A few weeks into my first full-time salaried position at a public radio station in Connecticut, my friend Teresa called me at work.  For that last four years I’d been watching Teresa and Peter’s two little boys on nights and weekends, and now they were heading to Ethiopia to complete their family with the adoption of their daughter.

“I know you just started over there, but we’d love for you to come with us.”

Without a moment of hesitation I thanked Teresa and wholeheartedly agreed to the family trip.  I hung up overjoyed and a bit overwhelmed.

At the time, my boss and I shared an office and she knew right away that whatever just happened was very good.

“I know it’s really soon for vacation time, but the Imhoffs just asked me to go to Ethiopia with them next month.  I’ll be gone for just over two weeks.  I understand if that changes things here, but…”

It didn’t change anything.  My boss saw it the same way: I had to go.

Ethiopia changed me.

Prior to landing in Addis-Ababa I’d never seen (let alone landed on) a dirt runway.  Never eaten (or seen or heard of) injera.  Never been to an orphanage.  Never seen or touched or smelled poverty.  Never (that I can remember) had someone roll a mouthful of food together and then feed it to me with her right hand.  Never mixed Coke-a-Cola with red wine.  Never been with children who’d never seen (or touched) white skin or long, straight, blonde hair.  Never seen a bible story come to life – until Teresa and I witnessed an entire village (near the mouth of the Nile) feed and clothe a frail, elderly woman who walked through their packed Sunday service naked and shaking.

Never recognized my privilege or connected so deeply with my compassion.

Early Saturday evening I got my makeup done by a friend who was working at a boutique on Newbury Street.  I was just a few hours away from telling a story in front of 1200 or so people at Boston’s Cutler Majestic Theatre, and my friend lovingly agreed to get me stage ready.

As a thank you to my friend (and her employer), I splurged on a new lip stick (so red!) and a new foundation.  The purchases represented a major upgrade to my makeup game.

Early in my walk back to the theatre it started to rain, so I decided to splurge again – this time on an Uber.

A few moments after picking me up, the driver, Mohammed and I got into a conversation about accents and he was certain I wouldn’t be able to place his.

“That’s easy,” I said.  “Is your first language Amharic?”

“How did you know that I am Ethiopian?”

For the rest of our ride together I shared what his country taught me in my early twenties, and he shared with me how happy he was to reminisce about growing up on the Nile, and Lalibela, and the nutritional value of injera.

By the time we reached the theatre I felt even more prepared for my main stage storytelling debut, thanked Mohammed for the safe delivery and good conversation and on our ways we went.

The next morning, after a performance I was proud of and an after-party that went past midnight, I realized I’d left the little blue bag with my makeup splurge in the backseat of Mohammed’s SUV.

As a long shot, I left him a message through Uber, and a few moments later Mohammed called me back and we made a plan to meet up in Cambridge.

“Thank you SO much,” I said once we met.  “I’ve NEVER spent this much on makeup before and I’m super grateful for the additional trip to get it back to me.”

“As soon as I picked up my next passenger,” Mohammed said,  “I saw it back there and immediately thought, oh no, this is Amanda’s.  I must save it for her.”

Then, without having said it in conversation for more than a decade, I recalled one of the two Amharic words I managed to pick up: “Ameseginalehu.”

With a gorgeous smile, Mohammed responded: “You’re welcome.”

And I was reminded how those things – that are truly yours – can often find a way to return to you.

PS – The other Amharic word I learned was “conjo” – which means beautiful

For the past 12-hours or so, I’ve been bingeing on brave brownie points.

In anticipation of my Moth GrandSLAM performance tomorrow night handfuls of friends, and family members and colleagues have reached out with well-wishes, atta girls, and love yous.

Each one has made me cry.

I still worry a lot.  Battle with anxiety a lot.  Question my worth a lot.  But, now I just try to be more open about it.  Lean in a bit more to the pain – as opposed to simply working harder to avoid or ignore how bad it feels.

The result of which has been a reunion with my creativity.  The continuation of this blog.  Multiple storytelling performances.  And the reminder of why we do brave things.

All brave things are done together – maybe that’s why they make things better.

So, c’mon let’s eat up. 😘

I’ve been thinking a lot about when I first became a fundraiser.

It happened senior year of high school.

I was class president and we hadn’t raised enough to cover graduation, a class trip, or a class gift.

To close the gap some other classmates and I ended up orchestrating a school-wide game of musical chairs.  We got chairs sponsored, got parents and teachers to serve as game “officials,” and a local DJ to donate his services.

It was a huge success.  We raised enough to put our class in the black AND promote (and make good on) a $250 cash prize for the winner.

Once I realized that I had it in me to cold call and make asks on behalf of others – I was in – and have remained in ever since.

Though, prior to the musical chairs strategy actually coming to fruition, I mostly just thought: What the hell am I doing?

Lately, it’s been way more what the hell than musical chairs – which is maybe why I read way more into the sign that I noticed today while exiting the Ladies Room:

Please Step Up.

Last night we came home after nine-hours of friends, food and Wiffle Ball.

As we made the left onto our street a burst of red, white and purple fireworks lit-up the sky.  As we turned into our driveway, the smell of a freshly fired grill wafted through our open windows.  As we unpacked the car a warm wind welcomed us home.

And as I watched Briggs, sun-kissed and half-asleep waltz to our door, all I could think was: “So, this is love.”

I forgot that I couldn’t walk.

I’d been on high doses of magnesium for thirty-six hours and gone through a round of beta shots (steroid treatment) to reduce the risk of infection and disease to Briggs’s under-developed lungs.

My cesarean was bumped to 11:15 that morning.

A nurse dashed to my bed when she caught me attempting to crawl out.

“Wait!  Wait!,” she (lovingly) yelled. “I”ll help you, I’ll help you.  Please, please stop.”

My head was spinning – worse than any hangover – ever.  And I was scared.  I’d been nervous about delivery since I’d gotten pregnant, but now that this delivery was happening two months prior to my due date, I was petrified.  And the magnesium made it worse giving me the spins, double vision, and the loss of simple functions…like the ability to recall my husband’s name.

“I feel so bad,” I confessed to the nurse.  “I can’t have my baby this way.  I can’t have him be born to a mom that stinks with oily hair.  I need a shower.  Please, I need a shower.”

Now I was crying.  My Mom and two of my sisters arrived and they helped calm me down and assure me that the nurse would come right back with a wheelchair.

And then she did.

My family helped her negotiate my very awkward and weakened body from the bed to the chair.  Turns out the nurse was right, I really did have no control of my legs.

I can’t remember the nurse’s name.  But I do remember her red hair, and well-kept nails, and kindness.

I didn’t put it together until we were in the handicap shower and she was taking off my hospital gown that she would be doing all of the actual work.  That she would have to move me from this chair to the shower chair, that she would be the one to run the soapy cloth over my arms and legs, that she would be the one to shampoo my hair.  And that she’d have to manage all of these tasks without actually getting soaked herself.

I started to cry again.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I couldn’t do this.  I just wanted a fresh start.  It’s just.  It’s just really hard and I just really wanted a fresh start.”

She reminded me that the shower is a good place to get out a good cry.  And that she didn’t mind.  And that I deserved to feel good.

Then she dried me off, got me into a fresh grown, put my hands in hers and with pure joy whispered, “you’re having a baby.”

I smiled back, “I am.  Today, I’m having Briggs.”

I can’t remember her name, but every year since, on this day, my shower feels a little more important and her love and generosity fill me completely.

Happy Birthday, Briggs.

I commute into Boston nearly every day – which is hard – because 1) I actually don’t like to drive and 2) It’s not an easy or short commute.

In my attempts to goodify this “have-to,” I do things like listen to audio books, explore new music, and use the long rides to practice telling what I hope will develop into good stories.

I also do my best to connect with the men and women who are standing by the on and off ramps trying to earn a few bucks with clever signs and sunny dispositions.  My entire career (in fundraising and marketing) has been built on asking, and so I’m always impressed by anyone’s (and everyone’s) resilience to get up and try again.

For months now, this one gentleman with a kind face, limp arm, and well-worn Sox cap has been trying his best off Exit 22 from 93 South.  He and I exchange good mornings and the occasional song picks (mostly him commenting on what I’m blasting) – and that’s that.

Today though, I caught him in the afternoon – working the other side of the street – by the on ramp for 93 North off Atlantic.  My window was open, and I didn’t see (or expect to see) him there.

“You have the prettiest smile in Boston,”  I heard.

I looked to my left and saw he was talking to me.

“Oh, hey,” I said.

“When you smile you look just like a little kid.  Sorry, that’s suppose to be a compliment.  Only happy kids smile the way you do.  I don’t mean to say that you look like a kid”

“Thanks, I get it.  And I’ll take it as a compliment.”

I waved goodbye and headed toward the highway.

Then I started to cry.

For the most part, today wasn’t awesome – but this gentleman had caught me at a moment of relief – when I had just heard something that authentically made me crack in all the right ways, and I started to think that maybe we should all just smile a bit more…

Try and remember what it’s like to look and feel like a happy kid.

PS – I think my big smile is really in my eyes here – this is me at 4 years-old at the Cathedral of the Pines in Rindge, New Hampshire

PPS – My bonnet is awesome!

I’m 10 years-old, standing on the pitcher’s mound at the American Legion field in Jaffrey, New Hampshire.  Bottom of the ninth, two-outs.  Double-elimination tournament.  My team is already a game down.

The batter – frustrated from her first called strike and second swing at a ball – steadies her hands and readies to get the job done.

And this is where the story splits.

In my memory, I release a perfect pitch that gets her looking.

Ask the batter (and her Mom) and she’ll tell you that final pitch bounced off the plate, and the umpire (who happened to be the batter’s Dad) made the wrong call.

Jenny League Softball was (and remains) serious business in Southern New Hampshire, and prior to that last play of the game parents on both sides had been shouting and snickering nasty things about “playing favorites.”

I have the privilege of the batter’s (and her Mom’s) memory, because soon after this disputed incident, that batter, a girl named Emily, became one of my forever friends.

Once we got to high school Emily was the cool hippie who knew how to drive stick-shift, get in (or pass up) any party, and was the only person on the planet my Mom would let me go with to see the Allman Brothers.

I was the Class President, who was mostly scared shitless.

It was a small town, so, likely most kids knew we were friends, but I always felt like what they didn’t get was why a girl as smart, and kind, and cool, and connected as Emily, would run with me.

Then again, Emily ran with everyone – she could always find the best in anyone – so it’s also just as likely that no one ever thought twice about our friendship.

Emily and I don’t talk, or write, or connect nearly as frequently as we did when we were kids – but this week marked her 36th birthday, so I shot her a text:

Happy Birthday you beautiful changemaker – thanks for remaining an inspiration.

She texted back:

My Love! This made my day.

To which I responded:

If I could’ve I would’ve included it in a speech – like I did (18 years ago) at graduation. But, no stage today.

To which she responded:

I’m desperately looking forward to when we get to celebrate, and your stage has never left, young lady.

I don’t know if Emily is right about the called third-strike those many decades ago at the Legion (which PS – her team did go on to actually advance in the tournament), but there’s no disputing her call on the stage.

So, I’m using mine, to say from the bottom of my heart that I am eternally grateful to call Emily my friend and wish her another wonderful and be-you-tiful year of her.

The last game of any season always makes me cry.

Today’s final game for our Billerica White Sox Tee-Ball Team was no exception.

I nearly cried when it looked like last night’s rain would keep us off the field – and by the time I was done cheering for our kiddos and handing out medals, I had the full waterworks going.

“It’s a big, brave thing to try something new, and that’s what each and every one of you did every single time you showed up to play.  We tried new things and we learned a lot, together.  Coach loves you SO much and is so unbelievably proud of you.  Promise you’ll keep having fun, keep being brave, and keep trying new things?”

Then came more cheers.  Lots of hugs.  And a few more tearful thank-yous from grateful parents.

By the time we packed up the field, I was beaming.  My heart was full and I was elated to be headed up the street to watch a former White Sox hit a real pitch at his final Single A game.

After watching him get to first, a tall, blonde teenage girl touched my arm.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said.

“I just wanted to tell you that you’re so pretty.  Like SO pretty.”

Standing there in a pair of black (muddy) sweats, a six-year old hoodie, and with my hair in the messiest of pony tails, I gasped.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “you just made my decade.  YOU’RE SO PRETTY.”

She looked down.  Shook her head, and made a sweeping motion over her face.  “No, no.  I’m not.  I’m really not.”

“You’re beautiful,” I reminded her.  “Inside and out.  So beautiful inside and out.”

She smiled.  “Can I give you a hug?”

“Totally.”

Then as she started to walk away with her two friends, she stopped, looked back once more and said, “You matter.”

“You do, too.  Always.”

I have no idea what prompted the exchange – except that I showed up to that place feeling completely connected to my best, and maybe that’s the secret to helping others connect with their best, too.

On Friday night our oldest nephew graduated from high school.  During commencement all of the graduates were given a carnation, and then they were asked to go out into the audience and give the flower to someone who’s supported them.

Our nephew gave his carnation to his younger brother.

Everyone cried (including the brothers).  It was beyond touching.

The next morning, as my husband mowed the lawn and I frantically ran around trying to make sure we were properly packed for a full day of tee-ball and graduation celebration, our almost six year-old called out from the front yard:

“Mum, if you’re packing and Dad’s mowing, then I got no one to play catch with.”

This is not the first time our darling boy has been denied a game of catch due to scheduling.  It’s just the first time I heard it as a commentary on his only-child reality.

Ken is the youngest of three.  I’m the oldest of four.  We care deeply for all of our siblings (and each other’s) and connect with all of them regularly.  We never planned on denying our own son this unique (and at times mysterious) bond, but, turns out we are in fact one-and-done.

Briggs has (and will have) many extraoridnary people who love him completely and unconditionally.  It’s just that none of those people will be his brothers or sisters.

And, just as I started to spiral into that dark and lonely vortex of guilt and self-disgust, I remembered, our nephews’ Mom.  Who gave me the gift of being my BIG sister when I married into her family at age 27.

I remembered the boys I ran with in high school.  How they’d come over to help me stack firewood in the summer or shovel snow in the winter, so that my parents would let me go with them to get dinner at Applebee’s in Keene, or watch a movie at CinemaWorld in Fitchburg.

I remembered that I’ve only known my friend Sara for a few months and we already finish each other’s sentences.

I remembered that for as long as I can remember, I’ve always had sisters, and they’ve always had me, and still…every single one of us has been left with no one to play catch with at one time or another.

I’ll never feel good about Briggs missing out on brothers and sisters, but perhaps it doesn’t serve any of us all that well to feel too badly about it either.

Because after all, we all belong to each other anyway.

“Just one more lick?”

Briggs pleaded as I headed toward the trash with the remaining sloppy mess of the Watermelon Jolly Rancher lollipop that I really should NOT have let him have for dessert (especially after catching him not so slyly putting down a mini dark chocolate peanut butter cup).

“Stick out your tongue,” I said.

He did and I offered him one last chance to get in the quickest of licks in the history of licks.

He was up for the challenge.

“Okay, that’s it now.  We’ve officially busted all the rules.  Two desserts.  Yahtzee instead of reading, and we’re thirty minutes past bedtime.”

To this Briggs cheered, grabbed his baseball glove, and started playing off the wall with one of two balls that have been sanctioned for living room games.

“Enough is enough, B,” I called from the bathroom.  “Time to brush teeth and go to bed.”

Amidst the thuds of that ball crashing against our home’s southern wall and smacking back into his glove, I heard him mutter:

“Enough, enough, enough.  I’ve had enough of you.”

I turned off the running faucet, and in the best Deb (that’s my Mom) voice I could muster, caught him off guard with a: “What did you just say?”

“I said I’ve NOT, Mumma.  I said I have NOT had enough of you.  I said NOT, NOT enough.”

Then, he smiled wide.  I did my best not to laugh, and in truth he came in and brushed and flossed with no fuss.

There are a good many times when I give thanks for my kid’s kindness.  His humor.  His sweet words, but tonight…tonight, I’m totally grateful that he’s just the right degree of fresh.

It’s good…for all of us.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnChGzRfDnM