Yesterday was hell on wheels. I have no other description that aptly describes it. "Hard" doesn't touch it. It was truly an emotional and mental day made in hell.
In the midst of the emotional and mental chaos, a friend and I tossed a few sharp darts at each other, and when the "how dare you's", "you have no clue's", and "let me tell you a few things" were done, I felt pretty good about life, how I am doing as an individual, and how we are doing as a family. Defending the ground I have helped me realize how much progress we have made.
But while the darts were flying and the emotions and doubts were raging, I sat in my shower floor while hot water pounded down, and I cried.
I don't know which was fatter, the hot drops of water falling from the shower or the hot tears falling from my eyes.
All I knew--and know--is the feeling of failure that comes when nothing I do is right and everything I do is wrong, and yesterday, everything I did was wrong.
If I left the children to go for a walk, I should have been home.
If I chose not to leave the children, I was suffocating them and needed to let them breathe.
If I took a class I enjoyed, I should put the kids first and be with them.
If I chose not to do something for me, I wasn't taking care of myself.
If I went on a trip, I was neglecting the kids.
If I didn't, I was controlled by guilt and needed to get over it.
NOTHING was right. NOTHING was good enough. NOTHING!
So finally that is what I chose: nothing.
Nothing to say. Nothing to share. Nothing to let people give their opinions on. Nothing...
...to find out what a failure I am
...to find out how inadequate I am
...to hear all the ways the details don't line up with others' opinions
...to run through the filtered experiences, feelings, and brokenness of others.
I have amazing friends. Even the people that I have struggled with the last six months are amazing. They are also filtered.
We all are.
And the fact is no matter how much love, compassion, or good intention fills our hearts, our humanness is filled with our interpretation.
People interpret my marital separation depending on their background, religious beliefs, or own marriage experience. People interpret my mom's death and my response according to loss of loved ones in their lives or how they responded...or the lack thereof.
The fact is most of these amazing people are strong Christians whose hearts are to serve and love God, and in turn, His people. Some have even been where I am at various times, and believe me, they know exactly what I need to do to get where I need to be, and if God had the same destination in mind for me that He had for them, we'd be fine. However, I'm finding that there is no cookie cutter plan.
In the Bible David took one road to kingship while Joseph took another, and Esther had a different one still. Peter was called to be a disciple from a fishing boat, and Paul was called from a religious mindset. All of them had one purpose: to glorify God. That is where the commonalities ended.
Life hasn't changed much in a few thousand years.
God is still blowing away boxes, doing things that seem insane, and taking us along for the ride. Those of us in the midst of it look like we are from some other world, and maybe we are.
Maybe I'm doing everything wrong in the eyes of people because only God knows what it will truly take to get to the other side of this whole and healed. Maybe I look crazy because the cracks in broken filters make the progress too fuzzy to see.
I don't know.
All I know is when I don't listen to the voices, I am at peace. I can identify goals, determine strategies to reach them, and move us forward. I feel good about the progress we are making, and I know we are moving toward healing, toward being whole, toward God's destination.
When I do listen to them, I end up a sobbing mess in the bottom of my shower wishing I had the option of not even getting out of bed...until I have to defend where I am and realize I like it. I like how we are doing. I like the joy we have. I like the connecting we are doing. I like the laughter that rings through the house. I like lying on the trampoline and staring at the stars. I like...waking up each morning and knowing it's a great day and we are alright...and we will be alright.
This morning my friend said honestly, "I can't help you with this. I'm biased, and I can't see where you are in it." I smiled. I had noticed.
So we talked about other things, like the day's plans to go to the Science Museum, maybe head to Tyler to see the leaves, my need to do laundry because I have no clean socks. Before we got off the phone, I said, "Thank you."
"You're...welcome?"
"For being a great friend, a great sounding board, an amazing encourager, and a voice I can trust."
Because you know when it is best not to speak at all, and you are okay when I know it is best for me not to listen.
To me, that is a big deal, but then, maybe between friends, it's really nothing.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
When There's Nothing
For the last five to six months, I have tried very hard to keep my head up, to smile a lot, to look on the bright side, to have vision of where we were going. I have tried to stay solid in my faith, to praise God anyway, and to believe for better things.
However, I must confess the warfare has taken its toll. Between the shelling from the enemy and the hits from "friendly fire", I am tired. Frankly, I have never felt so abandoned in my life. I have never felt so much like I belonged no where. I have never felt like so much of a failure. And I have never hurt so badly.
Of course, we pious Christians like to remind those who aren't quite where we are that if they aren't as close to God as they used to be, it's not God that moved. Well, obviously I've messed up enough to put me completely off His charts.
And if I am that far away, then it is no longer sensible for me to write a blog hoping to point others to Him. I have nothing to offer. I do not know if I will remove this blog or leave it up with hopes that it still blesses people or that someday I will return to it. There are a lot of uncertainties.
But this I know:
Even with all my hurt and all my questions, I am convinced God is good. I am convinced He is loving. I am convinced His way is the best way. I know He is kind and merciful. I know Christ died for every sin, and I know forgiveness is found in His blood. A cruel, heartless, vindictive God could not love and give with voracious passion as the Father does. His passion and pursuit are beyond the human mind's ability to comprehend. He is God, and the wondrous things about Him never cease.
May you find Him in your seeking...
Until....
Jerri
However, I must confess the warfare has taken its toll. Between the shelling from the enemy and the hits from "friendly fire", I am tired. Frankly, I have never felt so abandoned in my life. I have never felt so much like I belonged no where. I have never felt like so much of a failure. And I have never hurt so badly.
Of course, we pious Christians like to remind those who aren't quite where we are that if they aren't as close to God as they used to be, it's not God that moved. Well, obviously I've messed up enough to put me completely off His charts.
And if I am that far away, then it is no longer sensible for me to write a blog hoping to point others to Him. I have nothing to offer. I do not know if I will remove this blog or leave it up with hopes that it still blesses people or that someday I will return to it. There are a lot of uncertainties.
But this I know:
Even with all my hurt and all my questions, I am convinced God is good. I am convinced He is loving. I am convinced His way is the best way. I know He is kind and merciful. I know Christ died for every sin, and I know forgiveness is found in His blood. A cruel, heartless, vindictive God could not love and give with voracious passion as the Father does. His passion and pursuit are beyond the human mind's ability to comprehend. He is God, and the wondrous things about Him never cease.
May you find Him in your seeking...
Until....
Jerri
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
In Depth at Arm's Length
A week or so ago I deactivated my FB account. I didn't go in depth in the reason. I didn't really know what to say. A lot of folks were very supportive. Some were very concerned. I am going to take a few minutes and explain what is happening around our home 1) to alleviate concerns, 2) to maybe give a picgture in to help folks who have never been here understand and offer aide and comfort to others they know that find themselves here, and 3) to hopefully encourage others where we are that there is Life, and He has you much closer than arm's length.
After Mom died October 2nd, we had the funeral on the 6th.
October 13th-- I was in the ER with chest pains. Several thousand dollars in test later, they thankfully determined it was an anxiety attack.
October 20th--I hopped a plane to Harrisburg, PA, for a conference.
October 23rd--three weeks from the time Mom died, I listened to one of my favorite bloggers talk about the Upside-Down Kingdom, being raw and honest and just what folks need to hear. I was honestly raw, but I didn't know if I had anything for people to hear.
October 24th--I returned home with the goal of stepping back into life where it had left off July 30th when Mom entered the hospital with stroke symptoms.
And I did.
I stepped right back into the shock of being separated, being a single parent, and figuring out how to build a life for the children and me...just the three of us.
And this time, it really was far more the three of us than it had been.
My brother and I talked, and we agreed we really were not up to celebrating Thanksgiving. My stepdad has imploded with his anger and doesn't speak to us unless it is a required business matter. The holidays loomed before me like a tsunami waiting to drown us. Both of my parents are gone. My brother won't be here, and Rob isn't here. Besides the children, I had no family with which to spend the holidays. It took about 48 hours for the wave of "alone" to pass over.
During those 48 hours, I cried A LOT. I barely ate because I felt like I was going to throw up.
I missed Mom horribly. Then the weather changed, and my emotions were drawn to the front porch of my parents' house where Dad and I sat and drank coffee on cool mornings. The feeling of "alone" hit even harder. And for a few days, I felt like I was drowning.
The weekend came and went, and Monday rolled around. I was feeling a bit anxious because my CERT class that I have enjoyed so much would be ending in a few weeks, and then I had nothing to do. I've loved this class. I've learned so much, and I've grown, but I love the people most. I look forward to them each week, and soon they would be gone. That left me a bit blue.
Then Stacey called. Uncle Buck had died in the night.
I just cried.
When Mom died, I was talking to God and said, "Now I know why you only gave us two parents. Because it would rip us apart to bury three."
But that is what had to be done. I didn't plan on going to the memorial, but I drove up to the funeral home. I couldn't handle the social visitation, but I visited. I talked. I thanked him. There was a lot to thank him for, and while I had tried to thank him over the years, I needed to tell him again...and I did.
Then I went home.
The next day I went to the graveside service, listened to a beautiful sermon, celebrated a wonderful man, and came home tired.
On Friday I made an appointment with my doctor for another evaluation to see if surgery to remove my gall bladder will be necessary.
And in the midst of those two weeks after returning from the conference, I worked to build a routine, to roll with emotions, to create unity among family that has seen each other so little. The children responded beautifully. We cleaned the house to "baseline", which is what the house should be before we go to bed each night. They rolled with the emotions, did their schoolwork, enjoyed activities, and talked.
We talk a lot.
And each day I spent about an hour lying on my bed with a child who simply wanted to connect, so we did.
Each night I went to bed tired. I didn't always sleep well, but I was tired.
During this time, my goal was (and still is) simple--create a stable environment for my children where they know they are safe, they are part of the solution, they can make a difference, and they are going to be okay.
We all needed to know WE ARE OKAY and WE WILL BE OKAY.
I needed to spend my time praying and pondering, analyzing where we were disconnected or struggling, and determining a plan to attack the gap, and it had to be done in such a way that the children stepped into it instead of being pushed or forced. They needed to be part of the healing process, too. We had to talk...A LOT.
I could not talk to them and talk on FB or email or phone or text. I refused to interact with anyone in any form that might affect my ability to think clearly or respond well to the children. I had a clear objective. Everything else was peripheral. Thus, I deactivated my account, and quite possibly will do so again. We are not through this yet. The holidays still loom ahead of us, and I still need to focus my attention on getting myself...the children...through.
I do not need escape. I need purposed relaxation and refuge, which I have been blessed to find. Last weekend was a tough weekend without the children, but my friends Chris, Shaleen, and Dena were fabulous about giving me a soft place to land, talk, and cry. And we all know that is temporary. Building a life takes time, and I am doing that one step at a time. I'm not there yet, but I will be. In the meantime, a place to not think and not have to be in charge...a place where someone else took care of me...was perfect. By the time Sunday came, I was charged and ready to go.
I tackled the garage. With help, I was able to organize one half of the garage and begin to dig into Mom's boutique full of clothes. To give you an idea, I've done 1-3 loads of clothes each day for the last three weeks I've been home. I'm not exaggerating. I had done 3 (over-)full loads of pants last week. Today, I did 5. I have at least 2 more to do tomorrow (JUST PANTS). We wash a load, hang them out for 12 hours or more until they no longer smell like cigarette smoke, and then we fold them and start over. We emptied around 20 large kitchen bags of clothes Sunday, not to include the 10 or so I had already done OR the 2 10-ft closets still on hangers lying over a large wooden trunk in my garage. And did I mention the other 70 or so pairs of shoes? We are around 200 pairs of shoes right now.
Also, I have signed up for my Emergency Medical Responder class, and Chrissy and I are working on chartering a homeschool 4-H. There are some other things that I prefer to wait until they are solid to mention, but they are exciting. Anna is rocking with her drama, and Robert is loving the cooler weather and being able to be outside to exercise. They are also working on designing and coding computer games.
So as you can see, we are really doing great. If you are worried, maybe you need to talk to Chris, Shaleen, Dena, John, or Rae. I think all of them will assure you that we are not floundering. We are flourishing. We have clear goals, and we are working toward them as a family. We are talking, crying, screaming, and laughing. I am watching the children mature and grow in beautiful ways, not broken ones. We have a fabulous counselor who is helping us when we feel overwhelmed by the landmines that we are trying to avoid. And we are learning that often landmines really aren't as bad as we fear they will be. We are learning that "hard days" and "sad days" are really good days because they cause us to think, process, and choose healing, and they give us a chance to talk, to be still, and to connect. It is amazing how one can hurt so much and be at the best place possible at the same time. God is so weird that way.
And speaking of God, our faith is solid. We question theology, but not God. We know He is giving us strength, peace, and wisdom, and we know He has not abandoned us. He is with us and for us, and although we don't understand why He does things or allows things, we know He sees the picture we don't see. It's one thing to serve a middle-class, cushy seat, hour-long service each week God. But to serve a God who isn't afraid to throw us into the fire to bring us forth as silver...to know we blame Satan way too much for the "hard stuff" when we should be giving God credit for His faith in us and His love that makes Him do hard things to accomplish great things in us...THAT is a different way to live...and while it hurts, it heals.
So there you go. That is where I have been--boldly building a new life based on God's promises to do above and beyond what I can imagine. I will most likely disappear again. If so, don't worry. I'm not failing. I'm focusing...and we are flourishing...and it is a great place to be.
After Mom died October 2nd, we had the funeral on the 6th.
October 13th-- I was in the ER with chest pains. Several thousand dollars in test later, they thankfully determined it was an anxiety attack.
October 20th--I hopped a plane to Harrisburg, PA, for a conference.
October 23rd--three weeks from the time Mom died, I listened to one of my favorite bloggers talk about the Upside-Down Kingdom, being raw and honest and just what folks need to hear. I was honestly raw, but I didn't know if I had anything for people to hear.
October 24th--I returned home with the goal of stepping back into life where it had left off July 30th when Mom entered the hospital with stroke symptoms.
And I did.
I stepped right back into the shock of being separated, being a single parent, and figuring out how to build a life for the children and me...just the three of us.
And this time, it really was far more the three of us than it had been.
My brother and I talked, and we agreed we really were not up to celebrating Thanksgiving. My stepdad has imploded with his anger and doesn't speak to us unless it is a required business matter. The holidays loomed before me like a tsunami waiting to drown us. Both of my parents are gone. My brother won't be here, and Rob isn't here. Besides the children, I had no family with which to spend the holidays. It took about 48 hours for the wave of "alone" to pass over.
During those 48 hours, I cried A LOT. I barely ate because I felt like I was going to throw up.
I missed Mom horribly. Then the weather changed, and my emotions were drawn to the front porch of my parents' house where Dad and I sat and drank coffee on cool mornings. The feeling of "alone" hit even harder. And for a few days, I felt like I was drowning.
The weekend came and went, and Monday rolled around. I was feeling a bit anxious because my CERT class that I have enjoyed so much would be ending in a few weeks, and then I had nothing to do. I've loved this class. I've learned so much, and I've grown, but I love the people most. I look forward to them each week, and soon they would be gone. That left me a bit blue.
Then Stacey called. Uncle Buck had died in the night.
I just cried.
When Mom died, I was talking to God and said, "Now I know why you only gave us two parents. Because it would rip us apart to bury three."
But that is what had to be done. I didn't plan on going to the memorial, but I drove up to the funeral home. I couldn't handle the social visitation, but I visited. I talked. I thanked him. There was a lot to thank him for, and while I had tried to thank him over the years, I needed to tell him again...and I did.
Then I went home.
The next day I went to the graveside service, listened to a beautiful sermon, celebrated a wonderful man, and came home tired.
On Friday I made an appointment with my doctor for another evaluation to see if surgery to remove my gall bladder will be necessary.
And in the midst of those two weeks after returning from the conference, I worked to build a routine, to roll with emotions, to create unity among family that has seen each other so little. The children responded beautifully. We cleaned the house to "baseline", which is what the house should be before we go to bed each night. They rolled with the emotions, did their schoolwork, enjoyed activities, and talked.
We talk a lot.
And each day I spent about an hour lying on my bed with a child who simply wanted to connect, so we did.
Each night I went to bed tired. I didn't always sleep well, but I was tired.
During this time, my goal was (and still is) simple--create a stable environment for my children where they know they are safe, they are part of the solution, they can make a difference, and they are going to be okay.
We all needed to know WE ARE OKAY and WE WILL BE OKAY.
I needed to spend my time praying and pondering, analyzing where we were disconnected or struggling, and determining a plan to attack the gap, and it had to be done in such a way that the children stepped into it instead of being pushed or forced. They needed to be part of the healing process, too. We had to talk...A LOT.
I could not talk to them and talk on FB or email or phone or text. I refused to interact with anyone in any form that might affect my ability to think clearly or respond well to the children. I had a clear objective. Everything else was peripheral. Thus, I deactivated my account, and quite possibly will do so again. We are not through this yet. The holidays still loom ahead of us, and I still need to focus my attention on getting myself...the children...through.
I do not need escape. I need purposed relaxation and refuge, which I have been blessed to find. Last weekend was a tough weekend without the children, but my friends Chris, Shaleen, and Dena were fabulous about giving me a soft place to land, talk, and cry. And we all know that is temporary. Building a life takes time, and I am doing that one step at a time. I'm not there yet, but I will be. In the meantime, a place to not think and not have to be in charge...a place where someone else took care of me...was perfect. By the time Sunday came, I was charged and ready to go.
I tackled the garage. With help, I was able to organize one half of the garage and begin to dig into Mom's boutique full of clothes. To give you an idea, I've done 1-3 loads of clothes each day for the last three weeks I've been home. I'm not exaggerating. I had done 3 (over-)full loads of pants last week. Today, I did 5. I have at least 2 more to do tomorrow (JUST PANTS). We wash a load, hang them out for 12 hours or more until they no longer smell like cigarette smoke, and then we fold them and start over. We emptied around 20 large kitchen bags of clothes Sunday, not to include the 10 or so I had already done OR the 2 10-ft closets still on hangers lying over a large wooden trunk in my garage. And did I mention the other 70 or so pairs of shoes? We are around 200 pairs of shoes right now.
Also, I have signed up for my Emergency Medical Responder class, and Chrissy and I are working on chartering a homeschool 4-H. There are some other things that I prefer to wait until they are solid to mention, but they are exciting. Anna is rocking with her drama, and Robert is loving the cooler weather and being able to be outside to exercise. They are also working on designing and coding computer games.
So as you can see, we are really doing great. If you are worried, maybe you need to talk to Chris, Shaleen, Dena, John, or Rae. I think all of them will assure you that we are not floundering. We are flourishing. We have clear goals, and we are working toward them as a family. We are talking, crying, screaming, and laughing. I am watching the children mature and grow in beautiful ways, not broken ones. We have a fabulous counselor who is helping us when we feel overwhelmed by the landmines that we are trying to avoid. And we are learning that often landmines really aren't as bad as we fear they will be. We are learning that "hard days" and "sad days" are really good days because they cause us to think, process, and choose healing, and they give us a chance to talk, to be still, and to connect. It is amazing how one can hurt so much and be at the best place possible at the same time. God is so weird that way.
And speaking of God, our faith is solid. We question theology, but not God. We know He is giving us strength, peace, and wisdom, and we know He has not abandoned us. He is with us and for us, and although we don't understand why He does things or allows things, we know He sees the picture we don't see. It's one thing to serve a middle-class, cushy seat, hour-long service each week God. But to serve a God who isn't afraid to throw us into the fire to bring us forth as silver...to know we blame Satan way too much for the "hard stuff" when we should be giving God credit for His faith in us and His love that makes Him do hard things to accomplish great things in us...THAT is a different way to live...and while it hurts, it heals.
So there you go. That is where I have been--boldly building a new life based on God's promises to do above and beyond what I can imagine. I will most likely disappear again. If so, don't worry. I'm not failing. I'm focusing...and we are flourishing...and it is a great place to be.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Comfortless Comfort Zone
Much of her day was spent floating in the ocean of grief she thought would consume her. She lay on the couch, curled in bed, sat in the rocker and stared...into nothing...into her pain.
I watched. Ready to jump in if she went under.
The waves grew taller, more frequent. Her ability to stay afloat weakened. She grew exhausted from simply trying to keep upright.
When the waves finally toppled her, she cried for nearly an hour and a half. Hot tears. Sobs shaking her thirteen-year old body.
When air was available, she screamed, ranted, and questioned, and then the sobs came in another wave. When her head came above water again, so did the anger and pain. She thought she was drowning, but I knew I was watching her swimming the ocean of grief with beautiful precision and excellence.
Finally, she told me what had sunk her.
"Mom, they think I shouldn't be sad."
"Who?"
"It seems like everybody." A long list of names come forth. Youth leaders, youth pastors, friends...trusted hearts she thought would be a safe haven that had lobbed painful bombs. "They tell me I shouldn't be sad."
Within the last four months:
--her parents separated
--her long-time diving coach had lied and left her feeling disillusioned
--her traditional activities had come to an end as her age transitioned her out of them
--her grandma had been diagnosed with cancer and died
--her grandpa had imploded with anger and no longer spoke to us
--her uncle wasn't coming to Thanksgiving dinner
--her mom's uncle had died
In four months, her world had disintegrated under her feet, and she was trying to figure out where to stand...if there even existed a place to stand....But!, she had no right to be sad.
"Anna," I whispered quietly, "you are doing beautifully. I'm so proud of you."
Her breathing stopped, and her head jerked toward me. "What? Mom, I can't stop crying."
I smiled. "I know. Good for you. You should cry. This is horrible. The losses are horrible. Grandma was an amazing woman, and she left a big hole. Thanksgiving is always special, and she won't bring dressing. That stinks. And she won't make pies."
Anna laughed. "You mean the pies that she told you to make but she always brought?"
I laughed, too. "Yep. Those."
Anna shook her head. "She always told you she was only bringing dressing, and then she brought two boxes of food."
I nodded. "Yes, she did."
Quiet settled in for a bit. Then Anna said, "Mom, I'm afraid I'll cry on Thanksgiving."
"Then come sit with me, and we'll cry together."
"Mom, they said not to talk to you about Grandma because it would only make you sad."
I fought to keep the calm. "They're stupid," I said flatly.
"I don't want to make you cry."
"Anna, you are not my mom. You are not responsible for my emotions or my tears. I am so sorry anyone was so cruel and stupid as to put that load on you. That is not your job. Your job is to heal. Period. And healing often means crying and telling where you hurt, so cry and tell me. Besides, who else will understand the pain of losing Grandma as much as me?"
She was quiet a moment. Then she said, "Mom, they keep telling me Grandma is happy and better off. I know that, but I still miss her."
"Next time someone says that, just say, 'Yeah, but my heart has a giant hole, and that is what I have to deal with.'"
She ventured her heart again. "They say she is always with me. No, she's not." Her anger finally showed up for the party. "She's not here. I can't hug her. I can't call her. I won't see her Christmas. She is not with me."
I smiled, so proud of my daughter, courageous enough to speak truth others like to evade.
"Next time they say that, simply say, 'Really? Where? Cause I would like to give her a hug.' I hate when people say dumb things like that."
She stopped, seemingly surprised that she is not the only one who hates such comfortless remarks.
She stepped further into bravery. "Mom, they make me feel like I don't have a right to be sad, like I'm selfish. I'm not selfish. I hurt."
I'm not selfish. I hurt.
My heart swelled with pride.
"Anna, their comments have nothing to do with making you feel better. They are all about making them feel better. They aren't comfortable with your sadness, so they try to make themselves comfortable by making you what they are comfortable with. They are the ones being selfish."
She nodded. "Yeah. I thought they would be sad with me or be sorry Grandma was gone, but instead, they told me I had to feel better so others did, and if I didn't, I was selfish."
I smiled. "Well, I don't think you are selfish. I think you are grieving, and that is perfectly acceptable."
She became quiet. Finally she spoke. "Mom, thanks for being comfortable with my hurting."
I squeezed her tight. "Not a problem, Amazing Girl. I totally understand."
And unlike the others who say that, I really do...and she finds comfort in that.
God, thank you for all the times You have allowed me to feel what she has felt...to understand that other people don't really understand...to experience the pain of people's comfortless comfort zones...so I could learn from You the ability to create and be a safe harbor...where healing comes by making it to the other side of the hurting...where I am comfortable with that...in her...and in me...
I watched. Ready to jump in if she went under.
The waves grew taller, more frequent. Her ability to stay afloat weakened. She grew exhausted from simply trying to keep upright.
When the waves finally toppled her, she cried for nearly an hour and a half. Hot tears. Sobs shaking her thirteen-year old body.
When air was available, she screamed, ranted, and questioned, and then the sobs came in another wave. When her head came above water again, so did the anger and pain. She thought she was drowning, but I knew I was watching her swimming the ocean of grief with beautiful precision and excellence.
Finally, she told me what had sunk her.
"Mom, they think I shouldn't be sad."
"Who?"
"It seems like everybody." A long list of names come forth. Youth leaders, youth pastors, friends...trusted hearts she thought would be a safe haven that had lobbed painful bombs. "They tell me I shouldn't be sad."
Within the last four months:
--her parents separated
--her long-time diving coach had lied and left her feeling disillusioned
--her traditional activities had come to an end as her age transitioned her out of them
--her grandma had been diagnosed with cancer and died
--her grandpa had imploded with anger and no longer spoke to us
--her uncle wasn't coming to Thanksgiving dinner
--her mom's uncle had died
In four months, her world had disintegrated under her feet, and she was trying to figure out where to stand...if there even existed a place to stand....But!, she had no right to be sad.
"Anna," I whispered quietly, "you are doing beautifully. I'm so proud of you."
Her breathing stopped, and her head jerked toward me. "What? Mom, I can't stop crying."
I smiled. "I know. Good for you. You should cry. This is horrible. The losses are horrible. Grandma was an amazing woman, and she left a big hole. Thanksgiving is always special, and she won't bring dressing. That stinks. And she won't make pies."
Anna laughed. "You mean the pies that she told you to make but she always brought?"
I laughed, too. "Yep. Those."
Anna shook her head. "She always told you she was only bringing dressing, and then she brought two boxes of food."
I nodded. "Yes, she did."
Quiet settled in for a bit. Then Anna said, "Mom, I'm afraid I'll cry on Thanksgiving."
"Then come sit with me, and we'll cry together."
"Mom, they said not to talk to you about Grandma because it would only make you sad."
I fought to keep the calm. "They're stupid," I said flatly.
"I don't want to make you cry."
"Anna, you are not my mom. You are not responsible for my emotions or my tears. I am so sorry anyone was so cruel and stupid as to put that load on you. That is not your job. Your job is to heal. Period. And healing often means crying and telling where you hurt, so cry and tell me. Besides, who else will understand the pain of losing Grandma as much as me?"
She was quiet a moment. Then she said, "Mom, they keep telling me Grandma is happy and better off. I know that, but I still miss her."
"Next time someone says that, just say, 'Yeah, but my heart has a giant hole, and that is what I have to deal with.'"
She ventured her heart again. "They say she is always with me. No, she's not." Her anger finally showed up for the party. "She's not here. I can't hug her. I can't call her. I won't see her Christmas. She is not with me."
I smiled, so proud of my daughter, courageous enough to speak truth others like to evade.
"Next time they say that, simply say, 'Really? Where? Cause I would like to give her a hug.' I hate when people say dumb things like that."
She stopped, seemingly surprised that she is not the only one who hates such comfortless remarks.
She stepped further into bravery. "Mom, they make me feel like I don't have a right to be sad, like I'm selfish. I'm not selfish. I hurt."
I'm not selfish. I hurt.
My heart swelled with pride.
"Anna, their comments have nothing to do with making you feel better. They are all about making them feel better. They aren't comfortable with your sadness, so they try to make themselves comfortable by making you what they are comfortable with. They are the ones being selfish."
She nodded. "Yeah. I thought they would be sad with me or be sorry Grandma was gone, but instead, they told me I had to feel better so others did, and if I didn't, I was selfish."
I smiled. "Well, I don't think you are selfish. I think you are grieving, and that is perfectly acceptable."
She became quiet. Finally she spoke. "Mom, thanks for being comfortable with my hurting."
I squeezed her tight. "Not a problem, Amazing Girl. I totally understand."
And unlike the others who say that, I really do...and she finds comfort in that.
God, thank you for all the times You have allowed me to feel what she has felt...to understand that other people don't really understand...to experience the pain of people's comfortless comfort zones...so I could learn from You the ability to create and be a safe harbor...where healing comes by making it to the other side of the hurting...where I am comfortable with that...in her...and in me...
Gratitude 40--Belonging
This year the holidays feel daunting. Both of my parents are gone now. My brother wants to be by himself, and Rob and I are still separated. Frankly, it is easy to feel like I have no where to belong, except the people I know make it so clear that I do...and for them and what they do...I am grateful...
With deep gratitude for...
951. Snoopy and the Red Baron
952. Help with the garage
953. Texts really early in the morning to see if I am okay
954. Invitations to movies
955. Sitting in the floor and talking while bathroom remodeling goes on around me
956. A gathering of friends...in person...and via speaker phone.
957. A place to cry...and laugh...and sigh deeply because...
958. A place to land
959. Comfy couches with warm blankets and Chinese food
960. Adirondike chairs in the yard while oil is changed in the driveway, laughing about (and with) the mechanics, and being warm inside...even when it is cold outside...
...I thank God at every remembrance of you...Philippians 1:3
With deep gratitude for...
951. Snoopy and the Red Baron
952. Help with the garage
953. Texts really early in the morning to see if I am okay
954. Invitations to movies
955. Sitting in the floor and talking while bathroom remodeling goes on around me
956. A gathering of friends...in person...and via speaker phone.
957. A place to cry...and laugh...and sigh deeply because...
958. A place to land
959. Comfy couches with warm blankets and Chinese food
960. Adirondike chairs in the yard while oil is changed in the driveway, laughing about (and with) the mechanics, and being warm inside...even when it is cold outside...
...I thank God at every remembrance of you...Philippians 1:3
Monday, November 8, 2010
Gratitude 39--Giving Thanks, November 2010
It has been a long time since I typed in a list of thanks...although my heart has been grateful for many things these last several months. I'll share more as time goes on, but for now...for these people and blessings...I am deeply grateful...
931. For my amazing children
932. For my CERT class, what I've learning...but more with whom I learning it.
933. Hard seasons that let the unncessary stuff die to make room for the good stuff to live.
934. Dena K. Walts, who thinks I am an answer and have something to give.
935. Raymon K. "Buck" Kelley, the perfect substitute dad in a season when "home" wasn't
936. Brian Hearn, who tells me I am worth the effort
937. Lisa Buffaloe, Christine Thomas, and Lori Freeland, who reply ASAP to joyfully and excitedly be references for my resume
938. Kevin Zuniga, with a heart of God
939. Pop Shires, who finds the heating element for my dryer in less than 48 hours, picks it up, and brings it to my house
940. Chris, who teaches me how to change out the heating element
941. Al, who offers to helpd cover costs for my mission trip next summer
942. Rob for helping with the resume and garage.
943. Leslie, who keeps me in her heart
944. Eryn Gruwell, who did her job with excellence and impacted the lives of her students...and us
945. CERT board, for seeing my potential
946. Val Roach, for always checking
947. Melanie Curl, for caring and noticing
948. Christmas ornaments for soldiers
949. CPT Ramona, former Army, for keeping us in the loop with soldiers to support
950. Contented smiles
5.
931. For my amazing children
932. For my CERT class, what I've learning...but more with whom I learning it.
933. Hard seasons that let the unncessary stuff die to make room for the good stuff to live.
934. Dena K. Walts, who thinks I am an answer and have something to give.
935. Raymon K. "Buck" Kelley, the perfect substitute dad in a season when "home" wasn't
936. Brian Hearn, who tells me I am worth the effort
937. Lisa Buffaloe, Christine Thomas, and Lori Freeland, who reply ASAP to joyfully and excitedly be references for my resume
938. Kevin Zuniga, with a heart of God
939. Pop Shires, who finds the heating element for my dryer in less than 48 hours, picks it up, and brings it to my house
940. Chris, who teaches me how to change out the heating element
941. Al, who offers to helpd cover costs for my mission trip next summer
942. Rob for helping with the resume and garage.
943. Leslie, who keeps me in her heart
944. Eryn Gruwell, who did her job with excellence and impacted the lives of her students...and us
945. CERT board, for seeing my potential
946. Val Roach, for always checking
947. Melanie Curl, for caring and noticing
948. Christmas ornaments for soldiers
949. CPT Ramona, former Army, for keeping us in the loop with soldiers to support
950. Contented smiles
5.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Emotional Weather Days
I just want to cry.
It's that simple.
I have spent the day with tears sitting in the corners of my eyes waiting to fall, probably needing to fall. One of those be-good-to-yourself days when I can't.
They are children, mature and wonderful, full of grace, but children. They don't understand days when it is easier for me to lie in bed than stand against the sadness. They don't understand why my usual laughter is edged with annoyance or why small things have suddenly become so large.
I understand their confusion, and I seek a way to explain. Sometime I don't understand either. All I know is some days are hard, and on those days, tears come easy and patience doesn't.
Tired from the strain of trying to force calm that cannot be created, I lie on my bed and pull close those I've been pushing away. We try to find light in the emotional cloudiness of the day.
Cloudy. That is it. If only emotions came with a forecast, a type of heads up of what to expect, then we would know whether to wear galloshes in the form of careful steps or umbrellas in the form of greater grace. Perhaps we would simply know better how to avoid the storm altogether, and if we couldn't stop it, maybe we could ease the effects.
"Do you ever get sad with all that has been happening?" I venture. I know the answer, but they need to understand.
Silent nods...theirs and mine...an understanding.
"Me, too." I pause, let the reality sink in, let them think sad, let them feel it. "Do you ever have a sad day when you can't quite get over the sadness, you don't just sit and cry, but you're sad?"
Again...silent nods. I let them wander into those days, into those hearts.
"Me, too." We sit in those days, and I venture further. "When you have those days, do you ever feel like you can't quite get happy? Like you can't stop being unhappy? Like everything is a bit bad even when it isn't?"
Eyes drop. They don't need to nod. I know. They know. They've had those days. I've witnessed them. Now, I let them witness mine.
"Some days I have sad days. Some days I just can't quite find happy. Some days everything feels a bit bad, even when it isn't. Some days you two do everything right, but my heart is still wrong."
It is quiet. No one needs to nod. We know.
"Today is one of those days for me. I'm sorry it is a hard day. I am trying, but I can't quite get to happy, and that is not your fault. I know you are doing everything right. Unfortunately, today, my heart isn't right. Today it's sad, and maybe instead of trying to pretend it is sunny and perfect day, I can just tell you what it really is. Maybe on days like these, it would help if we could tell each other that it isn't a sunny day, but a cloudy one. Maybe we could help all of us by simply giving an emotional weather forecast just like they give weather forecasts on the news. Then we know what to expect from each other, and we act and respond accordingly."
There are no nods. We all know. We know the power of understanding, the power of grace. We have the power to give it. We do that well. Now we have power to ask for it.
We snuggle close. I smile. The clouds still roll, but we are not as stormy.
We rest in the peace we could not create...only find...in the grace we know how to give each other...and ourselves...especially on emotionally cloudy days.
It's that simple.
I have spent the day with tears sitting in the corners of my eyes waiting to fall, probably needing to fall. One of those be-good-to-yourself days when I can't.
They are children, mature and wonderful, full of grace, but children. They don't understand days when it is easier for me to lie in bed than stand against the sadness. They don't understand why my usual laughter is edged with annoyance or why small things have suddenly become so large.
I understand their confusion, and I seek a way to explain. Sometime I don't understand either. All I know is some days are hard, and on those days, tears come easy and patience doesn't.
Tired from the strain of trying to force calm that cannot be created, I lie on my bed and pull close those I've been pushing away. We try to find light in the emotional cloudiness of the day.
Cloudy. That is it. If only emotions came with a forecast, a type of heads up of what to expect, then we would know whether to wear galloshes in the form of careful steps or umbrellas in the form of greater grace. Perhaps we would simply know better how to avoid the storm altogether, and if we couldn't stop it, maybe we could ease the effects.
"Do you ever get sad with all that has been happening?" I venture. I know the answer, but they need to understand.
Silent nods...theirs and mine...an understanding.
"Me, too." I pause, let the reality sink in, let them think sad, let them feel it. "Do you ever have a sad day when you can't quite get over the sadness, you don't just sit and cry, but you're sad?"
Again...silent nods. I let them wander into those days, into those hearts.
"Me, too." We sit in those days, and I venture further. "When you have those days, do you ever feel like you can't quite get happy? Like you can't stop being unhappy? Like everything is a bit bad even when it isn't?"
Eyes drop. They don't need to nod. I know. They know. They've had those days. I've witnessed them. Now, I let them witness mine.
"Some days I have sad days. Some days I just can't quite find happy. Some days everything feels a bit bad, even when it isn't. Some days you two do everything right, but my heart is still wrong."
It is quiet. No one needs to nod. We know.
"Today is one of those days for me. I'm sorry it is a hard day. I am trying, but I can't quite get to happy, and that is not your fault. I know you are doing everything right. Unfortunately, today, my heart isn't right. Today it's sad, and maybe instead of trying to pretend it is sunny and perfect day, I can just tell you what it really is. Maybe on days like these, it would help if we could tell each other that it isn't a sunny day, but a cloudy one. Maybe we could help all of us by simply giving an emotional weather forecast just like they give weather forecasts on the news. Then we know what to expect from each other, and we act and respond accordingly."
There are no nods. We all know. We know the power of understanding, the power of grace. We have the power to give it. We do that well. Now we have power to ask for it.
We snuggle close. I smile. The clouds still roll, but we are not as stormy.
We rest in the peace we could not create...only find...in the grace we know how to give each other...and ourselves...especially on emotionally cloudy days.
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