Spring into Easter with Joy

Bombarded with bad news, it is hard to keep spirits high, so turn off the TV, Twitter feed, and iPhone and tune into the little reminders of blessings unfolding around us. Easter is the perfect time of year to think positively about rebirth and new beginnings. So throw open those shutters and take a peek.

Okay, so it is raining again in Switzerland, the clouds hang so heavy ne’er a mountain in sight. But outside my window the daffodils waltz in the wind, buds pop open on the beech tree and the grass grows greener with each raindrop. The forsythia bush in the backyard burst into a golden flame overnight while I wasn’t looking.

Right now anyone who knew the details would say my life sucks. I am stuck in another treatment plan without answers from a disease that keeps adding symptoms. My husband is locked into a dead end job. My Big Kids are living 4000 miles away. Ze Frenchman and I are riding solo for the Easter holiday. But no pity party for me!

“The secret to happiness is being joyful for good things happening in other people’s life.”

My mom taught me that. She has an innate ability, a gift from her Norwegian mother, to find delight in life’s simple pleasures.

Mom set such a good example of purposeful living that it is hard not to follow suit. She invested wholeheartedly in raising four kids, and when the last one entered kindergarten, she filled her own book bag and went back to school to teach.

When she retired from teaching, she rolled down the halls in a shopping cart and banged on all the lockers with a wooden spoon.

She embraced retirement with equal aplomb filling her days with good deeds, volunteering at the food pantry and church circle. When she wasn’t busy gadding about to her clubs, she was sewing up a storm of finery to commemorate every rite of passage for her grandchildren and her friends’ grandkids.

Jealousy does not bode well in kind hearts. Take a tip from Mom. Step outside yourself.

When you’re feeling down in the dumps about your lot in life, focus on what is going right in someone else’s. Then lead the parade.

Dance when your nephew is accepted in his first choice college.

Laugh aloud when you hear your son enjoys coaching so much that as soon as one season ended he started another as an AAU coach.

Cry a few tears when a former student makes a surprise visit back to high school to bring you a purple jacket – your favorite color – from his British university.

I only need to look beyond my own window to see that plenty of goodness is going round.

When a college roommate’s daughter gets married, raise a glass in cheer instead of feeling sad that you live too far away to attend the wedding.

When a best friend from high school has her long awaited first grandbaby, send a special gift and enjoy the FB photos.

When a buddy lands a book deal, applaud her success as a victory for all writers.

finding eggs on the balcony

If you can’t be with loved ones for the holiday, flip through those old-fashioned photo albums and savor the memories of past celebrations.

Attitude is about gratitude.

One never has to look far to feel grateful.

Happy Holiday!

Call Me Coach – A March Madness Epiphany

Ever the misfit, I struggled to find my niche as an athletic girl on the cusp of Title IX. Even in adulthood, I continued to wonder what I was supposed to be doing with my life. During March Madness when I checked scores and brackets long distance, it dawned on me. I am a coach.

Last year, I had opportunity of a lifetime to speak at the DIII Final Four at UWSP. For the first time since moving abroad, I experienced March Madness firsthand. I marveled at the evolution of the woman’s game and realized the impact the pioneers had in paving the way.

Some children know what they want to be from the time they are five-years-old; I was in my fifth decade before I figured it out. In kindergarten, my dad announced that he wanted to coach like his dad, Coach Mac. But when I was growing up coaching never crossed my mind; girls weren’t allowed to play ball, so how could a woman make a career out of coaching.

I used to think that I was born to play basketball, but when that dream ended abruptly it took me decades to grow into my real calling.

I went on to coach middle school, junior varsity, and varsity girls’ and boys’ teams. I called plays in English, German, and French and learned to swear in a dozen different languages. When the opportunity arose, I humbly assisted coaching a wheelchair basketball team in Germany. I was equally inspired teaching kids with Down Syndrome how to shoot hoops.

As I helped athletes cope with divorce, depression, disappointment, academic pressure and the death of loved ones, we held it together with jump shots, high fives and team huddles. We created a bond that one cannot fathom unless having been a part of a team.

During hard times, sometimes the only difference between hope and despair was knowing that someone believes in you.

Coaching at an international school in an international league, every year the team composite is unique – with African, American, French, German, English, Indian, Japanese, Philippine, Puerto Rican, Scottish, Spanish, Swedish, Turkish, and Uruguayan players– but the outcome remains the same. We put differences aside to become a tight knit group in pursuit of our goals. We shared our camaraderie, competitive drive and love of the game.

In a lifetime of seasons, coaches never really know how many lives they helped shape. Recently, one of my former players – who now runs marathons and the Wellness Program of entire city – honored me by calling me her mentor on the front page of the local newspaper.

Though I have won my share of championships, there is no greater testimony of success when working with kids, than seeing them as productive adults.

“It’s not about trophies,” Coach Mac said it best to the Chicago Tribune in 1985, “The important thing is how you develop your athletes, how you mold their hearts and minds. The real reward is being able to look at your athletes in later years and seeing how you’ve contributed to the development of their character, so that they can serve as leaders of their community.”

In college, I thought I would save the country, as a social worker instead I became an international coach guiding kids from ‘round the globe, to go out and save the world.

I never dreamed I’d see the day when one of the senior boys would stop me in the hall to say, “What’s up, Coach.”

I have arrived! Today even the guys address me with respect.

They call me coach.

riding the rails to another tournament

Another Birthday, Another Ball Game, Another Big Reminder

Why is it the older we get the less we feel like celebrating our birthdays? We knock ourselves out planning parties for babies who have no clue what is going on and then when we reach those senior age milestones when we really should be rejoicing at reaching another year, we downplay the idea trying pretend we are not aging, not a day over 40something.

When you feel like you have been granted 9 lives, birthdays feel like a blessing. The earliest birthday I recall is when my mom made me a bunny shaped cake covered in coconut. Growing up celebrating with my lil’ sis whose birthday is March 1^st only doubled the fun. And who can forget those slumberless parties as teens when friends gathered in your basement giggling and offering earrings that turned your newly pierced ears green. Ah, part of the joy was picking out that perfect present at the brand new Northland Mall.

But what I associate most with my birthday is ball games because my birthday always fell during the height of basketball season. In the day before Instagram, I freeze framed those priceless moments in my mind when my folks came to my game carrying a cake and teammates gathered round in a corner of the gym to celebrate. Regardless of the outcome of the game, I felt like a winner.

What makes birthdays so meaningful is not really the fanfare, cards, or cake –although I do LOVE cake – it is knowing that family, friends, colleagues, teammates, and players want to commemorate the day you were born.

So how am I celebrating this birthday? I’ll be in a bus on a road trip to Zurich to coach my team in a Swiss basketball tournament. We will laugh and sing and share chocolate cake and Cutie Pies and I will feel like a kid again. We will enjoy being together, sharing the moment, knowing that we will never pass this way again.

From the surprise party my husband threw me in a Swiss wine cellar, to the unexpected cakes appearing in my classes, to the time my friend and her daughter decorated my homeroom, bringing cheesecake for breakfast, the birthday memories blur. The place and party may change but what remains the same is the date on the calendar, and the way the people around you fill your heart, the touching little ways they remind you they are happy that you are still around to celebrate.

Oh yeah, even though my back may be breaking, my knees aching, my legs quaking, I am dancing today!

In Team Sports Girls Win Even in Loss

I am sure a lot of people back home wonder why I am still coaching in Switzerland, the land of ski, where basketball is a minor sport at best. Facilities are limited, practices sporadic, and talent questionable.

But I still get a kick out of coaching the varsity girls. Last Thursday after teaching until 5 pm, the team and I hopped on 2 different buses and 3 different trains, to travel to Zug to compete in an international SCIS tournament. We lost every game except one, but the results don’t tell the whole story.

When we were down by 20 points against the American School of Vienna, who went on to win the tournament, we came back within a couple baskets. We fought intense battles, losing by a point or two in other games.

Sometimes you play your hardest and still finish next to last. Normally I would be frustrated, but after our final game, I felt content. Our losing tournament was really a success. My players bonded together, improved with every game, and built long lasting memories. They learned to play all out every game even when falling behind.

Though I hate to lose, winning is no longer the be all of my existence. One becomes wiser with age; I know that regardless of the score, the value of team sport is immeasurable. Team competition helps girls grow stronger and healthier, better prepared to negotiate conflict, overcome set backs and believe in themselves.

This year, my players are going through tough issues that come with adolescence. During a scary time period where terrorist attacks, date rape, and random violence reign, they take those tottering steps toward adulthood. They face challenges with heartache and tears: break ups with boyfriends, friends falling out, college rejections, academic pressures, poor grades. But when they come to practice, they run hard, forget their troubles and giggle again.

They make up crazy systems of attack with even sillier names, like double D – sounds like a bra, not a double pick, high post play – Quiznos, peanut butter, and Dani boy.

Towards the end of one game earlier in the season, when we were ahead by 20 some points, our point guard called out, “Mississippi.” I watched in disbelief as all my players sat down on the court except for our point. While our opponents froze in bewilderment, stunned by our bizarre, sit-down offense, our guard dribbled right up the middle of the key for an easy lay.

And I laughed. Gotta love Swiss basketball.

This would never happen in America.

Though I am still every bit as competitive; I still study the game, call crucial time outs, diagram perfect plays, I am more mellow about the outcome. I understand that by just competing and being part of a team even my least talented players will learn lessons lasting lifetimes.

Teaching Tolerance in the Age of Terror

I began and ended my holidays with a moment of silence, a solemn reminder that the threat of terrorism lurked on every street corner, in every train station and every international airport. Just before our winter break, 7 militants from the Pakistani Taliban entered an army-run, public school in Peshawar and fired at random killing 132 students and 9 teachers during 8 hours of terror.

In solidarity, the next day, our Swiss and International School of Geneva flags flew at half-mast; otherwise we resumed our regular school day. That evening we had a basketball game at another large international school where I looked forward to seeing the opposing coach, my American friend, and my son’s former coach.

Instead of being greeted with his usual bear hug, when I walked in the gym he raised a finger to his lip, and apologized, “Sorry, Pat, we are in lock-down.” He urged us to duck behind a pile of gym mats where his team crouched low.

Overhead the loud speaker blared, “Le train ne s’arrête pas à Lausanne.” (The train doesn’t stop in Lausanne). The code was repeated over and over again heightening our anxiety. Teenagers in hiding whispered nervously, while I wondered why would they “practice” a lock-down drill after school hours.

The following morning, back on my own campus, students from the age of thirteen to eighteen gathered in an assembly to sing, dance, and perform. One was a world champion tap dancer, another played the piano and sang a piece he composed, two students from my home room class, co presidents of our school, spoke eloquently. I marveled at such talented kids, such bright minds.

From the balcony, I overlooked our gym floor covered with chairs lined in rows representing 6 classes in each year group from grade 7 to 13. In a sea of joy, heads bobbed and arms, representing 135 nationalities, waved in rhythm to the jazz band. So young, innocent, so earnest.

Then our principal spoke breaking the festive atmosphere.

“In an international school about our size, terrorists wiped out an entire year group in an unimaginably, appalling attack. Some students were finishing exams; others were in first aid class or in normal lessons. All the children were just trying to learn, trying to better themselves through education.”

Our principal asked us to observe a moment of silence in memory of the victims. The stark contrast between the previous noisy, frivolities to absolute stillness was eerie. Though we practiced lock-down procedures, Switzerland seemed unrealistically safe. A safety we take for granted.

At the world’s oldest and largest international schools, we remained one of the few campuses left unguarded and unenclosed. Teachers, students, parents and visitors come and go freely admiring the bucolic countryside and spectacular view of Lake Geneva surrounded by the Alps.

I left school that day deep in thought. Three weeks later, after our holiday, I returned to school with an even heavier heart. As the sun rose over the Alps, I walked to campus and contemplated the lessons I had prepared for that day. Reeling from barbaric terrorists attacks in he heart of Paris on January 7^th; I contemplated how to discuss the events in a school composed of students representing so many different nationalities, ethnicities and religions.

While across Europe, leaders debated ways to assure safety in light of the recent attacks, my school hosted a joint Education for Peace Conference at Palais des Nations to celebrate our 90 years of international education and 70 years of the United Nations. We joined forces around our common values of peace, tolerance, respect and diversity upon which we were founded.

I am an educator, but what information should I impart?

How can we teach vigilance without invoking fear?

How do we protect our citizens without infringing on personal rights?

How do we practice tolerance in the face of terrorism and impart an understanding that terror is not synonymous with Islam?

How do we safeguard intellectual freedom is such gifted, promising, malleable young minds?

Gratitude List Begins With Family

As a cloud cover settles over Switzerland and the old North winds blow across the Midwest of my birth land, it is time to hunker down and draw warm comfort from the gift of family. I am grateful for the people who shaped my life and stuck by me during transitions along the way.

I am thankful for my husband and children, my parents, grandparents, siblings, in-laws and outlaws, nieces and nephews, aunts, uncles, and cousins in my extended Olson-McKinzie-Elie-Lechault family.

Families come in all shapes, sizes and combinations: traditional, mixed race, same sex, single parent, blended, or cross cultural like mine. No magic formula exists as to what works. What matters is not one’s religion, nationality or ethnicity, but one’s capacity to invest in another. The love binds us – a love that is tolerant, that forgives mistakes, overlooks shortcomings, endures over time, and stands strong in the face of hardships. Families stick with you during the tough times like unemployment, illnesses, deaths and celebrates the good times like weddings, birthdays and milestones.

Like a patchwork quilt, my family is an eclectic mix of athletically inclined, musically gifted, hard-working American, French, German, Norwegian and Scottish, stitched together with old-fashioned values – loyalty, dependability, and integrity.

We spread across different countries, yet remain connected. We travel thousands of miles to share 48 hours of holiday magic. No matter how great the distance between us, our annual family reunion at our cabin in the Wisconsin Northwoods remains sacred.

Like this priceless lake property – a gift from my ancestors – family values have been passed down through generations. My parents showed us respect for our elders making sure they were a part of every event, and shared stories of the past, so I grew up valuing my heritage. My grandparents were such an integral part of my life that classmates still remember my Grandma’s oatmeal cookies and my Grandpa’s (Coach Mac) grumbling over bad passes at my ball games.

Families learn to accommodate different schedules, so we celebrate whenever we can get together instead of on the actual holidays. We make the traditional pork roasts, bake favorite cookies, and cater to gluten free, low fat, no sugar, healthy heart diets.

When members stumble due to bad diagnoses, professional setbacks or personal disappointments, someone else catches them before they fall.

Families share a sixth sense. My sisters know when I am at the breaking point and call out of the blue when I most need to hear their voices. My husband reads my face like an open book and knows when we need to leave the party or restaurant ASAP, so I can crash in quiet, dark room.

By hand holding, card writing, email sending, text messaging, and phone calling, families find little ways to stay connected. They sustain us through heart surgeries, cancer treatments, broken engagements, painful miscarriages, job losses, challenging relocations and unexpected emergencies.

Families help pack boxes, plan parties, support dreams and give us hope. They stand in the rain to watch marathons and marching band performances. They sit on hard bleachers to see countless baseball, basketball, football, soccer and rugby games. They attend concerts, recitals and graduations. They support mission trips, help fund college education, offer opportunities to learn and grow and share each other’s talents with the world.

They drive us to doctors’ offices, listen to a million complaints, wipe away oceans of tears, but most of all, they believe in us even when we doubt ourselves.

Good families got your back. Always.

And I am, oh so, grateful.