Who am I?

The question of “who am I” is commonly asked among the younger generation. Tweens and teens alike wonder what their purpose is in life and how they’re supposed to go about accomplishing that purpose. Even youngsters in college seek clarification in their identity, wondering what to study and how their education and social experiences will make a positive impact on the world. I have often heard people say that the older you get the more you know yourself. I can testify to the validity of this claim but I have also learned, as I have gotten older, if you’re willing, you never stop growing.

Remaining stagnant in anything is not an option for me. I hunger for God’s wisdom and crave being all He destined for me to be. More often than not, the growth that comes with that wisdom is painful. I liken it to open heart surgery – without anesthesia. I have, in recent months, gone through a number of such procedures, and have discovered a few things about myself that I didn’t know before. While I know I’m becoming exactly who God wants me to be, I am finding myself grieving over who I know I will never be. And I feel an ever-increasing isolation because, like I did in high school, I feel like I don’t fit in.

One of those areas of understanding and acceptance is related to my 9/11 experience. I so desperately wanted to get the heck out of Washington, DC after the attacks on America. I was surrounded by a fraternity of journalists who had gone through what I went through. But, our club meetings were always silent. No one spoke of what they saw or felt or experienced that day and in the days afterward. With that silence came a feeling of alone-ness that has yet to leave me. I needed to know I wasn’t the only one feeling what I was feeling. Those answers never came from my brethren.

Moving to Indianapolis was, in my mind, the safest place I could get without having to remove myself from the planet yet still close enough to be able to get home to my family in SC in a matter of hours all while still working as a journalist, albeit in print instead of TV news. What I have discovered here is even more isolation. To my knowledge, I am the only person in Indianapolis, Indiana who heard the plane crash into the Pentagon in person, the only one who watched video of the jumpers from the World Trade Center buildings before they collapsed, the only one who felt the heat rising from the Pentagon for days after the fire was extinguished. I am the only one in Indianapolis who covered the events of 9/11 in NY and knows the stench of 3,000 dead bodies. I am the only one.

That’s not to suggest others in Indiana were not affected adversely by the attacks. Perhaps they lost a loved one or a friend. Perhaps they were a first responder who went to NY or DC to assist in recover efforts. In those experiences, there is a common bond. But from 8:48 am, 9/11/01 to this very minute, I know of no one else that can relate. I have had so many conversations with people about what I saw, desperately needing someone to say, “I understand.” I continue to wait for those words of comfort.

Everyone has experienced pain; that is the common bond in the human race. But somewhere in this town is a woman who can relate to a mother who lost a child because she has lost one too. Somewhere in this town is a man who knows what it feels like to have survived cancer because he had it too. Somewhere in this town is a son who knows what his friend is struggling with watching his parents battle dementia because he is watching it in his family too.

Somewhere in Indianapolis, Indiana is a woman who is isolated because no one else in this town understands because they have never walked in my shoes. Who am I if I am alone?

The Little Man

There’s a song by Celine Dion called “In His Touch”. It says that a man shouldn’t need to utter a word because “when a man loves a woman, it is in his touch.” I have always believed that sentiment – actions speak louder than words. Being deliberate about action or inaction can make a tremendous impact in the lives of others. But what if you’re incapable of deliberate action?

Such was the case in the life of Hunter Reid Ferrell. Hunter was the son of my best friend, Trinette… oh, heck, I don’t even call her that anymore. Really, she’s my sister and everyone who knows us knows us as just that. So, Hunter was my nephew. Hunter was born in May 2001. I missed his birth because I was off being a stupid, arrogant, prideful journalist. We all know what happens before the fall, right?

Hunt, or the Little Man, as we grew to call him, was born with Dandy Walker malformation which is “a congenital (present at birth) condition involving several abnormalities in the development of the brain. The malformation appears to result from destructive processes, such as inflammation or trauma, which block the circulation of cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) inside the head after the brain has been formed by the embryo.” (Author Info: Rebecca J. Frey PhD, The Gale Group Inc., Gale, Detroit, Gale Encyclopedia of Genetic Disorders Part I, 2002)

Trinette knew of his condition before birth and doctors recommended she terminate the pregnancy. She refused; knowing that inside her was growing a life created by God and that in His eyes, Hunter was perfect despite his challenges. What a brave and Godly decision. Not many women would have made the same one.

And that Little Man became the apple of so many eyes! He could neither hear nor see, he would never speak or walk or run after a ball or reach for his mommy after scraping his knee. So often I begged God to answer – Why did you let this happen? It would be eight-and-a-half years before I received my answer.

Hunter left this world and returned to the Father on November 13, 2009. Trinette and I (and lots of other people) know that our prayers for healing have finally been answered. What’s better than seeing a little boy run to his mother’s arms? Knowing that same little boy is running into the arms of the Father who created him.

I’m not sure I can give an accurate count to the number of people who filled the church for Hunter’s funeral and celebration of life. For a little boy who couldn’t talk or touch, God used that Little Man in a mighty way to touch many hearts.

The doctors and nurses that cared for Hunter during his many hospital visits were there. His day nurses came with tears. Teachers at Hunt’s school (yes, he did go to school!) and even his school bus driver came. Members of Trinette’s church, friends and family – the list goes on. Hunter reminded us all of the frailty of life and that God has a special plan for each and every one He creates. He certainly knew how to command attention when he wanted to, and he showed us the innocence of love.

Without saying a word, Hunter drew people to the Father. In his struggle for life, he helped the rest of us to live. In the end, he showed his mother strength she didn’t know she had. He showed us all that God answers prayers – always.

Trinette is the bravest woman in the world and Hunter was the luckiest kid to have her as his mommy. And I am blessed because both of them graced my life.

What kind of impact will you leave? Will it be with or without a touch?

A Change In Course

People who know me know that I’m a driven, goal-oriented person. When I jump into something, I give it my all. As a Christian, I believe that giving your best in anything you do is the right thing to do. And, as a Christian journalist, I have always felt that it was my calling to communicate truth.

I have also never been one to shy away from the spotlight. We could psychoanalyze that for a while but it wouldn’t make a difference. The older I get though, the less I feel the need to be the center of everything. And the older I get the better I listen – to God!

There has never been any doubt that God called me to become a writer/journalist. As I look back on the past 10-plus years, I can see His hand clearly in everything in my life, including 9/11. Today, I am a better person because of all of it. I have struggled for the last year or so with the whole writing part of my life. There have been times I simply didn’t want to write. I felt anxious, pressure to write and to write well. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why I just dreaded doing what I love to do so much.

And then I listened! God has changed my heart! He hasn’t completely taken away my desire to write but He has shown me what I need to be doing with my life instead of building a business centered on writing. Today, my greatest desire is to be a mommy. That is how I will leave my greatest legacy.

Today, I no longer desire to be a successful business woman. In fact, I don’t even want to be in business! I no longer desire to be in the spotlight with my award-winning, best-selling book. I no longer feel the need to prove everyone else wrong about their politics and religion (even if they are wrong!) through my writing. I do still want to tell everyone about Jesus Christ, but perhaps I’m just the seed planter, or the water-er.

These days my life is filled to the brim with hopefullness in the adoption process. We’re planning our garage sale which will be our first big fundraiser. We’re painting the guest bedroom and preparing it to become a nursery. We’re reorganizing other bedrooms to accommodate for guests, an office, and Kurt’s man-cave. We’re thinking of baby names and wondering how the dog and cat will react with a newborn in the house.

I haven’t entirely shut the door on Fletcher Communications or on the writing world. I still have a couple of clients but I will no longer be actively building the business or seeking out new projects or clients. I’m still available to lend a hand to my networking and social media buddies. But there’s a change in course now. This is my life, and I am well pleased!

The Day The World Changed Forever

I’m big on blogging. I think it’s fabulous for so many reasons. In fact, I’m going to speak at a blogging conference, Blog Indiana 2008, next month! But, when it comes to my own blog, I find it hard to get to. It isn’t that I don’t have anything to write about. I certainly do. However, when it comes to this subject matter, there are times I would just rather not discuss it. I have written about this experience before and made it through just fine. Yet sharing the details of that day, as I have wanted to do the last couple of weeks, has given me a sense of dread. But, that’s part of the journey through the Great Sadness, I suppose.

There are pieces of the story that don’t belong in this particular post. If I started, I wouldn’t finish. So, I’ll start by reminding you that I had worked on a month-long project for the production arm of CBN News. A few weeks after that project, I was asked by the bureau chief to do a live audition for their Capitol Hill Correspondent position. I was delighted!

For many weeks prior to 9/11, I had also been teaching part time at Connecticut Schools of Broadcasting, which was located in the basement of a building in Crystal City, Virginia. If you walked to the Pentagon from this building, it would be no further than 1/2 to 3/4 of a mile.

The morning of 9/11 started out differently than most days. A news junkie, I usually had the Today Show on. But I didn’t even look in the direction of the TV that morning. I was too busy rehearsing the script I had written for my audition. I distinctly remember the watermelon colored dress, the off-white hose and shoes, and the extra attention I paid to my hair and makeup. I even remember what underwear I had on!

Another oddity for that day is that I drove my car. I rarely did that, except to the grocery store every so often. Much like the TV, I would normally have had the radio on in the car. But I was still rehearsing. I wanted to nail that audition!

My schedule for the morning consisted of me stopping off at the school to give final exams to some of my students. From there, I would head into DC and to the CBN bureau for the audition. So, I parked my car under the building and entered the basement floor. I didn’t really notice much going on about me. By this point, I was already focused on the exams.

The students seemed to be milling about, almost nervously. One said, “You better get in RJ’s office.” (RJ was the Executive Director of the school.)

RJ was at his desk with a phone attached to each of his ears.

“Did you hear what happened?”

I shook my head no and tried to speak in between his conversations with the people on either phone; conversations that seemed panicked.

“A plane crashed into the World Trade Center building,” he replied.

Silent from disbelief, I finally responded, “Ok. That’s not a very funny joke, but I’ll wait for the punchline.”

“It’s not a joke,” he screamed. “I’m on the phone with my brother who was in the other WTC building. I’m trying to get him out of the building but they’re saying everyone needs to go back to their desks. I’m also on the phone with his wife. He couldn’t get through to her.”

Again, he started shouting things like, “Get out of the building”. “I don’t care what they told you.” “You’re going to be fine. Calm down.”

Strangely enough, this Radio and TV broadcasting school didn’t have cable so I ran out into the lobby to the McDonald’s that had several TV’s and satellite access. Dozens of people stood around watching in disbelief. Many whispered that it must have been an accident; a small plane that went off course. But the hole looked too big to be a small plane.

And then we all watched the second plane strike. Gasps filled the silence. People covered their gaping mouths with their hands and cried, “Oh, no.”

Someone said, “That wasn’t an accident. We’re under attack.”

Even as I write this… I can see each scene so clearly… as if it were happening again. The pounding in my chest right now reminds me of what I felt that morning.

RJ’s brother. Oh no. I ran back into his office.

“He’s out. He’s out,” RJ kept saying. “It’s ok. He got out. He’s safe.”

By this point, it became apparent that exams would have to wait. Too many students wanted to watch these events unfold, and truthfully, so did I. We walked between the McDonald’s TV’s and our class radio for the latest updates. One visit to the TV’s presented the most awful image – in my opinion – of the entire event.

A man and woman were shown (live) jumping from the building to their deaths. My first reaction was to wonder how bad it must have been where they were that they felt jumping was a much better option. I can’t even comprehend it. Then I noticed the look of peace on their faces. His tie floated skyward while he looked down to the ground that would soon greet him. Her skirt ballooned, and secretly I hoped it would save her from a violent death. But I knew better. To this day, I still can’t get that image out of my mind.

Back in the office listening to the radio, reports were rampant about bombings here and there, mostly in New York. Then reports of bombings in the DC area began flooding the airwaves. So many students had so many questions; I decided to try to make some sort of lesson out of this situation. We gathered in the class room to talk about the reality of what had just happened.

“We talked these last weeks about the types of scenes you would encounter as a journalist,” I started. “Obviously, we’ve never seen anything like this but if you ever faced anything like this, as a reporter, you’d have to do your job. Your life could very well be in danger. You’d witness some horrific things like we’ve seen live on TV today. Can you handle that?”

Many said they couldn’t and journalism was no longer an option for them. I didn’t blame them. It wasn’t an option for me anymore either; at least not that type of journalism.

Some of us returned to the radio while others returned to the televisions in the lobby. Soon, we looked at one another before someone broke the silence and said, “What was that sound?”

“I don’t know,” someone else replied.

“I’m going out to look,” yelled a student as he ran out the door.

“Don’t go out there,” I screamed at him only to finish the thought in my head. “You don’t know what’s out there.”

Shortly thereafter the radio confirmed that the Pentagon had been struck, just the same as the WTC buildings. In between the WTC buildings crumbling and the hijacked plane that crashed in Pennsylvania, many students decided to head back to their homes. There was nothing more to see or do here.

There is so much more from that day but, this post is long enough… and trying enough. I’ll end here for now.

Safe and Secure

My parents aren’t getting any younger. And yet, they continue to work as if they were in their 20′s. The work they do, they say, is better than “real work”. My mother was always a homemaker (the toughest job in the world) and my dad is twice retired: once from the US Army and once from the SC Department of Corrections. My parents love to work on things that will help me and my older brother. For example, they came up this past weekend to help me and Kurt on some landscaping projects. This wasn’t easy stuff either. Pulling up miles of English Ivy isn’t the work of wimps. And we did it in 90-degree weather. Even though mom and dad are in the mid-to-late 60′s and their health issues limit them in some ways, they can still work me under the table when it comes to hard stuff like yard work.

I tried my best to keep up with them, and for the most part I succeeded. The last day in the yard wore me slap out (as we would say in the south). I found it humorous and quite comforting that my parents were more worried about me than themselves.

“Take a break,” they often chided.

They were the ones who should have been taking a break. But they didn’t.

The work they did was during the week when Indiana was struck with tornadoes and floods of historic proportions. Growing up in South Carolina, we’re used to hurricane warnings and hot temperatures. Tornadoes were a rarity for us. Indiana is part of Tornado Alley, and I’m not particularly thrilled when the tornado siren sounds. (On test days, Fletcher and I usually hide in the bathroom!)

My husband always makes me feel safe and secure but there’s just something about having mom and dad close by that adds to that safety and security. The storms were rough but I was never really worried. Between Kurt and my parents, I knew we were all going to be ok.

I realized not long after they left to return to SC that they were what was missing in the moments after 9/11. Living in DC was hard enough but I didn’t have any friends there. I didn’t particularly like the person I was dating and living with at the time (it’s a long story and another blog entirely!). And I certainly wasn’t all too thrilled with the people I worked with either. Everyone had their own lives to live. Power and success forced everyone to stay at an arm’s length from real, intimate relationships.

When I heard the sound of the plane crash into the Pentagon, my thoughts immediately turned to my parents. Frozen in fear, all I wanted was mommy and daddy. They would know how to handle this situation. They would know how to keep me safe and secure. But they weren’t there.

I called and spoke to them on the phone before most cell phone connections went blank. They were glad to hear I was safe and were as riveted by the events as much as the next person. I’m not entirely sure they knew exactly how close I was to the Pentagon. And I don’t think it was until a few years later – when I finally crashed – when they realized how traumatized I had been that day. I don’t blame them for not knowing. I was a journalist, after all. We were all strong and neutral and able to handle covering this type of news, right?

And I’m certain I put on a strong front for them, just like I did while I worked in the yard this past weekend. “Oh, I can handle this,” I kept telling myself that day and in the yard. “I’m a big girl now, and I want to make them proud.”

I don’t think it really matters how old you are. There’s still nothing like mommy and daddy to make you feel completely safe and secure.