Hands Free Life

by Rachel Macy Stafford

  That is exactly what I experienced on the Wednesday after my first book was released. I was a complete stress ball knowing The New York Times bestseller list would be announced to publishers that day based on a variety of factors from the previous week. Although I knew making this highly coveted list as a first-time author was highly unlikely, I couldn’t turn off the flutter of hope that danced in the pit of my stomach all day.

  By three o’clock I still hadn’t gotten the call, and it was time to pick up my daughters from school. As I waited for them to emerge, I did what I always did at three p.m.: I silenced the notifications on my phone to protect family time. My finger hesitated briefly as I dreamed of getting that call, but I proceeded in sliding it to the Off position as usual.

  Natalie had plans with her friend Catherine for the afternoon, so Avery and I enjoyed an outing by ourselves. For three blissful hours, we visited the park, grabbed some dinner, and shopped for a dress for Avery to wear to my local book signing.

  While standing in the checkout line, I rummaged around in my purse to see what time it was on my phone. Much to my surprise, there were six text messages and four missed calls. I could see a partial text where three letters, NYT, jumped out at me. I wanted to read the entire text, but instead I put the phone back in my bag. With a trembling voice, I told Avery we must go outside and find a quiet place away from people.

  My daughter could see the tears in my eyes. “What is it, Mama?” she asked with concern.

  Not wanting her to be scared, I reassured her. “It’s good news — it’s so, so good. But I want to read it together.”

  Soon Avery and I stood huddled together on the sidewalk in front of the store. As a chilly night wind blew the hair back from our faces, I read the message from my marketing director out loud: “Congratulations, Rachel! You made the NYT Bestseller List!”

  I bowed my head and cried.

  “Mama, your book is one of the best books! Out of like . . . one thousand books . . . your book is one that people really like to read!” Avery’s precious interpretation of the exciting news made the moment even sweeter. Unexpectedly, I picked her up just as I did when she was a toddler. I swirled her round and round while reciting a prayer of gratitude to God. The blissful look on Avery’s face indicated she would remember this moment her whole life.

  And that’s when it hit me. I was smack dab in the middle of creating a sacred memory that would be filed away in Avery’s mind for perhaps seventy-five years. And this moment was ours and ours alone because of the protective barriers that were in place to grasp what mattered most, even in times of overwhelm and uncertainty.

  The conscientious, type-A part of me considered calling back the members of my publishing team or at least calling Scott, my parents, or my sister to share the news. But I didn’t. Instead, I offered my hand to my daughter, and we chatted throughout the drive home.

  I chose the girl who still gives me love notes.

  I chose the girl who still finds comfort in her mother’s kisses when she falls and hurts herself.

  I chose the girl who says, “This dinner tastes so good,” even when it’s simple chicken and broccoli spears.

  I chose the girl who types stories on the computer and says, “I’m a writer too, Mama.”

  With a full voice mail in-box and a desire to share my news with the world, I chose my child . . . because she was there waiting, wanting, delighting in being chosen. And this moment was meant to be ours and ours alone.

  A few hours later, I finally called my literary agent, Sandra. She said, “We were worried! No one could get ahold of you.”

  “I was with Avery. Being Hands Free,” I explained, nearly crying as the words left my lips.

  I don’t always get it right. I don’t. And sometimes life circumstances make it even harder. But that night I made the right choice, and that gives me hope. May that hope be yours the next time you’re faced with life’s questions. Whether it’s one big question or twenty little ones, may you have the ability to know which ones are worthy of your attention as you turn away from the noise of the world to respond to what matters most.

  HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION

  Today I might have too many things on my plate, but I will remember I don’t have to do them all. Today I might have too many balls in the air, but I will remember to hold the most important ones. Today might be one mad dash from morning to night, but I will remember there is always time for hugs and kisses. Today I may have a hard time seeing the goodness through the chaos and the clutter, but I will remember to keep looking. The moments that make life worth living are found in the most unsuspecting places, in the most challenging times, if I make it a daily practice to choose what matters over what doesn’t.

  HANDS FREE LIFE HABIT BUILDER 7

  Establish Boundaries with Hands Free House Rules

  In our house, we speak kindly and respectfully even if we disagree.

  In our house, human beings take precedence over electronic devices.

  In our house, today matters more than yesterday.

  In our house, we set out to encourage one person each day.

  In our house, we look for the blessings. (When they’re not obvious, we keep looking.)

  In our house, we have screen-free time so we can hold pets, people, and creative passions in our hands.

  In our house, we XO Before We Go, even if our hands are sticky, even if we’re running late, even if we had cross words.

  In our house, we look into each other’s eyes when we speak.

  In our house, we open our door and say, “Come as you are.”

  In our house, there’s time for “one more” — one more hug, one more cleansing breath, one more prayer, and one more page of our favorite book.

  In our house, grace is served daily. We’re all learning here.

  In our house, we love each other as is.

  In our house, there’s nothing wrong with doing nothing every now and then.

  In our house, we put living, laughing, and loving at the top of the priority list.

  In our house, there is room for mistakes and room to breathe.

  As a teacher, I discovered that creating a classroom environment in which children could prosper and thrive was directly related to the rules we developed as a class and how they were articulated and modeled. Like my students, the members of my family freely add their input regarding our house rules, and we know that rules might need to be modified as we grow and change. Before you go any further on your Hands Free journey, take some time to think about what rules or boundaries might help you or your family live better and love more in the precious hours of your days. Write these ideas down and discuss them with the people you love.

  Habit 8:

  LEAVE A LEGACY

  Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you.

  Shannon L. Alder

  IT SEEMS ODD TO say that Avery and I walked to a graveyard every day for an entire summer although we knew no one buried there. What seems even more odd is that I continued to go there after she went to school that fall. When I should’ve been putting myself out there to become part of the community in which we’d moved, I chose to sit by myself with those who’d already lived out their earthly days.

  The pull I felt to this cemetery could only be explained providentially. For most of my life, graveyards made me feel uneasy and sad. But as soon as the moving boxes were unpacked, I felt an unsettling in my soul. I needed to find a walking route. I needed a place where my legs could grow tired as my spirit came alive, just like I had in all the other places I’d lived. I never would have guessed I would be drawn to a graveyard.

  The first time I exited my subdivision on foot, the heavily traveled roadway in front of me felt faster and more dangerous than it ever had in the car. But I refused to be intimidated. I took a deep breath and forged ahead, hugging the outer edge of the sidewalk farthest from the busy road. Wit
h every Nissan and Chevrolet that barreled past, my hair blew back from my face and hot air hugged my legs. I kept my head down and walked briskly, pausing briefly to notice a historic cemetery on my right. I’m pretty sure I would have felt slightly creeped out if I hadn’t been so focused on finding a peaceful place to walk.

  Once I got past the cemetery, I saw exactly what I was looking for: an established neighborhood canopied by lush trees with no moving vehicle in sight. I immediately turned right and walked the shady maze of side streets and cul-de-sacs for an hour. When it was time to return home, I resisted the urge to walk past the cemetery at a quickened pace. Instead, I noted the names and dates of those who had lived over a century ago. Little did I know this would become my daily ritual.

  Each day I laced up my running shoes pretending I might try a new route. At the exit of my subdivision, I’d stop for a moment and contemplate my choices. I knew I could turn left and then take another quick left or a right. I knew I could even go straight. But in the end, I’d always turn right. Up ahead, I could see the flags of the cemetery beckoning me forth. It brought me comfort to know exactly what three last names would be the first to greet me. Barnes, Brooks, and Settle were always there, waiting like faithful supporters along a race route. This familiarity assured my directionally challenged self that I was not lost. The tree-covered neighborhood where you like to walk is coming up, the tombstones would whisper. You’ve been here before, they’d say.

  For some reason I decided not to give myself a hard time about this severe lack of adventure on my walking route. After all, I was learning something new practically every day. I learned new grocery store aisles and post office locations. I learned new state procedures like emission checks and school immunization requirements. I learned that people drive faster and speak more sharply here. I learned there are stoplights on the interstate, and I can be ticketed if I proceed before it is my turn to merge. I learned where light switches and thermostats are located along dark hallways. I learned names of neighbors, their children, and their pets. Moving to a new place meant my brain was constantly learning new things all day long. So when I had the opportunity to take a walk, I’d go where my feet led me: a right turn out of the neighborhood onto the familiar sidewalk that ran along the bustling thoroughfare and past the cemetery to the shaded sanctuary. It is where I walked the same loop over and over, jotting my thoughts in my tiny notebook the way I did before I moved. On one of the visits, I thought to look at the name of the peaceful street that sheltered me from the noisy rush. It was called Gracewoods. That was not a coincidence to me.

  The tombstones I walked by each day had been there for a hundred years. Although I did not know anyone buried there, other people did. They would come and leave flowers and stuffed animals. They would come and simply sit in their car, too feeble or too sad to get out and kneel. But regardless of whether they kneeled or sat, brought flowers or came empty-handed, they would come and remember. They’d remember the way she hugged and didn’t let go first. They’d remember the way she laughed at bad jokes just to make the joke-teller feel good. They’d remember how he claimed a daily bowl of oatmeal grew hair on your chest and that hot dogs were the best bait for catching catfish. The people who came to remember went home and did these things too. They hugged long, laughed hard, and fished with hot dogs because it made their dearly departed feel near.

  Each time I walked by Brooks, Barns, and Settle, I took a moment to imagine what rituals, habits, and words live on right now in those who loved them. As the traffic blew by me, adamantly refusing to slow down for a nameless pedestrian, those thoughts brought great comfort — because nowadays there is little permanence. Messages disappear with the push of a button . . . handwritten notes are obsolete . . . sustained eye contact is a rarity. I seldom see lipstick marks on people’s cheeks anymore. But that quiet graveyard flanked by a stream of busy people going to important places offered me hope. I was reminded of the power within loving rituals. Through loving daily practices, we are able to create the kind of permanence that becomes the cornerstone of a life, a GPS for a world in which we are so easily lost.

  When I was especially overwhelmed or confused, I would stop and sit on the bench that Avery deemed the “shadiest” spot in the cemetery during the hottest part of the summer. There I would sit in peaceful silence, feeling myself become more centered and more optimistic with each passing minute. Without fail, I would replay something Avery had said on our second visit to the graveyard. We’d been talking about cremation and burial and how it would be painful to see someone she loved pass away before she did. Sitting up straight on the handcrafted bench next to a family of tombs, Avery made a declaration. “When I have a friend who dies, I will come here every year on her birthday. I will come each year on my birthday. I will remember the funny things she said and did and then I will pray.”

  Oh yes. I hope so, my love. I hope that is exactly what you do. May you always walk against the busy traffic of life and find a shady spot to remember what matters most. May your life become a series of such meaningful rituals that live beyond your earthly days.

  Suddenly, it all made sense — why this particular place at this particular juncture of my life had become my resting place . . . my holy ground . . . my cornerstone. Nowhere else could all my senses be simultaneously reminded of why I wanted to live Hands Free. Through faded bouquets that lay beneath dates and dash marks etched in stone, my Hands Free aspirations were confirmed. I wanted to leave the earth better than it was before; I wanted to live on in the habits, words, and memories of those who had loved and learned from me.

  Leave a Legacy, the eighth intentional habit of a Hands Free Life, is about making choices to become a living, breathing example of life well lived using meaningful measures of success. By recognizing the way you want to spend your time on earth, you are better equipped to find your unique path toward a sense of fulfillment regardless of societal opinion. Through this deep connection to your soul’s greatest needs and hopes, you are able to feel God’s internal confirmation spurring you on. As your loved ones begin following in your footsteps to seek real-life moments and authentic connections, your efforts will be rewarded tenfold.

  In this chapter, we’ll explore three ways to become a living example of a Hands Free Life. Showing others that life is best lived with open hands, open eyes, and an open heart is an everlasting gift to others, as well as yourself. The best news is that the results of leaving a legacy become evident far sooner than you might expect. May you find, as I have, that you don’t have to wait until your dying breath to see that your loving actions have made a difference. In the facial expressions and everyday actions of those you love, may you see your Hands Free way of life take hold. Watch as their lives become richer and their hearts become fuller as they follow your footsteps toward home.

  LEAVE A LEGACY TO GRASP SIMPLE JOYS

  Taking Natalie and Avery to the Indiana State Fair was one of my grand attempts to expose them to a simpler, slower way of life. I wanted to immerse them in the sights, sounds, and tastes of my childhood — the one with fresh sweet corn, glowing fireflies in Mason jars, and neighbors smiling through the front-porch screen. Little did I know this well-intentioned adventure would intensify a very uncomfortable feeling — a feeling of deep uncertainty that produced questions with no easy answers.

  It happened while watching the 4-H kids show their beautifully groomed llamas. Natalie kept inching forward until she was practically part of the demonstration. For fifteen minutes she stood there unaware of anything but llama fur and 4-H badges. “I would love to live on a farm and take care of an animal like that,” she dreamily confessed as we walked away from the barn to see other fair exhibits. That’s precisely when I got that feeling.

  A few minutes later, we stopped in the pioneer village and watched a woman in historical garb demonstrate how to churn butter. For nearly ten minutes Avery was her number-one fan. Avery intently studied the woman’s skillful hands as they worked their magic. Ju
st one taste of the creamy concoction convinced Avery that we must never buy store-bought butter ever again. When she insisted that we start making our own butter, I got that feeling again.

  That uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty and doubt that flared at the state fair was not new. In fact, every time I read about families selling virtually all of their material possessions to drastically downsize, I felt it. Every time I read about folks growing their own produce, eating only real food, and composting their garbage, I felt it. And every time I visited the outdoor section of Home Depot and longed for a job with flowers, seeds, and sunshine, I felt it. It was that feeling that said: Am I doing this all wrong? Could there be more to life (or perhaps I should say less) than the way I am currently living it?

  I believe it is perfectly normal to consider other ways of life and the benefits of varying approaches. In fact, I find myself doing it quite often on this Hands Free journey. But as I began to notice the stark contrast between my childhood and the one my children were experiencing, I felt an unhealthy panic that I was doing it “wrong.” As I watched the world become more digitized and more commercialized . . . more processed, more public, and more pressured . . . more frantic and more frenzied, I couldn’t help but wonder if I should make major changes in my family’s eating, sleeping, and living habits. But before I banned all Apple products from our home and exchanged my car for a secondhand llama, I discovered that drastic measures are not required to grasp the simple joys of life — just some heightened awareness and some new experiences.