I recently came across a book entitled, "What I Know Now - Letters to My Younger Self" by Ellyn Spragins. In it, women from all walks of life - celebrities, cancer survivors, mothers, businesswomen, and regular "Joannas" like me write letters to their younger selves. Sometimes irreverent, often hilarious, but always poignant, the letters represent the collective wisdom that only comes with maturity. It's the quintessential in hindsight.
Of course, I felt compelled to write a letter to myself at once. I was sure that there were plenty of golden nuggets to share with my 13-year-old fresh-faced self. Yes, that's her above, dressed in lace and frills. Hey, it was the 1980s! She is beautiful, isn't she? Would you be surprised to know that she did not think so? When she would look in the mirror, all she saw was her flaws and imperfections. What a silly girl!
Here's the letter:
Dear Angela -
Please put down the Noxema and get those hot rollers out of your hair! This is your 40-year-old self and we need to talk. The most important thing I need to tell you is this: you are beautiful. Gorgeous, in fact! Stop worrying about what everyone else thinks and be comfortable in your own skin. You don't need to compare yourself to anyone else, because you are enough.
Cherish every moment with your mother. She will be gone much sooner than you planned. I know she annoys you sometimes. She's your mother - that's her job.
When you are 19, a person you have entrusted with your heart will break it. You will be terribly sad, you will cry yourself to sleep, and you will ask yourself why you bother going on. Don't entertain those thoughts. You do not need a man to make yourself complete. This experience will teach you that. A few years later, you will meet your husband. He will start out as a dear friend and you will fall in love with him slowly, over time. There will be a day when you are so lost in him that you will wonder where he begins and you end.
All of your dreams will come true, dear Angela. You will graduate from college. You will be a writer. You will have two beautiful children. You will do work that you are passionate about. Your life, at moments, will seem charmed.
There will be people in your life who will disappoint you. Shake them off like the dust on your shoe. Beware of people who are two-faced and fake. There will be many on your journey, but the good Lord has given you discernment. Don't remain "friends" with people who are not deserving of the title.
Be yourself, dear Angela. Dance. Sing. Write. Love.
See you soon!
Your 40-year-old self
Today marks the eight-year anniversary of the worst terrorist attack on United States soil. Like many Americans, I will remember the terrible things that happened on this day in United States history, and I will be reminded that in an instant, in the blink of an eye, everything can change.
I remember very well where I was on September 11, 2001 when I came to understand that our nation was under attack by terrorists. Dwayne and I were living in a rural housing addition in Owasso, Oklahoma - a home that was on the flight pattern for Tulsa International Airport. Jared was two years old and Dwayne and I were trying to become pregnant. I was working at a private university at the time and Jared would commute with me each morning to the campus child care center.
I was running late that morning and the traffic, as usual, was heavy. A few minutes after the first plane hit the towers, Dwayne called me on my cell phone. I was at the intersection of 76th Street North and 129th East Avenue. He said a commuter plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York City. I tuned the car radio to a Tulsa news station that broadcast its programming live on the radio. The newscasters were speaking to eyewitnesses who saw the plane hit the building. And then, as I prepared to turn off of 76th Street North onto Highway 169 to head in to Tulsa, I heard one of the newscasters, shaken, report that a second plane had hit the other tower, and I knew - in the blink of an eye - that this was not a mistake, not a commuter plane accident, but something far more coordinated and insidious.
By the time I dropped Jared off at the daycare center, the Pentagon had been hit by an airplane. The newscasters reported that the nation's air traffic system had been shut down. There would be no more take-offs or landings for several days and all planes that were in the air were being forced to land. Later, we all learned about the one airplane that was still in the air, hijacked and headed for an unknown target, probably the U.S. Capitol Building or the White House. This plane never made its target because its brave occupants overtook the hijackers and crashed the plane in a rural area of Pennsylvania.
By the time the two towers fell, I was numb. The magnitude of what had been unfolding was just too much for me to wrap my mind around. I continued to work throughout the day, but I cannot recall anything I did or what I accomplished. My mind was literally miles away.
That evening after dinner, Dwayne, Jared and I took a walk around our neighborhood and it was surreal not hearing the jets taking off and landing at the airport. The stillness, given all that had happened that day, was equal parts comforting and unnerving. Somewhere inside of myself, I recognized that nothing would ever be the same again.
It was during this walk that I decided I did not want to bring another child into a world like this. I don't know if I verbalized this thought to Dwayne or not, but our efforts to get pregnant came to a screeching halt. It was more than I could bear to think of something like this happening to my children. And yet, much later, I realized that there is really very little I can do to prevent these things from happening. All I can do is pray, have faith in God, and hope for the best.
I still wonder about the thousands of innocent people who lost their lives that day. I wonder if anyone on those airplanes or in the World Trade Center or the Pentagon had arguments with their children or spouses that morning. I wonder if someone forgot to say "I love you" to a cherished family member that morning as they left their house for work. I wonder if someone left a project half-finished in a garage the night before. I wonder if someone put food in a crockpot that morning before they left for work, planning for dinner with family later that night.
And in wondering all of this, I am reminded that the blessings of life are often found in the quiet, mundane moments that few of us consider significant. The simple act of hugging someone you love tightly each morning before you part ways may not seem important at the time, but if you knew you would never see that person again, would it?
Yesterday, a colleague was talking about a story she heard at a seminar recently. The individual who related the story had a teenaged son. For his 16th birthday, they bought him a Jeep, which he totalled a few days later. When the parents confronted their son about the accident, they also spoke to him about his poor grades and how disappointed they were with him in general. The storyteller told the group that after the conversation, the son went upstairs to his room. A few minutes later, they heard a gunshot. Their son had committed suicide. The storyteller told the people assembled for the meeting that, in retrospect, the grades and the car were just "mouse poop" - insignificant when compared to the loss of their child.
Our tiny planet's most precious asset and resource isn't diamonds. It isn't gold. It is human life. Each person has value. Every person has potential. The Bible says that God knows each of us intimately. He knew us when we were "knit together" in our mother's wombs. He knows the exact number of hairs on our heads.
I think that is why I was so affected by September 11, 2001. The idea that so many people died on that day - for nothing more than an extremist's very narrow interpretation of a prophet's words - hurts my heart. I wonder what the world would have been like if each of those 2,900-plus precious lives had been able to live to their full potential?
