Author: Monica M Fochtman, PhD, CPRW

Why Everything Does Not Happen For A Reason

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Thank you, John. This post says it all.

johndpav's avatarjohn pavlovitz

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That phrase.

We’ve all received it personally gift-wrapped by well-meaning friends, caring loved ones, and kind strangers. It usually comes delivered with the most beautiful of intentions; a buffer of hope raised in the face of the unimaginably painful things we sometimes experience in this life.

It’s a close, desperate lifeline thrown out to us when all other words fail:

Everything happens for a reason.

I’ve never had a tremendous amount of peace with the sentiment. I think it gives the terrible stuff too much power, too much poetry; as if there must be nobility and purpose within the brutal devastation we may find ourselves sitting in. In our profound distress, this idea forces us to run down dark, twisted rabbit trails, looking for the specific part of The Greater Plan that this suffering all fits into.

It serves as an emotional distraction, one that cheats us out of the full measure of our real-time grief and outrage. We stutter and…

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Third base side

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Both our boys are playing baseball this season. Here are my observations from sitting on the sidelines, freezing my buns off (it’s Michigan), cheering them on:

  1. Thank you to the numerous women (yeah! You go ladies) and men who are coaching. It is a huge time commitment and I appreciate your efforts.
  2. There is a lot of touching involved in coaching. Moving kids around, showing them how to stand, how to hold the bat, etc. The level of trust that parents have in coaches should never be understated or underestimated.
  3. If you haven’t volunteered to coach, despite the numerous requests (who are we kidding, they beg you), then you are no longer entitled to an opinion.
  4. Your role as parent is now cheerleader. Sit there and cheer. Positively.
  5. I am very, very grateful for the people in our community. I have yet to meet a jerky sports parent.
  6. Athleticism is a gift that cannot be taught. Your child either has it or he doesn’t.
  7. As early as first grade the kids know who the athletes are. So do all the parents.
  8. Hard work and sportsmanship are better measures of character than athletic ability.
  9. As third and fourth graders, kids still root for each other. “Let’s go, John!” clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.
  10. Meanness is learned behavior.
  11. It’s hard when your kid strikes out.
  12. When my boys are up to bat, they look fearless yet small and it takes my breath away.

Here’s wishing for a fun, healthy, safe, season. Play ball!

The Magic of Listen To Your Mother

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A fellow childhood cancer/Shave for the Brave momma introduced me to Listen to Your Mother in 2011. She participated in a show (I think it might have even been the first one in her area) and was always posting about it. I kept seeing it in her facebook and instagram feeds so one day I asked about it. She told me what it was and knew that I was beginning to blog, so she encouraged me to submit a piece. Yeah, right!

My #oneword for 2014 was risk. I took a huge one and “auditioned” for the first-ever Listen to Your Mother show in Metro Detroit. I was accepted. I read in front of 400 strangers. For five blissful and completely uninterrupted minutes I got to share my story, Luke’s story. There was a literal and figurative spotlight on childhood cancer. And, I was held. Part of the magic of LTYM is that there’s no judgement. No judgement if you ugly cry (I did in rehearsal), no judgement if you curse, no judgement over content, delivery or tone. You get to own a stage and share your story. It is completely invigorating and uplifting. LTYM helped me heal a little and it gave me more confidence as a writer.

LTYM is also scary as hell. Although blogging is very public, our words and thoughts are very private. Sharing them with the world is risky and deep down, most writers are deeply insecure.

Yesterday was the second annual LTYM show. It.was.awesome. St. Andrew’s Hall was jumping! That place was electric. And the readers and their stories were amazing. They ranged from humorous to dark, gut-wrenching to hopeful. It is an honor to bear witness to such raw emotion. I remember how absolutely terrified I was last year. I was glad that there was a full audience to support me. I am grateful that I was able to go yesterday to support this year’s group. That’s part of the magic, too. All of a sudden you are in a vulnerability/motherhood/writing/performing group that you never knew you always wanted to be in. And it’s not like the clique of plastics in high school. It’s real people. It’s your people. And, you are a member for life.

This morning I commented on the facebook page of one of this year’s performers. I said “Your piece was raw and powerful. Thank you for sharing.” She wrote back to me that my piece from last year was the one that she kept going back to for inspiration.

Wait. What? What the heck? Holy bananas!

First, what a compliment.

Second, that is very humbling and gratifying. That is why I write (I think it’s why most people write) I hope that what I put out there resonates with others. Writing also helps me feel less alone. In LTYM-speak, it’s called the “me, too” moment. Someone shares something from deep within themselves that takes your breath away and you say, “yeah, me too.” This year’s show gave me many of those moments. Very grateful.

Third, thank you for sharing that. That is something else about LTYM. You connect with other writers, bloggers, and artists, and your shared risky experience makes you feel like you know each other and then you take care of each other. She did not have to say anything back to me. I certainly wasn’t expecting her to.

Fourth, let’s spread some of that love around! Writing is risky. Auditioning for something (whether it’s LTYM or something else) is incredibly risky. It’s putting your heart and soul out there hoping and praying that it will be cared for. If there is a writer in your life, support them. Read their stuff. Don’t be stingy with love and praise. All the feels people! ALL the feels!

There are two more weekends of LTYM performances. Do yourself a favor. See if there is one in a city near you. Then, go and listen. Be moved. Be inspired. And then, call your mother.