My kids have access to amazing technology. They send messages on Facebook. They can text, tweet, email, follow people on Instagram and snapchat their friends. 
    
Now let’s compare that to when I was a kid. Other than talking on the phone, here’s how I communicated with friends.

I passed notes during study hall. I wrote letters over summer break. I corresponded with pen pals from other countries. 

I think my kids are missing out.

Call me old fashioned, but there’s something special about seeing (and reading) someone’s handwriting. Everyone has their own unique style. It’s kind of an art form. A lost art, I’m afraid. 

For example, how do you space out your letters? Do you make narrow or wide loops? How do you dot your i’s and cross your t’s? Are your letters rounded or pointed? Do you use heavy or light pressure? Are letters slanted to the left or to the right? Or not at all? All of these factors create a distinct writing style that's unique to you.    

Here’s an example. Patty and I have been friends since fourth grade. To this day I can recognize her handwriting with only a glance. It’s unique to her. 

I can’t tell you the number of notes Patty and I passed from grade school to graduation, but thanks to my pack-ratty ways, I can tell you what we wrote about. (I recently dug out a few from storage!) Here’s a brief summary of our most popular topics during our junior high years. 

Boys. Shopping. Volleyball. How much we hated our hair. School dances. Stuff other girls said. Boring classes. Difficult tests. Unreasonable parents. And whatever plans we were trying to make for the upcoming Friday night. 

Obviously our letters didn’t include any deep, philosophical discussions. But that was life in seventh grade.

Here’s a nice one from Patty:  

I’m glad I kept a few of those old letters. If nothing else, they’re entertaining. However, here’s what happens after my kids read a message from one of their friends. 

DELETE. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love technology. I like the convenience of texting. I enjoy keeping in touch with folks on Facebook. I would NOT want to sit down and write my blog in longhand each week! But with all of our digital options, we’re losing the personal touch. 

My friend Brenda knows the value of a handwritten note. Not only does she like to send cards (yes, through the U.S. Postal Service!) she also takes the time and effort to write something inside of her cards. 

​Emails are easy to ignore. But when I find a card amongst the bills and junk mail, I immediately open it. Brenda’s cards are so kind and encouraging. I’ve actually been tempted to send her a thank-you note for her thank-you notes! 

Twenty-one years ago, my grandma gave me several handwritten recipes at my wedding shower. I refer to her recipes often. I love seeing Grandma's signature - the same familiar signature that signed my birthday cards year after year.    

This past week I had the opportunity to look through Grandma’s old recipe boxes. As I flipped through the cards, I pictured my grandma, standing by the stove with an apron around her waist, stirring a big boiling pot of something yummy. 

One card had dried specks of frosting that had probably splattered from her mixer. Another had a dark spot from opening a can of chili beans nearby. Grandma's recipe cards are a small piece of her that I can hold in my hands. I know it sounds strange, but it all feels so … personal. 

Handwritten notes show the recipient that they are worth the extra time and effort. That’s why I’d like to end this week’s blog with a little note from me to you. 

What do you think? Am I the only one who misses actual handwriting? Leave me a message - I'll even let you type it.   

“I'll take a half-pound of honey ham, please.” 

The skinny kid behind the counter gave me a nod and grabbed a plastic glove.                                              

“Ma'am, do you think you're in a rut?”       

What did he say? I looked up from my grocery list. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Um … it’s just that uh … you always get honey ham.” 

“Yes, I do. My family likes honey ham.” I sounded like a commercial. Choosy moms choose honey ham. 

He shrugged and handed over the ham. I grabbed my cart and left. But I couldn't get his remark out of my head. 

Why did this guy notice – or even care about – my deli meat preferences? Did he think he was being clever? In-tune with the customer? Just because I like honey ham doesn't mean I'm in a rut! 

That night we went out for Mexican food. When the waiter brought our menus I pushed mine aside. No need to look at it. I always ordered the same thing. 

“I’ll take one medium shell beef taco with sour cream and tomatoes.” 

Come to think of it, I always order the same things at all my favorite restaurants. It’s no big deal. I like to know what to expect. I enjoy predictability. Routine. Oh man, maybe I am in a rut! 

I've got to break free from the daily routine of life. I need to get out of my comfort zone. Do something out-of-the-ordinary. Something fun. Maybe even something unpredictable! 

Bungee jumping wasn't my thing, so I made myself a promise. I'll at least take advantage of the little opportunities that come along and make life more interesting. So here’s what I did:

I did something fun. 
When the eighth-grade volleyball girls challenged us parents to a game, I was a little apprehensive. I mean, I played volleyball in school, but that was a long time ago. Then I thought about it. This could be fun. Instead of sitting on the bleachers, I’d be right in the action. And guess what? It was fun – especially when we won!

I got out of my comfort zone.
If you've read my blog very long, you know how much I enjoy public speaking. (Not!) Last week I was invited to talk on live, local television about one of my recent blog posts. If you missed that post, you can read it here: If I Could Bubble-Wrap Her Heart. Talking on TV was nerve-wracking, but it was also a great way to get out of my comfort zone. 

I did something out-of-the-ordinary.
I reconnected with a friend I hadn't seen in twenty years. It was wonderful. We laughed. We cried. We giggled like teenagers. And we promised not to wait another twenty years to do it again.

And then I did something unpredictable.
I saw them from a distance while strolling through the mall. A cute pair of boots. A small voice spoke up inside my head. You are a grown woman and you've never owned a cute pair of boots. It’s true. I've had tennis shoes, black, brown and blue loafers – even my fair share of ugly pumps from the 90’s – but I've never owned a stylish pair of boots. (No Curt, my snow boots don’t count.) It suddenly became clear. Buying these boots would be perfectly unpredictable. Besides, as I was standing in line, a sweet old lady slipped me her coupon so I knew it was God's will. 

Last week at the grocery store I looked for my young outspoken friend. He was nowhere to be found. Didn't matter, I was on a mission. I was taking charge. I was busting out of that rut! A lady behind the counter interrupted my thoughts.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said with a grin. “I'll take a quarter-pound of sweet maple turkey breast.” I felt empowered.

She wrapped it up and set it on the counter.

“Anything else?”

“Yes...” I tapped my finger against my lips, pondering. “Give me a half-pound of honey ham.”

I mean seriously, let’s not get crazy. These things take time.

Have you ever felt like you were just going through the motions in life? I think everyone feels that way sometimes. So tell me, what have you done lately to get out of the rut? Leave me a comment and let me know!

Also, I've got some exciting news!
Are you on Facebook? Do you like my writing? Well I would LOVE for you to LIKE my new Facebook page! 
Visit me here: https://www.facebook.com/SheriZeckWrites. I'll keep you updated about all my writing endeavors! 

Hi everyone!

I've had a fun (and somewhat frightening) week. Do you remember my post from last week on the Quad City Moms Blog? It was called, How to be a Better Wife: Five Great Reminders from My Three Little Girls. Well, the day after it was published I was asked to talk about it on a local TV program, Paula Sands Live.  

Now wait just a minute! I'm sharing tips on how to be a better wife? Yep. My hubby got a chuckle out of that one. 

So here's the thing. I really debated about sharing this experience with you. I mean, is it just me, or does everyone hate to watch and listen to themselves on video? 

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something. I have wonderful blog readers. You guys have always been encouraging to me! 

So finally I thought, nah, get over yourself Sheri. Your friends will understand your nervous jitters. 

So I'm going to share it. It's about five minutes long. (Though it felt like five hours.) Just kidding. It was actually over before I knew what hit me. 

When you open the link, just click "next" on the right side directly under the video. Find the Sept 23rd program and click on it. My segment actually starts at about 8:20 on the counter if you'd like to skip the other stuff and get to me. :-)

Click here to watch me on PSL.

By the way, the whole experience was so much sweeter because a special friend of mine was able to come with me. She cheered me on, took a couple of pictures, and even helped me celebrate afterwards with a big 'ol Reese's Peanut Butter Cup malt. Well okay, I got the malt. She was a good girl and got a single scoop. 
(Thanks for everything, Brenda. You are the best!)

And thank you, for stopping by today. I'll see you next week!

Sheri

The email subject line simply read, Got the call. I held my breath and clicked. Well girls, my nightmare just came true. I have breast cancer.

I slumped down in my chair and shook my head in disbelief.

How could this be? My mind flooded with all the irrational reasons this couldn’t be happening. She’s only 35. She’s the mother of three. She’s my friend.

I remember a time when I didn't understand the value of a good friend. As a new mom, I was happily consumed with motherhood. Sure I had friends, but they were more like acquaintances than true friends. That was fine with me. After all, once you’re a wife and mother, your priorities change. I had my husband and my mom. I didn't need more friends. But sometimes God gives us what we need -- even before we realize we need it.

When my first baby was a year old, I made the decision to quit my job and become a full-time mom. I loved being home with my daughter, but wished she could interact with other kids. I wanted her to learn how to share, make new friends, and have fun. I decided to start a moms’ group.

I was excited about the possibilities, but nervous about the unknown. What if no other moms wanted to join? Worse yet, what if the moms that joined weren’t a good fit with my personality? Soon I was convinced I’d either be the leader of a one-woman moms’ group, or I’d be spending playgroups with a room full of cigar-smoking, tobacco-spitting moms.

One by one, other moms in our small community joined the group. Each week we gathered our little ones for playgroups, park days, or trips to the zoo. We pushed our babies in swings and shared our joys and frustrations of the day. We chased busy toddlers and laughed at how drastically our lives had changed since we became moms.

Over time, our friendships extended beyond weekly meetings. We found comfort in knowing others who faced the same challenges, and shared advice for our most maddening mommy moments. (Like how to convince a stubborn two-year-old to sit on a potty.) We visited sprinkler parks in the summer, picked pumpkins in the fall, and acted surprised when Santa crashed our Christmas parties each winter.

Even my husband appreciated the group. I’m not sure he fully understood how a few hours of eating munchies and playing games transformed his tired, grumpy wife into a pleasant woman, but he knew it worked. One night of laughter with friends always gave me the extra boost I needed to tackle life’s troubles.

But kids grow up quickly and these days many of us are caught up in the typical busyness of life with tween-agers. Our schedules are packed with football games, piano lessons, softball practices, band concerts, and dance recitals. But we still carve out time to keep in touch.

Staying in touch looks different every time we get together. Recently, we hosted a “pink party” for our friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer. As lunch drew to a close, one of the moms spotted a picture of my kids.

“I can’t believe how much your girls have grown,” she sighed.

“I know.” I smiled, admiring my three little ladies. “When our group first began, Emily couldn’t even walk. Now she’s in junior high.”

I sat quietly for a while and observed the camaraderie around the kitchen table. Every mom in unity dressed in pink, sharing laughter and the occasional tear, sipping our pink lemonade and supporting our friend during the biggest fight of her life.

This is true friendship, I thought. When you’re struggling, there’s someone to strengthen you. And when you’re rejoicing, there’s someone to celebrate with you.

It’s easy to see how our kids have grown, but over the years, we moms have grown as well. We’ve grown closer. We’ve grown wiser. We’ve grown stronger.

Being part of a moms’ group taught my kids many great lessons in their early years of life. They learned how to share and how to make friends. They discovered that having a good friend is not only fun, but an important way to face life’s challenges.

When I think back to those morning playgroups and summer days at the park, I realize my daughter wasn’t the only one who needed a friend. My heart fills with gratitude because I learned those important lessons as well.

Nervous anticipation fluttered through my stomach as I ripped open the envelope. Yes! I clutched the letter triumphantly. I’m finally going to be published!

That night as I cleared the dinner table, a rush of excitement hit me. I tossed the dishcloth toward the sink and raced to the computer. “I’ve gotta’ tell Grace!” I hollered back to my husband still standing by the sink.   

I typed “Guess what!” on the email subject line. Then I paused, remembering when I first met Grace. It was an unexpected friendship, and it all began with an email.

Grace and I attended the same church for several years, but our paths never crossed. Why would they? I was a young mom; she was a grandmother. I sat in the balcony in case my fussy baby required a quick escape; she sat in the front row. My wardrobe included a handy burp cloth draped over my shoulder. She wore lovely scarves from Talbots. I couldn’t imagine what Grace and I might have in common – until the church newsletter.

As a full-time mom, the church newsletter satisfied my creative cravings. Each afternoon I tucked my babies in for naps and tiptoed to my office. Then I cranked up the baby monitor and escaped for a few hours, writing articles and designing page layouts. When the need for a new proofreader arose, the church secretary suggested I contact Grace.

I soon learned that Grace was a fabulous proofreader. But her knack for spotting a typo wasn’t the only quality I liked about her. When it came to encouraging others, Grace had a gift – and impeccable timing. I remember one morning, struggling to start an article after a sleepless night with a cranky baby.  

I plopped into my chair and stared at the computer. My mind felt as blank as the screen. I knew I shouldn’t let my lack of sleep and raging hormones dictate my disposition, but I didn’t care. How did I ever think I could write? Looking for an excuse to procrastinate, I opened an email from Grace.

Hi Sheri! I just finished reading the final copy of the newsletter. Another great job! Thank you for all the time and thought you put into it. You are one special gal!

I smiled. Maybe Grace scrutinized the newsletter with a critical eye, but she always looked for the best in me.    

In time, our email topics expanded beyond the newsletter. We chatted about marriage, realizing we both chose ambitious, professionally-driven men. We talked about motherhood. Grace offered a different perspective from friends my own age. She empathized with my struggles, but reminded me to enjoy every passing stage. We discussed our faith, our families – even our love of shopping. Then one day we realized we shared something else.  

“Imagine that,” Grace smiled, “born on the same day, only three decades apart. We should meet for lunch!”

Over the years, our birthday lunches became a tradition. We kept them simple; just getting together and exchanging cards. Except one year when I couldn’t resist a little surprise.

I stepped inside Applebee’s, scanning the busy lunch crowd. Grace waved from a table near the windows. As usual, she looked like a stylish grandmother in a ruffled cardigan and sparkly beaded necklace. I scooted into the booth, discretely placing a gift bag beside me.

“Happy birthday!” Grace reached into her leather handbag and gave me a pink envelope.

“Happy birthday.” I said, passing her gift over the table.

Grace raised an eyebrow and gave me a lighthearted “shame on you” look.

“It’s no big deal.” I fidgeted with my napkin. “I just saw it and thought of you.”

Grace drew back the tissue paper and uncovered a small stuffed teddy bear in a red cheerleading outfit.  

“You’re always so encouraging to me,” I said, hoping my unexpected gift didn’t embarrass her. “You’re a great cheerleader.”  

Grace’s blue eyes glistened as she propped the bear on the table. “Well these days I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to be a cheerleader.” She dabbed her eyes and laughed. “I can’t believe I’m seventy!”  

“Me either.” I plunked my water glass on the table. “You certainly don’t act like you’re seventy. Aren’t you supposed to dress like an old lady and drive a white Buick?” I teased. “I wish I had your wardrobe, and you drive a red corvette for heaven’s sake!”    

Grace knew I was teasing, but in some aspects I was serious. For years I had watched her, and I was impressed. It wasn’t the clothes she wore or the car she drove. It was her attitude. Even at seventy, Grace never stopped learning, never stopped growing and never stopped giving. She didn’t care for the spotlight, but was content connecting with people one-on-one in her own soft-spoken way. During a phase of life when she could easily focus on herself, she intentionally touched the lives of others.

That year I also began a new phase of life. After devoting ten years to full-time motherhood, my youngest started kindergarten. At first I felt lost. My days had revolved around three little girls for so long. Now what would I do?

 I took my first small step out of my comfort zone and signed up for a writer’s conference. Then I finally worked up the nerve to tell someone besides my mom and husband about my aspirations to write. I told Grace.

“So … how was the conference?” Grace leaned forward, resting her elbows on the restaurant table.

“I loved it,” I said without hesitation.

Grace nodded as I rambled on.

“The speakers were excellent. They shared great tips for improving my writing, and I got to meet other women who also love to write and …” I stopped for a moment, hoping my enthusiastic chattering wasn’t disturbing the stuffy-looking businessmen at a nearby table. I took a deep breath and softened my voice. “I just felt like I was right where I was supposed to be.”  

“That’s wonderful!” Grace said.

 “I know, but me? A writer?” I said. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

Grace straightened in her chair. “Apparently God thinks you do.”  

So when I learned that I would be published, I couldn’t wait to tell Grace. And when my article came out, I gave one to her. A few days later a group of ladies gathered around my dining room table.

“How exciting! What page is it on?” one lady asked, thumbing through the table of contents.

I thought for a moment, but Grace answered immediately.

“Hey, do you have time to listen to a story?” 

I can’t imagine how many times I’ve asked my mom that question. I remember coming home from junior high and reading her my stories. Even now, when I struggle with writer’s block, somehow it helps me to read it out loud. And my mom is my most loyal listener. So last week, when I asked her that question yet again, I wasn’t surprised by her answer.

“Yep, go ahead.”   

“Okay, so the ending is really rough,” I said, “I still need to tweak it.”

I cleared my throat and jumped right in. Mom listened intently to all three pages. When I reached the final paragraph, I explained my dilemma.

“See, I’m just not sure how I want to end it.”   

“Oh.” Mom sounded surprised. “I thought that was the end.”

“No, no, that’s not the end,” I said. “I still need another sentence or two. I want to make sure the reader gets my point. I want to tie the ending back to the beginning.” I rambled on and on, describing all the work still needing to be done.

Later, after hanging up the phone, I scanned through those last paragraphs again. This time I saw it differently. Maybe Mom was right.    

Suddenly I remembered something my pastor had said when describing how effective speakers end a speech. “When it comes time to finish, they don’t rehash every point all over again. They know it’s time to end, and they end it.” Then he said, “Sometimes you need to stop circling the airport and just land the plane.”

Isn’t that the truth! I think we’ve all endured speakers who didn’t quite know how to land that plane.

I think that concept works, not only for speakers and writers, but for parents as well. I know, because I tried it out on my teenager last week. We were talking about something - and I had a very important point I wanted to make. Soon I found myself rambling on and on, telling her the same thing several different ways.

Her eyes began to glaze over. I couldn’t be sure she was even still listening. Then I heard that little voice inside my head.

Okay Sheri … it's time to prepare for landing. You’ve made your point.

Whether it’s my writing or my parenting, I don’t want to keep circling the airport. I want to be effective. I want my audience to stay engaged. Instead of going in circles, I think next time I’ll try for the perfect landing.