Who is your Role Model?

Webster's dictionary defines a role model as "a person whose behavior in a particular role is imitated by others."  For me, this definition is somewhat lacking.  Yes, a role model is someone whose behavior we want to imitate, but it also goes far beyond that.  It is someone whose entire self is desireable--whom he/she is as a person, what he/she feels inside, what he believes, and the general essence he exudes on a constant basis.  Basically, for me, a role model is someone whose entire being I strive to emulate.

My role model is my grandmother.  She was somebody whose entire being, in my eyes, was perfect.  I never once saw her angry or upset, nor did I ever hear her raise her voice.  Her door was always open to visitors, whether close friends or more distant acquaintances, and when they arrived she welcomed them with a plate of food and something nice to drink.  My grandmother always knew the right things to say, or at least what not to say when it came to conversation with others.  She seemed to truly know what it meant to treat someone how she herself would want to be treated.  Grandma was a devout Catholic who must have strived to follow God as best she could, based on her unfalteringly compassionate character.  Her heart was made of gold, I am sure, and it emitted a constant stream of love to those for whom she cared. 

Growing up, I was lucky enough to visit my grandma often.  She played with me all the time and taught me many things.  My brother and I loved sleeping over at her house because we got to do crafts, play games, tell jokes with her and Papa, eat lots of snacks, and stay up late.  In the morning she would make us Eggo waffles which, for some reason, tasted so much better at her house than our house.  Her toaster was magical!  Grandma was very talented in the kitchen.  Not only did she make wonderful meals, but almost everything was made from scratch and she herself canned the vegetables that Papa grew in his garden.  I have never tasted better saurkraut than what Grandma made!  But there was something about this miraculous woman which went beyond the playing and laughing and cooking that I noticed at a very young age.  She was always so calm and peaceful, never angry or upset.  If she did harbor any bad feelings, she did a very good job at keeping that away from my brother and me.  I am sure there were times that she was stressed or sad, but she never let it show.  It was evident that she had a strong grasp on what was important in life and what could be put aside.  Now that is what I call a strong woman. 

Today, I often think about my grandmother and her strong character.  I long to resemble her gracefulness and compassion.  Many times I feel a strong desire to offer hospitality or advice to others, or simply to find the right words to say when a friend is in need.  I have been practicing more home-cooking (although much healthier than hers) instead of using a lot of pre-packaged or preserved foods.  I make sure my family knows I love them, just as she made sure we knew her love for us.  But I still have a long way to go before I can put myself on the same pedestle as my grandma.  She raised the bar high, and I hope one day to raise it even higher.  It's a big goal, but also the best goal I can have for my life as a whole--to encompass everything which is meaningful and put aside the things which are trivial.  This woman, my grandma, has always been and will forever be my role model.

Who is your role model? 

What are/were your first signs of aging?

I have never been one to make a huge deal about getting older.  When I was little, I remember wondering why so many adults refused to admit their ages and I vowed to never be that way.  For me, the longer we are alive, the more we know and the wiser we become.  Getting older is something to celebrate rather than be embarrassed about.  But the number of years we bear is not the only thing people complain about when it comes to aging.  Fine lines, wrinkles, and skin that is less than elastic, to put it in gentle terms, are real and there is no fighting mother nature.  We all want to keep our healthy, youthful appearances forever but, let's face it, this is just not going to happen.  We do have a choice, however, to embrace our changes and think of them as signs of wisdom, grace, and beauty.  After all, laugh lines and crows feet only emerge if you've laughed and smiled through your life.

Still in my twenties, I have so far only developed some signs of aging, but they have evolved quickly.  Since my kids were born, I have quickly noticed more and more changes that I know are not just temporary.  When I look closely at my face, I now understand what the commercials and magazine articles are talking about when they market firmer skin, smoother lines, and even skin tone.  It doesn't take long for that youthful glow to melt into something which requires snazzy makeup tricks and special products to uphold.  But the changes in my face are not the first signs of aging I have noticed.  No, the first sign of aging I remember noticing is much more meaningful to me.  I am not even sure when I first noticed it, but when I did I wasn't sad or anxious or stressed about it. I was happy. This first sign of aging was in my hands. 

As a child, I always remember being very aware of my hands, how they were shaped and what they looked like.  I remember thinking that when I grew bigger, my hands would grow too and I would be able to do more with them.  As the years passed, I did do a lot with my hands.  I played the flute in band (I know, I was a big dork!), I played volleyball, I could write and eventually type, I learned how to use tools and change the oil in my car, and the list goes on.  So when I noticed my hands getting fine lines, freckles, increased dryness, and little scars that didn't fade all the way, I became thoughtful.  I thought about how hard my hands had worked over the first twenty-some years of my life, and how accomplished I have been able to become because of them.  They are my means to doing everything, and my brace when I stumble.  Now, as a mother, I use my hands everyday to care for my children.  They are the guide when a hand needs holding, the tools through which I can teach and play, and the gentle touch that can wipe tears away.  I like to think that every touch sends a little bit more love from my heart into theirs.  Each day I look at their little hands and watch as they learn to use them in so many different ways.  They are so plump and full of life.  Someday their hands, too, will begin to age.  And I hope that they notice it and think back on all that their own hands have accomplished and smile.