Pay It Forward

In April 2008 I was invited to my parents alma mater, Whitter College, to be the guest speaker at their 50th Annual Scholarship Appreciation Luncheon. I'll be attending the 52nd Annual event today and thought I'd reprint my speech so I could share the history of the Marcus Quarles Scholarship Endowment and my passion for the Organ Donor Program. Thanks for reading.

I’m here today in memory of my father, Merrill Jessup, who graduated from Whittier College in 1953. He passed away December 29th, but his love of higher education, and fierce loyalty to his alma mater, will live on through The Marcus Quarles Scholarship.

Today, I am joined by members of my family; my husband Ken, my brother Greg, and my mother, Joan Jessup, also a Whittier College graduate. Although we grieve the loss of my Dad, today we come to celebrate with senior Chris Tarver, the inaugural Quarles Scholarship recipient.

I’d like to begin by telling you a little history about my Dad and why this scholarship was created.

My father was born here in Whittier, at the Burkett Maternity Home on May 19, 1931. His parents were Walter and Doris Landreth Jessup, both 1924 graduates of Whittier College.

My father, and his younger brother Al, were raised in Thousand Oaks, CA. My father worked many jobs trying to help supplement the family income and to save for college. One of his jobs was being a paperboy for the Los Angeles Times. In 1949, the year my Dad graduated from high school, he applied for, and won the LA Times Young Timers Scholarship. This scholarship paid full tuition to any college of his choice. His choice was Whittier College.

Although he could have chosen any college in the United States, Whittier College was a sentimental favorite since his parents and many of his relatives were alumni.

Whittier proved to be an excellent choice for my Dad, both academically and personally. This is where he met my mother, and where they created a lifetime of close friendships.

Throughout my life, I’ve enjoyed hearing my parents, and the majority of their friends reminiscing about their time here at Whittier. It’s been over 50 years but the stories still make them all laugh. As a child, it was fun hearing my parents talk about all the crazy things they did here on campus. We’d giggle and say, “You did what???” We heard about Wanberg Hall, the Sachsens, the pretty Palmer girls, the Campus Inn and the Rock.

To this day, they continue to be loyal Whittier College alumni, with some still sitting on various Boards of the college. My mother continues to meet monthly with Whittier gals to play bridge. Before he passed away, my Dad organized a new group called the Whittier Old Farts, also known as the WOF’s…so the men would have their own events to plan.

For the students who are here today, I envy you. You are fortunate to study at such a prestigious, private university so rich in history and traditions. I can assure you, you will graduate with more than a college degree. You will take with you cherished memories and relationships that will last a lifetime. I know my parents, and their friends have been thankful for their time at Whittier College. I’m sure you feel as they do, and will want to be generous and active alumni. By doing this, you will join those who like to “PAY IT FORWARD.”

We’ve all heard the term “PAY IT FORWARD,” right? It means doing something good for another person because someone has already helped you along the way. It was important to my Dad to PAY IT FORWARD. He felt he owed many. He was first inspired by the LA Times, for their generosity back in 1949 when they sent him to Whittier College on a 4 year, full ride scholarship. An opportunity he would not have had, without that gift.

Then, a life altering event in November 2000, cemented my fathers desire to PAY IT FORWARD. It began when my father’s heart stopped and he collapsed while boarding a plane in San Diego. He ended up in the care of Sharp Memorial Hospital. He was 68 years old, very sick and was told he needed a heart transplant to survive.

Typically, patients who are 68 years old are not accepted into heart transplant programs. At first, we were told he’d probably be referred to UCLA, where they might take older patients. In the end, the Sharp Hospital - Heart Transplant Program accepted my Dad.

The transplant team said his acceptance into their program was based on many factors, but these being the most influential: his positive attitude, having a supportive family, not being overweight, and that he didn’t smoke. These factors are all what contribute to a successful and long life, and ones we can all aspire to achieve!

My Dad waited 18 months for a transplant. In November 2000, he received the phone call that would save his life. A donor heart had just become available and he needed to get to Sharp Hospital immediately.

While we all made our way with excitement to Sharp Hospital, there was another family arriving to say goodbye to their first born child. His name was Marcus Quarles. Marcus was a young man from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. When he was 15 years old, he told his parents he wanted to be an organ donor.

In November 2000, Marcus was in his early 20’s, serving in the US Navy in San Diego. He had just returned from duty in the Pacific and was enjoying a night out with friends when he was in a car accident caused by a drunk driver.

When Marcus’ parents arrived in San Diego, they remembered his wishes, and when he was declared “brain dead,” they made sure to fulfill Marcus’ desire to be an organ donor. Seven individuals received organs donated by Marcus. My Dad received his heart.

The transplant team told us that six months after a transplant, they will allow correspondence between donor families and transplant patients to begin, if each party agrees. We told them we definitely wanted contact with the donor family. Seven months after the transplant, my Dad received a letter from Lawrence and Darlene Quarles, the parents of Marcus. My Dad asked the Quarles if our family could travel to Tuscaloosa on the 1st anniversary of Marcus’ death to express our gratitude for his decision to be an organ donor.

The meeting turned into something far more meaningful than any of us ever dreamed possible.

Marcus became a real person to us; a beloved son, grandson, older brother, cousin and friend. We sat for hours hearing stories, pouring through photo albums, and getting to know the person whose heart I watched that night thumping inside my Dad’s chest. Their generosity was astounding. We were at a large table in a restaurant and other patrons overheard what was going on at our table. A few came to tell us what an amazing story it was.

Later that night in our hotel, my Dad reflected on the whole experience and wanted to find a way to honor the memory of Marcus. That is when the idea for the Marcus Quarles Scholarship was born.

After meeting the family of Marcus Quarles, my Dad decided how HE was going to PAY IT FORWARD. His idea would combine the inspiration by his own LA Times Scholarship, his love of Whittier College, and belief in higher education. He wanted to honor the memory of a young man he never met, who taught him the importance of the organ donor program.

The first thing my Dad did to begin the process …was to pledge himself as an organ donor, and communicate that desire to his family. Then he established criteria for awarding the Marcus Quarles Scholarship. He decided the student would –

• Have to be a full time student at Whittier College
• Have the need for financial aid
• Be African American, to honor the heritage of Marcus Quarles
• Lastly, and most importantly, the student must have designated on his/her driver’s license their intent to be an organ donor, and make those wishes known to their family.

Two years ago, I sat here at this same luncheon with my Dad. He was excited as The Marcus Quarles Scholarship was introduced. He was looking forward to the luncheon this year, and having the opportunity to meet the first recipient. While it’s painful not having him here to celebrate, I keep reminding myself that his dreams will play out here at Whittier, and he lived 7 extra years because a 15 year old kid told his parents he wanted to be an organ donor.

My Dad taught us you have to practice what you preach. Many years ago, a Navy pilot came to my Dad seeking advice on leadership before leaving on a dangerous overseas mission. He told the pilot, “Do not ask of someone what YOU are not willing to do yourself, lead from the front and you will be followed, if your people trust your judgment.”

After his transplant, my Dad started asking everyone he knew if they were an organ donor. When he passed away on December 29th, it was only a few hours until he fulfilled his dreams of PAYING IT FORWARD, literally. He practiced what he preached. He did what he asked others to do, because he too became an organ donor.

One of my favorite sayings is, “The reward for a good deed is to have done it.” After you think awhile about the saying, “The reward for a good deed is to have done it,” you come away reminded that it’s not important to have flags waved about your good works. The reward comes from the simple act of doing it. Good deeds are still good whether or not they get recognized out loud. The good will always prevail.

It’s what I personally love about the organ donor program. It’s something you give to, and the reward will come after you are gone. It’s the ultimate in humility. If I’ve ever had a bad day and think my contributions to this world are meaningless or small, I take out my Drivers License and search for the small pink sticker at the bottom. That important little pink sticker says DONOR, and I’m instantly reminded that I’ve already laid the groundwork for something valuable. It will pay when I am gone with the greatest gift I can offer, the gift of life.

Ask a mother whose child would have died if it hadn’t received a donated organ.

Ask a child whose parent lived because he received a donated organ. You can ask me.

We’ll both tell you that seeing our child or parent survive with a donated organ was a miracle.

Marcus didn’t get any accolades for the good deeds he posthumously bestowed upon 7 individuals. But his gifts were far greater than the simple things we often try to do; hoping for tangible rewards, praise and recognition for things like donations of our time and money.

Marcus is a symbol to me, a reminder of PAYING IT FORWARD. He reminds me of how a REWARD comes from committing to do something, not from the recognition.

I urge all of you today to consider joining me, in the spirit of Marcus Quarles, and my father Merrill Jessup, to PAY IT FORWARD.

Reach back somehow, in some way, and help someone… anyone because we all sit here knowing we’ve received. Somebody paved the way for us, somebody made a sacrifice, somebody believed in us somewhere along the way. Was it a teacher? Your parents? A friend? With that person as your inspiration, go out into the world and do something that will benefit another human being.

The REWARD IS TO HAVE DONE IT.

Skipping Christmas

I suck at Christmas. Most people wouldn’t believe that, but I do. I love Jesus, and the simple story of how he was born in a manger to Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem. But I wish we could celebrate his birth every year without any of the ridiculous hoopla that is now called Christmas.

My favorite Christmas decoration is a ceramic Jesus in a worn manger we’ve always placed on the hearth. Jesus is chipped, missing the ends of a few fingers and is wearing a loincloth Stephanie made Him when she was a little girl. The children were always allowed to play with Jesus and the manger, so they are a little beat up. I wanted my kids to know Jesus like I do; most likely very approachable, extremely kind, and someone who adored children. “Of course you may play with Jesus,” I’d tell them.

Each year as I unpack the 30+ boxes of Christmas decorations, somewhere in the neighborhood of Thanksgiving weekend, I can feel the familiar panic already starting to set in. I’m trying to find Jesus in all this, thinking, “Where is He…where did I pack Him last year?" If I find Jesus and put him on the hearth, I think I’ll be ok. He’ll be a blatant reminder of why I’m doing all this.

There was one year, 2008, with Jesus’ birthday quickly approaching I knew I was going to have to lead my family away from our traditional Christmas, and Skip Christmas completely. Could I do it? Would I be allowed? What would my family and others say? What would Jesus think? I had to close myself in a dark, quiet room to drown out all the “noise,” so I could hear Him.

I’ve decided spending 12 glorious, uninterrupted, carefree vacation days in the company of my husband and children was the holiest thing we’ve ever done. If home is where your heart is, I was home cruising the blue-green seas of the Caribbean, snorkeling, sailing, swimming, sleeping, reading, listening, resting, sunning, and basking in the 24 hour attention of my family. We immediately opened the doors to our adjoining rooms, and shared long, luxurious meals that were prepared, served and cleaned up after by others.

Those 12 days did not come cheap. Christmas doesn’t either, so we had to choose one or the other. We are blessed to have families who love us unconditionally & who wished us all a wonderful trip, possibly having broken hearts and hurt feelings. That’s love though. Our families knew I needed those 12 days of vacation, and to Skip Christmas to survive.

It had been a long haul for me trying to help care for my ailing Dad. After we lost him, I gained many new responsibilities, so many of which I had no understanding. Thankfully, I got a lot of help from my dear Godfather, one of my Dad’s best friends, Tony Pierno, an attorney in private practice.

Towards the end of 2008, I knew I needed to get in a quiet place and listen for a special voice who would give me some direction. What I heard was that I was going to heal. I heard I needed to stop and allow myself to feel. I heard I needed to say the words out loud that my heart was broken and I missed my Dad, who was also one of my best friends. I needed to say the words I can’t do everything, all the time, for everyone. I needed to say I was exhausted, drained, stressed beyond my breaking point and I can’t do Christmas this year. Those are not easy things for me. I am half Merrill, half Joan. Complain? Wimp out? Me? It’s not what we do!

While I was raising my children, taking care of my husband, our home, various jobs, a sick Dad, and a variety of other tasks, I was always going at 100 mph and rarely ever sleeping. Why then, was I in my quiet place, sobbing, thinking I was a complete loser because I couldn’t face a simple go-round with Christmas?

If that were someone else, I’d probably cry for them. I’d tell them to Skip Christmas and have a wonderful, relaxing vacation, they’d earned it. It took me longer to be kinder to myself and to hear His comforting words. He was offering to carry me again, and I was fighting it, always wanting to drag myself farther. I’m honestly like a 3 year old that screams, “No! Me do!”

Thank you God, my forever Abba Patare for your unending patience with me. I always want to be in control. Thank you for helping me understand how the celebration of your birth lives within my heart wherever I go. I’m still learning to let go and let you lead. I’m 48, but still just your child.

The Jeanne Spa

If you read my Acceptance Speech, you might have been wondering what got me so fired up. My sister. Many of you are probably surprised to hear I even have a sister. Jeanne has been living free for over 30 years. She laughs about it to my face. I’d like to hit her, but I don’t get in the ring with repeat convicted felons. Jeanne is on SSI, labeled by our Federal Government as Disabled. Disabled they say. WTF?

When she is out prostituting herself to support her drug habit, she seems to be able to work pretty darn hard, and eat almost nothing. When she is romping around Disneyland with free passes given to the poor, she moves around just fine, on her feet, for hours on end. If someone yelled, “FREE CIGARETTE BUTTS,” I bet she could jump 10 feet in the air off the couch.

Yet, she continues to get a free pass by the federal government for rent, food, clothing, medical care, cigarettes, liquor, and just about anything else she might want. She periodically gets tired of her living situations, and they just as quickly tire of her. That’s when she will typically check in at the local jail for a Jeanne Spa stay. She and her friendly jail mates laugh about that too.

Did you know we are all contributing to their little Spa visits? Did you know the prisoners laugh about how they get a warm place to sleep, a shower, clean clothes, TV, magazines, entertainment, classes and a store where they have a selection of toiletries, snacks and books? Yes, they laugh. And, to add insult to injury, they have a selection. Yes. You can send your favorite prisoner money and give them a credit line so they can walk down to the store for a little shopping trip. All the comforts of home for your murders, rapists, child molesters, burglars, drug lords, prostitutes and so on. Isn’t that special?

Jeanne claims she needs an open credit line when she’s in jail because “You’ve got to have Chex Mix when you are in the joint.” You’ve got to have Chex Mix? WTF? Chex Mix, a warm shower, television and a good night’s sleep isn’t punishment. Ken rarely gets 8 hours of sleep each night because he’s working too hard contributing to Jeanne’s Spa stays at the Santa Ana Women’s Correctional Facility. You are too. How does this make you feel? I’ll tell you more about how they are laughing at you and me because I want my sister and others like her, to get cut off from the gravy chain here in America.

Do you know anyone who has had to send a loved one to Rehab? I do. There are all kinds. Alcohol, Drug and Eating Disorders are a few. Most of the families involved were terrified, but didn’t blink and eye about spending their life savings to send someone to a Rehab facility. They are not always covered by insurance. Some have huge copayments. To the person who is saving a life, they don’t care. For my entire childhood, my parents invested a fortune in time and money trying to help save Jeanne. They too, were desperate to save their child. In the end, they both paid dearly.

I know a family who has their house mortgaged higher than what it is currently worth. They had to do this to save the life of their child who needed emergency treatment in an expensive Rehab facility. I’m telling you this because Jeanne was sent to Rehab recently for almost free. Seriously. I want more people, besides me, to see how wrong it is. And yes, Jeanne is still laughing about it.

Jeanne didn’t want to go to Rehab, but it was court ordered. It was Rehab or Prison. She enjoys her Spa treatments in the local Jail, but Chowchilla, and the other big Prisons are a different story. Don’t get me wrong, they still have all the wonderful accoutrements that the local Jails offer, but I think she is a Jail snob. So, off to fancy Rehab Jeanne went. At the time, her SSI income was $850 a month, so the Rehab gave her a sliding scale payment plan and told me her portion would be $320 a month. All inclusive. Just another Spa treatment on Uncle Sam, you and me. How do you feel about that? Especially when she laughs in my face? She is laughing at all of us. They are all laughing at us.

When the day came, and I knew it would, when Jeanne had had enough of that particular “scene,” she walked out of her hundredth (or more) stint in Rehab after only completing a few weeks. She said “Fuck that shit, I’d rather do Jail time,” which is precisely what she did. She went to a few of her favorite haunts, picked up some “customers,” earned a couple of dollars (ICK!!!), did some drugs, got picked up by the Police and was taken to Jail for a more comforting Spa stay. Her pattern remains unchanged after all these years.

When I saw her after the Jail stay for that particular offense, she laughed. She said the people at Rehab were stupid and how they wanted her to write down on a piece of paper that she was committed to her rehabilitation. She said she didn’t care about being clean, didn’t want to be clean and only went to Rehab to satisfy the judge so she wouldn’t have to go to Prison.

I’ll tell you a few more things if I don’t already have you convinced why we all need to be ranting about this. She also laughed and said I didn’t give her enough cigarette money. I don’t give her enough cigarette money? I told her I was managing her SSI payments for free; if an organization managed her money they would charge her a percentage and she would have less of the federal governments’ money “to smoke.” So yes, it is our money she needs to buy her cigarettes.

She told me she can go around to all the churches and food banks in the area for as much free food as she could eat. She can go to all the social welfare programs and get scrip for free toiletries, and other things she needs. They will also subsidize her rent payments. She said she just wanted to “smoke” her SSI money since she didn’t need to use it to pay for anything else, because she can get everything else for FREE. Then she laughed.

This crap has to stop!

I’m done with taking care of Jeanne. After the last post Rehab laugh-in-my-face-event, she did something so raunchy, vile and criminal, I threw in the towel and quit as her caretaker and Representative Payee. I’m also done with food banks. I’m done with social welfare programs. I told Jeanne’s Social Worker in a rant how I was going to give the Jeanne responsibility back to the educated professionals who get paid to handle this idiotic, pointless, worthless & mind numbing crap.

I have a beautiful, loving, hard working husband who has been waiting patiently for the children to be raised so he could be number one. I'm here sweetie. You will always be my number one. Thank you for getting up every day while it's still dark and going to work when you are exhausted. Thank you for never saying I quit when things were rough. Thanks for giving up all your paychecks and bonuses to raise a family and never spending a dime on yourself. Thank you for being the best Daddy any child could every ask for. You are our hero.

But You Don't Work

What do you do all day? I’d be bored. Have you ever heard stuff like that? If you are a housewife, I bet you have.

I was a young girl growing up in the Cinderella Homes when I had dreams of being a housewife, just like my Mother. She was always home, well dressed, hairdo perfect, always had lipstick on, her clothes were ironed, her shoes & purse always matched, always had tissues, kept a clean home, threw fabulous parties for my Dad’s business associates, came to all my school and sporting events, had warm, homemade cookies when I walked in the door from school, taught me how to sew, and always let me have all my friends over to swim. I’m not good at cleaning, but that’s not my Mom’s fault; it’s just that I don’t enjoy it. I will always choose something I find fun to do over cleaning. Thus the continued state of my house, garage and the Pigmobile.

When our children were small, and I got to quit working, it was cause for celebration. When I sobered up, I decided if I was going to be a proper housewife, I was also going to be a really good housewife like my Mother. That doesn’t mean the stereotypical type housewife we saw portrayed in the sitcoms we saw in the 60’s, the Harriet Nelson and Donna Reed types. No, I had different ideas. I had my eye set on being the best wife, raising my children to be the best people they could be, learning how to cook, bake, open a bottle (or 3) of wine, and learning how to love and coexist with dogs like my darling Mother-in-law. Check, check, check, check, check and yes, check! Hooray!

But I don’t work!

My Mother never sat down, never watched TV, never went to a spa, never went to the mall, the movies or off for the weekend with her friends. My Dad had to beg her to shop for clothes if they had to go on a business trip. She also refused a housekeeper. Refused! She didn’t indulge in manicures, pedicures, waxing, plastic surgery or Botox. She saved up all the left over money my Dad gave her weekly for running the house to pay for stuff us kids needed, or we drove her crazy begging for. I was famous for wanting to go to every summer camp known to man. I also wanted her to buy me tons of books, because I was obsessed with reading. I would tell her it was all her fault from reading to me so much. Her response was to drop me off at the Placentia Library and let me stay there as long as I wanted.

My Mom made the dresses my sister and I wore and if she found a pattern that fit us well, she made the same dress in every color. When we traveled to Europe for 6 weeks in the summer of 1970 with The Turman family, my Mother packed for us five Jessup’s in 2 hard Samsonite suitcases. I was inspired.

The Cinderella homes on Cedarlawn Drive were meticulous. My Dad took great pride in his Dichondra lawn. He’d drive around and lament the lawns and curse the owners that weren’t maintained to his high standards. He once went around the corner and asked a widow whose house was seen as people approached ours, if he could maintain her yard since she wouldn’t, or couldn’t.

The homes were beautiful on the inside as well. My friend Scott still has the original brochures with the floor plans because his childhood home is also on Cedarlawn Drive. Our Mom’s raked the shag, vacuumed designs into the carpets, kept the pools pristine, polished the Formica countertops and somehow caught dust before it landed.

Most of the Dad’s worked in aerospace, for two local companies called Autonetics and Hughes Aircraft. I loved watching the Dad’s drive up in the evenings at 5:00 while us kids would be playing Kick the Can and Hide-N-Go-Seek. Most of the Mom’s were housewives, and at 5:00 p.m. were busy in the house making dinner or cleaning their Cinderella House. One of my friends had a Mom who worked and she went home to an empty house everyday. I always felt bad about that when I was going home to fresh baked cookies and a Mother who would always sit down and give me her undivided attention.

I don’t keep a clean house, garage or car like my parents did on Cedarlawn Drive. But, I take great pride in how I care for my husband, how I’ve given my children tons of undivided attention, bake them cookies, go to all their school and sporting events, and that I let them have all their friends over to swim & play. I’ve been Class Mom, Team Mom and a Carpool driver.

I’ve been teaching myself how to cook, to bake, and sometimes I clean (mostly I don’t). I love having parties. Sometimes I iron my clothes, but I usually just shake’em out and hang them to dry. I’ve learned how to quilt, and love to sew but I don’t mend much. The children were so afraid of my mending pile they would beg to have Grandma fix their clothes… so they’d get them back. I’m still working on the tissue in the purse thing; the kids know to go to Grandma if they need to wipe their noses on something other than Mommie’s sleeve. My hair is only perfect every other Friday when I have it colored by Carrie, colorist extraordinaire. Sometimes I put makeup on. Mostly, I like to wear my hair in a ponytail and cruise around HQ and the Downstairs Office in my Nappies sans Clinique. I never, ever go without perfume though, ever. My Mother had her lipstick thing. I have a perfume addiction. And my Dooney thing.

I take my job seriously, and so does my Boss. But, I have job security and scheduling flexibility to accommodate my husband and children so it’s the best job in the world. Yes, there are some parts of my job that are boring and tedious. Some aspects are stressful. I have great benefits. The pay? Did you say pay?

The pay comes in hugs and love. It came in the faces of my children each time they crossed the finish lines, made Honor Roll, and got acceptance letters to colleges. I got paid when I watched my children helping poor people when they worked in the hot sun for a week each summer repairing their homes. I got paid watching them run to greet their Daddy every night when he came home from work. I was paid every night when we sat down to the family dinner he demanded, no matter what time it came. Pay comes when your family needs you to find something in the refrigerator, a missing sock, or the permission slip. It comes with every Bandage applied and every goodnight kiss. It also comes when a bunch of smelly kids get into your car after practice and are all talking at once. That is my heaven.

I wouldn’t trade my work for anything.


“All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.” -Abraham Lincoln

The Safety Zone

After I wrote about Patsy Clairmont last week I was reminded about The Safety Zone. The Safety Zone is what I’ve always called our Home. It’s another place where we can start teaching our children about how to be the people we want to send out into the world. After my daughter Stephanie went through a rough week recently I wrote her a letter to try and help lift her spirits. I’ll share some of what I wrote to her with you.

My Dearest Stephanie,

What you experienced is quite sadly just a small taste of what is in store for you as you make your way into the real world and begin your adult life. There were days I often felt like a lonesome trailblazer and a minister of my own religion when I started preaching my personal message in our Home. You grew up in the Safety Zone, free from hate and cruelty. Do you remember? Those were family rules. Sadly, others have not. I’ve always told you how people are products of their environments and only have learned skills based upon their parental role models.

If others grew up in a house where they heard derogatory comments, gossip, racial slurs and opinions on beauty, weight and popularity, they grew up programmed to think those are standard and acceptable topics of conversation. You, however, grew up in a cruelty free, hate free zone. We did not indulge in gossip. We don't consider ourselves authorities on beauty, because how can it be measured? Weight, being something that is inside a person's clothes, would be considered a personal matter, and therefore not our business...much like a person's sexual preference. We don't discuss that kind of stuff. There are bigger and better things in the world like love, peace, acceptance and joy.

You and Sam were not allowed to indulge in unkindness towards each other, which others have laughed about. We didn't find it funny at all. Our home was a haven, The Safety Zone, a place to go from the cruelties of the world. Not everyone grew up like this. The people out in the world you are going to be spending your adult life with have come from a variety of homes. I've preached a lot about giving them grace because of our Biblical teachings and because not everyone has been blessed with an upbringing as wonderful and loving as yours.

I guess people can only be allowed a certain amount of grace. Because I, like you, have to actually blaze the trail and try to spread a message about how wrong meanness, gossip, cruelty, hate, racism and injustice are. You were a trailblazer last night. A witness to the faith and a preacher after my own heart. I am proud beyond words. You stand 10 feet tall for not sitting down. You inspire me.

I Love you with all my heart,
Mommie


Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. Ephesians 4:31-32

Patsy Clairmont

I’ve used Patsy Clairmont’s name as an instructional tool in my home for years. When I heard her speak for the first time at a Women of Faith conference years ago, I sat transfixed, completely and utterly speechless. That hardly ever happens if you know me.

Her speech at the WOF conference was about how people are walking around everyday in pain and we simply don’t know it. There are people with obvious markers/signs you can see. A cast, crutches, a wheelchair, white cane, or a handicap placard on their vehicle. Maybe someone has told you they recently had surgery, are in pain, undergoing chemotherapy, psychotherapy, or grieving for someone they’ve recently lost. Some people are good at communicating stuff like that.

There are also the Patsy Clairmont's, and a whole world of other people out there in pain who are crying on the inside and smiling on the outside. Those are the ones I have been talking to my family about all these years.

My Godfather, Tony Pierno once told me, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease Jodi.” He who screams loudest wins, right? Well, what if we are talking about broken wheels that make no sound. Those broken wheels aren’t giving us any warning. Scary thought, isn’t it?

Patsy Clairmont has a serious disease. She told the 50,000+ WOF attendees at the ARCO Arena in Sacramento, California about it. The arena was jam packed that day. It was rough navigating around to get to the snack bars and the restrooms. She was speaking before a break and wanted to warn people. She told us how she is in constant pain, and how simply being jostled in a crowd can cause her unbearable pain. She wanted us to know, so if she was trying to get to the Ladies Room during a break in the program, people would be careful. How many times have we all carelessly bumped into someone and simply said, “Excuse me.” That day, as I listened to Patsy, I sat and wondered if I’d ever run into anyone who was hurting, and I didn’t know it.

It’s been a goal of mine since hearing Patsy speak to pass along her message to my family and friends. People don’t necessarily come with markers or signs. Some people won’t tell you they are in pain, are grieving, are undergoing treatments, or have a serious illness. Pain comes in varying types; physical as well as emotional. Sometimes pain can be seen, other times it is well concealed.

I’ve asked my family to go out into the world and be careful with others. Treat each person with kindness, love and respect. You don’t know what is going on in that person’s life. It might only be 8:00 a.m., but you don’t know what has already happened in that person’s day. You don’t know what is going on in that person’s world. Their world might be filled with well concealed pain; they could be dodging emotional darts, possibly caring for a sick person, or what if they got some crushing news that morning? We have got to be more careful and gentle with everyone.

Patsy Clairmont has inspired me to be kinder. I want everyone else to try too. If you are the person at the market being unkind to a Cashier, yes, I am going to tell you stop being rude, and be nice. If you are the customer talking down to a server, yes, I am going to ask you to be more considerate to those who serve you. If you are the impatient driver behind me honking because I am not turning right, yes, I am going to turn around and tell you to stop honking because I am allowing someone to use the crosswalk. If I wonder what I can do to help you I am not going to say, “Call me if I can do anything to help.” I’m going to show up and do something. I promise.

Thanks Patsy.

Abba Patare

After the celebration of Communion today, I wanted to share a bit about my feelings and theories on God, my eternal “Abba Patare.” Because God is such a complex entity for me to wrap my head around, it’s always been easier for me to think of him in the realm of a Father figure. Easy for me, because I had a Dad who loved me unconditionally.

Abba Patare is Greek in origin, meaning father. This isn’t a bunch of hogwash. I’ve discussed this at length with my Pastor, the Reverend Dr. Randy Johnson, and he says I am “right on” thinking of God as a father figure.

When you understand how I feel about God being a loving, kind and non-judgmental type of Father, you’ll also get that I don’t feel scared at the thought Him watching over me, watching me live my life. If you know me well, you’ll notice I’m ok with being well behaved and I’m ok when I’m really poorly behaved. My Dad always loved me either way too. He was always thoughtful and forgiving with me.

Just like my Dad, my Abba Patare always welcomes me into His home, His arms, and His place of worship. I think He loves me unconditionally whether I go into a church or not. He loves me when I act stupid; he loves me when I am good. He loves me when I am wrong, he loves me when I am holy and when I act completely unholy.

Just like my own Dad, I bet there are times when He aches watching me, wishing I hadn’t made a poor choice, when I’ve said the wrong thing, ran an extremely yellow light or went to a bar to watch football and drink martinis instead of going to church.

Just like my own Dad, I bet He cries when I’m hurting and wants to carry me when my feet hurt too much to walk. I bet He aches when I’m sitting in church praying “HELP, HELP, HELP ME” because I can’t think of any other eloquent words to send up to Him.

Just like my own Dad, I know my eternal Father rejoices in my joys, loves hearing me sing off key, doesn’t care that my house, garage and car are dirty, and that I wear the same wrinkled clothes over and over again.

I know my eternal Father, my Abba Patare loves me. Only He can see into my heart and soul. He is the only one I care about impressing, and only He gets to judge whether I am holy.

I love you Abba Patare. Thank you for your unconditional love. Thank you for bringing me parents who love me unconditionally, so I would learn how to love my children in that beautiful way too.

The Acceptance Speech

I will confess, I am obsessed with Red Carpet & Award shows. It’s almost as exciting as Thursdays around here when my People Magazine arrives. I said almost. But I do prepare. I prepare like some of you guys prepare for the Superbowl or the World Series. It’s a calendar entry, and an alarm set on the Batphone. Work stops and I hunker down in a comfy pair of Nappies with whatever nibbles I happen to be obsessed with that particular week.

I love seeing all the movie stars arrive on the Red Carpet in their glamorous gowns, dripping in diamonds and being asked silly questions such as, “Who are you wearing?” I half-listen, but I what I really want them to do is get inside & get the show rolling so I can hear The Acceptance Speeches. That’s why I watch.

I’m always waiting for The Acceptance Speech to end all Acceptance Speeches. The one that is going to rock my world. The one that is going to convince me that Hollywood isn’t completely filled with a bunch of liberal, overindulged and conceited morons. There have been a few good speeches over the years. Mo’Nique was impressive at the Golden Globes this year. She is on the list of The Jodes favorites so far this award season. She may end up in the Top 10. We’ll see, the Big One is on this Sunday, the Academy Awards.

I think it would be fun to be a movie star for a day so I could have a gorgeous gown, be dressed in carats and carats of Tiffany jewels and carry a purse worth more than my current home. I want to have a staff for a day, be pampered, waxed, spa’d and ride in a limo drinking Veuve Clicquot to an awards show. Once there, I’d have to win. I already have my Acceptance Speech.

Recently, I jumped the gun a bit when my CPA said I was in the running for this year’s Client Accountant Award. In my excitement, I thought he said I’d won. So, I sent him off The Acceptance Speech and was sad to learn afterwards I was still in the running. You see, it still comes down to the cookies. So, while the cookies are being whisked by Fedex to Martin Grassi CPA, and while they taste and decide my fate, I’ll let you read The Acceptance Speech.

Let me know if you think if it should come down to a decision based upon the cookies.


Dear Scott Martin, CPA

Thank you for this award!

I would like to begin by thanking all the lazy Americans & illegal immigrants who don't pay their bills, the people who live beyond their means, those who declare bankruptcy when their extravagant lifestyles become too "hard" to pay for, people who suck off the system, get free college for their kids, go to churches & food banks for free food, live on food stamps, use federal funding to support their cigarette, alcohol and drug habits, those who get free medical care for all the exorbitantly expensive medical problems caused by their poor lifestyle habits and excessive pregnancies, and those who won't work a hard, honest job because they make more money on welfare.

I sure don't want to leave out thanking the richer-than-me-liberals (and celebrities who think I care about their uneducated opinions) who have dreamt up all the programs my exhausted, hard working husband is contributing to each day so all the irresponsible and lazy Americans and illegals can enjoy their free ride. They are teaching their spawn to also partake in these idiotic "benefits" and feel entitled to the luxuries of America, because dammit, it's the land of the free. FREE!

All the lazy Americans, illegals and people who feel entitled to "free everything" inspired me to just get the tax refund that is rightfully mine.

So, Scott, I accept the "Honorary 2009 Tax Season Client Accountant" award because I worked myself ragged for the past two months finding & researching every last penny we spent... actually paying our bills, paying for our family medical care, our mortgage, property taxes, fully paying for two children's college bills, charities we donated to, and for the food and other things we bought. Last but not least, for the insurance we paid for ...because we don't expect the federal government to come in and take care of us in the event of something catastrophic.

Love Jodes

The Slap-N-Tickle

Every time we have dinner at Arigato we have to pass the “Slap-N-Tickle” and I just have to laugh. Well, I laugh now. When I was being slapped and tickled in the car wash, it wasn’t all that funny.

Life is like that. Time heals a lot. When we were in the trenches raising two small children, a lot wasn’t funny, it was just plain grueling. We were tired, stressed and overworked. As time has passed, we look back and find ourselves laughing, remembering the antics of Thing One and Thing Two. It’s probably the reason some of us will go through childbirth more than once. The ability of our bodies and minds to overcome, heal and forget. Brilliant, huh?

Now that the Rumputeers are off to college and living their own lives, we miss them dearly. Instead of reveling in the quiet, order and clean, we have The Replacements; two just as needy, and much messier Cockapoo puppies.

We are also so proud we can’t stop talking about them. Them, meaning...who? Both. The kids and the dogs. Nowadays, when we pull out the camera, we have more pictures of The Replacements than the children. When we go out to dinner, it’s the same as when the children were little. We talk about them; the children and The Replacements.

We are still new at being empty nesters. It’s hard to imagine a life not built completely around our children. For me, I don’t feel ready. I’m still tut-tutting, fluffing, nesting and gathering sticks and berries. I anxiously await each return flight of my baby birds to our nest.

Now, we look back and laugh at our lives when we were raising small children. Much like the Slap-N-Tickle car wash I got. I was in neutral, rolling into the self service car wash when my driver’s side window got stuck in the rolled down position. It doesn’t take you long to figure out when faced with this situation that you are going to get wet. Really, really wet. And slapped. A lot.

I was determined to get a good, self service car wash that day and went to the one with the slappy rags. There is not time to unbuckle your seat belt and dive into the back seat once you’ve put your coins in either. I tried. So, I endured. I came out wet, slapped and head-to-toe soapy. On the other side where others were busy pumping gas, I had to open the car door and let out a flood of water and soap suds. Then I had to climb out and shake myself off.

I have to do that a lot.

Barbie Dolls

Have you heard the old saying, “I hate Barbie, that bitch has everything?” I have. I’ve been accused of being Barbie, which is funny because I am built more like Barney Rubble, I’m freckled head to toe and been told I resemble Rosie O’Donnell.

I could go off topic and tell you a story about how my sister and brother once held me down and played “connect the dots” on my freckles with a Sharpie, but that is a story for another day.

I had tons of Barbie’s when I was a child. They were my favorite toys. Lori (Fennel) Jagger and I played Barbie’s our entire childhood. We played them at home, and also had a Barbie hideaway in the back of my closet at our house in Lake Arrowhead. It was Barbie heaven; because we were allowed to leave our Barbie’s set up without dismantling them for weeks and months on end. Funny side note about the Barbie closet. It’s where my Dad used to hide the liquor when my Grandparents, strict Quakers, would visit the Lake Arrowhead house.

Back to Barbie’s, and gossip, because people sure love to gossip, don’t they? Even your friends, about you. My friends tell me gossip they’ve heard about me from my other people. I’ve heard I’m that bitch Barbie, with “everything.” I don’t even know what “having everything” means.

I’ve heard I don’t know anything about having difficult teenagers because my children are perfect. I’ve heard I don’t know anything about marriage because my husband is perfect. I’ve heard I’m holy and perfect because I take my kids to church every Sunday. I’ve been told I’m clueless about hard work because I’m a housewife. I am completely baffled. I wish I had video tapes of my everyday life, in my house, with my family, to show people. No one would see Barbie.

Those reported words of gossip are inflicted pain. Gossip is bad from beginning to end. It doesn’t need to be started, and it sure doesn’t need to be reported to the victim. I’m not better for knowing I’ve been a victim. Those words hurt. I bet anyone reading this has been the victim of a word inflicted, wound to the heart. Barbie doesn’t exist in reality. She is simply a precious toy for children. We all need to be kinder, don’t we? I’ll try harder.

Lori and I can vouch that our Barbie’s didn’t have “everything.” Our Mom’s gave us fabric remnants and taught us how to sew. We learned how to use a sewing machine, and a needle & thread so we could make Barbie blankets, sleeping bags and pillows. We also learned how to make Barbie clothes. We learned how to sew zippers, snaps, hooks & eyes on the garments, thus giving us lifelong skills. Our Dad’s gave us scraps of wood and other things from our yards so we could make Barbie furniture. We’d scour the nearby fields of Placentia for coins to save up if we wanted some special Barbie accessory.

Our Barbie’s were not allowed to cheat life by “jumping walls” and had to be well behaved, be completely dressed, have their hair combed & have pin head pierced earrings on. Our early play with Barbie’s was in fact a good analogy for who we are as women today.

Lori and I don’t have “everything.” We don’t try to cheat life by “jumping any walls.” We are usually well behaved and we work very hard.

For anyone to reduce my hard work and make thoughtless, flippant remarks that I have no understanding about something because my life, husband, children, family, etc., “are perfect” is downright cruel, plus horribly incorrect. If I have come by success in my life, my marriage, with my family and children, it is due to good old fashioned hard work and faith. I get up like the rest of the world, put on my big girl panties, and try to make the best of each day.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13