shaved off backs of every fish you'd find in Santa Monica Bay (talk about toxins!) I picked at my California roll and sat quietly. I did not spoil her lunch even though it looked like she was devouring an exhibit from the Aquarium of the Pacific.<br />
No matter what we eat, there is something in it that is going to kill us. Granted, some foods manage to do it efficiently (i.e. fried food, butter, mayonnaise...or fried food <i>with</i> butter and mayonnaise, i.e. lethal injection.) But still. Even celery can kill you if it isn't organic with all the pesticides farmers use to keep bugs from eating this vegetable that humans won't eat. And even if it is organic, you might die of depression from having to eat it. We're only here a short while so let me choose how I want to poison myself with delicious food. I get five servings of fruits and vegetables every day (Does cereal count as a fruit?) and I work out five days a week. I don't eat red meat. I go to the doctor regularly and allow him to run my vitals and perform other uncomfortable tests that involve stirrups and vice grips (not all at once thankfully). So please, just let me eat my mercury and arsenic in peace won't you? If you see a second head growing out of my neck, just politely smile and pass me the soy sauce.<br />
<br />
-Hope A. Horner, 2017<br />
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122<br />
#ilovesushi #sushi #healthyeating #youonlyliveonce<br />
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/hopenoteHope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-22757948929170174482016-12-25T19:04:00.000-08:002016-12-25T19:04:46.477-08:00Smoke, Speed and Drink WineI feel hung over. After an eight day trip to Italy, visiting four airports in 22 hours while fighting a gnarly head cold, I woke up back in America on Christmas not knowing what day it was. Oh, that's right. This is the day Jesus was born. It's called Christmas. Wait, where am I?<br />
Even though my head is three feet thick on the most important day of the year, it was worth it. Italy was amazing--like an outdoor museum. Every building, statue, fountain, staircase and lamp-post seemed to be 2000 years old and designed by a famous artist. The country is full of majestic rivers and ruins, beautiful fountains and flora and people who smoke, drive like maniacs and park on sidewalks.<br />
I am not kidding.<br />
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I made the mistake of sitting at the front of the tour bus a few times and was absolutely shocked at how often we came millimeters from sending a brunette on a motor-scooter to her death or vaulting a pedestrian into a fountain. Smart cars, fiats, scooters and motorcycles weaved around us and criss-crossed in front of us like angry bees. We drove winding, narrow, ancient roads where our bus driver had to honk as he approached a curve to ensure that pedestrians, drivers, birds, WHOEVER, would not end up on the windshield. On one trip up a hill to a Tuscan restaurant, I don't think I breathed the entire trip. I gasped, but didn't breathe. My tour guide actually warned me not to sit in the front because of the craziness I would witness. I should have listened. She also told me when I used crosswalks in Rome to just "step out and smile." I tried it and made it home to talk about it, but there were a few times I almost ended up a hood ornament. At least I would have been a smiling hood ornament.<br />
<br />
<b>Here are a few others things I learned that I think you should know if you plan to travel to Italy:</b><br />
<br />
<ol>
<li><b>Order wine.</b> Italians drink wine at every meal. OK, maybe not breakfast, but they don't really eat breakfast so that doesn't count. (I felt like a PIG eating anything more than a postage stamp sized pastry and a drop of espresso.) At lunch, they will offer you soda just to be nice, but if you order it, you will look like a crazy American.</li>
<li><b>Whatever you do, if you DO order a soda, do not drink it straight out of the bottle or can.</b> Evidently, Italians think that is gross (i.e. American). One time in Amalfi after ordering a slice of pizza, I asked for a can of Italian orange soda (wine was not an option since this was a fast-food like place) and was asked if I wanted a plastic cup to go with my soda. I said no. I was promptly handed a straw. It became clear to me that OBVIOUSLY, if I wasn't going to POUR my drink into a cup, then I was going to sip it with a STRAW because I would NEVER drink it straight out of the can like a barbarian (i.e. American). I learned my lesson.</li>
<li><b>Put down your money. </b>Want to hand that bill to your cashier? Don't. Put it down my friend. Right there on the counter. Let her pick it up. And when your change comes back, do not stick out your hand like a peasant. Just wait for her to plop (or slam) it down in front of you, then meekly pick it up one Euro coin at a time while the Italian behind you pushes you out of the way.</li>
<li><b>Take up smoking.</b> You might as well. You are going to smell smoke everywhere you go--sidewalks, restaurants, cafes, museums, parks--it doesn't matter. I think I even smelled smoke inside the Vatican at one point, but that may have been money burning in the tourist's pockets when they caught site of the bottled holy water in the gift shop. If you want fresh air, you'll have to leave the country. Let me put it this way--I had to come back to Los Angeles to breathe clean air. Does that tell you something?</li>
<li><b>Do not drive, but if you must, drive like you are being chased or you are late for your wedding.</b> Do not wait behind other cars or large tour buses, simply zip around them like they are children on tricycles. Speed on the wrong side of the road. Flash your lights to tell other drivers to get out of you way. Honk profusely. If you are on the freeway, flash your lights and honk profusely at the same time. Back up into oncoming traffic on a narrow street and cuss people out in your best Italian as they gesture at you with disgust. One thing though, wear a helmet. Yes, even if you are driving a car.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</li>
<li><b>Park wherever you'd like.</b> Anywhere really. In America, you get a ticket if you park in a handicapped spot or on a one lane road, and you'd get towed if you dared to park on the curb in front of a store with your bumper 6 inches from display window. But not in Italy where parking is a free for all! If someone beats you to a spot, act like you are at the Hollywood Bowl and stack park behind them.</li>
<li><b>Stop smiling, talking loudly and laughing.</b> What is it about being American that makes us so dang happy all the time? I think Italians find this very annoying, bordering on obnoxious. My tour group was constantly "shushing" each other every where we went because no matter whether we were in a restaurant or a museum, no one else was talking loudly, or laughing, or smiling. I pretty much walked around Italy for eight days trying to hold in my laugh and talk like I was a nun in a library.</li>
<li> <b>Learn a language other than English.</b> Everyone I met in Italy spoke at least three languages, usually Italian, English and French. Our tour guide spoke Italian, Spanish, English and French and was learning Portuguese. I speak English and intermediate Spanish. I felt like an uneducated moron. I learned four Italian phrases (three were greetings) and that was all my brain could hold. The good news is if you speak only English, you will have no problem in Italy since nearly everyone speaks English and a lot of signs are in English, but you will feel like you should have paid more attention in your high school language classes or at least ordered Rosetta Stone for Christmas.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</li>
<li><b>Do not wear white tennis shoes. Or baseball hats.</b> PLEASE. No one in Italy wears these except the American tourists. Italians dress like every day is business casual Friday or they are headed to a fashion show. If they wear jeans, they are form fitting (bordering on "painted-on" if you are under 30) and a nice collared shirt or sweater with a puffy jacket and a scarf if it is cold. The men wear brown leather dress shoes or boots. White sneakers and baseball hats look tacky inside the Pantheon or other places of importance. It just doesn't seem right to be standing next to two thousand year old ruins in the Forum with a Dodgers logo on your head.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</li>
<li><b>Watch your step. </b>Americans are used to smooth paved roads, hand railings on stairs and flashing signs that say "Watch Your Step." Italians are not. You either watch your step or fall head first into the burial site of an ancient pope or off of a sheer cliff into the Mediterranean. So for goodness sake, put down your phone unless you want a selfie of your last few seconds on the planet.</li>
</ol>
<div>
That's about it. I hope you find this helpful if you decide to travel to Italy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to have some wine, a smoke, and head to bed.</div>
<div>
Buon Natale!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
-Hope A. Horner, 2016</div>
<div>
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122</div>
<div>
or follow on Twitter @HopeNote</div>
<div>
#visitItaly</div>
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#iloveitaly</div>
<div>
#italyblog</div>
Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-62087528332705467282016-11-27T14:15:00.000-08:002016-11-27T14:15:46.228-08:00I Blew it on Small Business SaturdayI just couldn't do it.<br />
Saturday was "Small Business Saturday." I was supposed to go out and support local small businesses and snub the big chain stores.<br />
But it just didn't happen.<br />
I needed hardware for my new house - nuts and bolts, that type of thing.<br />
Anybody seen a local hardware store around lately?<br />
Exactly.<br />
I ended up at Lowe's and got what I needed.<br />
At least I didn't go online. Or shop at Walmart. Give me SOME credit.<br />
<br />
Shopping local just ain't as easy as it used to be. Many small town stores just don't exist anymore. It's all Home Depot and Target and Toys R Us and Petsmart. The best I could do this past Saturday was have coffee at a non-chain coffee shop--A place with three chairs, a lady with braided hair and an espresso machine that sounded like a VW bug. But that didn't happen. I made myself Starbucks coffee at home. My home is small; does that count? It wasn't that long ago there were small stores for tools, electronics, pet supplies, sporting goods, and toys. Now they're like endangered species: Rare, specialized and really expensive to try to save.<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CaO7GzpkF6I/WDtSFvB3wCI/AAAAAAAACVA/VsMp-M0U7oArDrht18_tQkB7CQC_O2jOACEw/s1600/martyshobbiesbinside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CaO7GzpkF6I/WDtSFvB3wCI/AAAAAAAACVA/VsMp-M0U7oArDrht18_tQkB7CQC_O2jOACEw/s200/martyshobbiesbinside.jpg" width="200" /></a>I grew up in the 1970's and 80's in a suburb of Los Angeles. Even being that close to the big city, we had lots of small businesses to support. A few of my favorites were Burt's Pharmacy (I was too young for prescription meds, but they had LOTS of jawbreakers, lemon-heads and Snickers bars) and Marty's Hobbies. Only one of the two still exist today and it has added drones to its inventory. Poor ol' Burt probably got beat out by Rite Aid and CVS. I wonder if Marty is worried about Hobby Lobby coming to town? I remember back in the early 1980's Marty had a soda machine right at the front of his store. It wasn't the usual type of machine. It was a tall metal machine that dispensed bottled soda---grape, orange, cola, lemon lime. I think they were 25 or 30 cents--I can't remember--but you would put in your money and pull a soda out of what looked like a vertical wine cooler. It made a great <i>ker-chunk</i> sound when you pulled it out. Even better, it had a built in bottle opener and when you pried the bottle open, the cap would fall in a catch basin below. Soooo coool. The grape soda was the best! Sometimes I would just go into the store to get a soda and walk out. I wasn't much of a fan of the remote control cars or model airplanes. I preferred the music store just a few doors down that had cassettes and CDs in giant packages. I forget the name of this<br />
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store, but it was where I bought my first CD. I wish I could tell you it was U2, or Talking Heads, or Bruce Springsteen, but instead it was Falco. I know, it's a crying shame I saved all the money from washing Dad's car and scooping up dog poop in the backyard to buy a CD with <i>Rock Me Amadeus </i>on it.<br />
Now I don't even buy CDs anymore.<br />
I don't buy music anymore!<br />
I have a subscription to Spotify and listen to Sirius XM in my car.<br />
My how things have changed. Even if I wanted to buy a CD this past Saturday, I would have been hard-pressed to find one. Does Best Buy still sell CDs? I had heard they were phasing out their CD department. Plus, I was not about to elbow my way around sleepy people carrying $40 ninety inch flat-screens to get Sting's latest album. Album? Speaking of album...<br />
Remember record stores? So maybe I am not old enough to remember the REAL record stores of the 50's and 60's with listening booths and rows and rows of vinyl, but I have perused a few pretty cool ones in Southern California. I have about 100 records in my collection and love the scratch the needle makes when you first put it on the record and the rush of warm nostalgia that flows out between the crackling of dust.<br />
I should have hit some records stores on small business Saturday. It's just that I didn't need any more records and the things I did need, were not available at small stores anymore.<br />
Small business Saturday. Shop local while you can; if you can! I didn't do such a great job this year, but I'm grateful my childhood was full of bottled soda and 10 cent candy in small cardboard boxes. I'm still sorry my first CD was a one hit wonder though. By the way, where is that thing? I might be able to put it up on Ebay.<br />
<br />
-Hope A. Horner, 2016<br />
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-15017765198283575552016-10-30T09:20:00.002-07:002022-02-03T14:21:28.614-08:00Boo! 10 Ways Fear Disables Leaders<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
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The ghosts. </div>
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The ghouls. </div>
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The goblins. </div>
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It's Halloween--the time of year we love to be afraid.</div>
I was waiting in line outside a "Haunted Hospital"at a Halloween event the other day and wondered, "What is it about being scared that is so much fun?" It's the adrenaline rush. The unknown. The loud screaming and frantic group hugs. <b>Fear can be fun this time of year, however, at work? Not so much.</b> Fear causes problems when we let it drive our decision making. As leaders, we'd like to think we make decisions rationally based on input from stakeholders, survey results, and good common sense, but sometimes we make decisions based on the "scary what ifs." Depending on our line of work, we could be afraid of financial loss, angry customers, politicians, liability, lawsuits, looking bad, setting a precedent, or failing all together. All important to consider, but when fear becomes our bottom line--the driving factor behind our decisions--then our decision making will be skewed.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #b45f06;">Here are 10 things that can happen when we let fear drive our decision making:</span></b><br />
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<br />
<ol>
<li><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">We no longer take risks.</span></b> Instead, we play it safe. And the result? Our products, programs, and services become homogenized and sanitized. We aren't special; we're "one size fits all." We lose our uniqueness, impact, relevance, and creative edge. It's like being a ghost in a white sheet for Halloween every year. Boring.</li>
<li><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">We become paralyzed. </span></b>We no longer make decisions or recommendations. We leave that to "the higher ups"--our supervisor, board, CEO, lawyers, or council. Pretty soon we find ourselves running even the simple things up the chain of command because we don't want to be the one to make a mistake or have "something come back to haunt us." (Soon our staff will be paralyzed, too. See the next point.)</li>
<li><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">We micromanage those who work for us.</span></b> We require our staff to ask for approval for nearly everything--turning our team members into robots who can't even order a pencil without asking for permission. We make them do research before they can proceed on even the simplest idea. (a.k.a. "Analysis Paralysis") And if what they propose to do isn't listed as a "best practice" in some important document somewhere, we won't 'practice' it at all.</li>
<li><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">We become "Negative Neds or Nancys."</span></b> We talk more about what we can't do, than what we can. We point to other businesses/organizations that screwed up and say "We don't want to end up like them." We find ourselves describing "worst case scenarios;" overplaying the "what-ifs" and as a result morale suffers, creativity dies, and paranoia thrives. </li>
<li><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>We put people in boxes or "demonize" them</b>.</span> When we're scared or uncertain, it's easier to just say a customer, co-worker, or boss is "always like that" or "that group of people always..." We rely on broad generalizations and stereotypes as opposed to seeking to understand (or encouraging) a different perspective or trying to build relationships. When everyone is in their box (coffin?), we feel safe.</li>
<li><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>We don't do special things for special people.</b> </span>We lump all our customers/participants together and treat them all the same regardless of whether or not we are actually meeting their unique needs. Did one person get a little extra special attention in a program or service? Did we modify a product, process, or program to meet a customer's unique need? Well, that's not fair to the rest of the customers/participants so therefore NO ONE will get any special attention. </li>
<li><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">We create paycheck collectors</span></b>--<i>paranoid</i> paycheck collectors. Everyone is so worried about making a mistake or standing out for the wrong reasons that they just do the bare minimum or only what they're told. Team members work hard to "stay under the radar" and just "do their job" which isn't working hard at all. The core motivating factor for all humans--making a difference--gets lost and people just do what their told or what's in their job description and nothing more. </li>
<li><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>We end up naked and don't know it.</b> </span>Remember the children's story "The Emperor Has No Clothes"? <a href="http://deoxy.org/emperors.htm" target="_blank">Read it Here</a> Fear makes people "go along to get along." They don't want to disagree with the boss or sound like the "squeaky wheel." They think: "I'm not going to say anything because this could come back to haunt me." As a result, leaders no longer receive honest input from their employees about how they are doing or candid feedback on the direction the company or organization is headed. Good leaders know that employees fear speaking up and encourage a culture where people can speak the truth. We can't just tell people to "talk straight" and expect them to do that. We have to show that we can tolerate difference of opinion or criticism by listening respectfully and with an open mind. Also, do we only hire, reward, and promote those who tow the line? Disparage, alienate, or mock those who dare to disagree? </li>
<li><span style="color: #b45f06;"> <b>Our </b></span><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">health suffers</span>.</b> Fear activates our adrenal glands and releases a "flight or fight" response in our bodies. This is good if we are running from a goblin, but elevated cortisol hardens our arteries, skews our thinking, and makes us more prone to heart disease, weight gain, diabetes, and high blood pressure.</li>
<li><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">Ironically, what we fear becomes more likely.</span> </b>Fear keeps us from building relationships with our customers, clients, and participants. We just want to get them "in and out" of our programs, offices, and businesses without getting sued or yelled at. We want them to use our products and not complain. They're no longer people; they're numbers, survey respondents, spreadsheet fillers. So we lose touch. As a result we lose the very thing that keeps us from having problems in the first place: relationships. When we care for our customers/participants and they care for us, they are more likely to talk things through, work things out, let things go, and give us the benefit of the doubt when things go wrong.</li>
</ol>
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As leaders we have to consider risks and use common sense to ensure our products, programs and services are safe, equitable, and inclusive. Of course, we must think about consequences, but we can do that without letting fear rule our every move. We can listen. Take a chance. Be courageous. Be creative. Think big. Welcome different perspectives. Encourage respectful disagreement. Ask for input. Make decisions. Make mistakes. Make exceptions. Make a difference.<br />
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Now, if you're done reading this, please sign below indicating that you will not sue me if none of the above works.</div>
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x___________________________________</div>
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-Hope A. Horner, 2016</div>
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Contact author on hotmail at hopeh1122</div>
#forbes #leadershipnow #fearbasedleadership #hopehorner<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T5dYuHxcr3E/WBYZXIGtRlI/AAAAAAAACUA/b08q9E0c1mAEROJAtRMkEI_pRTAQ_SNcQCLcB/s1600/mandela-fear-quote.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T5dYuHxcr3E/WBYZXIGtRlI/AAAAAAAACUA/b08q9E0c1mAEROJAtRMkEI_pRTAQ_SNcQCLcB/s400/mandela-fear-quote.png" width="400" /></a>For more great insight into this subject, check out this article for Forbes by Liz Ryan:<br />
<a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/lizryan/2015/11/25/the-five-characteristics-of-fear-based-leaders/2/#2e400b2a6517" target="_blank">5 Characteristics of Fear Based Leaders</a><br />
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Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-72100564113881237142016-10-08T06:18:00.002-07:002016-10-08T06:19:04.704-07:00More Than a BodyWhen I was eight years old I asked my Mom this question:<br />
"Mom, when I get older, will I still think the same way inside my head?"<br />
She kept drying the dishes but turned to look at me.<br />
"What do you mean?" she asked.<br />
"I mean, the way I think, inside my head, will I think the same way? Be the same person inside?"<br />
She paused momentarily.<br />
"No, you won't sweetie. You will grow up and think differently."<br />
Even though this happened decades ago, I remember this conversation vividly because this was a VERY important question for me. I needed to know. I HAD to know. What I was trying to ask is, "Am I always going to be me as I know me to be inside my head?" I think about it now and that was a pretty deep question for someone who had just played Atari Donkey Kong five minutes before. No, I wasn't a budding philosopher, but I was the type of kid who always had the sense there is more than meets the eye; that there is more to this world this just the physical--just what we can touch, smell, see, and hear. I knew I was more than just a body, that there was a "me" inside my head and I was curious to know if it was going to grow up like my body. While I would add height and pounds and grow hair in strange places, would my thoughts grow up with me or was I already who I was going to be inside my head and my body just needed to catch up?<br />
I'm not sure my Mom understood what I was asking. I had a hard time putting words to that question at eight. I had to grow up to understand both what I was asking and what the answer was. Of course, now I know the real answer to that question is both yes AND No. Yes, I would always be who I am inside (my soul/spirit/person-hood), but my mind--my thoughts, attitudes, beliefs and perspective would change. Just like any good philosophical question, the answer is ABSOLUTELY CERTAINLY MAYBE.<br />
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<br />
We are more than our bodies.<br />
We are more than just mothers or sisters, daughters or sons, uncles or fathers or cousins.<br />
We are more than just employees or bosses or CEO's or day laborers.<br />
We are souls.<br />
<br />
Have you ever had a chance encounter with a stranger and felt that connection? Not a body or mind connection, not a love connection, but a soul connection? <br />
Recently, I had a cancer scare. I had a mammogram and my doctor told me to come in and have another one because they found something on my upper left breast that was "abnormal." As I sat in the waiting room for my second mammogram with a bunch of women in hospital robes, a young woman came in the room and sat next to me. Her eyes were wide and wet. She fidgeted with her gown, picked at her nails, and shuffled through her purse. She heaved a big sigh and I turned toward her.<br />
"Are you OK?" I asked.<br />
She looked up quickly and just as quickly looked back down at her hands.<br />
"Not really." She said.<br />
"Did you already have your mammogram?" I asked.<br />
She nodded. "They found something and plus I have an infection in one of my breasts and have been on medication and it is not working, so they don't know what it is." She started to cry.<br />
"I am so sorry." I reached into my purse for a tissue. I handed it to her and she took it and wiped her eyes.<br />
"I have kids." She said. "I can't even think about..."<br />
I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder.<br />
"I know. I'm sorry." I said, "This is very scary."<br />
She nodded and then looked up with eyes full of tears. "Did they find something in your scan?"<br />
"Yes." I said. "They did."<br />
"I'm sorry." She said and put her head back down.<br />
"Thank you."<br />
Just then her name was called and she grabbed her stuff and disappeared from the room holding her gown around her.<br />
I looked up and the lady sitting directly across from me gave me a timid smile. I smiled back. I thought about how we were all sitting here thinking the same thing: "Am I about to be told I have cancer?"<br />
A few minutes later, my name was called and I stood up to go with the nurse. As I walked out of the waiting area, the lady I had spoken to earlier came down the hall.<br />
"Good news!" She said. "It's nothing!" She smiled from ear to ear. I gave her a big smile and a thumbs up.<br />
"What's your name?" she asked.<br />
"Hope."<br />
"Of course it is." She said with a little chuckle, "Thank you." I hugged her and followed the nurse ahead of me into the examination room.<br />
Turns out my "abnormality" was nothing, too, and for that I was very grateful. But I will never forget that moment of connection. As we sat in that waiting room realizing our bodies may have failed us, our souls connected. We connected as people. People who were scared. Nervous. Anxious. Fragile.<br />
Maybe I have always been me inside, in the sense that I have always known there is more to me than just what meets the eye.<br />
I hope you feel that way about yourself, too, and see others the same way. It's what connects us all.<br />
We are more than our bodies.<br />
<br />
-Hope A. Horner, 2016<br />
Contact author to publish on gmail at hopeh1122. Follow on Twitter @HopeNoteHope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-81119180943008578822016-10-02T06:51:00.004-07:002016-10-02T06:51:56.098-07:00Trust, Amplified"Hi, my name is Hector. I'm interested in the amplifier?"<br />
His voice went up at the end and he had a thick accent. Hector was pronounced <i>Heck - Tor</i>, like two separate words. <i>Eeenterested</i> had a double <i>e</i> sound at the beginning.<br />
"Do you still have it?"<br />
"Yes, I do." I was selling my old Kenwood stereo amplifier on Craigslist. I had just put the ad up a few hours ago and Hector was the first person to call.<br />
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"Can I come in awhile--in 20 or 30 minutes?" He asked. I could tell he was driving.<br />
"Uh, I'm actually just heading out to dinner. Where are you?"<br />
"I am near Topanga Canyon in the Valley and I am going home to Lancaster."<br />
"Oh, so you will pass right by me." Not exactly, but close. I could tell he wanted to pick up the amp on his way.<br />
"Yes, if I can come by in a few minutes on my way that would be good."<br />
I knew on a Friday it was going to take a lot longer than a few minutes in the middle of rush hour to get from the most western part of the valley all the way to Santa Clarita.<br />
"I'll tell you what, Hector, I am going to leave the amplifier outside my door for you, OK? Just put the $20 under the door mat, OK?"<br />
He paused.<br />
"Does that work for you?" I asked.<br />
There was a long pause like he was thinking it over or maybe we had gotten disconnected?<br />
"Thank you." he said. "I will leave you the money. I promise."<br />
"I know, I trust you." I said.<br />
"Can you text me your address?"<br />
We hung up and I texted him my address. I put the amplifier on my porch next to a couple of Sparkletts water bottles I had yet to bring in, grabbed my keys, and headed out to dinner.<br />
About thirty minutes into dinner my phone rang. I excused myself from the table and went outside.<br />
"Hello?"<br />
"Hi, this is Hector. I think I am here in your neighborhood but I can't find your house."<br />
"What street are you on?" I asked. People always made a left instead of a right when they entered my town-home complex so I figured he was probably one street over. Sure enough, he was.<br />
"OK, Hector just go back out and make a right, and when you get to my street, go all the way to the end."<br />
I stayed on the phone as he drove, naming each street on his way. He eventually got to mine. "OK, I found it." I could hear the relief in his voice.<br />
"Great!' I said. I was ready to hang up and go inside to finish my dinner.<br />
"Thank you." Hector said. He sounded closer to the phone now. "Thank you for trusting me."<br />
"You're welcome, Hector. I do trust you."<br />
"You don't know me; I have an accent and you trust me. You're a wonderful person."<br />
I didn't know what to say. I think I told him thank you and enjoy the amp, drive safe, or something like that. I went back inside and finished my dinner with tears in my eyes. I knew there would be $20 under my doormat when I got home. There was.<br />
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I think about it now and I realize Hector trusted me, too. He trusted I would leave the amplifier where I said I would. He trusted that when he got home to plug it in, it would work.<br />
We had both trusted each other. Given each other the benefit of the doubt. Believed that given the opportunity the other person would do the right thing.<br />
This is how I want to live my life:<br />
Trust Amplified.<br />
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-Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2016<br />
To reprint or use offline, please contact author on gmail at hopeh1122.<br />
Follow Hope on Twitter @HopeNote<br />
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<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-41947070123499628992016-09-24T04:46:00.000-07:002016-09-24T04:46:22.303-07:00Why Spiders Make Bad Leaders<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hate spiders. While I appreciate the work they do keeping the mosquito and moth population down (frogs do the same thing and they're cute!), I just can't think warm thoughts about a spider. In fact, my blood runs cold around them. The other day I used a drinking fountain in a public park, and RIGHT THERE as I was slurping water INTO MY MOUTH, was a LITTLE BROWN SPIDER in the bowl making his way TOWARD MY FACE. I jumped back so fast, you would have thought the water was scalding hot. The poor little guy just probably wanted a drink, but that was too close for comfort. As I walked around the park with my nerves recovering, I thought about spiders and what I don't like about them (EVERYTHING) and it dawned on me that some of these disagreeable traits could also be ascribed to leaders. So while I don't want to snuggle up to a spider, I do want to thank all spiders everywhere for inspiring my latest blog about bad leadership.</div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">15 Reasons Why Spiders Make Bad Leaders<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They spin
webs that trap others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The spend
most of their time sitting and waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The work
they do comes out of their ***!<br />
They don’t clean up after themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They scare
people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They do
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The real
dangerous ones aren’t always easy to identify.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They see
others as either what they can get from them or as an enemy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They are on
your back or in your face when you least expect it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They take
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They have
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They are
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They never
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They greet
guests rudely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And when you
least expect it, they use your bathtub.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Hope Horner, ©2016</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To print or publish, please contact author on hotmail at hopeh1122</span></div>
Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-40061827873471928602016-09-11T06:53:00.000-07:002016-09-11T06:53:33.012-07:00I'm 44 and Too Old For ThisToday I was asked to fight.<br />
Let me remind you that I am a forty-four year old mild-mannered woman who has a steady day job. While I <i>am</i> a quarter Irish, I am not a member of a street gang or in a mid-life fight club. I was just minding my own business, walking to my car, when a young woman came up behind me. I was about to open my car door to get in, when I noticed she wanted to get into the car right next to me so I offered to let her go first. <br />
"No. Go. Get in." She scowled at me and waved her arm at my car. "Go!" She practically shouted.<br />
I raised my eyebrows.<br />
Wow. Really?<br />
<i>Okaaaay</i>....I said under my breath and got into my car. I closed the door, put down my purse and looked up to see this twenty-something year old blonde sticking her long middle finger as close to my face as she could get without touching the window. Behind her finger she is mouthing the words, "Come on. Get out!" Then she starts beckoning with long exaggerated "come here" gestures to get me out of my car.<br />
Is this really happening?!<br />
She is actually challenging a forty-something-year-old woman to jump out of her small SUV and "throw down" in the parking lot?<br />
I am shocked.<br />
And then I start to chuckle.<br />
I can't help it. This is hilarious!<br />
My laugh makes her friend very angry. Yes, her friend. Her friend is a twenty something year old who is sitting in the same car this girl was about to get in. Now this girl is yelling and gesturing at me from inside the car to get out. I can barely hear what both of them are saying because my window is up, but I can read lips. F Bombs are being dropped left and right and they are egging me on by repeating "Let's go b****!"<br />
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I am still smiling. In disbelief actually. It's probably making things worse, but I cannot believe that this woman is trying to start a fight with me! All I did was offer to let her get into her car first! I showed some good old fashioned manners for heaven's sake! Granted, when she rudely declined, I did raise my eyebrows and sigh an extended <i>Okaaaaay,</i> but I certainly did not say or do anything to suggest that I wanted to exchange four letter words and fisticuffs.<br />
If this sets her off, my goodness, how does she get through the day without throwing a punch? I sure hope she is in a high-energy boxing or karate program somewhere where she can work out her anger issues. I backed up my car and drove away, windows up, with both of them still begging me to fight, and smiled.<br />
OK, <i>and</i> I blew a kiss.<br />
<i>Bye ladies. Sorry I don't have time to rumble today. I have somewhere else to be. </i><br />
I was headed to my favorite thrift shop.<br />
<br />
I am an admitted thrift-aholic. I LOVE thrift shops--they are a yard sale I can always find. As someone who is direction-ally challenged, it is nice to be able to find all kinds of used goodies in one spot instead of trying to follow crooked cardboard signs written by eight year-olds in strange neighborhoods.<br />
Once I got to the thrift shop, I head to the bric-a-brac section. (I'm pretty<br />
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sure "Bric-a-brac" means "Grandma's junk" in Olde English.) As I perused a shelf full of unicorn statues and old coffee mugs, I hummed along to the hit song playing on the store radio. Then I got down on my knees to see some Disney glasses on the bottom shelf and continued to sing along. While I did not know the artist, I had heard the song before---a super catchy dance ditty with simple enough lyrics that I was able to get most of the words right. I mean if it is meant for teens in love, it is pretty easy to tell that <i>love </i>is going to rhyme with <i>above</i> and <i>night </i>is going to rhyme with r<i>ight</i>. I was singing along when this little girl came up to me. Since I was kneeling, we were at eye level.<br />
"You KNOW this song?" Her eyes were as big as saucers.<br />
"Yes, I do." I smiled at her for a moment and then added, "Do you?"<br />
"Yes," she said with a little smile on one side of her mouth. She was wearing boys basketball shorts and a dirty white t-shirt. A total tomboy. She sprinted off somewhere behind me.<br />
"Dad! That lady knows this song!" I heard her yell. I was sure at that moment she was pointing at me; her eyes expanding from saucers to dinner plates.<br />
"Really?" Her dad responded. He didn't sound as impressed as she did.<br />
"Yes! She was SINGING it." I laughed.<br />
<i>Yup, little girl. I'm pretty cool. I'm up on all the hip songs.</i><br />
Shoot. Did I just use the word 'hip'? I meant dope. Or crunk. Or tight.<br />
Whatever.<br />
Even though my knees hurt from kneeling and the Disney glasses were all dirty, my smile expanded when I thought of how I could have called her back over and whispered:<br />
<i>Hey, guess what?</i><br />
Her eyes would widen again.<br />
<i>I'm so cool I almost got in a fight today.</i><br />
Instead I just wondered how I was going to get up.<br />
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-Hope A. Horner<br />
www.HopeHorner.com<br />
Contact the author on hotmail at hopeh1122<br />
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<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-62289113719343042702016-07-24T08:14:00.001-07:002016-07-24T08:14:20.686-07:00A Writer Who Didn't Write. Until Now.I used to be a writer who didn't drink coffee. Who ever heard of such a thing? AND I was a writer who didn't burn the midnight oil. I preferred to get up to write while the early bird was picking out her worm. Then I became a writer who didn't write.<br />
Which meant I was no writer at all.<br />
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You know what it took to get me back on track? Why I am actually typing this right now?<br />
It took the kind words of a friend. She looked me square in the eyes and said, "I am going to hound you for the rest of your life about this if I have to. You NEED to write. You MUST write. I love your writing.You have a voice that needs to be heard."<br />
Wow. Her words made me realize I HAD stopped writing. I was getting over the tragic death of a friend, dealing with some health issues, navigating massive changes at work, and in the midst of all that my blog, poetry, and music had gone completely silent. The most I had typed was my eBay log-in name and password. Not good. NOT a writer. She pointed this out not in a "Hey Slacker, why the heck aren't you writing!" kind of way, but in a "Girl, you NEED to do this because you're good at it!" way. Big difference. I heard love in the second one. Kind of like sugar in the medicine, you know? <br />
OK, so I know I just blogged a compliment, (LOVE it when that happens!) but I bring this up not because to brag, but because I want to share how <b>the simplest words can do amazing things.</b><br />
<i>I already know that!</i> You say.<br />
But do you LIVE it?<br />
Do I live it?<br />
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If I had a dollar for every time I heard someone say: "I can't remember the last time my boss thanked me," I would be able to leave my retirement account to my unborn children and settle into a nice little Hacienda in Santa Barbara. OK, maybe not Santa Barbara, but Oxnard. In a recession. And maybe not a Hacienda, but a really, really nice condo, one block from the beach. OK, maybe ten blocks, but STILL--you get my point. Those two words -- "Thank you" don't get said enough. I am no perfect boss or person, but I do try to say those words on a regular basis. As the 60's hippies used to say, I try to<i> Spread the Love. </i>(Unfortunately, they spread a lot more than love, but that is beside the point.) Whenever I say thank you, someone either lights up into a big smile or tries to act nonchalant--either way, I can tell they are bursting with pride. There's nothing more motivating than feeling appreciated.<br />
I figured out another way to thank someone: Take their advice and then tell them you did. I took the advice of someone at work to go visit a particular vacation spot and when I did, I came back and told her all about it. I even used the words, "I took your advice" and she lit up like a Vegas billboard. Such simple words - "I took your advice" yet so powerful. This is what I mean by <i>living</i> out our thankfulness. I could have gone to the vacation spot and never told her. By TELLING her "I took her advice" and saying "I loved it!" I created a powerful moment of thankfulness.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ozZkAwmJ1HQ/V4Q2yUlYTkI/AAAAAAAACRA/dXUZUlW_N6M3ObPraIadEmkzmMaZVVTFwCLcB/s1600/sorry1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ozZkAwmJ1HQ/V4Q2yUlYTkI/AAAAAAAACRA/dXUZUlW_N6M3ObPraIadEmkzmMaZVVTFwCLcB/s1600/sorry1.jpg" /></a>Another phrase that has gone "MIA" at work is "Sorry" or "My mistake." These can be tough words to say when we have screwed something up. We worry we are going to lose credibility, or the confidence of our employees or Supervisor. In fact, in my experience, the exact opposite is true. I actually gain credibility and confidence from others when I am willing to admit I screwed something up, misunderstood, or accidentally dropped the ball. Notice I said "accidentally"--you CAN lose credibility and trust if you are a blatant ball-dropper and a "Sorry!" won't clean-up the mess. But everyone screws up once in awhile and the best thing to do is just admit it. Try using "Sorry" sometime and you'll see what I mean. <br />
<i>By the way, for more tips on how to say sorry at work, see my article for GovLoop here: <a href="https://www.govloop.com/community/blog/how-to-say-sorry-at-work-and-mean-it/" target="_blank">How to Say Sorry at Work and Mean It</a></i><br />
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So now, thanks to my friend's kind words, I am a writer who writes again. Oh, and I am also drinking coffee. But that is thanks to someone else. (And going to Paris last year had a little something to do with it, too!)<br />
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Thankful,<br />
Hope Horner<br />
http://www.HopeHorner.com<br />
On Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/HopeNoteHope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-81299765482232850152016-07-11T19:03:00.001-07:002016-07-11T19:03:44.902-07:00Confessions of A Strawberry ChuckerThe other day I threw a strawberry at someone I loved. She had joked that there was a worm on it just as I was about to take a bite. Normally, I would have just laughed, but instead I threw it at her in a panicked outburst.<br />
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There was no worm on my strawberry, but my brain said there was. So I chucked that strawberry like it was a baseball. At her face. I missed and it landed behind her on the floor. She laughed at first, but then when she saw that I was upset, her smiled faded. Then something even worse happened.<br />
I started to cry.<br />
A lot.<br />
I dropped my chin, covered my eyes, and sobbed.<br />
"I'm so sorry!" She said over and over, putting her arm around my shoulder to console me. I could not be comforted. I just cried and gasped and mumbled through my snot that I knew she was only kidding but I wasn't able to control myself right now. A few minutes and several apologies later, I finally got a hold of myself while my dog licked the smushed strawberry off the floor.<br />
I realized right then that stress can turn you into a whole 'nother person.<br />
It had turned me into a strawberry chucker.<br />
Why was I chucking my favorite fruit? Because a close friend had recently committed suicide. The stress of losing him has changed me in amazing ways. And by amazing, I don't mean good; I mean in ways I never expected. Besides being easily startled and a total cry-baby, I had started to act like my dog. She is a rescued whippet mix who is scared of silly things like plastic bags that float in the wind (Thank God she's never seen <i>American Beauty!), </i>fire hydrants, traffic cones, and bunnies. If she farts too loud, she runs away from her butt like it is out to get her. She also has severe separation anxiety. From age 10 months (when I adopted her) until about three years old, she'd eat the corners of my couches, dining room chairs, and kitchen cabinets when I would leave. She finally got over that. Now she just chews her stuffed animals until their fluffy white inner guts and plastic squeaker spill out. Just like her, I am now scared of strange things and have separation anxiety. Street noise, like car horns and truck rumbles make me jump. Don't even think about coming up behind me and tapping me on the shoulder these days, unless you want to be treated to a swift kick in the crotch. And quick stops in the car make me splay out like a cat about to go into a bathtub. And then there's the separation anxiety. I am not chewing on my couches (yet!) but when someone leaves I think, "Will I see them again?" "Are they going to die?" "Are they suicidal?" No, I am not thinking that when the UPS guy walks away from my doorstep, but I think about it when family members, friends, and co-workers leave.<br />
I also cry over little things. Last week, I saw a dead squirrel in the road and you would have thought the two of us shared acorns and tree hollows over the years, the way I cried all the way to work.<br />
And all this is normal according to my therapist.<br />
I am suffering the effects of a tragic, traumatizing, sudden loss, she said.<br />
My body is still reeling.<br />
My mind is still recovering.<br />
My emotions are all over the map. And some days I can't find the map.<br />
This is what happens when you wake up to a phone call that one of your closest friends killed himself. My mind is there to protect my body after all. It had to go into overdrive to keep further damage from occurring. It had to raise my awareness, put me on guard, get my defenses up. Well, congratulations, mind. You're doing a heck of a job protecting me. You made me throw a strawberry at someone I love. Made me want to punch them in the face as a matter of fact. Luckily, you snapped me back to reality just in time to keep me from going to jail. Now if you could just keep me from going crazy, I would appreciate it.<br />
While it sure feels crazy, chucking strawberries and crying over squirrels does not make me ready for the straight jacket according to my therapist. She said I should look up <i>Post Traumatic Stress Disorder</i> I will probably recognize a lot of my symptoms. "You don't have to go to war to suffer PTSD," she said. So like anyone doing major research, I Googled my symptoms and a lot of them matched exactly what I was experiencing. Thankfully, I don't need medication. I just need time and rest and that is exactly what she prescribed. <i>Take two chill pills and see me in the morning.</i><br />
I have hundreds of sick hours because I take very little sick time off from work. Partly because I am very healthy (Thank God) and also because I was raised by parents who would send me to school even if a my leg was hanging on by one bloody thread. "You're fine sweety. Just a minor flesh wound. Grab a band aid and get to school." So, I get my butt to work even when I am not feeling well. So when my therapist prescribed time off, I balked, but she insisted. She said two things that helped convince me:<br />
"What would you do if you had the flu? Take time off, right? Well, you have a very serious case of the flu. You are sick with loss." Secondly, she reminded me that we don't deal with loss well in American culture. "In other cultures people take time off to mourn a loss. They sit Shiva. They have relatives around them for weeks while they sit at home remembering, contemplating, grieving. Other cultures have people take care of them for a year, or they wear black for a year. What do we do in America? We tell people to get over it and move on."<br />
She said this is not healthy and we are suffering because of it.<br />
I was suffering because of it.<br />
So for the first time, I actually took sick leave from work to heal from something that I could not take antibiotics for; something that didn't require a bandage, a thermometer, crutches, or a gallon of orange juice. I had taken a day here, a half day there since losing my friend, but had taken no significant time off. I was just pushing through, taking it "one day at a time." Instead, I needed to take 7 days at a time and stop pushing. I needed to collapse. To rest. To heal. To hibernate. Hit the reset button.<br />
Thankfully, I was able to do that.<br />
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I turned in my doctor's note and went to the beach and watched the surfers challenge themselves in the waves. I bought scented soap at a lavender farm. I perused old books in an antique bookstore. I sat on a metal bench at the end of a busy street with my dog and nodded yes to people who came up to ask if they could pet her. I ate Chinese food and read old science magazines from a tiny community library. I put my toes in the sand, and my head on a pillow that belonged to a comfy chain hotel in a cozy, beach town. I took a nap after my nap, went to bed early and got up late.<br />
I stopped pushing through.<br />
Last week, I went back to work and for the first time, I didn't feel like I was sleep walking. I could smile without feeling like a phony. I could get work done. My friend who passed away was mentioned in a work related newsletter that came across my desk, and it didn't rock my world like it would have a week ago. It made me pause, it made me sigh with sadness, but it didn't make me break down. I know that I will cry again, probably even bawl and snot all over myself at some point, but I'm going to be OK. My dog has tasted her last strawberry.<br />
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-Hope A. Horner<br />
Copyright 2016<br />
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122<br />
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<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-1764404275116352292016-06-05T20:22:00.003-07:002016-06-05T20:22:53.215-07:00Dear Andy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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A bunch of your friends showed up at your memorial to say goodbye to you today. I brought fruit salad, tablecloths and plastic cutlery and a box of tissues. When the time came, I got up on the mic and told them how we met and how when I showed up at your place for the first time, I had mace. You were the guy who answered my ad on Craigslist almost ten years ago--the ad where I said I needed a music producer. I didn't know you from Adam so I had to come prepared to take you down if you were a perv or a creep. When I knocked on your door, I had one hand on my mace and one was gripping my guitar case. When you answered it, I had to raise my head to look you in the eyes; you were so tall. Your black hair was long and greasy and pulled back into a pony tail. You had on a black T-shirt and army style shorts, both were wrinkly, but you were undeniably cute. You looked high, but friendly. You ushered me in to your apartment with a smile and I put down my guitar case on the hardwood floors in your living room and kept one hand in my pocket on my mace. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, very, very special. Artwork by Andy.</td></tr>
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Your dog, a big puffy black and white mix of a mutt, was outside, confined to the porch. I could see him through the sliding glass door. This is where he would spend most of his time when I was around because you didn't want him to bite me. He was "broken" you said. He had another side to him and for no reason he could snap.<br />
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You seemed nervous as you showed me the recording studio which was in your bedroom. I felt awkward going in there with you, like I was going to be on the 11pm news for all the wrong reasons, but I immediately saw you were legit--you had microphones, a mac and a bunch of guitars, amps and cords. The room was cramped and I didn't know where to put my guitar until you pointed to the bed. I put down my guitar case, popped it open and pulled out my notes. I had twenty years worth of songs just bursting to come out. We talked about what I was trying to accomplish, what I needed and we agreed to a price and to start meeting once a week. Usually, I would come over on my Fridays off and we would work on one part of a song. We would "lay down" rough guitars, or vocals, harmonies, bass or percussion. You could play it all with ease and I could fake it. During the week, I would send you MIDI files to add into the song we were working on and you would try to make them sound less "processed." Every week, when I would show up, you would drink multiple cups of coffee while we would chit-chat on your couch, and then you would confine your dog, fill up your coffee cup again, and we would head into your bedroom where you would hook up all the mics, cue me when to start and record everything on your Mac. I remember you just clicked and<br />
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pointed and dragged, and dropped and magic happened. You told me to "sing angrier" to "play softer" or to "listen to the metronome." We would do numerous takes, sometimes singing together. One song would have rows and rows of recordings on your computer and you would layer them all as I would share how I wanted the song to sound or feel. I wanted more reverb on my vocals. You wanted to re-do your guitars because you didn't like one little part. We used blankets to dampen echoes, we recorded live birds outside your windows, duct taped mics, and searched for just the right sound. It was a long process, but thrilling. You were very patient through all my songs, although I could tell you did not enjoy recording "One White Rose." I admit, it is a sappy little country dittie--a real love story in a song--and you pretty much gagged over it, but kept your professionalism and made that song come to life. You did that for all the others, too. I remember telling you that I wanted the acoustic guitar in the song "Stay" to sound like the toy that hangs over a baby's crib. You know the one with all the little dangling animals that spins around to keep baby occupied? It usually has a soft plucking song that is played intentionally slow and with a soothing touch. You nailed it. I told you that I wanted a guitar riff right after the line "I bet you take me to be lonely" in the song "Life Through Omission" that sounded like someone laughing and you nailed that, too. We joked about layering my vocals in "Nobody's Home" to the point that I sounded like the Forester Sisters. We laughed over the piano solo in "Devil's Hand" singing "Rain is falling, rain is falling" along to it. Every week for four years, I was at your house every week hours. In between all the recording, coffee drinking and dog corraling, we became close friends. We went to lunch, helped each other with online dating, babysat each other's pets (I managed to stay unbitten), went on hikes, even jumped out of plane together. I critiqued your art, did your resume and helped you get a job as a graphic artist where I worked. You helped me learn how to sing into a mic, how to properly tune a guitar, and how to use a Mac to record. We loved dogs, Iron Maiden, old records, concert T-shirts and running. I went to Pasadena to watch a <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1000 Suns in North Hollywood.</td></tr>
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screening for a movie you scored and I watched you play with your band in converted living rooms, parks and clubs.You helped me get coffee shop gigs and we played together at the Paseo Club. You told me I "didn't suck" and I told you that you were the most talented person I knew. We shared stories about our nephews, living in the San Fernando Valley, and growing up in religious families. I bought you a mandolin, you re-strung my guitars for free. I brought you Led Zeppelin memorabilia and you took me to Chinese food. We met through music, but we discovered we had a lot in common besides music. We both had a dark side. A sad side. Most people would comment about how "sad" or "depressing" my music was saying, "But you're such a happy person!" I would explain that is WHY I am so happy; I get my sadness out in my music. If something bothers me or someone hurts me, you'll find it in my music I said. You understood. While you didn't write many lyrics, I could hear your anger, pain and longing in your guitar riffs. You asked me once to listen to your music and tell me what I heard in it. "What is happening in the movie when you hear this song?" You asked. You always wanted to write music for movies or TV. I told you I heard a woman running from someone who was chasing her or a son walking across a field toward his father after years of being away and wanting to reconcile. You just nodded. Other songs would start soft and melodic--with the beautiful sweetness of you and then all of a sudden, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, a dark, heavy guitar riff would drown out the tenderness and take over. I told you I could hear you in your music. I heard you today, Andy, at your memorial at that park just up the street from your house. One of your band mates played the last song you ever recorded, and it was hauntingly beautiful. As your guitar rang out through the speakers, a breeze picked up and I just sat with my eyes closed, crying, hearing sadness in every note, remembering all the times we would just "riff" songs in your apartment. I remembered that's exactly how the song "Fool" came to be. You had so much creativity in you--too much to be contained. Too much for one person. I was glad I had brought a box of tissues as your friends got up to share how they met you, how they cared for you and how they missed you.<br />
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Only you know exactly what caused you to turn your back on everyone and everything and say "Enough is enough." I do know you had severe depression. As we got closer over the years you shared with me some of the burdens you carried and I believe depression was your closest companion. It wasn't a good friend to you. I hope I was. I won't share all your burdens, but I want you to know that no matter what you heard inside your head Andy, God loves you.<br />
But I know you know that now.<br />
<br />
I miss you my friend. We should have gone to the park today to hear you play. Instead we said goodbye. I know I will be saying goodbye to you for a long time--every time I listen to my music, every time I look at our pictures, see your artwork, and hear your songs. You will live on in music--in every note, I hear you.<br />
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<i>Why are you out there? So far away.</i><br />
<i>Where the sun drops like ripe fruit at the end of the day.</i><br />
<i>If only those years, I had a chance to replay</i><br />
<i>I'd tell you</i><br />
<i>I'd tell you</i><br />
<i>Stay.</i><br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
Hope<br />
<br />
Videos from the good ol' days:<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wLUwhA8-Bpw" target="_blank">Hope & Andy Live a@ The Paseo Club</a><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Km4jEithLKI" target="_blank">Making "Unsteady As You Go"</a><br />
<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166168015259644011.post-38339872636622268382016-04-05T18:50:00.001-07:002016-04-05T19:05:08.481-07:00Hills, Highways and Hamstrings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Last spring, I jumped over a snake and ran around a dead raccoon. I also sprinted across a narrow bridge in complete darkness. Oh, and I changed my underwear in a van full of people. I felt nauseous, elated, scared, thankful and tired. All in the span of two days. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">What was I doing?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was running my first Ragnar relay race in northern California ( http://www.ragnarrelay.com )</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To sum it up for those of you unfamiliar with this running event, Ragnar is a 200+ mile relay race. You run from one town to another with 12 teammates for 36 straight hours. Each of you runs three legs--with each leg ranging anywhere from 3 to 13 miles. The twelve of you are divided up into two vans, each with 6 runners. The runners in van #1 do the first 6 legs (1-6), and those in van #2 do the next 6 (6-12). While one team mate is running, the others are following in the van to cheer you on and occasionally pull over, hand you water, and say things like: "You go girl!" or "You got this!" or "Are you limping?" Then they get back in the van, breathe a sigh of relief they didn't have to run your leg, and drive ahead to the next place they can stop safely, like on the edge of sheer cliff on a two lane winding road in the middle of nowhere. Eventually, they end up at the next "Exchange Point" where you will hand off a very sweaty orange reflective bracelet to the next runner and take your turn stinking up the van, cramping and cheering. You keep doing this - over and over, cycling through all 12 of your runners three times. By the end, you have run two hundred miles very close to a van that could have easily driven you the whole way in air-conditioned comfort. When I told my Dad about the race, he said politely, "Well, that is not something I would do." Basically what he meant was "You're crazy."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was in van #2 and my race was in Northern California. My team ran from Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to Napa, CA. We started at 5am on Friday and ended around 5pm on Saturday. I ran about 20 miles made up mainly of hills, highways and headlights. Most of the roads were two way middle-of-nowhere stretches of black-top that leaned to the left.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am not sure what town I started in, but I know it was hilly, hot and dusty. I had about 10 miles to run and every time I thought I had hit the last hill, another one would pop up. It was about 85 degrees and thanks to the ice bags my team-mates kept giving to me, I was able to keep going despite the heat. I also had a rockin' Spotify playlist in my ear which helped keep me moving. Oh, and there were lots of supportive runners on the course. Several guys said nice things as they ran by like: "Wow you have amazing legs!" or "I wish my wife was as good looking as you!" Well, OK, so they didn't say THAT, but they did say things like: "Keep it up. You're doing great!" and "Good job!" Of course, they were saying these things as they were PASSING me, which in Ragnar terms is considered a "kill," but STILL. At least they were nice about 'killing' me. During my first few miles, there was a female runner I kept trading spots with. She'd run ahead of me; I'd run ahead of her, then again, back and forth like that for about a mile. I finally decided to draft behind her and that must have annoyed her because she finally dropped off to my right and I didn't see her again. Sorry, whoever you were. There wasn't enough room for two on that road. Nice shorts, though.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I came down the back of one long hill that reminded me of Grimes Canyon in the Conejo Valley, I started to pick up speed. Not because I felt good, but because I was finally running down hill. I kept thinking of what our coach always tell us when we run down hill: "Let your body go..." and I tried to, but all I could think was: "If I let my body go, I am going to end up in a ditch never to be found." So I 'sort of' let my body go and then all of a sudden underneath my right foot was a snake. Not a huge rattler or anything, but a small black one. I leaped up in the air like I had been bitten. A few yards ahead, a van had pulled over and the runners were standing around. As I approached I noticed they had puzzled looks on their faces. They must have seen me shoot up in the air like a jack-rabbit. I told them I had just jumped over a snake and they all gasped and looked concerned. Well, at least the women did. The guys looked thrilled and ran to the spot they had seen me jump. I just kept running.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Around the next bend, the hill disappeared and the view opened up. I was running alongside a pasture which was a dusty brown thanks to the drought. Standing around in the dust were a bunch of dairy cows, chewing slowly and switching their tails. All of a sudden, they turned their heads, looked at me, then started running. TOWARD ME. I looked behind me to see if someone was offering them some hay or something, but no one was. They kept charging and I wondered if I was going to have to hurdle a whole barn-load of cows as part of this crazy race, but eventually they stopped, snorted, and just started chewing again as though nothing had happened. A van load of runners on the side of the road just a few yards ahead were laughing and pointing at the cows. I asked "Burgers in a half hour?" They laughed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My next few miles are a blur because I think my head was on fire. It felt like a summer day in Phoenix, not springtime in Napa. I had ice in my shirt and ice in my shorts and had gone through about three bottles of water already. I remember a quaint town with narrow sidewalks, light blue ranch houses, American flags and the occasional barking dog and slamming screen door. Kids were in the street on skateboards and scooters. It was probably around 5pm at that point. I saw the "One More Mile" Ragnar sign ahead and breathed a sigh of relief. I felt good. I found the Exchange Point, passed the bracelet off to my team-mate and walked around for a little bit, trying to shake out my legs and bring my heart rate down. The sun was fading in the distance as vans pulled in and out, people talked in groups, stretched, laughed and drank water. I saw lots of painted faces, Ragnar jackets, funny hats and exposed skin. One Ragnar tradition is to decorate your van so I took some time to look at the other vans in the lot. One had pictures of ice cream cones on the side and runners were handing out ice-cream sandwiches while "ice cream truck" music played. There was one that had a picture of Lionel Richie on the side and it said "All Night Long." Our van featured lights, our running team logo and lots of hash tags including: #runnowwinelater #whereisvan3 and #ragnarvirgins just to name a few!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">All of a sudden, I started to feel nauseous. Very, very nauseous. I put my hands on my knees and leaned over. That didn't help so I stood up and took a few breaths. My team was gathering and talking. We took a few photos and I walked around a little bit with my stomach churning. Finally, I decided to speak up and a team-mate gave me some medicine. Then I heard the bathroom calling my name. Luckily, I made it in time because it was just across the street at a public library. When I walked out of the stall there were about ten people in line and I pushed past them sweaty and still nauseous. I was told by a team-mate that I looked "green." By the time I got to the van, she said I was "white" which I guess was an improvement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We drove to the next exchange which was over an hour away. I spent that time lying down in the van shivering with heat stroke and fighting off the urge to barf. All in a day's Ragnar!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We picked up our final runner of the day and headed to the hotel we had booked for the night. My stomach had settled down and I had gotten plenty of fluids in me. We figured we had just enough time to eat, shower and sleep for maybe two hours. The Habit veggie burger has never tasted so good and even though I had just run over ten miles on two hours sleep, I was not sleepy. After showering, I lay in bed and rested, but could not fall asleep. My body was tired but my mind raced. I wondered if this was how it felt to be high on cocaine. At 9 pm we got up and loaded up the van for our second round of running. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The next legs would be all in the dark. My team-mates ended up running in everything from the woods to the 'hoods. One, ran with a group that got lost for awhile and ended up running about two miles out of the way. They missed a sign and didn't make a turn. We ended up picking up a lost runner that was not on our team and returning him to the race. He was heading down a dark, woodsy road out into the darkness. Another one of our runners ran down a busy street in a downtown area. When her leg was over, she got into the van her eyes wide and said, "Oh my gosh! I just ran through the Grand Theft Auto video game!" She described seeing suspicious characters and activity all along her route. The runner before me was our coach and she ran along a dark stretch of highway. She made good time and ran strong. I was worried about running in the dark and got more and more worried when we seemed to be driving out into the area where the Blair Witch Project was filmed. I got out of the van, stood in a field with my team-mates waiting for the runner before me to arrive with the bracelet and when she did, she slapped it on my wrist and I took off. The cool air felt really good after running in the heat the day before. I had about nine miles to go and my legs felt good. I was wearing pink flashing hair as part of my team costume and it fell off twice before I even got 100 yards away. Then my left bra strap came unhooked. My sports bra had Velcro straps and evidently, they were tired, too. I tried to run and fix my bra, but soon discovered that wasn't going to work, so I stopped and re-Velcro'd myself in and then continued on. I was running next to a field at this point, headed up a hill. For the next nine miles I ran into oncoming headlights. Many times, I stepped off the road to let them pass. All I could think of was: "It's 3:30am on a Saturday night. I am in wine country. How many of these people are drunk?" I put on my headphones and decided to listen to music to take my mind off my pending death. About five miles in, I think I began to hallucinate. I thought I saw white cones up on my left and then when I got up to that spot, there was nothing there. Maybe I need a Goo? Some electrolytes? A pizza? I was hungry. Why was I hungry? It wasn't even 4AM! Were there really cones in the road? White cones? Maybe the headlights temporarily blinded me? Was it my flashing hair? Lack of sleep? I wasn't sure, but I shook it off and kept going. Ahead of me was a narrow bridge with no where to step off if a car was headed my direction. It was only about 25 yards from one side to the other, but I knew I would need to sprint so I wouldn't get caught on it. If a car approached while I was on the bridge, I would have to GI Jane my way off the edge and hold on to some under-bridge suspension rail until it passed. I was not up for that. So, I decided to sprint. Well, at least that is what my brain decided. I told my legs to sprint and they kind of jitter-ed ahead of me like I was trying out a new dance step. In my head, I was sprinting. In real life, I probably looked like a speed walker on cystal-meth. I made it across without having to dangle off the edge and slowed down to catch my breath. The next few miles were a series of slight hills and turns and I eventually ended up in what I would find out later was the town of Elk Grove. It was pretty and looked like a great place to camp. The lawns were expansive, and numerous trees blocked out the stars and moon overhead. Everyone in this town was asleep, but it felt good to be in civilization again. Soon, I saw the "One mile to go" sign which was a relief. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The last mile felt like more than one, but I got it done. My knees were done. About two years ago, I tore my meniscus and never had surgery. I also spent a lot of time getting up and down as a catcher in softball. My knees were shot and my hamstring was out so my final leg was a no-go. I was all out of gas. The best I could do was run in with my team for the final photo, bad pizza, and my medal. I felt bad that I couldn't complete my leg, but my team-mates reassured me that it was OK. The heat, the hills, the sheer number of miles had taken their toll. I was already near the 20 mile mark after two legs which was more than I had ever run.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I WOULD NEVER DO THIS AGAIN. I said to another team mate shortly after the event.While I enjoyed being with my team-mates (had a blast in fact), it was "one and done" for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Until April 2016.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I decided to run Ragnar SoCal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I told my coach I would do it, but that because of my hamstring (which was now at about 95%) it would probably not be a good idea for me to run 20 miles again. She agreed. She put me in van one with about 15 miles to run and somehow I found myself writing a big check and shoving three running outfits into a beach bag and making a bunch of ham sandwiches for the road. It was that time again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This Ragnar relay race began in Huntington Beach and would take us to Coronado Island in San Diego. Due to the Enterprise Rent-A-Car recall, vans were scarce. We ended up renting two Mercedes passenger vans (or airport shuttles as we called them) which were jet black, huge and had a large "toy hauler" type space in the back.We threw food (enough for a week!), a bike, our clothes and assorted team apparel into the back and headed out for Huntington Beach at 4AM in the morning on a Friday. I was driving. As I cruised down the 405 it this giant beast of a vehicle, I felt excited and calm at the same time. I was curious to see the areas where we would be running. I wondered if my knees and hamstring would hold up. I was calm because I had done this before and didn't have all the questions burning in my mind like I did at the last one. I knew what I had to do. I knew I wasn't going to kill myself this time. That if I needed to stop and stretch I could. That if I needed to walk a hill it would be OK. We had all agreed it would be about the experience. We weren't trying to win anyway. We just wanted to finish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our first runner started in the dark on the beach and finished at another beach a few miles away as the sun was coming up. It took me a long time to back up the van without taking out a light pole or another van, so we didn't get to greet her when she came in. We ran from the van to meet her as she stood on the beach catching her breath and raising her arms in the air to celebrate. We felt bad and apologized, but she took it in stride with her usual positive attitude. I knew from now on I was going to have to park the van so that I didn't have to back up even if that meant I had to park in Mexico. The most useless thing in the van was the rear view mirror because there was no back window, just a wall that separated passengers from cargo. I was backing blind, except when my coach would jump out and direct me like she was trying to land a plane.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was runner #5 and my first leg would start in Santa Ana. I am pretty sure I have never been to Santa Ana and my only real knowledge of the place is the terrible winds they send us every fall. I was not in a nice part of Santa Ana, if there is a nice part of Santa Ana. I ran by graffiti, barbed wire, homeless encampments and dilapidated garages with open roofs covered by tarps and rotted wood. I went down a narrow alley-way and had to turn sideways to let two homeless people with a piled-high shopping cart go by. I saw pit bulls, graffiti, bald headed teens on bikes and beer bottles. I ran under a long freeway under pass and came out in Tustin. Suddenly, it looked like Pasadena. Gone were the pit bulls and run-down ranch houses - in their place were Golden Retrievers and million dollar craftsman homes. Impatiens hung from pots on porches and white picket fences supported blooming rose bushes. Lawns were green. I ran through the downtown area and it was all I could do not to stop at an antique shop or pop in to a quaint boutique. Pretty soon I was coming into the exchange and passing my sweaty bracelet to my team-mate. As I caught my breath, I thought about how it was only one freeway--one twenty-five yard bridge-- that separated blight from bliss. For that reason, I wasn't smiling, but I felt good about completing my leg. I was still outside the van when a father and son came up to me. "Can I ask what you guys are doing?" the father asked. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I said, "We are running a 200 mile relay race from Huntington Beach to San Diego." He looked puzzled. "Why are you doing this? Is it just running?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Yes." I said, and then feeling like I should say more I added, "and teamwork." He and his son shot me a look that told me they did not understand my reasoning. No money at the end? No big prize? I guess I could have told him about the free beer and pizza, but there's no explaining crazy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My next leg would be in the dark, but it wouldn't be like Napa. It wasn't 9 miles and it wasn't running through vineyards and across narrow bridges. It was about five miles around the city of Oceanside, on the outskirts of San Diego. It was close to midnight and the temperature was probably in the low 50's. The exchange was cramped with runners and drivers criss-crossing each other's path, a mixture of headlights and headlamps. I started at an elementary school that was up in a hilly part of town and proceeded to run up a narrow street and then down for a little bit before the rest of my run was up, up up...the whole time with the stench of sewer swirling in my nose. Other runners commented on the smell too. We must have been near a sewage treatment plant or maybe it was the Ragnar porta-potties scattered all over Oceanside for desperate runners. The neighborhood was nice, not Tustin, but nice, and there were a lot of other runners around so I wasn't concerned about getting lost. While waiting for a traffic light to change, I talked to a young man from Costa Mesa who commented on how hilly this leg was. He said this with a dry brow and a voice that showed he had complete control of his breathing. I nodded, huffed my agreement and then lifted my water bottle to take a drink. I squeezed and shot water straight into my boobs. Luckily I was warm by that point so it felt good, but I was a tad embarrassed. He didn't seem to notice (probably recapping his "kills") and took off as soon as the walk sign appeared. Dry mouthed and wet-chested I lumbered on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The final mile was all uphill on a very wide street which allowed me the pleasure of watching runners on the other side run down hill. I stopped only once to stretch out my tight hamstring. I wanted to get this done. When I ran into the exchange and handed off the bracelet to my team mate, I smiled. My night leg was over. I unscrewed of the cap of my water bottle and carefully took a sip. I wanted to make sure it made it into my mouth this time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In between this leg and my next a lot happened. We went to a Motel 6 in Carlsbad. Took showers. Crashed and tried to sleep. My coach and I went out to try to sleep in the van at around 3 AM, and were greeted by a flood of squeaky rats who scampered out of the ivy and up a fence that surrounded the motel. We moved shoes, water bottles and Doritos to lie down on the seats. We finally dozed off when suddenly the hotel sprinklers went off, which seemed to be pointed directly at the front of the van. Evidently there is no drought ordinance in San Diego because these suckers went off for a half an hour. After the sprinklers stopped we fell back asleep for a few minutes until someone knocked on the back of the van. We both sat straight up, and looked an each other with question mark eyebrows. I peered out the windows to see who was there but couldn't see anyone. I did not open the door to find out. At 5:15 we left the van to wake up our team-mates and go get Starbucks for everyone. There were a lot of other bleary-eyed Ragnarians inside the Starbucks. As I walked by a few of them to pick-up our coffee, I knocked a energy bar off the shelf with my shoulder. One of them looked down at it and said, "I'd help you pick that up, but I can't bend over." I laughed and said no problem and bent over to pick it up. I tried to act casual, like I was totally fresh and in awesome shape, but the groan that came out of my mouth when I bent over gave me away. I returned the bar to its place and carried coffee back to the van and then drove to the hotel. My Cafe Americano never tasted so good. I think I had an orange and half a bagel for breakfast. And maybe a chocolate-peanut butter ball. And three jelly beans. And some trail mix. I can't remember. When Ragnar is going on, you eat whatever is right in front of you. You don't ask what time it is and you don't ask if you should be having this. You just HAVE IT and you tell yourself you DESERVE IT.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My final leg was in La Jolla and started at around noon. It was warm, probably around 85, but there was a cool ocean breeze. The skies were clear and my run was in a residential area that looked like Santa Clarita until I got to the beach side of the hill. Then the traffic picked up as did the breeze. I could see the ocean off in the distance and also lots and lots of vans. My legs felt good and my breathing was fine. I was going to do this! I really was! I picked up the pace and caught up with two Ragnarians who had stopped at a crosswalk. One was holding her wrist and had blood on her knee. Her team-mate told me she had fallen about a mile back--tripped over a uneven part of the sidewalk--and probably broken her wrist. I asked her is she was OK and she said,"Oh, I'm fine. I took 800 milligrams of ibuprofen this morning so I can't really feel it right now." Wow. Sounds like she had Motrin for breakfast. Must be Ragnar.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I followed the signs which led me into a beach parking lot for my final fifty yards. I knew I was in La Jolla but other than that, I had no idea where I was. That's the thing about Ragnar. You can get so focused on just getting through your legs, that you forget to enjoy the scenery--you know, "Stop and smell the flowers"? (If you can bend over and reach them!) I took a moment to thank God for my health and then turned a corner and there was my coach. She was up next and had a big smile on her face as she reached for my bracelet. "You did it!" she said. "Congratulations! Way to go!" She gave me a hug and her smile said it all. I was done. DONE! I walked around with my hands on my hips breathing deeply. My team-mates were in the van waiting for me. Somewhere. Where? Not sure. There they were! Just around the corner. They had gone to the wrong parking lot and had pulled in just in time to pick me up and drop off our coach. Gotta love Ragnar. It's not just the running; it's the driving that matters, too. I hopped into the front seat of the van and put my feet up on the dashboard. It felt good to put my feet up. My hamstrings enjoyed the stretch and plus, when do you ever get to put your feet on the dashboard of a big, black Mercedes?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After our coach ran the final leg for our group of six (uphill at blazing speed), we had some time to kill so we decided to go somewhere nice for lunch, or dinner or <i>linner</i> --whatever--we wanted a real meal. We headed to Old Town San Diego for some Mexican food. When we arrived, it was so crowded you could not have parked a Matchbox car, let alone a huge passenger van so we decided to head to Coronado, closer to where the race ended. We found a barbecue joint out by the water, with live music playing just a few feet away and ordered up some beers and grub. The ocean view was amazing and the food went down well. We headed back to the van with happy bellies and blistered feet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The final leg of the race was completed by two our of our team-mates in van #2 who ran together to Silver Strand beach on Coronado. The sun was down and the air was crisp, but we were all warm with a sense of satisfaction. We were dog tired, hungry, achy and blistered. Our lips were chapped, our hair matted, and our faces make-up free and salty. We ran together as a team the last hundred feet of the race through a tunnel that ran under the road way toward the beach. As we came out of the tunnel the DJ was supposed to say our team name, but instead he was too busy making announcements, probably about how to safely navigate a parking lot full of 800 vans with sleep deprived drivers.We didn't care. We had done it! 200 miles in 2 days! We hugged, cried, smiled and took pictures. We proudly hung our heavy gold medals around our necks and congratulated each other.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We went to In and Out Burger in Encinitas. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I drove.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After dinner, I turned over the keys to a team-mate. I never saw Orange County. Or Los Angeles. Or even the Valley on the way back to Agoura Hills. I slept through 135 miles. As we parked, I rubbed my eyes and smiled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We did it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One step at a time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One mile at a time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Despite hills, headlights, and hamstrings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Oh, and this is my last Ragnar relay.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Really.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-Hope Horner, 2016</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">http://www.hopehorner.com</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Twitter: HopeNote</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">#socalragnar #innerwild #ragnar</span><br />
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<br />Hope Hornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454572693744007396noreply@blogger.com0