Author: lovingmiddleagedlife

Like millions of others, I have a chronic illness. Something that requires care from a team of doctors and a colorful variety of medications.

Recently, I visited a new specialist. He asked who he should send my test results to, since my regular doctor would be retiring.

I looked at him, laughed and said. “Surely, you must be mistaken.  My doctor hasn’t told me he’s retiring. You must have him confused with someone else.”

The specialist assured me that he was not mistaken and suggested I call my doctor’s office to confirm it.

To my great surprise, he was right. The doctor who had treated my condition for nearly 20 years was calling it quits.  And though he called it retirement, I  felt like he was leaving ME.

I’d been treated by the same team of doctors for so long, that I thought it would always be that way. After all, though I’d missed an appointment or two through the years, they were always there when they were supposed to be.  I took it personally that my doctor was retiring and set up an appointment to see him and tell him just what I thought about his abandonment of his duties.  He was part of a team. He couldn’t just leave when he felt like it.  As long as I was breathing, he had a job to do!

As my last appointment approached, I thought about all the times we’d shared together…good news, bad news, births and deaths.  Test results, procedures and prescriptions. And the time I told him that I must have a kidney problem because my ankles were retaining water and he said “Nope. You’re just not eating the things I told you to and you’re getting fat. Those are cankles.”

I gasped, then realized he was totally right.  We laughed hard together and from that day forward, his nickname for me was Cankles.

During our last visit, we were both very solemn. He gave me a list of other doctors and told me which ones he’d recommend. Then he thoroughly went through my chart and asked for an update on every symptom I’d had over the years and advised me on what to do going forward.

I didn’t go off on him like I planned to.  I just told him I was sad he was leaving and handed him a card that I’d written. Inside was a photo of my family and a thank you, from all of us, for taking such good care of me.

As he stood up to leave, he asked if I’d like him to read the card first and I said “No,” holding back tears. He replied with “OK.  I understand.”

Then, with a look of sadness, he turned to leave and asked if I signed the card as “Cankles.”

I smiled to confirm that I had.

Isn’t it funny how we take important people in our lives for granted? How we don’t think about just how precious they are until they’re gone?

Sometimes it’s family and sometimes it’s someone whose name we don’t know.

Maybe it’s the person who serves your food at the diner, or the person who delivers your mail. Or perhaps it’s the girl who gives you extra latte at the coffee shop or the security guard who monitors your building.

If you have been fortunate enough to have a doctor, or other professional, that has taken such good care of you that you feel like you’re their favorite customer, then you have truly been blessed.

Show them some love during your next visit.  Let them know how much you appreciate  them. Tell them how much their service has meant to you and make their day, before they move on to a well-deserved rest.

Happy retirement, Dr. P.

Love, Cankles

Follow me at lovingmiddleagedlife.com

Forgiveness.  It’s elusive. It’s complex. It’s deep.

So deep that some drown in the pursuit of it, flailing about, gasping for air, hoping to receive it. And they perish for the lack of knowledge that they already have it and it’s available to us all.

We hold onto forgiveness like collateral, withholding this precious resource from someone in a compromised position. And we grasp it ever tighter from those who are closest to us, who betray our trust and our love.

We place it in our forgiveness bank, racking up interest daily, compounding it with bitterness and loathing. And it builds and builds, gaining weight and size spreading throughout our lives, enlarging its territory.

And why?

Because the one who hurt us took something from us…our pride, our trust, our self-esteem, our money, our property, our hope or maybe even our loved one. And we need to hold onto something that we’re positive they can never take away.  If we give it up, we’ll have nothing.

So we keep the upper hand, with our full forgiveness bank, which we don’t realize is our heart. And our heart is full to capacity. Our arteries are clogged, our beat is erratic and our blood supply is deeply diminished.  And we still think we’re winning…but we’re not, because heaviness on the heart is never good for us and the weight of unforgiveness is immeasurable.

So isn’t it time to make some withdrawals from our forgiveness stash?  Why not find those we’re withholding it from and drop the “F” bomb on them. Blow up the bitterness and destroy the damage.   Take a weight off ourselves and lighten our load. Improve our health, our heart and our life.

We don’t have to allow them back in our life or be in relationship with them again. In fact, they’ve likely forgotten what they did and moved on. The favor we’ll be doing is for ourselves.  It’s a win-win. And best of all…it won’t cost us a thing.

Ask yourself today… If Forgiveness is Free, why are you saving it?

Free yourself.

Forgiveness is Free…Why are you Saving It is the upcoming book by April Randolph, available everywhere soon.

My son was locked out of the house yesterday, in the middle of a snowstorm.

He called me at work to ask me to drive home and let him in. None of the neighbors we knew were home, and the neighbors across the street are brand new. So he had nowhere to go.

When I told my co-workers that I was leaving because my son was locked out, one mentioned that they used to climb in a window, or pry the door open with a credit card, when they were locked out.  And my reply was, “I can’t tell my son to do that”.

My son is African-American and he’s fourteen years old.

When we go shopping after school, I tell my son he has to leave his backpack in the car.

When he’s hungry in the grocery store and sees customers eat food they’ve yet to pay for, I tell him he can’t do the same.

When he wants to take a walk past dark with his friends, I tell him “no”.

If he bounces a ball in the sporting goods store, I make him stop.

He’s not allowed to play with guns that aren’t clearly Super Soakers.

If we’re stopped by the police because our headlight is out, I say, “Remember what I taught you.”

Because my son is African American and he’s fourteen years old.

When my son couldn’t get in the house, he walked down the street to the local drugstore, to seek refuge from the relentless snow.

I drove to the drugstore as fast as I could and when I was near, I called to let him know I’d be there soon. I suggested he stay inside until I arrived, but when I got there he was out in the snow.

When he got in the car, shivering and wet, I asked why he didn’t wait inside.

His reply was, “Mom. The people who work there kept staring at me and following me around. It was like they thought I was going to steal something. I felt like I didn’t belong there.  It was awful. And I had no money on me to prove I wasn’t a thief.”

Because my son is African American and he’s fourteen years old, he can’t just be a teenager shopping for acne cream. He has to make a purchase to prove he’s not a thief.

Those who know me will tell you that I’m not one to claim every scuffle with the police is police brutality. And I’m not one who sees racism in every unique article of designer clothing or every news anchor’s slip of the tongue.

But I do remember moving to a nice neighborhood as a child, and being awaken during the night by a cross burning in the front yard and the “N” word carved into the fresh concrete sidewalk that led to our front door.  And I remember the nails in our tires, every morning when mom tried to leave for work.

I remember the neighbors staring at us, like we didn’t belong. And I remember, for our safety, mom told us things that other moms didn’t have to tell their children.

Yes. That was over forty years ago. That was then and this is now.  But just because you’re uncomfortable talking about it, doesn’t mean it no longer exists.

Accept it. Talk about it. Change it. And don’t get caught outside in a snowstorm.

Follow me at lovingmiddleagedlife.com

Attention Hustlers:

I’m not talking to those who are hustling illegal products or nefarious services. I’m talking to the ones who are busting their behinds, every day, to make their dream a reality.

I’m talking to the people who rise early and rest late, writing that last word, sewing that last stitch, sharpening that last design or putting the last period on that proposal.

The ones who are stepping out of their comfort zone and into the unknown.  Who are striving to leave their 9 to 5 behind to one day be their own boss.  The ones who do a little something each day, to inch ever closer to their destiny.

I’m talking to you.

I want you to know that I appreciate your hustle, because I am a hustler too.

I know what it’s like to work on your job, then come home to work on your journey. And I know the journey is exhausting. And for those who have quit their job to work on their journey, I know the journey can be terrifying and the hustle is real.

I know, because of it, you don’t have time to sit down and watch This is Us, Chicago Hope or Housewives of Wherever, because the hustle requires your attention and your determination won’t let you.

And I know, if you’re a writer, that you’re surrounded by people who have no idea that being an author is way more than writing books, because books are nothing unless you do research, have a social media presence, an author platform, find an agent, attend conferences, work with editors and designers, manage a website, a newsletter, a blog, attend book signings and speaking engagements, make ads, garner media attention, work with Amazon and other retailers and the list goes on and on. And none of these tasks include actually writing the book!

And all of this is after you’ve made dinner, done the laundry, played chauffeur and helped with homework.

So Hustlers, I’ve asked for your attention today, simply to say… I salute you.

I honor you and your hustle and I know you’re going to make it.  So don’t give up!

Keep moving. Keep grinding and keep your head high.

Because if you can do all of this, you can do anything.

And one day soon, you’re going to hustle all the way to the bank.

Tell me how you honor your hustle. Follow me at lovingmiddleagedlife.com

I was in line at a busy Walmart the other day with a cart full of grocery items. The cashier, a lady who appeared to be in her late sixties, didn’t smile or say hello as I unloaded my cart. I was buying so many items that my purchases filled the counter from end to end. As she looked at my order, the cashier turned off her light and snapped to the woman in line behind me “I’m closed!”

As I turned to look at the woman behind me, I noticed that, not only had she pushed a cart full of items to the counter, but she was also pushing a large wheelchair holding a developmentally disabled teen-aged girl who was curled up in a fetal position.

When the cashier turned off her light, the woman softly said “Oh no. I have to go find another aisle.” She didn’t make a fuss or tell the cashier that she was in line before her light went off, she simply dropped her head and proceeded to try to turn around her heavy cart and the wheelchair. Having just searched for an aisle myself, I knew that all of the aisles were full of customers and this woman would now have to push her passenger to another full aisle, then return to ours to get her cart of groceries and push that, too.  And my heart sank.

I wanted to ask the cashier if the woman could go ahead of me, but she was halfway through my order and my heart sank further still.   As I stood there throwing darts at the cashier with my eyes, I wondered how such a sweet looking lady could be so cruel.  I contemplated finding a manager to complain and I had some very not-so-nice thoughts about her in my head.

I continued to look back and forth between the lady who was struggling to move both the cart and the wheelchair and the cashier who looked like she could care less, and I began to pray for this world to become a kinder place. And the more I prayed, the less animosity I felt toward that cashier.  I began to think that perhaps she cares for a sick person herself, at home… someone she was anxious to get home to. Or perhaps she was sick herself and just desperately needed to leave. I began to stop judging her and started to pray for whatever her situation was.

As she murmured my total and I began to pay, the cashier reached over and turned her light back on! I stared at her in disbelief, wondering if I was on an episode of What Would You Do.  Surely, if she took another customer after turning away that woman, I was going to start looking for a manager.

Then the cashier leaned over her counter and yelled to the customer she had turned away, “Come on back. I’ll take you.” The customer had so much to push, between the cart and the wheelchair, that she hadn’t gotten far and turned around.

Though I don’t know what made that cashier change her mind, I was able to leave Walmart with a lifted spirit and a renewed hope in the kindness of our world. And I believe that if we all  pray for the same, that more lights will turn on in dark places.

These four words…we utter them often, don’t we?

We see each other in the grocery store, hug, smile, chat for a while then walk away with a “Let’s get together sometime.”

We sit together at ballgames and concerts, cheering our kids on to victory and enjoying each other’s company. And when the event ends we wave and say “This was great. Let’s get together sometime.”

We worship together in the sanctuary, shake hands and chat after service, then wish each other a blessed week and shuffle off with a “we really ought to get together sometime.”

And to show our commitment, we even exchange numbers with a casual, well-intended “I’ll call you this week, so we can get together.”

These occasions occur frequently to most of us… but how often do we actually receive or make that call?

About a month ago, my husband and I were chatting with two couples after church that we chat with often before going home. When it was time to leave, we said the usual “Let’s get together sometime,” and headed for the door.

But that Sunday, something magical happened. One of the other husbands said “No! We’re not leaving here until we make a plan to get together, right here, right now!”

He said it with such intensity and authority that we were jolted into submission. It was fantastic! We made arrangements, right then and there, to have brunch two weeks later. When that day came, we had a wonderful time and we’re going to be fast friends. And did I mention she’s Anita Baker’s number two fan?

So, my readers and friends, I encourage you to follow through with the good intentions you’re putting off today and to do it right now. Don’t shy away from these opportunities. Many good things come from networking. Enlarge yours. Make those plans.

And your other good intentions…do those too! There’s no time like the present to begin that exercise program. Start that business. Write that book. Apologize to that loved one. Reach out to that old friend. Apply for that new job!

What are you waiting for? Tomorrow is not promised. If you meant it when you said you’d get together, make it happen. Someone out there needs someone just like you in their life. That friendship or thing you’ve been meaning to try out could be just the blessing you’ve been waiting for.

So get together!

Follow me at lovingmiddleagedlife.com

What do you do when legendary singers come to your town?  Do you purchase tickets and start searching for that perfect concert outfit or do you google them to see what they currently look like and read their recent reviews?

Do you go to the show with your ears and heart open or do you stay home because somebody said, “They sure don’t sound like they used to!”

If you’re the latter, I’d like to ask a few things…

When you go to an event, do you search your closet for an outfit that looked good on you twenty years ago?

Do your outfits from twenty years ago still fit you?

When you do that dance you did in the 90’s, do you think you look the same doing it now?

Are the things that jiggle now the same things that jiggled then?

Is your hair color naturally the same?

Do you have the same energy you had at age 20?

How about your lung capacity?

If you answered “NO” to any of the above, do you expect people to treat you differently because of it?  Do you feel any less capable or gifted in your art? Have you lost all of your passion?

If not, then you should go out and support the legends that sang the songs you love…especially the ones you still know all the words to. They’re likely just as passionate about their work, as ever.

Treat your mature self to a concert of mature sound, remembering every moment that your legends aren’t the only ones that have aged. Expect a great time and you’ll find one, because good music, like good love, only gets better with time.

Follow me at lovingmiddleagedlife.com