A Buck and a Story

*When we help others, we often help ourselves too.*

As Josselyn, Indy, and I rode along the path—me on my scooter, the girls on a bike and longboard—I kept trying to think of the right words to say. Josselyn, at 23, has experienced more than her share of tough times, and I wanted to reaffirm that G-d sees her. Even in the midst of her pain, she isn't alone. Suddenly, a thought came to me: I could share a memory about one of the biggest "Godwinks" I’ve seen.

The moment felt perfect, too, because we planned to stroll right by where this memory actually happened years before. 

So, I started telling Josselyn about my baby, Zeke, who passed away. I sunk into sorrow after he died, not knowing how to move on. Then, out of nowhere, a neighbor expressed her sadness over my loss, especially voicing her grief over never meeting or seeing my baby who passed away. That same day, she gave me a statue, and I could hardly believe it because the statue’s face looked exactly like my angel baby. This alone felt like a huge sign from G-d that Zeke was watching out for us.

I cherished that statue for years, but then, something terrible happened one day. Right before we moved to Idaho, the statue broke, and I sobbed, feeling like if we moved, we'd be leaving a piece of Zeke far away, alone and lost.

Shortly after we bought our house in Pocatello, I went for a walk to a beautiful nature preserve near our home and prayed for a sign that we’d done the right thing, that we were where we needed to be. Right after this prayer, I went up the hill near our house and spotted something in my neighbor’s yard. My eyes squinted, shocked because the neighbors had a statue EXACTLY like the one of Zeke that had broken in Utah. The details shone so perfect—the small, precious hands, the soft, round face, the little bird he held gently in his stone hands. It felt like a direct message from G-d.

Just as I finished telling Josselyn this story, we passed the very spot where I'd seen the statue in the neighbor’s yard.

Josselyn suddenly cried out, “There's a baby buck! You see him?” And there he was, standing just across from Zeke’s statue. I’ve seen plenty of does in that yard, but never a buck, and especially not a little one! He stayed looking at us for a while, perfectly placed.

 

Josselyn’s eyes filled with wonder as she said, "That's another Godwink. It's like G-d is telling you that Zeke’s okay." Her words filled my heart with such peace. I’d asked Josselyn over, hoping to brighten her day, but she’d ended up helping me, bringing such joy into my life. I'm so grateful she took the time to go for a ride with me and Indy. She made that day unforgettable.

Unrealistic Expectations

One of the greatest pieces of wisdom my grandmother left behind is this: We should let people live their own lives. 

It recently brought back a memory.

 

My oldest daughter, Ruby, is a gifted tattoo artist. When I say gifted, I mean her talent is nothing short of incredible. She creates living masterpieces. The fact that she makes an exceptional living from this is simply a bonus.

 

BUT I have to admit, this career path was initially a tough pill for me to swallow. I'd always envisioned a different future for her—one with a traditional college degree, a stable 9-to-5 job, and all the security that comes with it. I had a lifetime of preconceived notions about what a successful, happy life would look like for my children, and when she told me she wanted to become a tattoo artist, a huge part of me felt terrified. She'd been perusing colleges in California; what happened to that plan? Why didn't she want to get a college degree?

 

One day, I found myself trapped in a massive wait at the DMV. The air hung thick with the scent of stale coffee and frustration as loads of people listened for their number to be called. The clock on the wall seemed to mock me, its hands moving slower than a snail taking sleeping pills. That's when my mind fixated on the very issue that had been bothering me for months: my struggle to accept Ruby's career choice. I replayed conversations in my head, imagined futures that would never be, and felt the familiar knot of disappointment tighten in my stomach. 

 

A man nearby looked just as bored as I was, so after a while, I decided to talk with him. I introduced myself, and before long, we covered everything from the weather to the mundane details of our lives. As the conversation deepened, though, I found myself confiding in him, the words tumbling out before I could second-guess myself. I explained my inner turmoil—the pride I felt for Ruby's talent while still fearing for her future.

 

He listened intently, his expression one of deep empathy. When I finished, he paused for a moment, his gaze distant, as if sifting through his own memories. "You're telling me this for a reason," he said, his voice soft but firm. Then, he shared his own story, one that mirrored my fears in a way that felt almost surreal. 

 

He had two incredible sons. They were his pride and joy, but like me, he had his own expectations for their lives. He wanted them to get degrees, get married, and have children. But he put so much pressure on his younger son, that the boy ended up taking his own life... "He just couldn't..." the man's voice broke on the words, "live up to my expectations." The sorrow in his voice filled me with sadness as well, and tears came to my eyes. I couldn't imagine what it must've been like to experience that.

 

He took a moment, trying to calm the emotion that had welled up during the conversation. "If I could offer any advice," he said, his voice now a quiet plea, "I think you should simply show your children unconditional love. If I could go back in time, that's what I'd do. I'd trade every one of my expectations for a chance to just tell my son that I was proud of him for being himself."

 

His words hit me so hard, a jolt of recognition that went straight to my heart. It was a simple truth; one I had somehow forgotten in my quest to "help" my daughter. I instantly knew I'd never forget this man or his story. I left the DMV with a new sense of clarity. I now had a single, all-consuming goal: I wanted to show Ruby that my love for her was not tied to her career path, her life choices, or anything other than the simple fact that she is perfect just the way she is. 

 

Today, my daughter's reputation has grown immensely. Clients have come from all over the world to get tattoos from Ruby, and I even got one from her—an olive branch that matches a tattoo she has on her own hand as well. I've watched, amazed and humbled, as she has built a life that is so entirely her own, and I am grateful to be free from the burden of my old expectations.

 

I think my grandma showed a lot of wisdom when she wrote that we should let people live their own lives. It's a simple piece of advice that has had a profoundly positive impact.

Finding a Way

I pulled out my grandmother's "happiness file," a collection of things she saved to cheer herself up, and the famous words on one of the index cards resonated with me more than ever before. “When there’s a will, there’s a way.” I sat, quietly contemplating how my life has turned out. 

I used to accomplish so much. When I decided to do something, I would almost ALWAYS find a way to get it done. But then in 2020, doctors diagnosed me with stage 4 melanoma and everything changed. They initially gave me two years to live, and although I've lived much longer, every day has been a battle for my life. 

I had a serious back surgery where surgeons removed my L3 and put a cage in my spine; I've endured several separate rounds of radiation, and years of cancer treatments. This has affected my ability to stand up straight and walk for long periods. 

These changes have been especially tough because before I got sick, the kids and I loved hiking and taking walks together. "Mama, can we walk to the gas station, like we used to?" Indy asked the other day.

"I would love to," I said, but I'm not sure if I can. How about I try working up to it?"

She nodded, so excited. 

The next day while Indy was at work, I tried walking to the end of the block and got so winded that I had to crouch down until my breath came regularly and my legs and back didn't hurt so badly. That night, with tears in my eyes, I asked Indy if we could drive to the gas station instead.

"It's okay, Mama," she said, and even though I knew she meant it, that was hard, another reminder of how this has negatively affected my family.

Anyway, a few weeks later, my dad called out of no where. "Hon," he said, "Mom and I bought you a big surprise. Be looking for it in the mail. Okay?"

I sat down, forgetting my previous self-pity and wondering what in the world my parents had gotten. "Mike, do you know what it is?"

He shook his head thoughtfully. "I'm as curious as you are."

The following week, I looked out on the porch to see a huge box on a massive pallet. "What in the heck?" 

The kids and I opened it, so excited to see that my parents bought me a riding scooter! It's can travel up to 18 miles in one charge and can zip around at 5 miles an hour.

Mike unhooked the scooter from its charger the next day. "Are you gonna take it out today?" he asked.

"Yep." I smiled. "I just need to get Indy.

"We're going on a date," I said after walking into Indy's room. 

“Just like old times?"

"What are we gonna do?" she asked.

"Walk to the gas station."

Tears filled her eyes, and I realized just how much this meant to her. I suddenly felt extra grateful to my parents, for all of their kindness and love over the years. I also remembered the quote my grandmother wrote down: When there’s a will, there’s a way. 

For years, I’ve subconsciously begun setting limitations for myself, believing many experiences were forever out of reach now. But my family helped me see that where I saw insurmountable barriers, incredible opportunities waited instead. They helped me find new ways of still doing things that I love. Life isn’t bad, it’s just a little bit different, and my family’s love and support has meant the world to me. I am so lucky to have them in my life.

Would You Rather?

Mike and I had been invited to a party with several well-to-do couples. The invitation had a unique request: everyone should bring a fun game idea. So, I grabbed a game our family loved, and we headed out the door.

That night, we sat around a massive table under a brilliant chandelier. We played various card games and enjoyed extravagant hors d'oeuvres. Everyone took turns choosing different games, and after a while, the hostess, Sharon, turned to me. "What game did you bring, Elisa?" she asked.

"Would You Rather," I replied, setting a small box of cards on the table. "Each person will take a turn reading a card and then explain their choice."

Mike smiled at me, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "This'll be fun," he said because we'd chosen a deck filled with philosophical questions that made for some very interesting conversations. The answers could seem obvious at first, but time would prove otherwise—especially when people promised to be honest during the game.

A man named Erik was the first to take a turn. A low chuckle escaped his lips as he read his card aloud: "Would you rather (A) go to prison for the rest of your life or (B) have to sail around the world... alone?"

"B," he declared without hesitation. "I'll figure it out. But that's a short time, compared to life in prison."

His wife, Monica, gasped dramatically. "But you could die!"

"Nah." Erik shrugged confidently. "I'll be fine." He handed the box to his wife and smirked as if he could hardly wait to hear her question.

"Would you rather," Monica read steadily, "(A) lose all of your money or (B) get killed by a bear?" She set the card down and looked at everyone around the table. "Well, that's easy. I'd rather get killed by a bear!"

A few of us, including me, didn't mean to, but our mouths fell open in shock. I knew Monica and Erik had built their business from nothing. They'd gotten married right out of high school, scrimping and saving to chase their dreams. No one had expected their business to do as well as it had, yet here we were. Yet, two decades later, my high school friends were multimillionaires.

I couldn't help but feel a pang of curiosity, and since no one else dared ask, I decided to voice the question on everyone's minds. "You'd rather die than lose all of your money?" It seemed ludicrous. Who would choose death over poverty? Silence filled the space between us, and I thought about how much my friends had changed over the years. They really seemed to have everything money could buy: the biggest house on the hill, a boat, designer clothes, luxury cars—Erik even got his pilot's license and purchased a brand-new Cessna airplane!

Monica nodded to me, and I remembered what I'd just asked her, if she'd actually meant that she'd rather get killed by a bear than lose all of her money.

"Yes," she finally said, her voice unwavering. "That money will pay for our kids to go to college. They'll be set up to have good lives. If I had to die so they could keep it, that's what I'd do."

A pang of guilt twisted in my gut. I knew what Monica and Erik had been through years before: Erik's absentee parents, Monica's single mom who battled addiction, and all the relatives who never believed they'd amount to anything. 

This wasn't about money; it was about breaking a cycle.

I'm always preaching to my kids about kindness, talking about not judging because we never know what people have been through. Yet here I was, doing the very thing I warned against.

I saw my own hypocrisy reflected in Monica's eyes and realized again that giving people the benefit of the doubt isn't just a lesson to be taught, it's a choice that needs to be made every single day.

As Monica passed the Would You Rather deck to a woman next to her, I thought of how she and Erik fought their way out of impossible circumstances. Their children are getting the childhood their parents never had, seeing an example of incredible love and the ability to rise above anything.