Dear Shannon,

Dear Shannon,

In large measure we see what we expect to see. Kenneth Higbee wrote, "When a starter in a race says 'get set,' the runners are in a state of readiness for the 'go'. They expect to start running. Similarly, we sometimes have a 'set' or expectancy about what a person is going to be like. Our 'set' influences how we see them."

I have a "set" in every situation and relationship I'm involved in.  I expect my close friends and family to be happy to see me. I expect them to be loving and supportive, so I am "set" to be uplifted by our association. Conversely, there are a small handful of others that I expect only want to hurt me, and therefore I am constantly "set" to defend myself and fight. 

Unfortunately I have found I see what I expect to see with my children as well.  I'm not going to use this blog as a forum to air my dirty mommy laundry, you'll have to wait for my kids' tell all books to come out for the dirt, but I fear that sometimes I expect to see them unfavorably. So guess what I see?

This year I have been forced to examine perceptions versus reality several times, and what I have learned is this, people can only live up to your perceptions of them, because you don't give them any other choice. Your rebellious son will live up to what you expect to see him to be, a rebel. However, what if you expect to see a tenacious, articulate, leader? All of the sudden you're in a position to motivate and inspire a leader rather than coral a rebel.

I want to be sure that I'm communicating the right message here.  There is a difference in expecting to see (or being "set") and having expectations. Sometimes the expectations we put on people are unfair and impossible for them to reach.  It would be unfair to expect your son to come home from school everyday happy and cooperative.  But it wouldn't be unfair to expect to see him as a happy and cooperative individual.  The difference is one is based on action or results, and the other is based on worth and value.  An individual's worth is not measured by markers YOU create.  Let those around you aspire to their greatness by expecting to see them for who they truly are; not what you expect them to be.

Love,
Your chastising best friend. Yourself

Forgive the Gift that Keeps on Giving

So here’s the thing about forgiveness, it’s not a thing.  It’s not something you can give, grant, or bestow to anyone.  Forgiveness is a state of mind or energy.  For the past few years I tried to forgive, but it wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.  I wasn’t sure who or what I was supposed to hand over the betrayal, pain, despair, impossibility, and loneliness to.  Some people said God.  Well I tried.  I knelt down next to my bed and said, “Here you go God, I don’t want this anymore.  It’s really heavy; you can have it.”  After such prayers I usually felt a little lighter, a little freer, but those deleterious feelings subsisted even when I tried to overshadow them with a winning positive attitude. 

Why?

Well for one, no matter how winning my winning positive attitude was, it couldn’t forgive.  That’s kind of a lot to ask my attitude to do. My attitude sometimes gives me attitude about staying positive so asking it to forgive, was beyond its scope of ability…I thought.   

Martin Luther King Jr said, “Forgiveness is not an occasional act.  It is a constant attitude.”  So my attitude had to be more than winning?  It had to be forgiving too?  Hmmmm.  Ok.  I could go with that.  But then I had to figure out why my attitude couldn’t be forgiving in the first place.

I hate to admit this, but I had grown accustom to my anger.  Unfortunately it became a part of my identity and giving it away felt like giving away part of my story; of who I was. 

Dr. Wayne Muller wrote in his book, Legacy of the Heart: The Spiritual Advantage of a Painful Childhood, “To let go of the ones who hurt us is to let go of our identity as the one who was hurt, the one violated, the one who was broken.  It often feels like the bad guys are getting off scot-free while we are left holding the bag of pain. But forgiveness is not for them…forgiveness…allows us to be set free from the endless cycle of pain, anger and recrimination that keeps us imprisoned in our suffering.”

Preach Brother Muller! 

The thing is, I never wanted to be that person.  I didn’t want to be imprisoned in my suffering!  Who would want that?  I decided very early on that forgiveness-whatever that meant-was the only option.   However I found myself haunted by anger and sorrow on a regular basis. I had dropped some of my unquantifiable pain at the feet of my Savior, my family, friends, romantic partners, and my therapist, but occasionally a trigger would unleash my crazy and I ran around trying to gather up all the pieces I had already given away.  “I’m gonna need that back, thank you very much.  I thought I was done with it, but I’m not.  I’ll give it back to you later.  Or I might hold onto it for a lifetime I haven’t decided yet.”

I wish I could say that kind of crazy is behind me, but it’s not.  Although it’s not as frequent, it still rears its ugly head on occasion. In fact recently I sat in my therapist’s office wondering if some of my anger had been absorbed in the walls of his office or in the zebra-striped rug on the floor. Was it in the pages of the neatly stacked books in the bookcases?  Perhaps my anger and pain had swirled up to the ceiling via the spiral staircase.  Is forgiveness what is left over after anger, pain, and betrayal have been absorbed?  I don’t think so.   Like I said before, I think forgiveness is a state of mind, being, and energy.

Forgiveness, as defined by Dr. Sidney Simon, “means freeing up and putting to better use the energy once consumed by holding grudges, harboring resentments, and nourishing unhealed wounds.  It is discovering the strengths we always had and reallocating out limitless capacity to understand and accept other people and ourselves.“

Wowzas!  I love that!  Forgiveness is simply reallocating energy. 

So here’s the million dollar question, “Shannon, have you forgiven?  Have you forgiven yourself, and the people who have hurt you?  Have you forgiven God?” 

I’ll answer the question with questions.  Is there a finish line?  Or is forgiveness an ever-elusive proverbial “place”?

In an article entitled, Repentance and Forgiveness in Family Life, Elaine Walton wrote, “The question is not if forgiveness should take place, but how?  When the offense is associated with a simple misunderstanding, forgiveness can be almost immediate.  But with deep betrayal and serious injury, the process is lengthy and painful, and there is no shortcut.”

Nothing thrills me more than the disappointment I feel when I realize I’m not in a “place” where I “should” be.  Where is this place???  How do I get there?  I’ve googled it and there’s not a location.  In fact, when you type “where should Shannon be by now” in the search bar it comes up with “We could not find where Shannon should be by now”. 

Obviously this “place” is as illusory as The Fountain of Youth so I have stopped searching for it.  I’m done comparing where I am at with where I should be.  Instead I am choosing to continue to reallocate my energy by accepting myself, my circumstances, and others.  Therefore I believe I have an attitude of forgiveness.  I believe I have developed the capacity to forgive. But like Martin Luther King Jr said, it’s not an occasional act.  It’s not a one-time prayer giving it over the Lord and expecting it all to be gone.  It’s a daily process of energy distribution. 

 

 

When the Answer is No

Recently my eight-year-old little man said, “Mom, I want to ask you something, but I’m really nervous.”  I asked him why he was nervous and he answered, “Because I know you’re just going to say no.”  He wanted to do something that I knew wasn’t in his best interest, so it was as he predicted; I told him no. 

I’ve thought a lot about this exchange and how it relates to prayer.  Lately, I have felt similar feelings as my son when it comes to asking for certain blessings from our Father in Heaven.  I’ll admit there are a couple of specific blessings (and what I deem righteous desires) that I would like to see come to pass, NOW!  It’s hard for me to understand why the answer is no.  However, just like in the exchange with my inexperienced eight-year-old, I know my loving Father is protecting me, teaching me, and blessing me by not granting me my every desire.

2012 and 2013 were years I spent living in my personal Gethsemane.  During that time the Lord taught me how to pray.  He furthered my knowledge about the Atonement and the Plan of Salvation.  I learned about forgiveness, repentance, charity and submission to His will.  He is the ultimate author and I learned to trust the One who already knows the end of the story.  So here I sit two years later having to remind myself of the lessons I have already learned.  I often think the Lord looks at this inexperienced child of his and says, “Sweetie, we’ve gone over this several times, but let me teach you again in a slightly different way.”   

In October 2013 I was among 20,000 women seated in the Conference Center when Linda S. Reeves addressed the women of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the general Relief Society meeting.  The ink was barely dry on my divorce papers and I attended the meeting with a broken and tender heart.  I was touched by her expressions of love and admiration for women who “experience great adversity in [their] lives because of the covenant-breaking of loved ones”.

Even though I was sitting in a congregation of 20,000, and despite the fact the conference was streaming in homes, computers, and meeting houses throughout the world I thought she was specifically talking to me!



“Almost three years ago a devastating fire gutted the interior of the beloved, historic tabernacle in Provo, Utah. Its loss was deemed a great tragedy by both the community and Church members. Many wondered, ‘Why did the Lord let this happen? Surely He could have prevented the fire or stopped its destruction.’ 

“Ten months later,…there was an audible gasp when President Thomas S. Monson announced that the nearly destroyed tabernacle was to become a holy temple—a house of the Lord! Suddenly we could see what the Lord had always known! He didn’t cause the fire, but He allowed the fire to strip away the interior. He saw the tabernacle as a magnificent temple—a permanent home for making sacred, eternal covenants.

…the Lord allows us to be tried and tested, sometimes to our maximum capacity. We have seen the lives of loved ones—and maybe our own—figuratively burned to the ground and have wondered why a loving and caring Heavenly Father would allow such things to happen. But He does not leave us in the ashes; He stands with open arms, eagerly inviting us to come to Him. He is building our lives into magnificent temples where His Spirit can dwell eternally.”

When I heard this talk the emotional and spiritual fire that raged for years in my own life had just been put out and I was standing among the smoldering ashes surveying the destruction. Since Reeves’ talk, I have had an unusual fascination with the Provo City Center Temple.  It’s nearing completion, and it will soon be a dedicated house of the Lord.  I, myself, am nowhere near completion, but as I step back I can see the reconstruction happening and how far I’ve come.  

Heavenly Father is aware of us.  He has promised He will never leave us comfortless.  Our faith is bolstered when the answer is “no”.  It’s in those moments, weeks, months, or even years, that we have to trust the Lord and His plan.  He is aware of our needs and desires and once we align our desires with His he can turn us into the men and women he wants us to become.   

 

*Photo credits  2. Jeffrey D. Allred, Deseret News 3. www.ldschurchtemples.com/provocitycenter/

The Jellybean Massacre of 1988

As I waddled down the dark, musty hallway, countless numbers of faceless students ran past me.  I was slowly making my way to the Crescent View Middle School gym for the Halloween Dance.  It was my first dance ever, a rite of passage for all seventh graders, and I was excited.  I had the Electric Slide perfected, and I was ready to Roger Rabbit the dance floor for the next two hours.

That morning I woke-up with the intense, youthful, anticipation that only a twelve-year-old girl is capable of.  I hopped out of bed and started putting on my costume.  Like most super-cool, junior high students, I thought long and hard about what to dress-up as.  The most logical conclusion was a gigantic bag of jellybeans. 

First, I put on my tights and leotard (yes, people you read that correctly, a leotard! TOTALLY NORMAL).  Then, with my mom’s help, I tied Saran Wrap around my thighs and neck and we began to fill the space between my body and the Saran Wrap with multi-colored balloons.  I was as big around as I was tall.  If that weren’t enough, we placed a paper plate, with balloons stapled on top of it, to the top of my head, fastened with a large pink ribbon tied underneath my chin.  My mom thought I was adorable.  I thought I was adorable.  Convinced I would win the school’s “best costume” award I headed out the door. 

With a spring in my step, I walked to the bus stop.  Suddenly, the air was taken out of my sails (but not my balloons) when I realized not a single person was dressed-up.  My friend, Missy, could see the horror on my face.  She assured me people would be dressed-up at school.  The only reason she wasn’t was because she couldn’t think of anything to be.  It certainly wasn’t because wearing a costume in junior high was the lamest thing ever! 

When the bus pulled up, everyone piled on; except for me.  I couldn’t fit through the door.  Sadly, I turned around and waddled back home.  I explained to my mom that no one was dressed up and I wanted to change.  Like all good mothers who play a part in making their children’s life a living hell, my mom convinced me other kids would be dressed-up, and she discouraged me from changing.  With salvaged confidence, I clumsily got into the van and my mom took me to school.

My fears were realized when I began to walk the halls and noticed very quickly, that no one was dressed-up.  Other than the occasional painted face, and the kids that wore their sports uniforms, I was the only one who took Halloween seriously.  I felt awful.  And I was itchy!  I barely got through fifth period without crying.  All day long, kids were pointing, laughing and chasing me through the halls with sharpened pencils.

Hope returned as I waddled down the hallway toward the gym.  In my mind I was planning out the logistics of executing the perfect Running Man, when I heard a boy yell, “Get her!”  A mob of ninth-graders attacked me from behind.  Before I could scream for help, every balloon on my entire body was popped. I stood there in shambles. Shredded Saran Wrap pitifully hung from my tiny body.  Fighting back tears, I entered the office and asked to use the phone so I could call my mom.  The Vice Principal asked what happened.  Like a complete idiot, I told him.  I get it ok!  I obviously was not well-versed in School-Yard Rules.  The boys, of course, got in trouble. Thus began the humiliating, frustrating and painful year I call seventh grade.
 

Whenever I recount the Jellybean Massacre of 1988, people laugh.  I laugh.  It is a funny, albeit, somewhat sad chain of events.  There is a part in all of us that can relate to that little girl.  You might not understand being emotionally, physically, and what would now days be considered, sexually bullied like she was that year. However,  I bet you have felt humiliation, isolation, loneliness, disrespect, rejection, disappointment, and/or fear.  Adversity is common to each of us individually and all of us collectively.  It is just packaged differently for each individual's journey. 

 

I wish I could say that was the last time I was forced to survey the shambles of my life.  It wasn’t.  As I matured, the popped balloons and shredded Saran Wrap came in the form of broken hearts, fertility issues, financial set-backs, deaths of loved ones, and divorce.  During times of trial we get to choose how the story ends.  We can either let it break us or strengthen us.  It was through the pain I learned the social rules of junior high.  Through the trials of life I am learning the lessons of eternity.   While they are painful experiences I would never want to relive, they have provided perspective I wouldn’t have received any other way.  And they certainly make for a good story. 

The Wise Woman Rebuilds Her House Upon the Rock

 

I thought the walls of my home were strong enough.  As the General Contractor, I built them to last.  They were seemingly built on a foundation of correct principles and righteous desires.  When the walls showed any sign of weakness I diagnosed and treated the problem with a good dose of indignation.  Slowly the cracks became so deep, my principles, determination and hope could no longer withstand the weight, and my home collapsed.

It was confusing standing among the rubble.  How could it have fallen? I followed the plan.  When I looked back at the blueprints there was no room for error.  So why?  Why did it fall apart? 

I couldn’t just stand around waiting for answers. I had a home to rebuild, so I got to work. 

First on the list, was reexamining the foundation.  Helaman 5:12 teaches, “it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.”

More confusion.  Our family foundation was built upon the rock of Christ, so why did it not withstand the mighty winds?  Turns out the only foundation that matters is my own.  Naively, I believed I could build a foundation big enough and strong enough for all five of us.  I painstakingly tore out the shallow, giant slab and went to work strengthening and deepening my own foundation, while helping the kids pour their own. 

When it came time for reframing, I was smacked in the head with a 2x4.  The problem with the first home wasn’t the plan.  The plan was, and still is, perfect.  The problem was me.  At some point along the way I decided I was the General Contractor.  I referenced the blueprints, but I chose how our family was going to be constructed.  Each brick was in the right place, but I didn’t follow the architect.  I didn’t follow the Savior, to ensure the detailed mason work was done correctly.  From a distance, my home looked like the blueprint, but the construction was sloppy.  It wasn’t built with nearly the kind of precision that comes with patience, temperance and charity.  So, I did something I should have done a long time ago; I fired myself. 

I invited Christ to take the lead in constructing my new home.  Of course there are times, I still get in His way.  Foolishly, I believe I know better and can handle it on my own.  But then He sweetly reminds me that a bulldozer is not needed when installing flooring.  He puts his arm around my shoulder and says, “Come on Sweetie, let me show you a better way.”

As we are going through this process together He has taught me no matter how perfect my plan is, no matter how prepared, and organized, sometimes things just fall apart.  BUT, He is always there to help me rebuild. 

 

 

 

Pure Love Story

My broken heart was fragile.  Months of confusion, worry, and fighting had created deep cracks rendering it vulnerable and weak.  The small part of my heart that remained, completely and totally shattered on a beautiful spring morning.  The boys and I were on our way to church when I was confronted with a reality that for years I was desperate to deny. The details of my “discovery” are not important.  Yes, they make for a good Lifetime movie, but if my life were a Lifetime movie, this is the part where I end up dead.  This is a true and pure love story.  What happened next is where the real magic lies.

The sky looked bright and clear; a stark contrast to how I was feeling.  Feebly, I managed to get myself and my three young boys into one of the small pews on the left side of the chapel.  Charlie reached over and held my shaking hand.  Tears welled up in my eyes, but I knew if I let them go they would never stop flowing.  Throughout the meeting I desperately prayed.  I prayed to make it through church without throwing-up.  I prayed my panic attack would stop. I prayed for direction, discernment and for the assurance that I wasn’t alone. 

As soon as Sacrament Meeting was over the boys scurried off to Primary and my sweet bishop made his way over to me.  He knew something was wrong because he said I looked like I had just seen a ghost.  Finally, I released the tears and shared with him what had happened.  Immediately I was surrounded by friends—sweet sisters—who lifted, comforted, and sustained me.  The scene in the chapel that morning was Relief Society in action.  It was a tender moment I will never forget.

There was no doubt the Lord knew where I was and what I was facing that day.  One of the ways I was prepared for this experience was through the YW lesson I had prepared to teach.  I didn’t end up teaching it, but when I got home I studied it again, this time with new eyes.  Most of the lesson came from Elder David A. Bednar’s talk, The Atonement and theJourney of Mortality. 

In this talk he references the people of Alma who were being persecuted and put to death if they prayed, but the voice of Lord came to these people and said: “I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs.

“And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.

“What was changed in this episode? It was not the burden that changed; the challenges and difficulties of persecution were not immediately removed from the people. But Alma and his followers were strengthened, and their increased capacity and strength made the burdens they bore lighter. These good people were empowered through the Atonement to act as agents and impact their circumstances.”

I realized that for months I was praying for the Lord to change my circumstances, I was praying for him to change the heart and will of my ex-husband.  I wanted the Lord to force him to stay so our family could remain whole.  I wasn’t praying for the strength to affect my own circumstances.  I expected the Lord to do it for me.  I didn’t understand the enabling power of the Atonement.  I don’t think I would begin to understand it that way I do now if I hadn’t experienced the devastating events earlier that morning.  That day I started to understand that the Savior could not only put my heart back together, but he could also make it whole again.  My prayers changed that day.  I no longer prayed for my circumstances to change, I prayed for strength and increased capacity to endure.

As the most important relationship of my life was coming to an end, a relationship I had neglected to fully appreciate was beginning to blossom.  The Savior became the central figure in my life.  This is where the real story lies.  Accepting the pure love of Christ in my life, is the greatest love story I’ll ever tell.

I know the Atonement is real and it’s for every single person who has ever lived.  The Atonement is not only for the sinner.  It provides encouragement to the discouraged.  It is the healing salve for the broken-heart.  It provides comfort to the lonely, and strength to the weak and lowly.  The Atonement rights every single wrong, and if we are patient the promised blessings of our Father will be ours.  We can be secure in the promise of eternal life because of Christ’s victory in Gethsemane, on the cross at Golgotha and from the Garden Tomb. 

 

Woody

*based on real events

As I drive through life, my perspectives are constantly shifting.  Sometimes my world appears different in an instant, like when my first child was born.  Other times my shift in attitude seems to evolve over time.  Such was the case my junior year in high school when circumstances forced me to view life through a very ugly companion named, Woody.

Every birthday marks a significant milestone in a person’s life.  You survived mortality another 365 days.  However, there are some birthdays that alter your very existence. On September 17, 1993 I was finally attacking the world with a driver’s license!

I began to open the gifts I had received from each of my family members.  While I knew I wasn’t getting a car, a small corner of my heart thumped – maybe.  I went to bed that night happy with my new clothes, but disappointed. The big red bow vanished from my reverie.  My imagination tried to hold onto the car, but moments later it disintegrated into the cavern of lost hopes as well.

I was really good at being a 16-year-old girl.  I was highly emotional, bratty, and an entitled little snot.  Immaturely I wrapped my self-worth into “things”:  the shinier, the newer, the more expensive the better.  As I looked at the lives of my peers everyone seemed to have it better than me.  All I saw was their “successes”.  I didn’t notice the dents of others.  Now, I was facing the totally humiliating and unfair disadvantage of not getting a car for my birthday.  My parents were so lame.  They totally didn’t understand what it was like to be the only junior at Alta High School without a new car.  Were they like trying to ruin my life?

As I was laying in my bed convincing myself of my parents disdain for me, they opened my bedroom door and asked if they could come in.  My dad explained that they had one last present to give me.

Immediately I sat-up.  Pictures of me racing through the school parking lot in a brand-new-cherry-red Mazda Miata Convertible flew threw my head again.  The dream was resurrected!     

“Yeeees?” I questioned with my eyes closed and my hand outstretched.

My dad placed a car key in the palm of my hand and gently tightened my fingers around it to form a fist.  Before I could say a word, a silly grin jumped across my face.  I opened my eyes and looked down at the glittery silver beauty that was mine.  All mine!  I was in a state of complete ecstasy.  Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” seemed to musically score the moment.  

My mom handed me what could only be described as a baseball card with a picture of a Miata on it, then uttered words I will never forget, “This card is the closest you’ll get to owning a Miata. The key is to the station wagon.”

WAIT!  WHAT?

My parents, my mom especially, had a way of cracking themselves up.   They thought this little stunt was particularly funny.  I wasn’t about to let them see me sweat, so I didn’t let go of the tears welling up in my eyes until they left my room. Ugh!  How could they do this to me?  They were trying to ruin my life!

“I am not going to school tomorrow!”  I thought out loud.

The next morning, during breakfast, my mom informed me that I was free to drive the station wagon to school.  And just like that, my dream turned into a nightmare. I saw myself bouncing into the parking lot in the brown wood-paneled boat of a car, leaving a trail of sparks because the twine that was holding the rear bumper in place was coming undone.  I saw the judging, mortified looks of the kids in the car next to me when they heard ear-piercing screech the brakes made.  I couldn’t even fathom the jaw-dropped faces of my friends if, heaven forbid, the enormously, hideous fog lights my dad had installed to the grill himself were running.  Ultimately, I saw the entire student body ridiculing me for actually bringing something like that onto the grounds of Alta High School.

I rolled my eyes and faced my fate.

As I slowly rolled out of my cul-de-sac I pushed the front seat of the car back as far as it would go and slumped my body down underneath the steering wheel so all you could see through the front window, were my eyes.  I surveyed the parking lot and parked the embarrassing hunk-of-junk in the very last parking spot.

“Whew,” I thought to myself.  “No one saw me.”

As I was grabbing my backpack out of the back seat of the car.  I heard, “Hey Shannon!”

Startled, I hit my head on the frame of the stupid car and quickly twirled around.  Out of the 3000 students that attended Alta, I was now standing face to face with my everlasting crush, Justin.  Of course!

Suddenly my mind searched for the right excuse as to why I was driving the station wagon.  ‘I was visiting my elderly grandfather and he asked me to take his car for a spin… No that didn’t sound right.  It’s a rental; our car is in the shop…A RENTAL?  Come on Shannon!  I got it!  My dad took my car, the Miata, to work and I’m driving his.  Brilliant.’

Before I could stammer out my insane lie Justin said, “Cool car!”

WAIT!  WHAT?

As we walked through the parking lot together Justin told me to look around and see if I could find another car with as much character as mine.  All I could see were brand new shiny SUV’s, convertible sports cars, and luxury mid-size cars.  I could honestly say that I didn’t see another car quite like the station wagon.

It took some time, but I began to see the car in a whole new way.  Throughout the school year, more and more of my peers thought it was cool.  It was eventually named Woody and became the car everyone wanted to ride in.  My friends and I had a lot of good times in that car.

With time and perspective I have come to recognize that life is like Woody.  Sometimes it’s ugly and beat-up.  Sometimes it has screeched when I’ve applied the brakes to slow it down.  Compared to other people’s shiny lives, there have been moments where my life has been embarrassing and ugly.  But the memories of life, my stories, are in the rust spots, the torn ceilings, the dented bumpers and the screeching brakes.  I recognize that my life is a blessing getting me to my eternal destination.  I’ve stopped seeing it as ugly and embarrassing.  I’ve learned to love it and enjoy the ride.