I’ve never been much of a salesman. I only made my property management career last as long as it did because I switched early on from leasing to maintenance. I was all for taking something and making the most out of what I was given… but talking others into wanting that same thing? Helping them to see what it could be not just what it was?
Difficult.
I was a realist. And of the mindset that people know what they want. Or better yet, what they don’t.
For a long time I thought being a realist was the smartest, safest, way to be.
Here’s the thing about realism though.
It doesn’t leave room for a lot of hope.
Some dreaming.
Any wishes.
It just... is.
And I got pretty sick and tired of what I saw and lived without anything to chew on at night. No bubble gum dreams. No sips of hot chocolate. No princes on white horses.
Or any kind of horse, car, bicycle, cane, for that matter.
You know what I mean.
I can’t say it started with a bang – trusting Jesus with dreams. I think it probably started very small.
A dandelion.
And gradually, a few dandelions later, dreams came. My smiles lit up my pillow and I woke up to sun inside me.
My first reaction is to almost defend my realist self now.
“I am not naïve!!” With a small fist shake to the sky and turn of my head. That's the hard-won, fought for, world wisdom in me.
But then a small voice whispered, “What’s so bad with being naïve anyway?”
Naive: lacking judgment, wisdom, or experience.
Basically, kind of dumb.
But then...
I looked at definition #2 and it said this.
Natural. Unaffected. Innocent.
My heart jump roped once or twice.
Natural? Unaffected? Innocent?
And I felt, way down deep in my belly, a longing reach out.
I don’t know how God can make us both. Wise & Innocent. Experienced & Unaffected.
But he does.
Something with that whole, beauty from ashes thing. It’s just God.
Dandelion sprinkles.
And so I changed from a Realist to a Hopeful.
Oh, I know things can still be bad but more than that, I also know how so much good can come from them.
Today I was driving home from Starbucks, deadbeat tired, still coughing, my stomach groaning and ok, basically whining, to be fed, and I talked to God about the Hope Sent book. I feel supported. I hear encouragement. But where are the letters Lord? They started coming and now they just stopped.
Where are they?
And that’s when He reminded me of what a realist I used to be and how Hope was not a welcome neighbor. In fact, I would go running at Hope with a baseball bat and chase it down the street, screaming profanities and promises of a beating if it came too close.
I can’t just wave the flag of Hope and expect people will come running. Obstacles await for anyone that even glance that way. Reminders. Triggers. Feelings that we stomp so hard if it were grapes, we’d be selling a mighty fine wine. And now here I am, asking you to volunteer them out. Asking you to just give it away.
That’s a lot to ask.
I know.
And God reminded me, in order to get trust you have to show yourself trustworthy.
What does that mean Lord?
I’m not sure quite yet what all it means but I do know this.
I have to go first.
I have to trust you first. With the worst of me. With the most painful.
Even though you may be anonymous to me, you are not anonymous to you and I know how hard it is to write it down, to get it out, to make it real.
Again.
And so
I
am going to give
to you
first.
I know what it feels like to be abandoned.
I know what it feels like to learn your daddy is not your daddy and your real daddy doesn’t really want you.
I know what it feels like to have parents that are just kids in big bodies.
I know what it feels like to be touched and whispered to, and violated, when you are too small to help yourself and he’s big enough to know better.
I know that grown-ups don’t always do what they are supposed to do. They don’t always help.
I know what it feels like to watch your mom drink too much, and bring home too many men, and still love her love her and protect her until you just can’t anymore.
I know what it feels like to leave home, pack a bag, hop a bus, and sleep outside, anywhere to get away
.
I know what it feels like to crave anything, drink anything, smoke anything, kiss anyone, to make the pain stop for just a minute, just a second.
I know Rage and her friend Bitterness and her second cousin Control and I know how they wreak havoc in your brain and in your life and in your body.
I know what it feels like to have your husband tell you he’s changed his mind and walk away.
I know what it feels like to finally realize it’s my fault too and I can’t keep blaming him anymore.
I know what it feels like to be a single mom and be overwhelmed and always wondering, am I doing this right? Am I?
I know what it feels like to not be one because you’ve traded places and now he’s a single dad.
I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and see F A I L U R E mixed in with M O T H E R and self-loathing in your own eyes.
I know what it feels like to love God and church and to think somewhere, for some reason, God must have stopped loving you because the church sure did and just like everything else, it’s my fault and I am not good enough. Again.
I know what it’s like to lock the door and cover your ears so you can’t hear him yelling and drinking and yelling some more, while you pray and pray and think to yourself, this is what I get… what I deserve.
I know what it feels like to work so hard for keys and a picket fence just to have to give them back and say goodbye to the American Dream.
I know what it feels like to be lost.
And alone.
And scared.
And angry.
And craving love so bad you think you could die from it if someone doesn’t give it to you soon.
I. Know.
Maybe not everything you have been through. Maybe not each and every detail of your life. But I know mine.
And I know this.
God can take anything, any burnt ash of a life, of a marriage, of a childhood, of a church, of a dream, of a hope, of a home, of a mother, of a grandfather …
And he can make something most beautiful out of it.
But He can only do it if we let him. If we take a step. If we open our mouth. If we write a letter.
You see, God is so unlike what I have experienced in my entire life. He'll be so different from what you have experienced in your life.
He is gentle.
And He waits.
For permission.
For allowance.
For clearance.
For a Yes.
Not because He wants you to beg. Not because He is holding anything over your head. But because He knows.
He knows, Sweet Pea, what you’ve been through, what’s been done to you.
And He is different.
He is the Lover of your soul.
The protector of your heart.
The giver of dandelions.
Hope Sent the book: PO Box 3648 ramona, ca 92065 / hopesentministry@gmail.com
Oct 2, 2014
Sep 4, 2014
Hope Sent .. The Book
Hello friends,
Can I say first off, thank you so much for reading this! It is my heart. Not the heart in my chest of course. Not the one that pumps blood into my veins, but more importantly, the one that pumps life into my soul. The one that makes life worth breathing. I ask you to please be patient and take your time. I know it looks so long but in the end, worth it. For all of us.
Three years ago, I began Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry with one idea in mind – meeting someone right where they are, in their very own home, with a tangible expression of hope and love. The idea came to me as I sat at my desk at work and chatted with another administrative assistant on the phone. I knew her husband had passed months before and so I asked her how she was doing, how her Christmas was, if she was hanging in there.
I mean, I can’t imagine.
Christmas.
Without my sweet love. Without my comfort. Without the stealer of my covers at night.
My heart skipped when she answered quietly, “I still miss him so bad.”
What do you say? If she had been in front of me I would have hugged her. But she wasn’t and so I couldn’t and I just sat for a moment, speechless.
After we hung up, I got back to work but Alice would not leave my mind and so just minutes later I spun around in my chair and quickly wrote on a yellow sticky note “Send Alice a card”.
My whole life my mom has always been a sender of cards. Cards with confetti. Cards with bows. Cards that sparkled. And always always she wrote so much in them that the words turned sideways and upside down and before long trailed along the backside, a last wave goodbye. I inherited my mom’s love for cards and all they give to the person that opens them. I buy them everywhere. I save them for the right time, the perfect person, a moment of need.
And so began Hope Sent. Not just my words written, but the love of God mixed in, the Giver of Hope, the Bestower of Grace. It’s been almost three years now. And I am touched always by the prayer card requests that continue to come in.
People submit card requests for themselves, for their kids, their fathers, their mothers, their husbands, and their wives.
What do they want prayer for? Life.
The nit and the grit of it.
Deployment. War. Affairs. Drugs. Abuse. Salvation. Loss. Death. Cancer. Divorce. Miscarriage. Abandonment. Suicide. Grief. Incest. Alcohol. Depression. Self-esteem. Hope.
Or rather.
The loss of it.
There are times I cannot speak, I cannot catch my breath enough to get the words out; my heart in a fist.
But this. This is what Jesus came for isn’t it? For the broken and the hopeless. The weak and the forgotten. The lost and the left.
And so I pray. And I write.
And I have faith in God’s promise that is given in Isaiah 55:11,
So shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
I have always dreamed of being a writer. For as long back as I can remember, I kept journals, wrote poetry, and then began a love affair with essays. It has been an outlet, an escape, an accountability, a diary of hope, longing, future. Dreaming is not an easy thing for me. Most of my life has been spent surviving it ... who has time for dreams when it’s all you can do to pay rent, put food on the table, fold the laundry, and read bedtime stories to your kids?
I tell you.
That’s the perfect time.
My dream? A book. I had a few ideas what this book would be about and I have started many first drafts. But God told me to STOP. WAIT.
Not
quite
yet.
And so I have waited. Sometimes patiently. Sometimes with my foot tapping.
It was driving to pick up my son from school, at the most random of unholy moments, in workout clothes and flip flops, teeth possibly not brushed yet, failing to rock a sloppy topknot, when God spoke to me,
“You should write a Hope Sent book.”
Three years. Three years I have lived Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry. Three years with an abundance of volunteers, and sometimes only one. And not one time, EVER, have I considered a Hope Sent book. So I did what I usually do when God speaks to me… I asked Him if it was really Him,
And then I asked Him why.
Oh. My. Jesus.
You are so patient, patient, suffering long, for us.
For me.
Can I get an AMEN?!?!
Then it came. Thoughts. Not complete. Splatches of it. Here and then
there
and somehow God getting his point across and I just started bawling my eyes.
All of us, so many of us, suffering, and thinking we are so very alone but we are not, we are not alone, not even a little bit. Wouldn’t it just be awesome, I mean, wouldn’t it just be God-Awesome, to read someone else’s prayer, someone else’s pain and struggle and heartbreak, that sounds pretty darn close to yours and then read the prayer that was written over it and laid before the heart of God?!?! To see the words of hope in your hand, highlight them in neon yellow, underline them in blue, and then pray them for yourself? Share it with someone you know?
I think yes.
Yes it would be so very God-Awesome.
And so here we are. Here I am. Ready to write the book.
And you, yes my dear sweet loves, YOU, are going to help.
And we are going to rock the world with love. And hope. And the peace of God.
Together.
HOW IT WORKS
1.Spread the word.
2.Mail in your prayer letter. You don’t have to sign your name or give a real address. You don’t even have to tell me if you’re a boy or a girl or how many times you have turned 29. Be as anonymous as you want to be.
3.Or you can email it. And still be fairly anonymous.
4.Wait.
5.I write the book.
6.Then I ask God how we’re going to publish it. I’m sure He already knows. He also knows a control freak like me is still learning to walk by faith and not by sight.
SOME OTHER STUFF
1.You will not get a Hope Sent card back. This is for the book only.
2.You will not get your prayer letter back either. Sorry.
3.This is not through the church or any organization.
4.You don’t have to go to church to do this.
5.I hope some of you don’t.
6.Let it all hang out. Even if you think it may shock me to the bones, God’s got this.
7.I’m praying for at least 120. Why 120? That’s the number God gave me.
Thank you. I love you. Let’s do this.
EMAIL: hopesentministry@gmail.com
ADDRESS: P.O. Box 3648
Ramona, CA 92065
Can I say first off, thank you so much for reading this! It is my heart. Not the heart in my chest of course. Not the one that pumps blood into my veins, but more importantly, the one that pumps life into my soul. The one that makes life worth breathing. I ask you to please be patient and take your time. I know it looks so long but in the end, worth it. For all of us.
Three years ago, I began Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry with one idea in mind – meeting someone right where they are, in their very own home, with a tangible expression of hope and love. The idea came to me as I sat at my desk at work and chatted with another administrative assistant on the phone. I knew her husband had passed months before and so I asked her how she was doing, how her Christmas was, if she was hanging in there.
I mean, I can’t imagine.
Christmas.
Without my sweet love. Without my comfort. Without the stealer of my covers at night.
My heart skipped when she answered quietly, “I still miss him so bad.”
What do you say? If she had been in front of me I would have hugged her. But she wasn’t and so I couldn’t and I just sat for a moment, speechless.
After we hung up, I got back to work but Alice would not leave my mind and so just minutes later I spun around in my chair and quickly wrote on a yellow sticky note “Send Alice a card”.
My whole life my mom has always been a sender of cards. Cards with confetti. Cards with bows. Cards that sparkled. And always always she wrote so much in them that the words turned sideways and upside down and before long trailed along the backside, a last wave goodbye. I inherited my mom’s love for cards and all they give to the person that opens them. I buy them everywhere. I save them for the right time, the perfect person, a moment of need.
And so began Hope Sent. Not just my words written, but the love of God mixed in, the Giver of Hope, the Bestower of Grace. It’s been almost three years now. And I am touched always by the prayer card requests that continue to come in.
People submit card requests for themselves, for their kids, their fathers, their mothers, their husbands, and their wives.
What do they want prayer for? Life.
The nit and the grit of it.
Deployment. War. Affairs. Drugs. Abuse. Salvation. Loss. Death. Cancer. Divorce. Miscarriage. Abandonment. Suicide. Grief. Incest. Alcohol. Depression. Self-esteem. Hope.
Or rather.
The loss of it.
There are times I cannot speak, I cannot catch my breath enough to get the words out; my heart in a fist.
But this. This is what Jesus came for isn’t it? For the broken and the hopeless. The weak and the forgotten. The lost and the left.
And so I pray. And I write.
And I have faith in God’s promise that is given in Isaiah 55:11,
So shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
I have always dreamed of being a writer. For as long back as I can remember, I kept journals, wrote poetry, and then began a love affair with essays. It has been an outlet, an escape, an accountability, a diary of hope, longing, future. Dreaming is not an easy thing for me. Most of my life has been spent surviving it ... who has time for dreams when it’s all you can do to pay rent, put food on the table, fold the laundry, and read bedtime stories to your kids?
I tell you.
That’s the perfect time.
My dream? A book. I had a few ideas what this book would be about and I have started many first drafts. But God told me to STOP. WAIT.
Not
quite
yet.
And so I have waited. Sometimes patiently. Sometimes with my foot tapping.
It was driving to pick up my son from school, at the most random of unholy moments, in workout clothes and flip flops, teeth possibly not brushed yet, failing to rock a sloppy topknot, when God spoke to me,
“You should write a Hope Sent book.”
Three years. Three years I have lived Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry. Three years with an abundance of volunteers, and sometimes only one. And not one time, EVER, have I considered a Hope Sent book. So I did what I usually do when God speaks to me… I asked Him if it was really Him,
And then I asked Him why.
Oh. My. Jesus.
You are so patient, patient, suffering long, for us.
For me.
Can I get an AMEN?!?!
Then it came. Thoughts. Not complete. Splatches of it. Here and then
there
and somehow God getting his point across and I just started bawling my eyes.
All of us, so many of us, suffering, and thinking we are so very alone but we are not, we are not alone, not even a little bit. Wouldn’t it just be awesome, I mean, wouldn’t it just be God-Awesome, to read someone else’s prayer, someone else’s pain and struggle and heartbreak, that sounds pretty darn close to yours and then read the prayer that was written over it and laid before the heart of God?!?! To see the words of hope in your hand, highlight them in neon yellow, underline them in blue, and then pray them for yourself? Share it with someone you know?
I think yes.
Yes it would be so very God-Awesome.
And so here we are. Here I am. Ready to write the book.
And you, yes my dear sweet loves, YOU, are going to help.
And we are going to rock the world with love. And hope. And the peace of God.
Together.
HOW IT WORKS
1.Spread the word.
2.Mail in your prayer letter. You don’t have to sign your name or give a real address. You don’t even have to tell me if you’re a boy or a girl or how many times you have turned 29. Be as anonymous as you want to be.
3.Or you can email it. And still be fairly anonymous.
4.Wait.
5.I write the book.
6.Then I ask God how we’re going to publish it. I’m sure He already knows. He also knows a control freak like me is still learning to walk by faith and not by sight.
SOME OTHER STUFF
1.You will not get a Hope Sent card back. This is for the book only.
2.You will not get your prayer letter back either. Sorry.
3.This is not through the church or any organization.
4.You don’t have to go to church to do this.
5.I hope some of you don’t.
6.Let it all hang out. Even if you think it may shock me to the bones, God’s got this.
7.I’m praying for at least 120. Why 120? That’s the number God gave me.
Thank you. I love you. Let’s do this.
EMAIL: hopesentministry@gmail.com
ADDRESS: P.O. Box 3648
Ramona, CA 92065
Jul 11, 2014
Buried.
I have to be really careful about the things I wish for in front of my husband. I mean, like, really careful. Because once I say it, he does his best to make it happen. He's like a genie except without the outfit. Or the bottle. Or the smoke legs.
Once in our previous house I was standing in the laundry room folding clothes. He came out and I said nonchalantly as I bent over to get more socks, "I wish this window was bigger in here. It would let in so much more air and light." Three days later I came home from work and guess what?
Yep.
A breeze.
Seriously.
It's not just windows.
Me: OOOhhh I should get a food processor so I can make my own veggie burgers!
Guess who has a food processor? Yep.
Guess how many veggie burgers I have made?
Loser.
Me in an antique store with Jeff: Oh. My. Gosh. Look at these old typewriters! I love them! Coolest thing I have ever seen!
Guess who has an antique typewriter with the sweetest note typed in it given on our anniversary?
And an information book on how it works that was ordered through amazon? Along with black and red ink?
Yep.
Me.
Seriously.
So I should have known better when I said, "Oh we should plant a garden! We have all this space and ...blah ...so many veggies and ...blah ... save us money and... blah..."
Guess who has a garden?
Uh huh.
Guess how big it is?
I could feed a small country.
He's kind of an overachiever. God bless him.
I woke up this morning knowing it was going to be a weeding kind of morning. Before the sun gets too hot, before I watch too much Pretty Little Liars.
As I walked out there and surveyed the garden, or "The Amazon" as I now refer to it, I felt more than a little overwhelmed. I took a picture of it and posted to my facebook (because you know I love facebook!)
and it allowed me to procrastinate for three more minutes.
I'm grateful that I did though because a wonderful writer friend of mine, who loves all things beautiful, commented and said, "I do some of my best praying in my garden. Have at it!"
Two weeks ago I started a study on secrets. I wasn't sure why I felt so pulled to go because even though I admire the speaker, the study topic made my stomach roll.
I don't like secrets.
Period.
The class meets on Wednesday nights and each time I have left I have been on-my-knees grateful I showed up. I mean, I'm not saying me and secrets are cool and I'm going to ask them to stay and party but I am gaining some insight on the control they can have and that I am able to say, hasta la vista.
baby.
Last week we spoke about the vault.
I bet you can guess the question of the night.
What's in vault number ONE? Two?
Three?
Ten?
I mean, basically my vault looks like a crime scene.
Yellow tape.(caution. cautioncautioncaution) everywhere. Little red flags in the ground marking where all my bad things are buried. I'm pretty sure if I look closely, I may see a body.
I'm pretty sure it's a little girl.
Her eyes are closed. Her feet are bare. She is cold. She looks dead.
But she's not.
I'm pretty sure she's pretending to be dead so nothing will actually kill her.
Opening my vault almost causes a panic attack in my garden amongst the corn that towers over me and shields my face. As I move through vines and cut them back
prune
prune
prune
I can hear the Lord trying to talk to me. I can. I know He is trying to say something but I can't make it out. I can't make it out because I am screaming inside myself ...
WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO KNOW? What do you want me to see in this stupid, stupid, vault?!
What?
What?
WHAT?
But he can't answer me like that. God doesn't scream.
He waits.
Until I was quiet. Until it was just me, cutting vines,
prune
prune
prune.
Just me
and dirt,
and vines,
and
quiet.
My fingers are a mess. Scratched. Wet dirt under my nails. Sweat dripping into my eyes. I can hear the bees. I am hoping corn spiders don't drop on my neck and crawl on me. I will freak out if they do.
I prune.
This garden.
It's so overgrown. everything living on top of everything. haphazard. zigzagged. twisted.
this is what happens when you leave it.
this is what happens when you leave it alone.
it grows wild.
without direction.
without focus.
And I can't see any fruit. I can't see any vegetable. I can't see anything. It's buried. Deep.
Under the vines.
What God?
What?
Shut. Up. My daughter.
shhhhhhhh ....
And i continued.
Removing the excess. Throwing it behind me.
and then there it was.
beautiful. green. attached to the vine.
growing.
And finally, finally, I heard Him.
Look.
Look how perfect it grows.
Even here.
In the dark.
And right there. On my knees, in the dirt, with dirt on my face, and bugs crawling over my fingers...
I began to cry.
And i couldn't stop.
I stayed there. Until the pain was gone.
And the peace settled in.
Once in our previous house I was standing in the laundry room folding clothes. He came out and I said nonchalantly as I bent over to get more socks, "I wish this window was bigger in here. It would let in so much more air and light." Three days later I came home from work and guess what?
Yep.
A breeze.
Seriously.
It's not just windows.
Me: OOOhhh I should get a food processor so I can make my own veggie burgers!
Guess who has a food processor? Yep.
Guess how many veggie burgers I have made?
Loser.
Me in an antique store with Jeff: Oh. My. Gosh. Look at these old typewriters! I love them! Coolest thing I have ever seen!
Guess who has an antique typewriter with the sweetest note typed in it given on our anniversary?
And an information book on how it works that was ordered through amazon? Along with black and red ink?
Yep.
Me.
Seriously.
So I should have known better when I said, "Oh we should plant a garden! We have all this space and ...blah ...so many veggies and ...blah ... save us money and... blah..."
Guess who has a garden?
Uh huh.
Guess how big it is?
I could feed a small country.
He's kind of an overachiever. God bless him.
I woke up this morning knowing it was going to be a weeding kind of morning. Before the sun gets too hot, before I watch too much Pretty Little Liars.
As I walked out there and surveyed the garden, or "The Amazon" as I now refer to it, I felt more than a little overwhelmed. I took a picture of it and posted to my facebook (because you know I love facebook!)
and it allowed me to procrastinate for three more minutes.
I'm grateful that I did though because a wonderful writer friend of mine, who loves all things beautiful, commented and said, "I do some of my best praying in my garden. Have at it!"
Two weeks ago I started a study on secrets. I wasn't sure why I felt so pulled to go because even though I admire the speaker, the study topic made my stomach roll.
I don't like secrets.
Period.
The class meets on Wednesday nights and each time I have left I have been on-my-knees grateful I showed up. I mean, I'm not saying me and secrets are cool and I'm going to ask them to stay and party but I am gaining some insight on the control they can have and that I am able to say, hasta la vista.
baby.
Last week we spoke about the vault.
I bet you can guess the question of the night.
What's in vault number ONE? Two?
Three?
Ten?
I mean, basically my vault looks like a crime scene.
Yellow tape.(caution. cautioncautioncaution) everywhere. Little red flags in the ground marking where all my bad things are buried. I'm pretty sure if I look closely, I may see a body.
I'm pretty sure it's a little girl.
Her eyes are closed. Her feet are bare. She is cold. She looks dead.
But she's not.
I'm pretty sure she's pretending to be dead so nothing will actually kill her.
Opening my vault almost causes a panic attack in my garden amongst the corn that towers over me and shields my face. As I move through vines and cut them back
prune
prune
prune
I can hear the Lord trying to talk to me. I can. I know He is trying to say something but I can't make it out. I can't make it out because I am screaming inside myself ...
WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO KNOW? What do you want me to see in this stupid, stupid, vault?!
What?
What?
WHAT?
But he can't answer me like that. God doesn't scream.
He waits.
Until I was quiet. Until it was just me, cutting vines,
prune
prune
prune.
Just me
and dirt,
and vines,
and
quiet.
My fingers are a mess. Scratched. Wet dirt under my nails. Sweat dripping into my eyes. I can hear the bees. I am hoping corn spiders don't drop on my neck and crawl on me. I will freak out if they do.
I prune.
This garden.
It's so overgrown. everything living on top of everything. haphazard. zigzagged. twisted.
this is what happens when you leave it.
this is what happens when you leave it alone.
it grows wild.
without direction.
without focus.
And I can't see any fruit. I can't see any vegetable. I can't see anything. It's buried. Deep.
Under the vines.
What God?
What?
Shut. Up. My daughter.
shhhhhhhh ....
And i continued.
Removing the excess. Throwing it behind me.
and then there it was.
beautiful. green. attached to the vine.
growing.
And finally, finally, I heard Him.
Look.
Look how perfect it grows.
Even here.
In the dark.
And right there. On my knees, in the dirt, with dirt on my face, and bugs crawling over my fingers...
I began to cry.
And i couldn't stop.
I stayed there. Until the pain was gone.
And the peace settled in.
Jul 8, 2014
proverbs 14:1
I love facebook.
It's almost embarrassing to admit, but there it is. I am not a teenager. I am a grown-up with a job, and bills, and kids.
But i still love facebook. No time for a phone call or coffee date? Power up. It's an icon away to see the dirty, gleeful faces of my friends' kids as they terrorize summer. It's just a five minute scroll to see who is eating lunch at the Loving Hut, who started their 2.6 mile run, who is "so over" their Monday at work, who is going to happy hour, and who is chugging their way to "Vegas Baby!!!"
We can stalk old boyfriends, their newest girlfriend, past friends, new friends, and even the ones that don't want to be friends, in the privacy of our homes, our cars, our closest Starbucks while sipping an iced latte. It's a window to our kids and the lives they are living away from home, on their own. I may not talk to my daughter every week but I can see pictures of her latest hike and I know what Disney movie she watched cozied on her couch. It connects us and shares us and sometimes takes the pressure away.
But there is the dark side. The side that we don't "like" or "share" but undoubtedly still read.
The side that can leave us a little breathless, a little "what the eff?"
Sometimes we see things that a few years ago, would have remained PRIVATE.
Closed. (KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING.)
Friends and Family Only.
It would have been one of those ... "oh but what happened to so and so?" And then, "Oh it was so heartbreaking... tragic ... a few years back..."
Not the entire world. Not people that you've only met once or twice, or is a friend of a friend that you ran into at church; a face that you'd recognize but if it wasn't for facebook, you wouldn't remember their name, much less where they recently vacationed (Hawaii!!), or if they are dieting (the last five pounds!), if their kids are taking swimming lessons, that their anniversary is in five days, or ...
if their marriage is falling apart.
if they are having an affair.
if they are getting a divorce.
if they hate each others guts.
But suddenly
here I am, here we are.
seeing every grim detail, exposed to each raw emotion, a gaping wound with leaking arteries, we watch a love story that once swelled and moved, passionate and full,
gasp
and die.
with their very own hands, in their very own words, their pulsating pain reaches out
a wrecking ball.
every insult - a brick. every barb - a shattered window.
Their house,
smashed into chunks and pieces.
it makes my heart hurt.
it causes me to pray.
alot.
and sometimes
i cry.
It isn't my business.
Yet it stares me in the face.
a mirror.
I tell myself, Turn it off. Shut it down. I don't want to see.
And like a reality show that exposes weaknesses and vulnerability and betrayal for fun and ratings,
I leave it on. Mortified. Heartsick. I can't take me eyes away from it.
why?
because i know.
i know what it feels like to be in that house, a bleeding mess that refuses
oxygen,
love,
forgiveness,
healing.
I know what it feels like to want shove it in their face, how happy you are now, how hot you are now, how wanted you are now, how appreciated you are now.
how carefree you are now.
except you aren't.
not really.
it's pretend.
and other people help you pretend.
telling you what you deserve
(them)
and how different they will be
(but they're not)
and every time you post, every time you pose, every time you say one more thing in offense ...
you rip part of your house down for all of us to see.
How easily we forget how hard it was to build it in the first place.
I tore my house down once too. We can get pretty comfortable, can't we? In our marriages? I know I did.
No boundaries, No safeguards. No tending.
We guard our cell phones, our car keys, our Starbucks Gold cards, with fiercer protection than our marriages.
I said what I wanted, to those I claimed to love.
In tones that cut.
With facial expressions that demean.
Instead of holding close, I flung away.
Instead of going towards, I turned my back.
Instead of choosing to love, we chose complacency.
It's no wonder we didn't make it. It's not that we didn't care.
It's more that we didn't know how.
My heart aches for you, crumbling marriage divided with pain.
I heard this by a preacher man one morning on the radio. He said, "Marriages don't just explode out of nowhere. It's not a giant burst.
Marriages are punctured."
Stabbed.
Wounded.
Holed.
and then they lay down and bleed to death.
I believe in miracles. I do. I believe marriages can be fixed. Healed.
and then more than healed. They thrive.
I have seen it.
Not in my own.
No. We tapped out.
I tapped out.
I didn't want a miracle.
That's the beauty and the agony of it, isn't it?
We get to choose how our life is going to be.
And then we all get to see that life.
On Facebook.
* I titled this proverbs 14:1. but just know, this post is equal opportunity. We all tear our houses down.
It's almost embarrassing to admit, but there it is. I am not a teenager. I am a grown-up with a job, and bills, and kids.
But i still love facebook. No time for a phone call or coffee date? Power up. It's an icon away to see the dirty, gleeful faces of my friends' kids as they terrorize summer. It's just a five minute scroll to see who is eating lunch at the Loving Hut, who started their 2.6 mile run, who is "so over" their Monday at work, who is going to happy hour, and who is chugging their way to "Vegas Baby!!!"
We can stalk old boyfriends, their newest girlfriend, past friends, new friends, and even the ones that don't want to be friends, in the privacy of our homes, our cars, our closest Starbucks while sipping an iced latte. It's a window to our kids and the lives they are living away from home, on their own. I may not talk to my daughter every week but I can see pictures of her latest hike and I know what Disney movie she watched cozied on her couch. It connects us and shares us and sometimes takes the pressure away.
But there is the dark side. The side that we don't "like" or "share" but undoubtedly still read.
The side that can leave us a little breathless, a little "what the eff?"
Sometimes we see things that a few years ago, would have remained PRIVATE.
Closed. (KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING.)
Friends and Family Only.
It would have been one of those ... "oh but what happened to so and so?" And then, "Oh it was so heartbreaking... tragic ... a few years back..."
Not the entire world. Not people that you've only met once or twice, or is a friend of a friend that you ran into at church; a face that you'd recognize but if it wasn't for facebook, you wouldn't remember their name, much less where they recently vacationed (Hawaii!!), or if they are dieting (the last five pounds!), if their kids are taking swimming lessons, that their anniversary is in five days, or ...
if their marriage is falling apart.
if they are having an affair.
if they are getting a divorce.
if they hate each others guts.
But suddenly
here I am, here we are.
seeing every grim detail, exposed to each raw emotion, a gaping wound with leaking arteries, we watch a love story that once swelled and moved, passionate and full,
gasp
and die.
with their very own hands, in their very own words, their pulsating pain reaches out
a wrecking ball.
every insult - a brick. every barb - a shattered window.
Their house,
smashed into chunks and pieces.
it makes my heart hurt.
it causes me to pray.
alot.
and sometimes
i cry.
It isn't my business.
Yet it stares me in the face.
a mirror.
I tell myself, Turn it off. Shut it down. I don't want to see.
And like a reality show that exposes weaknesses and vulnerability and betrayal for fun and ratings,
I leave it on. Mortified. Heartsick. I can't take me eyes away from it.
why?
because i know.
i know what it feels like to be in that house, a bleeding mess that refuses
oxygen,
love,
forgiveness,
healing.
I know what it feels like to want shove it in their face, how happy you are now, how hot you are now, how wanted you are now, how appreciated you are now.
how carefree you are now.
except you aren't.
not really.
it's pretend.
and other people help you pretend.
telling you what you deserve
(them)
and how different they will be
(but they're not)
and every time you post, every time you pose, every time you say one more thing in offense ...
you rip part of your house down for all of us to see.
How easily we forget how hard it was to build it in the first place.
I tore my house down once too. We can get pretty comfortable, can't we? In our marriages? I know I did.
No boundaries, No safeguards. No tending.
We guard our cell phones, our car keys, our Starbucks Gold cards, with fiercer protection than our marriages.
I said what I wanted, to those I claimed to love.
In tones that cut.
With facial expressions that demean.
Instead of holding close, I flung away.
Instead of going towards, I turned my back.
Instead of choosing to love, we chose complacency.
It's no wonder we didn't make it. It's not that we didn't care.
It's more that we didn't know how.
My heart aches for you, crumbling marriage divided with pain.
I heard this by a preacher man one morning on the radio. He said, "Marriages don't just explode out of nowhere. It's not a giant burst.
Marriages are punctured."
Stabbed.
Wounded.
Holed.
and then they lay down and bleed to death.
I believe in miracles. I do. I believe marriages can be fixed. Healed.
and then more than healed. They thrive.
I have seen it.
Not in my own.
No. We tapped out.
I tapped out.
I didn't want a miracle.
That's the beauty and the agony of it, isn't it?
We get to choose how our life is going to be.
And then we all get to see that life.
On Facebook.
* I titled this proverbs 14:1. but just know, this post is equal opportunity. We all tear our houses down.
Jun 25, 2014
Kiss bigger
I have been looking around. I have been watching. Watching the joys and the sorrows, the pick-me ups and the let-you downs. Life.
It can be so brutal,
so lovely.
You just never know.
You never know who is going to fall in love with whom. You never know who is going to get their feelings hurt and hold it inside. You never know who is going to walk away, turn a corner, not look back.
You never think it will be you standing there all alone.
Brutal.
You never think you will be the light in someone else's life. You don't realize what cost you five bucks or a small smile, will make someone else's day. It could be what carries them through the night, to the next opportunity,
of hope.
Lovely.
I am an early riser - by necessity, not choice. I work at Starbucks and so most mornings I rush out the door, while most haven't even attempted to hit snooze yet, at the dark and foggy hour of 4:00 am. Give or take 30 minutes. It is a windy drive on a mostly two-lane road.
Mountains. Coyotes. Stillness.
Today I didn't have to be there until 5:30. A reprieve. Although 4am doesn't bother me like it used to. Normally when I make the drive I am alone, one pair of headlights zig-zagging through the silence.
Today was not like every other day. Like I said, I didn't have to be there until 5:30. I rushed out the door by 5:05, grabbing my water, my apron, my tupperware of grapes and strawberries. I gave my husband the quickest kiss on the planet and tossed out an "I love you" over my shoulder, as I walked out the door.
Normally no one else is on the road.
Normally I drive a little on the quick side.
Today was not normal.
I was in my daughter's truck, which does not go nearly as fast as my Prius. I had already been warned, "Yo. Take the truck. Don't speed." by my daughter's post it note on my purse. A reminder to not forget - she needed the car for the day.
Fifteen minutes later, I made the left onto Poway road. It winds and cuts and corners for several miles, with just a few turnouts and dark driveways, like hidden mouths, waiting to swallow you up. Two cars were behind me.
weird.
Several others passed me going in the opposite direction.
weirder.
I ate my apple. Sipped my water. Listened to my "Jesus Jams" playlist. Sang in between bites.
And I went around another bend.
That's when i stared, head cocking to the side, mouth opening in a question I did not know yet.
It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up with my eyeballs.
It wasn't two headlights headed towards me.
It was four.
It's not uncommon to see one car pass another on a two-lane rode. No big deal. No offense taken. Let's get moving and be on our way.
It's a bit of a different story when the two-lane road turns every 8 seconds and you can't see what's next. Not too smart. Not too legal. Not enough time.
It was only seconds. Seconds that stretched and snapped back at the same time.
I didn't have time to pray "Oh, Jesus"
I didn't have time to say "Oh, shit."
I only had time to say "oh ..." and suck in my breath.
I couldn't stop. Two cars behind me. I couldn't pull over. There was nowhere to go but down the side of the mountain. I couldn't do anything but stare.
Frozen.
I felt fear in the center of my bones. I felt it leak into my bloodstream. I felt it pause my heart. People die on this road.
And then the truck yanked away from me, cutting off the bigger, construction truck it successfully passed, barely avoiding killing us all.
Or just me.
My chest began to heave. I was gasping for air as I struggled not to shake. I couldn't help it though. Fear morphing into relief beat into each cell in my body.
So I did the only thing I could think of right then.
I called Jeff.
I needed to hear his voice. I needed to connect, just for a minute.
I didnt even think of how completely freaked out he would be when he answered the phone and i couldn't speak because i was crying.
"Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?! babe. babe. Oh my God."
I manged to calm down. Reassure him. Tell him what happened. Tell him I just needed a minute. I just needed to breathe. I just needed to hear his voice.
And then I said this before we hung up, "I wish i would have kissed you bigger before i left today."
And there it is. The truth we manage to ignore most minutes of our lives.
You just never know.
When that last kiss will be. The last goodbye. The last walk out the door. The last drive away from home.
Our last.
I still have not seen him yet. But when I do.
I will kiss him bigger.
Because today was a reminder, we are not promised tomorrow. We are not promised two hours from now.
It happens every day, to everybody else.
But one day it will happen to me. It will happen to you.
Just that fast.
Treat each other well. Forgive quickly. Love until your heart explodes.
And kiss really really big.
What else is there?
It can be so brutal,
so lovely.
You just never know.
You never know who is going to fall in love with whom. You never know who is going to get their feelings hurt and hold it inside. You never know who is going to walk away, turn a corner, not look back.
You never think it will be you standing there all alone.
Brutal.
You never think you will be the light in someone else's life. You don't realize what cost you five bucks or a small smile, will make someone else's day. It could be what carries them through the night, to the next opportunity,
of hope.
Lovely.
I am an early riser - by necessity, not choice. I work at Starbucks and so most mornings I rush out the door, while most haven't even attempted to hit snooze yet, at the dark and foggy hour of 4:00 am. Give or take 30 minutes. It is a windy drive on a mostly two-lane road.
Mountains. Coyotes. Stillness.
Today I didn't have to be there until 5:30. A reprieve. Although 4am doesn't bother me like it used to. Normally when I make the drive I am alone, one pair of headlights zig-zagging through the silence.
Today was not like every other day. Like I said, I didn't have to be there until 5:30. I rushed out the door by 5:05, grabbing my water, my apron, my tupperware of grapes and strawberries. I gave my husband the quickest kiss on the planet and tossed out an "I love you" over my shoulder, as I walked out the door.
Normally no one else is on the road.
Normally I drive a little on the quick side.
Today was not normal.
I was in my daughter's truck, which does not go nearly as fast as my Prius. I had already been warned, "Yo. Take the truck. Don't speed." by my daughter's post it note on my purse. A reminder to not forget - she needed the car for the day.
Fifteen minutes later, I made the left onto Poway road. It winds and cuts and corners for several miles, with just a few turnouts and dark driveways, like hidden mouths, waiting to swallow you up. Two cars were behind me.
weird.
Several others passed me going in the opposite direction.
weirder.
I ate my apple. Sipped my water. Listened to my "Jesus Jams" playlist. Sang in between bites.
And I went around another bend.
That's when i stared, head cocking to the side, mouth opening in a question I did not know yet.
It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up with my eyeballs.
It wasn't two headlights headed towards me.
It was four.
It's not uncommon to see one car pass another on a two-lane rode. No big deal. No offense taken. Let's get moving and be on our way.
It's a bit of a different story when the two-lane road turns every 8 seconds and you can't see what's next. Not too smart. Not too legal. Not enough time.
It was only seconds. Seconds that stretched and snapped back at the same time.
I didn't have time to pray "Oh, Jesus"
I didn't have time to say "Oh, shit."
I only had time to say "oh ..." and suck in my breath.
I couldn't stop. Two cars behind me. I couldn't pull over. There was nowhere to go but down the side of the mountain. I couldn't do anything but stare.
Frozen.
I felt fear in the center of my bones. I felt it leak into my bloodstream. I felt it pause my heart. People die on this road.
And then the truck yanked away from me, cutting off the bigger, construction truck it successfully passed, barely avoiding killing us all.
Or just me.
My chest began to heave. I was gasping for air as I struggled not to shake. I couldn't help it though. Fear morphing into relief beat into each cell in my body.
So I did the only thing I could think of right then.
I called Jeff.
I needed to hear his voice. I needed to connect, just for a minute.
I didnt even think of how completely freaked out he would be when he answered the phone and i couldn't speak because i was crying.
"Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?! babe. babe. Oh my God."
I manged to calm down. Reassure him. Tell him what happened. Tell him I just needed a minute. I just needed to breathe. I just needed to hear his voice.
And then I said this before we hung up, "I wish i would have kissed you bigger before i left today."
And there it is. The truth we manage to ignore most minutes of our lives.
You just never know.
When that last kiss will be. The last goodbye. The last walk out the door. The last drive away from home.
Our last.
I still have not seen him yet. But when I do.
I will kiss him bigger.
Because today was a reminder, we are not promised tomorrow. We are not promised two hours from now.
It happens every day, to everybody else.
But one day it will happen to me. It will happen to you.
Just that fast.
Treat each other well. Forgive quickly. Love until your heart explodes.
And kiss really really big.
What else is there?
Jun 5, 2014
-----
Some days there is just so much, so much to say
so much being felt.
so much being moved.
That for now, right now. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in five minutes,
but
right now.
Say nothing.
so much being felt.
so much being moved.
That for now, right now. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in five minutes,
but
right now.
Say nothing.
May 18, 2014
You say it's your birthday ...
A few months ago, in the too-tight back room of Starbucks, after a hectic night of slinging coffee, a co-worker guy asked me, "So, what's your secret? Like, how is it possible to stay happy all the time?"
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.
I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.
My answer was simple. Just three words.
A grateful heart.
He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??
Yes.
Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.
Pretty good stuff.
right?
I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,
I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.
I began to cry.
It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.
And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,
I walked away.
Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.
I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.
Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,
ashamedashamedashamed
he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.
Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.
I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.
Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.
And I am relaxed.
I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.
I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it
or
I can not see it.
My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.
I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.
My answer was simple. Just three words.
A grateful heart.
He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??
Yes.
Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.
Pretty good stuff.
right?
I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,
I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.
I began to cry.
It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.
And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,
I walked away.
Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.
I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.
Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,
ashamedashamedashamed
he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.
Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.
I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.
Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.
And I am relaxed.
I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.
I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it
or
I can not see it.
My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.
May 9, 2014
highhighhigh and higher still
I got saved in a Pentecostal church. I know - that sounds very Christian-y doesn't it? What does that even mean?? It means I met Jesus and decided yes, I am a sinner, yes, I need forgiveness, yes, I am going to go ahead and ask him for it, yes, I am going to ask him to change me from the inside out. And I did this in a church where I heard people talk in words that were not words and they sounded like crazies, in a place where people clapped and sometimes shouted "Wooo Jesus!!! Oh my Jesus!" and then danced, in a place where people would shake and fall to the floor and others would walk by and lay a blanket over the legs of the ladies so they wouldn't accidentally show their stuff when they got back up again.
it was weird. and scary. and i used to just watch. i would scan with my eyes and pick out the people i was sure were faking it. at first it would bother me but now i think, so what? So what if they wanted something to happen so much, if they thought they needed it so bad, they cried and flapped their hands and dropped to the floor themselves?
There are worse things.
I would talk to my friends that experienced all this weird stuff and those that didn't. I thought it was cool we could just sit in the same place with Jesus, together.
And then one day it happened to me. I got laid out. I felt this thing, surge through me so hard, my body could not remain still. I cried. This is not unusual. I almost always cry when I worship God. It's my way. But the rest? The rest was not my way.
And i fought it.
There was no way I wanted to fall to the ground. I didn't want someone to walk by and cover me with a sheet. I didn't want anyone to look at me and wonder, is she faking? Is that girl for real?
And then I went down. I laid there, pulsing and shining with .... God. And I didn't care anymore who saw me or what they thought or if i looked awkward laying there or if I sounded like a freak show with all this weird stuff coming out of my mouth. All i knew was I was being immersed in Him. dunked to the core, and I thought to myself - this is what people who get high try to feel. And I'm getting it from God!
And then, a few years later, a lot of bad stuff happened. My life crumbled apart. Not only did I not feel God anymore, but I was pretty convinced He had left me hanging, and so I did what a lot of people do when they feel like God has stopped listening to them.
I tried my hardest to self-destruct.
Some people believe in Karma. I don't think so. Karma says you get what you deserve. And although I believe completely what you put out there comes back around a lot, I also know, mercy and grace beats out what we deserve
every
single
day.
Because most of us are a-holes. Some of us are recovering a-holes and so it only comes out every now and then. Some of us try really hard to beat the a-hole inside of us down and we pushpushpushpush, but eventually it springs back up and punches us, and that other person that knocked on your sleeping a-hole's door and woke her up, in the face. The trick is to look at the inner a-hole - eye to eye. Don't pretend she's not there. Acknowledge her. And then lift her up.
highighhigh higher still.
And just say, "Ok God, I'm not sure why you want this a-hole but I'm giving her to you". And you know what?
This makes God's heart beat faster. He loves this stuff.
The key is to do this
every
single
day
His mercies are new every morning. That's 24 hours peeps. Some of us need new mercies every five minutes. That's cool too. Lift up that a-hole however many times you need to. God never refuses to take more.
So I found myself at church last night. Well, that sounds funny right? I didn't find myself there. I went there purposefully with my husband. There is a conference going on about the moving of the Holy Spirit and we wanted to check it out. My husband is fascinated by healings. I am wary of them. My husband prays in tongues all the time. I do it rarely. He hears stories of people being healed, falling in the spirit, demons coming out, and his face lights up. I hear the same stories and my face closes up.
Obviously we are not on the same page as we walk inside. Honestly. I wasn't even sure why I agreed to go.
Before I continue, some of you are thinking, "oh here she goes. Now she's going to say God laid her out and everything is sunshine and butterflies".
Nope. Just so we're clear.
I love worship. I love the music, all the voices rising together, everyone in one place focused on the same thing - Jesus. It is so beautiful to me. And so I cry.
I'm crying, singing, hands up ... and the worship leader says something about "wanting more from God". You know, believing God has more, desiring to get more, being open to all God wants to do in your life. And i thought to myself,
"When did I stop wanting more?"
And my mouth went a little dry.
And just like i try to give God my a-hole every day, I think it's pretty important to give him all my not very Jesus-like, good religious girl thoughts, as well. And so I lifted it straight up. I mean, He already knows I thought it. I don't really say much when I give it to Him, just toss that sucker in the air.
Worship ends and this visiting preacher starts speaking. I was tense. I expected not to like him. I expected him to rant and rave and shout and flail his arms around, trying his dang-est to convince us all God was going to do miracles last night.
He didn't do that.
He was the opposite. Mellow. Funny. Honest in his short-comings. And I felt myself relax, heard myself laugh, and I thought to myself, "Ok God. I'm listening."
God really likes that. When we listen.
It was towards the end, when I began to get sleepy and my legs were cramping, when my heart was shot. People were standing up and getting prayed for and walking to the front and talking into the microphone about how God had just healed them. Like in that minute, that five minutes. I felt my eyes narrow. I am sure my face said, "Skeptic"! Because I was. And then the preacher said something, said something about a woman being healed who wasn't expecting it and another woman that was healed who was. God does whatever he wants. He can heal. Or not. He can heal those that love him. And those that don't.
He's God. He gets to choose. But if you can, expect. If you are open to it, expect. If you want it, expect. That doesn't mean what you are asking for will happen, but something will. Expect something from God.
I was caught up though, not in the healing or the not healing, I was tangled up in the word "expectation."
I thought of all the things in my life I had expected.
I expected to have a mother that protected me.
I expected to have a father that didn't leave me.
I expected to have a grandfather that didn't take my clothes off.
I expected to have a family that I could count on.
I expected to have a husband that kept his vows.
I expected to have a valentine's day with love and chocolates and flowers.
I expected to have a romantic dinner with conversation.
I expected to have a marriage that didn't fall apart.
I expected to have friends that didn't turn their back on me.
I expected to have a church that would lift me up and help me keep moving forward.
I expected a lot of things. And every single one of these expectations left me feeling ripped apart and shattered. Not one of them came true.
I began to cry a little in the car when Jeff and I left. You see, Jeff's face glowed with expectation. He was like a kid on his birthday, just knowing, something good was going to happen.
I knew my face didn't shine the same way. Or at all. My heart hurt.
I looked at Jeff and said, "How am I supposed to learn... how i can allow myself the luxury of expectations when my whole life has taught me to never expect anything but ... disappointment?" I almost couldn't get the last word out. The raw clutched my throat in a fist.
It was awful. It was beautiful too.
God can do anything. I know this. He can heal us all up ... or he can let us recover slowly. Or sometimes, we don't heal completely or at all, not in our bodies. Not the way we may ask for it.
It's our insides that matter. Our soul stuff.
So I'll take it. The awful and the beautiful and the raw.
I'm going to lift it up
highhighhigh and
higher still
and expect him take it from me.
it was weird. and scary. and i used to just watch. i would scan with my eyes and pick out the people i was sure were faking it. at first it would bother me but now i think, so what? So what if they wanted something to happen so much, if they thought they needed it so bad, they cried and flapped their hands and dropped to the floor themselves?
There are worse things.
I would talk to my friends that experienced all this weird stuff and those that didn't. I thought it was cool we could just sit in the same place with Jesus, together.
And then one day it happened to me. I got laid out. I felt this thing, surge through me so hard, my body could not remain still. I cried. This is not unusual. I almost always cry when I worship God. It's my way. But the rest? The rest was not my way.
And i fought it.
There was no way I wanted to fall to the ground. I didn't want someone to walk by and cover me with a sheet. I didn't want anyone to look at me and wonder, is she faking? Is that girl for real?
And then I went down. I laid there, pulsing and shining with .... God. And I didn't care anymore who saw me or what they thought or if i looked awkward laying there or if I sounded like a freak show with all this weird stuff coming out of my mouth. All i knew was I was being immersed in Him. dunked to the core, and I thought to myself - this is what people who get high try to feel. And I'm getting it from God!
And then, a few years later, a lot of bad stuff happened. My life crumbled apart. Not only did I not feel God anymore, but I was pretty convinced He had left me hanging, and so I did what a lot of people do when they feel like God has stopped listening to them.
I tried my hardest to self-destruct.
Some people believe in Karma. I don't think so. Karma says you get what you deserve. And although I believe completely what you put out there comes back around a lot, I also know, mercy and grace beats out what we deserve
every
single
day.
Because most of us are a-holes. Some of us are recovering a-holes and so it only comes out every now and then. Some of us try really hard to beat the a-hole inside of us down and we pushpushpushpush, but eventually it springs back up and punches us, and that other person that knocked on your sleeping a-hole's door and woke her up, in the face. The trick is to look at the inner a-hole - eye to eye. Don't pretend she's not there. Acknowledge her. And then lift her up.
highighhigh higher still.
And just say, "Ok God, I'm not sure why you want this a-hole but I'm giving her to you". And you know what?
This makes God's heart beat faster. He loves this stuff.
The key is to do this
every
single
day
His mercies are new every morning. That's 24 hours peeps. Some of us need new mercies every five minutes. That's cool too. Lift up that a-hole however many times you need to. God never refuses to take more.
So I found myself at church last night. Well, that sounds funny right? I didn't find myself there. I went there purposefully with my husband. There is a conference going on about the moving of the Holy Spirit and we wanted to check it out. My husband is fascinated by healings. I am wary of them. My husband prays in tongues all the time. I do it rarely. He hears stories of people being healed, falling in the spirit, demons coming out, and his face lights up. I hear the same stories and my face closes up.
Obviously we are not on the same page as we walk inside. Honestly. I wasn't even sure why I agreed to go.
Before I continue, some of you are thinking, "oh here she goes. Now she's going to say God laid her out and everything is sunshine and butterflies".
Nope. Just so we're clear.
I love worship. I love the music, all the voices rising together, everyone in one place focused on the same thing - Jesus. It is so beautiful to me. And so I cry.
I'm crying, singing, hands up ... and the worship leader says something about "wanting more from God". You know, believing God has more, desiring to get more, being open to all God wants to do in your life. And i thought to myself,
"When did I stop wanting more?"
And my mouth went a little dry.
And just like i try to give God my a-hole every day, I think it's pretty important to give him all my not very Jesus-like, good religious girl thoughts, as well. And so I lifted it straight up. I mean, He already knows I thought it. I don't really say much when I give it to Him, just toss that sucker in the air.
Worship ends and this visiting preacher starts speaking. I was tense. I expected not to like him. I expected him to rant and rave and shout and flail his arms around, trying his dang-est to convince us all God was going to do miracles last night.
He didn't do that.
He was the opposite. Mellow. Funny. Honest in his short-comings. And I felt myself relax, heard myself laugh, and I thought to myself, "Ok God. I'm listening."
God really likes that. When we listen.
It was towards the end, when I began to get sleepy and my legs were cramping, when my heart was shot. People were standing up and getting prayed for and walking to the front and talking into the microphone about how God had just healed them. Like in that minute, that five minutes. I felt my eyes narrow. I am sure my face said, "Skeptic"! Because I was. And then the preacher said something, said something about a woman being healed who wasn't expecting it and another woman that was healed who was. God does whatever he wants. He can heal. Or not. He can heal those that love him. And those that don't.
He's God. He gets to choose. But if you can, expect. If you are open to it, expect. If you want it, expect. That doesn't mean what you are asking for will happen, but something will. Expect something from God.
I was caught up though, not in the healing or the not healing, I was tangled up in the word "expectation."
I thought of all the things in my life I had expected.
I expected to have a mother that protected me.
I expected to have a father that didn't leave me.
I expected to have a grandfather that didn't take my clothes off.
I expected to have a family that I could count on.
I expected to have a husband that kept his vows.
I expected to have a valentine's day with love and chocolates and flowers.
I expected to have a romantic dinner with conversation.
I expected to have a marriage that didn't fall apart.
I expected to have friends that didn't turn their back on me.
I expected to have a church that would lift me up and help me keep moving forward.
I expected a lot of things. And every single one of these expectations left me feeling ripped apart and shattered. Not one of them came true.
I began to cry a little in the car when Jeff and I left. You see, Jeff's face glowed with expectation. He was like a kid on his birthday, just knowing, something good was going to happen.
I knew my face didn't shine the same way. Or at all. My heart hurt.
I looked at Jeff and said, "How am I supposed to learn... how i can allow myself the luxury of expectations when my whole life has taught me to never expect anything but ... disappointment?" I almost couldn't get the last word out. The raw clutched my throat in a fist.
It was awful. It was beautiful too.
God can do anything. I know this. He can heal us all up ... or he can let us recover slowly. Or sometimes, we don't heal completely or at all, not in our bodies. Not the way we may ask for it.
It's our insides that matter. Our soul stuff.
So I'll take it. The awful and the beautiful and the raw.
I'm going to lift it up
highhighhigh and
higher still
and expect him take it from me.
May 6, 2014
the dread
I always knew when my life was going to drop out. I knew something bad was coming. I could feel it in my bones, moving, like a living thing. It crept into my joints and twisted my guts, making me feel nauseous and clammy, like I had eaten bad cheese, or smoked really bad pot. This, this thing, this sense, this awareness ... It haunts and lives in the corner of your eye, yes?
No matter how hard you try to focus, to pinpoint, no matter how fast you turn your head to try and catch it, you cannot. You can't see it plain. Not until it's on top of you. Not until it has knocked all your breath out with a hard kick to the soft spot in your belly.
You lean over.
You pant. You gasp.
And when you straighten to see what it is,
it's not a surprise.
Because you knew something
something
was on its way. You just didn't know it's name or how it would introduce itself at your door. Would it knock?
No. Of course not.
These things don't knock
or ring door bells.
They don't call first to see if you're busy, to see if your life is going oh so well and maybe we should do this at another time.
oh no
They huff and they puff and they
blow your house
down.
And it leaves you standing there, with dust and broken 2x4's and screws and nails with the names PROMISE and HOPE written on them but they are on the floor, they are buried, and you are standing
alone.
The screaming in your head and the shredding of your heart slams against the silence of your home, your room, your bed, your expectations of the future. The silence opens wide, wider, and swallows it all.
whole.
and in pieces.
No matter how hard you try to focus, to pinpoint, no matter how fast you turn your head to try and catch it, you cannot. You can't see it plain. Not until it's on top of you. Not until it has knocked all your breath out with a hard kick to the soft spot in your belly.
You lean over.
You pant. You gasp.
And when you straighten to see what it is,
it's not a surprise.
Because you knew something
something
was on its way. You just didn't know it's name or how it would introduce itself at your door. Would it knock?
No. Of course not.
These things don't knock
or ring door bells.
They don't call first to see if you're busy, to see if your life is going oh so well and maybe we should do this at another time.
oh no
They huff and they puff and they
blow your house
down.
And it leaves you standing there, with dust and broken 2x4's and screws and nails with the names PROMISE and HOPE written on them but they are on the floor, they are buried, and you are standing
alone.
The screaming in your head and the shredding of your heart slams against the silence of your home, your room, your bed, your expectations of the future. The silence opens wide, wider, and swallows it all.
whole.
and in pieces.
May 1, 2014
Clump of dirt
When I visit my mom, we smoke. She lights up a fat cigar and I suck on a camel. I always make sure I have a fresh pack, because by the time I leave they are almost gone. It is not weird to smoke with my mom. Sometimes I wonder what we would do with our hands if we didn't.
Together.
Would we cry? Would we scream? Would we drown inside it all? Or would we laugh until the crazy left us? I am not sure. But when we talk and swap stories, sometimes the words are so heavy, it is the drag that lifts us back up, gives us the pause to catch our breath, and enables us to keep going. This will not be the case forever. But for now, I have given myself a break and I will take it as it is. Until we are ready.
I sat with mom just a week ago on her back porch. The sun warmed us as the ocean air breathed over us. For five hours we sat. Together. Giving and taking strength - comfort. We talked about the monster and how everyone celebrated him. How they cried in sadness and eulogized his life. I shook my head at how blind people choose to be, unable or unwilling to pull the covers back and see what really is. Was.
It was always my plan to go. I wanted to see him dead. I wanted to watch the dirt fall and bury him. I always pictured that with each clump that fell and sealed him under, it would in turn release me. I wanted them to see me, see how unbroken I am. I wanted them to look into my face and remember, remember how they forgot about me, how they pushed me aside, how they failed a little girl and left her to fend for herself. I wanted them to know that the truth is still here and no matter how many miles separate us, the horror of it all will always bind us together in a way distance can never separate.
But I did not go. And my mom did not ask me to.
I have another Grandpa, a real one. One that loved me. One that took me to Padres games. One that told me stories while he smoked his pipe. One that had few words but would nod his head and tell me, "You've done real good, Shannon. Real good. I'm proud of you." One that wasn't sure if it was ok to hug me when I came back to California at nine years old, traumatized and soul broken. One that called me once he had moved to Missouri to tell me he was saved now and he had kept the letter I had written him, telling him about Jesus. One that I wasn't afraid to have my kids know. He was a good Grandpa. The best. He died this past year and I couldn't go. The reasons are many and life, but I was so sad to not be there. To honor him. To show respect for him and all he has done, all he has given.
How could I not go to the funeral of the grandpa I loved and go to the funeral of the one I hated most of my life? The irony of it hit me hard in the gut and I knew I could not do it. I would not give the monster that honor. I refused my presence in his life. I would refuse it also in his death.
My mom told me later how glad she was I was not there, even though she had been so close to asking me to go with her. "I don't think you could have stood it," she said quietly. "I could barely stand it. It made me sick.... You would have been SO angry.I thought about getting up and saying something, telling everyone there who he really was ... but I didn't have the balls." She looked up at me, from her cigar and the sun, "But you would have."
And in that moment she gave me a little piece, a clump of dirt, and my soul moved up. Just a tiny bit higher.
Together.
Would we cry? Would we scream? Would we drown inside it all? Or would we laugh until the crazy left us? I am not sure. But when we talk and swap stories, sometimes the words are so heavy, it is the drag that lifts us back up, gives us the pause to catch our breath, and enables us to keep going. This will not be the case forever. But for now, I have given myself a break and I will take it as it is. Until we are ready.
I sat with mom just a week ago on her back porch. The sun warmed us as the ocean air breathed over us. For five hours we sat. Together. Giving and taking strength - comfort. We talked about the monster and how everyone celebrated him. How they cried in sadness and eulogized his life. I shook my head at how blind people choose to be, unable or unwilling to pull the covers back and see what really is. Was.
It was always my plan to go. I wanted to see him dead. I wanted to watch the dirt fall and bury him. I always pictured that with each clump that fell and sealed him under, it would in turn release me. I wanted them to see me, see how unbroken I am. I wanted them to look into my face and remember, remember how they forgot about me, how they pushed me aside, how they failed a little girl and left her to fend for herself. I wanted them to know that the truth is still here and no matter how many miles separate us, the horror of it all will always bind us together in a way distance can never separate.
But I did not go. And my mom did not ask me to.
I have another Grandpa, a real one. One that loved me. One that took me to Padres games. One that told me stories while he smoked his pipe. One that had few words but would nod his head and tell me, "You've done real good, Shannon. Real good. I'm proud of you." One that wasn't sure if it was ok to hug me when I came back to California at nine years old, traumatized and soul broken. One that called me once he had moved to Missouri to tell me he was saved now and he had kept the letter I had written him, telling him about Jesus. One that I wasn't afraid to have my kids know. He was a good Grandpa. The best. He died this past year and I couldn't go. The reasons are many and life, but I was so sad to not be there. To honor him. To show respect for him and all he has done, all he has given.
How could I not go to the funeral of the grandpa I loved and go to the funeral of the one I hated most of my life? The irony of it hit me hard in the gut and I knew I could not do it. I would not give the monster that honor. I refused my presence in his life. I would refuse it also in his death.
My mom told me later how glad she was I was not there, even though she had been so close to asking me to go with her. "I don't think you could have stood it," she said quietly. "I could barely stand it. It made me sick.... You would have been SO angry.I thought about getting up and saying something, telling everyone there who he really was ... but I didn't have the balls." She looked up at me, from her cigar and the sun, "But you would have."
And in that moment she gave me a little piece, a clump of dirt, and my soul moved up. Just a tiny bit higher.
Apr 27, 2014
Where did all the good grandpa's go?
This is not the original post I intended to write. For two days I have hammered out consonants and vowels, explanation points and long periods but something, something was just
off.
I felt muddy. And like I couldn't see clearly. So I took a deep breathe this morning, hit "save as draft" and took a shower.
Wouldn't you know it? While shampooing my hair all these thoughts and and complete sentences flowed in and out and I thought, "Wait a minute! I can't even write this down.... should i get a tape recorded for the bathroom?"
I mean, come on. Should I?
Because I have to be honest, some I have forgotten and the more I try to piece it together the more I feel like I'm trying to herd a field of cats, so instead, I wiped the page clean.
and here we are.
I like do overs. I think they are pretty rad.
So here we go, I'm just going to let it fly.
My monster died last month. He had a name and a title. But I never use it for him. Just thinking it makes me want to hock a loogie the size of my fist into the ground and then poop on it. Or dance in a graveyard wearing a white dress.
I won't do this though. I don't poop outside and I don't wear dresses.
Instead I will write and I will attempt to rid myself of the junk and maybe, just maybe, help someone else get through the same thing. I mean, one in five ya'll.
That's a fact.
A woman every two minutes. 60% go unreported. So, I'm not a math genius or anything but one in 5 is keeping it on the low side. There's a lot of us walking around out here.
The sexually assaulted. The raped. The molested.
We're breathing, singing in our cars, taking our kids to Chuck E Cheese, filling our gas tanks, hiking up a mountain, sitting in church, and trying real hard to have good sex with our husbands without freaking out because all of a sudden we get so damn scared, and then it's not our husband kissing us anymore.
A lot of survivors. Even more victims.
And some, some, are forced to see their abuser
every
single
day.
They smile, and hug, and go to restaurants,
pretending
it's all ok.
A big high-five to all ya'll that do that for one reason or another. It's a bravery I do not have. I prefer the confrontational kind. But this kind, it takes a different sort of strength to keep moving in dignity and quiet while someone constantly tries to break you with whispers that no one else can hear. I shed tears for you. In applause, not pity.
my sisters, my sisters.
So yes, he's dead.
Finally.
And maybe you can detect a little bit of flippancy here, a tiny fraction of anger as I type? I've got some stuff to work out.
This I know.
But not with all the details. I don't want to get stuck. Freedom is calling. So I am going to post an essay I wrote a little bit back. Just so we're all on the same page and we are clear on who the monster is.
In case any of my family reads this, I imagine you are getting a little excited, a little red-faced concerning all the dirty secrets I'm letting out because "ding dong the monsters' dead" is playing a tune in my brain.
Please. (I'm smiling)
Let me assure you. (My smile is growing)
I let it out (yes?)
a long time ago. (biggest smile ever breaking my face wide open. Can you see it?)
I did it (spilled the beans, lifted the rug, threw poop into the fan)
To my coaches in juvenile hall.
On the internet.
To my therapist.
To my husband.
And my ex-husband.
My kids know.
My friends know.
My church knows.
Women I meet for the first time find out when I hug them and pray with them and tell them...
you don't have to be stuck. don't give him that power. you are free. break free. live your life and be happy. God's gonna get em'. Cross my heart, girl.
Cross
My
patchworked, duct-taped, dragged on the ground, held together with toothpicks and Jesus mercy,
Heart.
God knows. I mean, seriously, ok? GOD. KNOWS.
Beat that.
So here it is. My story. Well, a small portion of it anyway. I saved myself in this one. It is the only time I was able to.
Small…and Slightly Bigger
She was eight when this all went down.
Eight is very small.
She wore her hair in pigtails then. It was long. She’d dress up and walk really fast in her purple plastic high heel shoes so she could hear them click, click, click, just like pretty grown –up ladies. She had a lot of Barbies and a 3-story Barbie Dream house. It was pink and white with an elevator. She loved Strawberry Shortcake more than anything. Her Grammy made her all the dolls and for Christmas one year, she got the record. She would put headphones on and sing at the top of her lungs in the living room… “Ice cream! And my name is Sugar… and I love all the flavors of the world. I like chocolate and vanilla and mocha…”
She used to fish with her Grandpa.
Tucked inside in the dark, knees to her chin, eyes squeezed shut, she hides. She doesn't like the dark much. Bad things happen here, in bedrooms with heavy tapestry curtains that block out all the light and muffle the voice. The bed is too high for her and so she must pull on the blankets and climb up, work her way towards what makes her stare at the ceiling and dream of butterfly cocoons and blue skies that let her float and fly free… far away from here. This room smells like her Grammy; feminine, vanilla, and glamorous. But it sounds like him; old, out of breath, and monster. Where did all the good grandpa’s go?
Her Grammy would read her bible stories at night. Her favorite was Noah and the ark and the rainbow. She loved the rainbow! A multi-colored sticky-note from God. His promise the sun would come back.
She wished everyone would keep their promises the way God did.
She loved snuggling up to her Grammy, she was alabaster and soft, a satin shirt pillow with pink lipstick. She was fascinated by her. She was so different from her own mother who blended in with everyone else that wore bell-bottoms and long hair parted in the middle. Mother was plain. Grammy was a movie star. She would always call her “Darling" but she would say it all southern and draggy and high-pitched, "Daaahhh-ling!", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh so hard and deep her breasts would bounce all over while her belly danced along. She was Marilyn Monroe but better. She was hers.
And she loved her so.
Eight is very small. Very small indeed.
The house she lived in with them and her mother was two stories and brick. White pillars stood tall and grand in the front. The backyard was big with a garden, and a lone oak tree held a homemade swing of rope and boards. There was a birdbath. And anthills. The first time she saw them they made her think of California. She smiled and pushed both hands in all the way up to her elbows so she could smell the salt and feel sand run out of her fingers. But it wasn’t sand and the tiny dots of red fire curled all over her arms in angry protest and she screamed and screamed until her mom came running out of the house to save her.
While she stared at her mom with the remnants of the anthill demolition on her hands and a dirty face of streaked tears; her mom told her she had to be careful with what she touched; things weren’t always what they seemed.
She didn’t know until later her mom wasn’t just talking about ants.
She didn’t know until later her mom would not save her ever again.
This is where she lived. In a house seen normal. In a house others would envy. He was IMPORTANT. Everyone knew him. People at the City. People at the Church. The girls at the school where he worked. But it wasn't normal. It was nightmares and secrets and dark; full of pretend love and make-believe smiles.
She wasn't the only one the monster came after.
She’s just the only one that wanted to leave.
He would whisper to her, in the dark, “this is our secret. You can’t ever tell. I’m just protecting you now.. ‘cause if you tell.. they ain’t gonna believe you. And they gonna be real mad.” Sometimes she would ask why, why would they be mad at her? And he would smile.. and he would kiss her on the lips… and he would say, “because good little girls don’t do these kinds of things.” Sometimes she would cry but not very often because if she did, he would put a pillow over her head.
But she did tell, a lot of days and too many naps later, she blurted it out when she was standing next to her Barbie dream house, still dripping from the shower and wrapped in a towel. Her mom was yelling at her about something else, something small. “Mommy¸ grandpa’s touching me... down there.” Her mom stared... stuck with her arms mid-air and a mouth that moved but no words came out. She doesn’t remember when her mom walked out of the room and didn’t hug her or when she got dressed or how they got to the living room where he sat crying… and Grammy was crying and clutching her bible and sometimes she would yell out, “Jesus Frank! How could you do this?”… and his other daughters were yelling too but not at him, at her… And he was right. They didn’t believe her. They were real mad. They called her bad girl names.
bitch. liar. whore.
I left. I only went back once.
Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.
But for me, it was big enough.
My Grammy wasn’t supposed to leave me alone. That was the agreement. I would have someone with me at all times. But the phone rang. Someone called in sick. Now she was showering, blow drying her red hair, putting on her pink lipstick… while I waited, my blue eyes watched her and my tongue was stuck inside my throat.
It made no difference to speak.
She turned to me as she grabbed her purse, “It’s only for a few hours honey. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You two have fun now and Grammy will be back.” Then she was gone.
I stood at the bedroom door staring at the spot Grammy no longer was. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I could hear the blood moving through my veins like cars on a freeway going too fast too fast. My eyes blinked.
Who would help me?
I could feel him staring at me from the couch where he sat. He said my name. I looked at him. I did not smile. I did not make any noise.
“Don’t be scared of me. Please.” He looks down at the floor, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I stare at the wisps of gray on his balding head. He looks back at me. He is starting to cry on the couch. His bloated belly hangs over his pants, pulling his shirt tight. “I’m not like that anymore. Please don’t look at me like that. Just come here. Come. Sit.” And he pats his fat old man knee.
My brain has exploded. I can’t hear the words in my own head because it is so loud. I don’t know what to do. He is crying. (liarliarliarliarliarliar) He is old. (liarliarliarliarliar) It’s been three years. (liarliarliarliarliar) Maybe he is… different? (nononononononono)
I walked over to him.
I sat on his knee.
“See there, it’s ok.” He smiles. He pats my knee that is covered by jeans. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I will never hurt you.” And then he did. Just that quick.
I felt his hand go up my shirt, brush my belly, and squeeze my nipple. I was numb. I was dead. I didn't say no. I didn’t beg or cry or scream. It really is my fault, I thought. I sat on his knee. I am a whore. I asked for it. Just like they said.
stupidstupidstupidstupid
And then he put his tongue IN. MY. MOUTH.
It was then that I saw her. In the dark. Eight. But she looked different. Her eyes were not squeezed shut. Instead they were wide open and blazing and fierce. Her face was wet but it wasn’t fear leaking out of her eyes.
It was anger.
And it was hate.
And it was BIG.
She screamed at me. "GET. UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he was the same. You knew it! Don't just sit there. GET UP!! You are not 8! Fight him! WE are not 8!"
And then the whisper.
"No one else will help you."
I knew she was right.
I whipped my head back and jumped away from him, even as he tried to grab me back down. Into the kitchen I ran, looking behind me to see where he was, and turning back to snatch what I was looking for.
I grabbed a knife.
It was a very big knife.
Just the kind of knife a girl at eleven may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.
I held it in front of me and we did not shake. We did not cry. We did not stutter. We pointed it at him. He stopped walking and watched us from across the kitchen.
I spoke quiet and bold, pushing the fear down and letting the hate rise up.. into my heart, into my blood, into my hands.
My fingers clutched the knife.
“I will kill you if you come near me ever, ever again.” He flinched.
And he did not move. He knew that we meant it.
off.
I felt muddy. And like I couldn't see clearly. So I took a deep breathe this morning, hit "save as draft" and took a shower.
Wouldn't you know it? While shampooing my hair all these thoughts and and complete sentences flowed in and out and I thought, "Wait a minute! I can't even write this down.... should i get a tape recorded for the bathroom?"
I mean, come on. Should I?
Because I have to be honest, some I have forgotten and the more I try to piece it together the more I feel like I'm trying to herd a field of cats, so instead, I wiped the page clean.
and here we are.
I like do overs. I think they are pretty rad.
So here we go, I'm just going to let it fly.
My monster died last month. He had a name and a title. But I never use it for him. Just thinking it makes me want to hock a loogie the size of my fist into the ground and then poop on it. Or dance in a graveyard wearing a white dress.
I won't do this though. I don't poop outside and I don't wear dresses.
Instead I will write and I will attempt to rid myself of the junk and maybe, just maybe, help someone else get through the same thing. I mean, one in five ya'll.
That's a fact.
A woman every two minutes. 60% go unreported. So, I'm not a math genius or anything but one in 5 is keeping it on the low side. There's a lot of us walking around out here.
The sexually assaulted. The raped. The molested.
We're breathing, singing in our cars, taking our kids to Chuck E Cheese, filling our gas tanks, hiking up a mountain, sitting in church, and trying real hard to have good sex with our husbands without freaking out because all of a sudden we get so damn scared, and then it's not our husband kissing us anymore.
A lot of survivors. Even more victims.
And some, some, are forced to see their abuser
every
single
day.
They smile, and hug, and go to restaurants,
pretending
it's all ok.
A big high-five to all ya'll that do that for one reason or another. It's a bravery I do not have. I prefer the confrontational kind. But this kind, it takes a different sort of strength to keep moving in dignity and quiet while someone constantly tries to break you with whispers that no one else can hear. I shed tears for you. In applause, not pity.
my sisters, my sisters.
So yes, he's dead.
Finally.
And maybe you can detect a little bit of flippancy here, a tiny fraction of anger as I type? I've got some stuff to work out.
This I know.
But not with all the details. I don't want to get stuck. Freedom is calling. So I am going to post an essay I wrote a little bit back. Just so we're all on the same page and we are clear on who the monster is.
In case any of my family reads this, I imagine you are getting a little excited, a little red-faced concerning all the dirty secrets I'm letting out because "ding dong the monsters' dead" is playing a tune in my brain.
Please. (I'm smiling)
Let me assure you. (My smile is growing)
I let it out (yes?)
a long time ago. (biggest smile ever breaking my face wide open. Can you see it?)
I did it (spilled the beans, lifted the rug, threw poop into the fan)
To my coaches in juvenile hall.
On the internet.
To my therapist.
To my husband.
And my ex-husband.
My kids know.
My friends know.
My church knows.
Women I meet for the first time find out when I hug them and pray with them and tell them...
you don't have to be stuck. don't give him that power. you are free. break free. live your life and be happy. God's gonna get em'. Cross my heart, girl.
Cross
My
patchworked, duct-taped, dragged on the ground, held together with toothpicks and Jesus mercy,
Heart.
God knows. I mean, seriously, ok? GOD. KNOWS.
Beat that.
So here it is. My story. Well, a small portion of it anyway. I saved myself in this one. It is the only time I was able to.
Small…and Slightly Bigger
She was eight when this all went down.
Eight is very small.
She wore her hair in pigtails then. It was long. She’d dress up and walk really fast in her purple plastic high heel shoes so she could hear them click, click, click, just like pretty grown –up ladies. She had a lot of Barbies and a 3-story Barbie Dream house. It was pink and white with an elevator. She loved Strawberry Shortcake more than anything. Her Grammy made her all the dolls and for Christmas one year, she got the record. She would put headphones on and sing at the top of her lungs in the living room… “Ice cream! And my name is Sugar… and I love all the flavors of the world. I like chocolate and vanilla and mocha…”
She used to fish with her Grandpa.
Tucked inside in the dark, knees to her chin, eyes squeezed shut, she hides. She doesn't like the dark much. Bad things happen here, in bedrooms with heavy tapestry curtains that block out all the light and muffle the voice. The bed is too high for her and so she must pull on the blankets and climb up, work her way towards what makes her stare at the ceiling and dream of butterfly cocoons and blue skies that let her float and fly free… far away from here. This room smells like her Grammy; feminine, vanilla, and glamorous. But it sounds like him; old, out of breath, and monster. Where did all the good grandpa’s go?
Her Grammy would read her bible stories at night. Her favorite was Noah and the ark and the rainbow. She loved the rainbow! A multi-colored sticky-note from God. His promise the sun would come back.
She wished everyone would keep their promises the way God did.
She loved snuggling up to her Grammy, she was alabaster and soft, a satin shirt pillow with pink lipstick. She was fascinated by her. She was so different from her own mother who blended in with everyone else that wore bell-bottoms and long hair parted in the middle. Mother was plain. Grammy was a movie star. She would always call her “Darling" but she would say it all southern and draggy and high-pitched, "Daaahhh-ling!", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh so hard and deep her breasts would bounce all over while her belly danced along. She was Marilyn Monroe but better. She was hers.
And she loved her so.
Eight is very small. Very small indeed.
The house she lived in with them and her mother was two stories and brick. White pillars stood tall and grand in the front. The backyard was big with a garden, and a lone oak tree held a homemade swing of rope and boards. There was a birdbath. And anthills. The first time she saw them they made her think of California. She smiled and pushed both hands in all the way up to her elbows so she could smell the salt and feel sand run out of her fingers. But it wasn’t sand and the tiny dots of red fire curled all over her arms in angry protest and she screamed and screamed until her mom came running out of the house to save her.
While she stared at her mom with the remnants of the anthill demolition on her hands and a dirty face of streaked tears; her mom told her she had to be careful with what she touched; things weren’t always what they seemed.
She didn’t know until later her mom wasn’t just talking about ants.
She didn’t know until later her mom would not save her ever again.
This is where she lived. In a house seen normal. In a house others would envy. He was IMPORTANT. Everyone knew him. People at the City. People at the Church. The girls at the school where he worked. But it wasn't normal. It was nightmares and secrets and dark; full of pretend love and make-believe smiles.
She wasn't the only one the monster came after.
She’s just the only one that wanted to leave.
He would whisper to her, in the dark, “this is our secret. You can’t ever tell. I’m just protecting you now.. ‘cause if you tell.. they ain’t gonna believe you. And they gonna be real mad.” Sometimes she would ask why, why would they be mad at her? And he would smile.. and he would kiss her on the lips… and he would say, “because good little girls don’t do these kinds of things.” Sometimes she would cry but not very often because if she did, he would put a pillow over her head.
But she did tell, a lot of days and too many naps later, she blurted it out when she was standing next to her Barbie dream house, still dripping from the shower and wrapped in a towel. Her mom was yelling at her about something else, something small. “Mommy¸ grandpa’s touching me... down there.” Her mom stared... stuck with her arms mid-air and a mouth that moved but no words came out. She doesn’t remember when her mom walked out of the room and didn’t hug her or when she got dressed or how they got to the living room where he sat crying… and Grammy was crying and clutching her bible and sometimes she would yell out, “Jesus Frank! How could you do this?”… and his other daughters were yelling too but not at him, at her… And he was right. They didn’t believe her. They were real mad. They called her bad girl names.
bitch. liar. whore.
I left. I only went back once.
Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.
But for me, it was big enough.
My Grammy wasn’t supposed to leave me alone. That was the agreement. I would have someone with me at all times. But the phone rang. Someone called in sick. Now she was showering, blow drying her red hair, putting on her pink lipstick… while I waited, my blue eyes watched her and my tongue was stuck inside my throat.
It made no difference to speak.
She turned to me as she grabbed her purse, “It’s only for a few hours honey. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You two have fun now and Grammy will be back.” Then she was gone.
I stood at the bedroom door staring at the spot Grammy no longer was. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I could hear the blood moving through my veins like cars on a freeway going too fast too fast. My eyes blinked.
Who would help me?
I could feel him staring at me from the couch where he sat. He said my name. I looked at him. I did not smile. I did not make any noise.
“Don’t be scared of me. Please.” He looks down at the floor, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I stare at the wisps of gray on his balding head. He looks back at me. He is starting to cry on the couch. His bloated belly hangs over his pants, pulling his shirt tight. “I’m not like that anymore. Please don’t look at me like that. Just come here. Come. Sit.” And he pats his fat old man knee.
My brain has exploded. I can’t hear the words in my own head because it is so loud. I don’t know what to do. He is crying. (liarliarliarliarliarliar) He is old. (liarliarliarliarliar) It’s been three years. (liarliarliarliarliar) Maybe he is… different? (nononononononono)
I walked over to him.
I sat on his knee.
“See there, it’s ok.” He smiles. He pats my knee that is covered by jeans. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I will never hurt you.” And then he did. Just that quick.
I felt his hand go up my shirt, brush my belly, and squeeze my nipple. I was numb. I was dead. I didn't say no. I didn’t beg or cry or scream. It really is my fault, I thought. I sat on his knee. I am a whore. I asked for it. Just like they said.
stupidstupidstupidstupid
And then he put his tongue IN. MY. MOUTH.
It was then that I saw her. In the dark. Eight. But she looked different. Her eyes were not squeezed shut. Instead they were wide open and blazing and fierce. Her face was wet but it wasn’t fear leaking out of her eyes.
It was anger.
And it was hate.
And it was BIG.
She screamed at me. "GET. UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he was the same. You knew it! Don't just sit there. GET UP!! You are not 8! Fight him! WE are not 8!"
And then the whisper.
"No one else will help you."
I knew she was right.
I whipped my head back and jumped away from him, even as he tried to grab me back down. Into the kitchen I ran, looking behind me to see where he was, and turning back to snatch what I was looking for.
I grabbed a knife.
It was a very big knife.
Just the kind of knife a girl at eleven may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.
I held it in front of me and we did not shake. We did not cry. We did not stutter. We pointed it at him. He stopped walking and watched us from across the kitchen.
I spoke quiet and bold, pushing the fear down and letting the hate rise up.. into my heart, into my blood, into my hands.
My fingers clutched the knife.
“I will kill you if you come near me ever, ever again.” He flinched.
And he did not move. He knew that we meant it.
Apr 22, 2014
Under Construction
.... And that's not the end of the story.
Me finding Jesus or being saved, that is.
The story did not stop and the happy ending start when I cried my soul out to Jesus on the church floor that day. If it had, then I guess everyone would get saved wouldn't they? A life without suffering. A daily guarantee of comfort. It's sticking it out - this Christian faith - when life gets really hard and too much for us to understand. That's when we see what we're made of.
If there's any substance.
Anyone that tells you finding Jesus will make your life rosy is lying to you. A few months in you may want to find them and high -five their face.
And then ask for forgiveness.
It's not rosy. It's not white picket fences. It's not a whole, smiling family. It's not a place where jobs are never lost, bills are always paid, Target trips happen every two weeks, kids stay drug free, and husbands never cheat.
Nope.
You're not in heaven just yet.
You have the Hope but life right here can still throw mud in your face and drag you into a pit of crazy. The difference is - Jesus has a rope that doesn't break. You just have to hang on. Tight.
No one really warned me about that. I think some tried to, in a really nice good Christian way, but i wish someone would have just quit trying to be so nice and said straight up, "You've spent the last 18 years in all this crap and your family was in the same crap for at least 18 years before you and your husband and his family? Another twenty years of a different kind of crap. The consequences are still rolling in like waves.
Wear a life jacket."
Some of those waves weren't bad. A few feet. The kind I could boogie board over. But then others would come, tidal wave status, and I'd would watch my life get sucked right out from under me while I tried not to drown.
I wish I could say all these waves, especially the big ones, were of someone else's doing.
It's hard to look at yourself and know the role you have played in the crumbling of your own life. Oh but I did.
I gripped it sometimes with both hands, hurling down bricks with my words; leaving my fingers and relationships, damaged and bleeding.
A wise woman builds her home, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands. Proverbs 14:1
I was foolish. And the worst part is that I knew it. I knew it and i felt unable to stop it. I remember huddling on the floor, wailing, helpless, lost in an abyss of frustration and inadequacy, and then i would grab my own hair and start to pull it. I would drag my fingernails down my face to try and make myself bleed, try to make myself disappear. I would bang my head against the wall, eyes wild, screaming.
I was going crazy. I couldn't do it right. No one saw me.
I wasn't good enough.
The helplessness I would feel would wrap me in a straightjacket of fear so tight I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was coming undone.
Isaiah 1:17 says to "learn to do right." Know what that means? You also have to unlearn how to do wrong.
No one told me this either. I thought it would just happen. I thought all the badness would vanish and "poof!" in it's place would be all this shiny goodness. It was a shock to me to still struggle - almost more because now I knew better. I knew I had to be better.
Looking back, I can see how the Enemy must have laughed and laughed, using me and my life, as his personal game of dodge ball. There I stood in the center as he hurled, "ANGER" and "FUTILITY" and "DEFECTIVE" at my head. If those didn't work, out flew "ugly" and "fat" and "unwanted" and "slut". These would knock me down. These would leave me hardened; scar tissue all over. These would make me fight back.
Except I couldn't see the devil.
So I fought everyone else instead.
With my words. With my hands.
I tore down.
Until there was almost nothing left.
No one told me I could catch the ball. No one told me I didn't have to keep playing the game. No one told me all I had to do was stop and stand, stare him down with the Word and he would run from me. I was told things like, "This too shall pass" and "Just trust Jesus" but no one told me how to do that or what it meant.
And it's pretty simple really.
I choose to react with His words rather than mine.
Simple.
Not easy.
Just to clarify.
I wouldn't lie to you like that.
So, I have learned and I have unlearned.
Learn - to love my enemies. Unlearn - I don't verbally castrate every man that gets on my last nerve to prove to him I am just as good as he is if not better. (see the attitude there? Still a work in progress folks.)
Learn - to show mercy and give grace. Unlearn - If my feelings are hurt, I don't try to hurt back. I keep my mouth shut and sometimes, walk away so if it opens, no one will hear me.
Learn - to recognize jealousy and envy and ask God to help me with my heart. Unlearn - lashing out because I don't have what someone else does.
Learn - pride really does come before a big fall so I better wear a helmet if I'm going to keep it up. Unlearn - the universe is not named "Shannon" and everyone is going through something. Just love on them already and then the helmet is not needed.
I am happy to report, I no longer try to rip my face off with my fingernails (well, at least not very often). I no longer think my self worth is nothing and I try really really hard to avoid dodge ball.
I am not able to do this by pinning a zillion personal affirmations from Pinterest, although I do think I am a little awesome and ya know - God thinks so too.
It is not made possible in watching every episode of Oprah although I wouldn't mind attending her "Favorite Things" episode. That would maybe help. For a bit.
I am not following instructions from Dr. Phil, or Dr. Spock, or Dr. Anyone.
And while exercising certainly makes me feel better about how I look in my jeans and yes, my insides flow along a calmer river, I cannot run 24 hours a day. (Nor would i want to)
What has given me back my life? What has left me a hammer and nails and some 4x4's that aren't all dinged up and termite ridden? What is telling me how to rebuild a life that I tore down a long time ago?
It's not a mystery and is so simple I am sure for the self-proclaimed intelligent and perspicacious, there may be some eye-rolling and nose snorting.
but guess what?
I really don't care.
This is what has worked for me. And for countless others.
It is honest. And truth. And mercy. And grace. And life. And it is page after page of love in its purest form.
The bible. My happy ending. Under construction.
Right now.
and forever.
Me finding Jesus or being saved, that is.
The story did not stop and the happy ending start when I cried my soul out to Jesus on the church floor that day. If it had, then I guess everyone would get saved wouldn't they? A life without suffering. A daily guarantee of comfort. It's sticking it out - this Christian faith - when life gets really hard and too much for us to understand. That's when we see what we're made of.
If there's any substance.
Anyone that tells you finding Jesus will make your life rosy is lying to you. A few months in you may want to find them and high -five their face.
And then ask for forgiveness.
It's not rosy. It's not white picket fences. It's not a whole, smiling family. It's not a place where jobs are never lost, bills are always paid, Target trips happen every two weeks, kids stay drug free, and husbands never cheat.
Nope.
You're not in heaven just yet.
You have the Hope but life right here can still throw mud in your face and drag you into a pit of crazy. The difference is - Jesus has a rope that doesn't break. You just have to hang on. Tight.
No one really warned me about that. I think some tried to, in a really nice good Christian way, but i wish someone would have just quit trying to be so nice and said straight up, "You've spent the last 18 years in all this crap and your family was in the same crap for at least 18 years before you and your husband and his family? Another twenty years of a different kind of crap. The consequences are still rolling in like waves.
Wear a life jacket."
Some of those waves weren't bad. A few feet. The kind I could boogie board over. But then others would come, tidal wave status, and I'd would watch my life get sucked right out from under me while I tried not to drown.
I wish I could say all these waves, especially the big ones, were of someone else's doing.
It's hard to look at yourself and know the role you have played in the crumbling of your own life. Oh but I did.
I gripped it sometimes with both hands, hurling down bricks with my words; leaving my fingers and relationships, damaged and bleeding.
A wise woman builds her home, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands. Proverbs 14:1
I was foolish. And the worst part is that I knew it. I knew it and i felt unable to stop it. I remember huddling on the floor, wailing, helpless, lost in an abyss of frustration and inadequacy, and then i would grab my own hair and start to pull it. I would drag my fingernails down my face to try and make myself bleed, try to make myself disappear. I would bang my head against the wall, eyes wild, screaming.
I was going crazy. I couldn't do it right. No one saw me.
I wasn't good enough.
The helplessness I would feel would wrap me in a straightjacket of fear so tight I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was coming undone.
Isaiah 1:17 says to "learn to do right." Know what that means? You also have to unlearn how to do wrong.
No one told me this either. I thought it would just happen. I thought all the badness would vanish and "poof!" in it's place would be all this shiny goodness. It was a shock to me to still struggle - almost more because now I knew better. I knew I had to be better.
Looking back, I can see how the Enemy must have laughed and laughed, using me and my life, as his personal game of dodge ball. There I stood in the center as he hurled, "ANGER" and "FUTILITY" and "DEFECTIVE" at my head. If those didn't work, out flew "ugly" and "fat" and "unwanted" and "slut". These would knock me down. These would leave me hardened; scar tissue all over. These would make me fight back.
Except I couldn't see the devil.
So I fought everyone else instead.
With my words. With my hands.
I tore down.
Until there was almost nothing left.
No one told me I could catch the ball. No one told me I didn't have to keep playing the game. No one told me all I had to do was stop and stand, stare him down with the Word and he would run from me. I was told things like, "This too shall pass" and "Just trust Jesus" but no one told me how to do that or what it meant.
And it's pretty simple really.
I choose to react with His words rather than mine.
Simple.
Not easy.
Just to clarify.
I wouldn't lie to you like that.
So, I have learned and I have unlearned.
Learn - to love my enemies. Unlearn - I don't verbally castrate every man that gets on my last nerve to prove to him I am just as good as he is if not better. (see the attitude there? Still a work in progress folks.)
Learn - to show mercy and give grace. Unlearn - If my feelings are hurt, I don't try to hurt back. I keep my mouth shut and sometimes, walk away so if it opens, no one will hear me.
Learn - to recognize jealousy and envy and ask God to help me with my heart. Unlearn - lashing out because I don't have what someone else does.
Learn - pride really does come before a big fall so I better wear a helmet if I'm going to keep it up. Unlearn - the universe is not named "Shannon" and everyone is going through something. Just love on them already and then the helmet is not needed.
I am happy to report, I no longer try to rip my face off with my fingernails (well, at least not very often). I no longer think my self worth is nothing and I try really really hard to avoid dodge ball.
I am not able to do this by pinning a zillion personal affirmations from Pinterest, although I do think I am a little awesome and ya know - God thinks so too.
It is not made possible in watching every episode of Oprah although I wouldn't mind attending her "Favorite Things" episode. That would maybe help. For a bit.
I am not following instructions from Dr. Phil, or Dr. Spock, or Dr. Anyone.
And while exercising certainly makes me feel better about how I look in my jeans and yes, my insides flow along a calmer river, I cannot run 24 hours a day. (Nor would i want to)
What has given me back my life? What has left me a hammer and nails and some 4x4's that aren't all dinged up and termite ridden? What is telling me how to rebuild a life that I tore down a long time ago?
It's not a mystery and is so simple I am sure for the self-proclaimed intelligent and perspicacious, there may be some eye-rolling and nose snorting.
but guess what?
I really don't care.
This is what has worked for me. And for countless others.
It is honest. And truth. And mercy. And grace. And life. And it is page after page of love in its purest form.
The bible. My happy ending. Under construction.
Right now.
and forever.
Apr 19, 2014
and now I see ...
It's been a long time
but I still remember what it was like to hate Him.
It didn't start out that way, me hating him. And I am not sure when it happened. What I do recall is when someone asked me to go see him, hang out, and be a part of what he was doing, my insides began to burn and my fists would clench.
All I knew about Him flashed in front of me, which admittedly, wasn't much. But it was enough. Enough to make me rage. Enough to make me say NO.
I remember saying ... "After all that has happened? After everything I have gone through? No. I'm not interested in any Jesus. I don't need a savior. AND I will never, ever worship (practically spitting the word out of my mouth) any God that walked around as a man."
You see, men made me want to want to step inside a scalding shower and scrub all my flesh off until I disappeared. Specifically, middle-aged, white, religious men, with poochy bellies, short statures, and glasses that doubled the number of eyes that stared at me with lust and hunger. Men that said "Jesus!" and "I am SAVED! I am FORGIVEN!" and "Gawd bless YOU!" and then took me upstairs for "naps". Men that made me do things I did not want to do and then told me I better ask for forgiveness later because I had been a bad girl, a naughty disgusting girl. Men that whispered to me in the dark and covered my head with pillows when I begged and cried.
Men. Man.
No thanks. I'm out.
I was told over and over by his daughters and my mother, that he had been forgiven. Jesus (Jesus!) had cleansed his heart and his life and the thing in his pants (he has been SAVED Shannon! Saved!)
and now I must forgive him too. (this is what good Christians do Shannon, this is what they do!)
I remember thinking to myself, "I don't want to be a good Christian. I don't want to be any Christian at all."
It took a long time before I understood how people can twist even a good God like Jesus into something mangled and different so they can feel better.
People can twist him up so much, he's not recognizable anymore.
I remember the day I sat in the church and felt Jesus next to me. I knew it was Him. I knew, because I wasn't looking for Him and I didn't want Him to be there. I was there to listen and then leave. I didn't expect anything other than what I had seen my whole life - empty words that weren't real.
And so when He was, it was so obviously plain to me. There was night. And now there was day.
I was almost offended by it.
I didn't want Him to be real. I didn't want to reconcile anything in my head or in my heart. I knew what the twisted Jesus looked like. It was safer to hold on to Him that way.
But I couldn't.
Because what was next to me wasn't twisted at all. The full force of His LOVE radiated on to me. It was warm. And gentle.
And it ... waited.
It waited for me to say "ok". It waited for me to say, "Yes, I will let you be with me".
Isn't it funny, in an incredibly heartbreaking non-funny way, we can become so used to the wrongness of life that any rightness that tries to introduce itself is threatening and shown the door? Don't let it hit you so hard you fall on your face and crack it open on the way out.
Or do.
It's all the same to me.
But this day, I did not show Him the door as I had so many times before. I couldn't. I felt a craving start to gnaw inside me, a fierce need I didn't even know I had.
My love-starved soul woke up. And it demanded to be fed. It had gone without nourishment for far far too long.
All I could do was sit in it.
and cry.
I could hear him, hear him (!) whispering to me, and not like the whispers before, not ones that made me afraid and want to curl into the tiniest of balls and hide....
No.
These were smatterings of love. Gentler than a moth's wings. Quieter than tall grass waving in the wind.
"It's ok", He said. "I love you."
I love you. I love you. i love you. i love you.
i love you. i love you.
i love you. i love you.
you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you youyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyou
iloveyou.
I got up. I walked with shaky legs and a shakier heart to the front ... wanting so badly to throw myself down at the feet of Him. To crawl into his lap and have Him hold me and rock me and tell me again how much He loved me, like a mother would do for her child. Or a father.
I knelt and I put my face in my hands and my soul ripped open. I couldn't stop the tears if I tried. My insides, my body, my spirit knew better than my head what I needed
and i needed to let go.
to be free.
to empty myself of all the junk and the black and the rotten that had taken residence inside me.
A good soul scrubbing.
A renewal.
A gift.
Now it is Easter. It is Saturday. The day after he would have been beaten and tortured and ripped up and nailed; left bleeding and naked and exposed.
And for what? Because He loved. Because He healed. Because He took away all the junk and the black and the rotten.
Because He is God.
I imagine how his followers felt on that Saturday.
Lost. Disappointed. Confused. Afraid. Bereft.
They didn't understand what was happening. They didn't realize what it meant. They thought all hope was lost. They thought it was dead. They thought they were on their own.
They didn't know
that on Sunday
Hope would rise ....
and they would never be alone again.
I
will never be alone
again.
And all the junk,
and the black,
and the rotten
is now white in Love.
but I still remember what it was like to hate Him.
It didn't start out that way, me hating him. And I am not sure when it happened. What I do recall is when someone asked me to go see him, hang out, and be a part of what he was doing, my insides began to burn and my fists would clench.
All I knew about Him flashed in front of me, which admittedly, wasn't much. But it was enough. Enough to make me rage. Enough to make me say NO.
I remember saying ... "After all that has happened? After everything I have gone through? No. I'm not interested in any Jesus. I don't need a savior. AND I will never, ever worship (practically spitting the word out of my mouth) any God that walked around as a man."
You see, men made me want to want to step inside a scalding shower and scrub all my flesh off until I disappeared. Specifically, middle-aged, white, religious men, with poochy bellies, short statures, and glasses that doubled the number of eyes that stared at me with lust and hunger. Men that said "Jesus!" and "I am SAVED! I am FORGIVEN!" and "Gawd bless YOU!" and then took me upstairs for "naps". Men that made me do things I did not want to do and then told me I better ask for forgiveness later because I had been a bad girl, a naughty disgusting girl. Men that whispered to me in the dark and covered my head with pillows when I begged and cried.
Men. Man.
No thanks. I'm out.
I was told over and over by his daughters and my mother, that he had been forgiven. Jesus (Jesus!) had cleansed his heart and his life and the thing in his pants (he has been SAVED Shannon! Saved!)
and now I must forgive him too. (this is what good Christians do Shannon, this is what they do!)
I remember thinking to myself, "I don't want to be a good Christian. I don't want to be any Christian at all."
It took a long time before I understood how people can twist even a good God like Jesus into something mangled and different so they can feel better.
People can twist him up so much, he's not recognizable anymore.
I remember the day I sat in the church and felt Jesus next to me. I knew it was Him. I knew, because I wasn't looking for Him and I didn't want Him to be there. I was there to listen and then leave. I didn't expect anything other than what I had seen my whole life - empty words that weren't real.
And so when He was, it was so obviously plain to me. There was night. And now there was day.
I was almost offended by it.
I didn't want Him to be real. I didn't want to reconcile anything in my head or in my heart. I knew what the twisted Jesus looked like. It was safer to hold on to Him that way.
But I couldn't.
Because what was next to me wasn't twisted at all. The full force of His LOVE radiated on to me. It was warm. And gentle.
And it ... waited.
It waited for me to say "ok". It waited for me to say, "Yes, I will let you be with me".
Isn't it funny, in an incredibly heartbreaking non-funny way, we can become so used to the wrongness of life that any rightness that tries to introduce itself is threatening and shown the door? Don't let it hit you so hard you fall on your face and crack it open on the way out.
Or do.
It's all the same to me.
But this day, I did not show Him the door as I had so many times before. I couldn't. I felt a craving start to gnaw inside me, a fierce need I didn't even know I had.
My love-starved soul woke up. And it demanded to be fed. It had gone without nourishment for far far too long.
All I could do was sit in it.
and cry.
I could hear him, hear him (!) whispering to me, and not like the whispers before, not ones that made me afraid and want to curl into the tiniest of balls and hide....
No.
These were smatterings of love. Gentler than a moth's wings. Quieter than tall grass waving in the wind.
"It's ok", He said. "I love you."
I love you. I love you. i love you. i love you.
i love you. i love you.
i love you. i love you.
you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you youyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyou
iloveyou.
I got up. I walked with shaky legs and a shakier heart to the front ... wanting so badly to throw myself down at the feet of Him. To crawl into his lap and have Him hold me and rock me and tell me again how much He loved me, like a mother would do for her child. Or a father.
I knelt and I put my face in my hands and my soul ripped open. I couldn't stop the tears if I tried. My insides, my body, my spirit knew better than my head what I needed
and i needed to let go.
to be free.
to empty myself of all the junk and the black and the rotten that had taken residence inside me.
A good soul scrubbing.
A renewal.
A gift.
Now it is Easter. It is Saturday. The day after he would have been beaten and tortured and ripped up and nailed; left bleeding and naked and exposed.
And for what? Because He loved. Because He healed. Because He took away all the junk and the black and the rotten.
Because He is God.
I imagine how his followers felt on that Saturday.
Lost. Disappointed. Confused. Afraid. Bereft.
They didn't understand what was happening. They didn't realize what it meant. They thought all hope was lost. They thought it was dead. They thought they were on their own.
They didn't know
that on Sunday
Hope would rise ....
and they would never be alone again.
I
will never be alone
again.
And all the junk,
and the black,
and the rotten
is now white in Love.
Apr 16, 2014
You and Me / Take 2
My Sunshine called yesterday. I used to sing her that song, "You are my Sunshine", when she was small. But i still tell her, on the phone or in a card... I remind her of who she is to me.
Even when we are grown-ups, finding our own way, it is good to be loved.
There are so many things i could write about Bre, her fearlessness that makes anything i did or say look like a ride at Chuck-E-Cheese. Or maybe her determination, the way she focuses and moves forward, not letting anyone, or anything, hold her back. Maybe it is her heart, so beautiful and yet set way up with a wall around it, a defense against a man world, yet it beats hard in truth and justice. I am beyond proud.
But i think all i can say about how much i love her, I have already said.
Several years ago I wrote an essay about her. Reading it now, it sets me right back in each place with her.
So in honor of her and me and all that we have survived, some of it unknowingly, and how brave she is and how much i miss her; I will post it here. I warn you, it is lengthy, and you may want to stop now. Please forgive the format ... it doesn't carry over to blog so well, but, you'll get it.
And the italics, those are song lyrics. You and ME by Dave Matthews. I realize this is a song for married people but let's not get hung up on technicalities. I love Dave. She loves Dave. And we're both flying.
You'll get it.
For you baby girl, my Sunshine. XOXO
Mommy
You and Me
I don’t remember what the day was like, sunshine or rain, or what I was wearing or who I called, and I must admit I have forgotten the exact time. (Was it 11:16 or 11:20 pm?) I do know that I was so terrified of getting poo on the bed, I insisted they let me get up and use the restroom, even when the nurse insisted just as strongly (I’m a professional) that I don’t.
But I won. Your mama is so stubborn.
And then I got stuck in the bathroom for 20 minutes because the contractions came so hard I couldn’t get up. I thought for sure I would have you right there in a hospital toilet. But thankfully I finally got that slide latch to move. I mean, really, who puts a lock like that in a bathroom?? I don’t remember what time your dad came to the hospital or how many people saw my hooha when I pushed and screamed and grabbed my dad’s chest so tight I drew blood, as he chanted “You can do it. I’m right here.”
But I do recall I was starving and your Papa Gary snuck me a snickers bar. I gobbled the entire thing in seconds and I didn’t throw it up like the nurse (the professional) said I would.
The wonderful night of you still brings a soft smile to my face. I know it is soft because it doesn’t feel how my smiles usually feel – all stretched out and big and loud. This smile makes me feel gentle, like a white Egyptian cotton curtain, moving in the breeze.
you & me together we can do anything, baby
Getting you home was easy but then your dad and I wondered for days, when were we allowed to drive with you in the car? I mean, we were running low on food and there was church and family… We wanted to ask someone, a parent maybe? But then we realized, with wide –eyed teenage faces, we were the parents. I did a very responsible thing then and I looked it up. “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” didn’t give a specific date, only stating a car seat was needed. We had that. But the way your tiny head would flop to the side, like a little stuffed animal whose neck had been stretched out, scared me to death and I was convinced the book left out vital information.
Changing your diaper furthered our concerns on the wisdom of being alone with you. It took two of us to do it for at least a week. The size of the diaper was the size of my hand and yet, I couldn’t get one out and the other in quick enough. The day you decided to stream out mustard from your butt all over my arm is one I will never forget. I sat there yelling at your dad, completely grossed out, “Get it off! Get it off!!” But he was laughing so hard, I was almost afraid he would pass out from not being able to breathe. There he stood, red-faced; clutching his belly, body heaving with his mouth wide open but NO sound coming out. It lasted forever. Ok, maybe 3 minutes. But when there’s poo running down your arm, that’s on its way to forever.
I wanted to ram my mustard-poo arm in his face.
you & me together yes, yes
Watching you grow up has been the greatest gift. I have always said that you saved me. And you did. You saved me from the monsters that lived under my bed, and in the closet, and in my family pictures and forced Thanksgivings full of pretend love. You. You let me feel real love, the fragility and solidity of it, all at the same time.
want to pack your bags something small
I’ve never lied to you.
Even though at times I wanted to.
I didn’t want you to always know the truth. I thought sometimes if you did, the heart that holds so much love would crack a little. Hearts can take a lot of cracks. A knick. Sometimes even a chunk.
And it will still be a heart that loves.
But I didn’t want to be the one to chip it. Like mine was. Chipped and taped and glued and band-aided and held together with toothpicks. That’s what happened when I became your mom. You were my mirror – reflecting all of my good, the laughter and openness and bravery, and all of my bad too; the fear and the rage and horrible emptiness of rejection and abandonment. There was so much bad. I had to teach myself to be a better person than I had seen. I had to learn that I could right all the horrible left hand turns, dead ends, and railroad tracks that had been done to me. I could make our lives straight.
take what you need & we disappear
A terrible mom moment haunts me always. Sometimes I just couldn’t get away from them; from her. I was my mom and her dad and my dad and her family, all rolled into one yelling, screaming, pulsating, frantic 19 year old. It was my rock-bottom mom loser mom crazy mom desperate mom moment. The words of my own mother shrieked inside me, “I hate you”, “I wish you were dead”, “I don’t want a daughter like you”. I could feel all of these rages trying to claw out of me; pushing on my fingers and straining against the confines of my own skin, gripping my toes, making my breath fast and my head thud and my eyes big. But nothing came out of my fingers or my hands.
It all came out of my mouth. Word vomit and soul sickness. It poured out of me and on to the floor, chasing you down the hallway.
You ran towards your room and I followed you, stomping my feet so you could hear me behind you, slamming my hands against the wall and bellowing from the bottomless pit of my fury. I didn’t say my own bad mom words; instead I let out a howl that sounded like the damned wishing for an escape. Thinking of it now I feel SHAME tattooed on my face, big and bold and red. My scarlet letter. You turned and looked at me, tears running down your small pale face, your big blue ocean eyes full of fear, and you sat, hunched down in the hallway, and said quietly, “ mommy, mommy, I’m sorry…” I stopped dead where I was.
It was waking up from the worst nightmare. Except I wasn’t dreaming.
I was the nightmare.
I remember I cried, and like any broken selfish person, I hugged you and let you comfort me.
All small 3 years of you.
without a trace, we'll be gone, gone
So many times in your life I have thought of this day and wondered if you remembered. If it pursues you the way some of my memories hunt me. So many times I wanted to beg you to forgive me. Forgive me for almost being them. Forgive me for not being... a heart without cracks and chunks missing. A mother.
But then I didn’t want to bring it up. I didn’t want you to look at me different than you do now, trusting, loved, protected. My child.
Me. Mother. Coward.
The moon & the stars follow the car
I used to rub my belly all the time. I loved sitting on the couch, with my shirt up, and watching it roll and bulge and hiccup, as you moved and got comfy inside. I could see your little foot and I marveled that you were in me and I was giving you life. And you were giving me life back.
& then when we get to the ocean,
I told your dad that I was afraid. I made him promise he would always be the one to give you a bath. I was terrified that if I gave you a bath, if I did it wrong, if I accidentally touched you or washed you then… then I would be like the monster.
I didn’t know until later monsters don’t happen by accident.
Your dad looked at me and I saw love. The warm hazelnut of his eyes reached out and swaddled me tight in a protective cocoon. Safe.
His heart trying to patch all the cracks on another.
Your dad gave you your very first bath. He was very gentle, delicate. I was in awe. I saw your dad’s heart. I saw him give it to you. And it was beautiful. It was whole.
we're going to take a boat to the end of the world...
I gave you your second bath, your dad standing next to me, borrowed strength. The moment I washed your tiny foot with its long finger-toes, and your little hand gripped mine (so strong so strong tiny brave girl), I knew I would never, ever, hurt you. I felt release. The fear lifted from my heart. It came out of the crack groove it had been embedded in for so long, the 8 year old me that had been forsaken had inhaled it and let it attach, permeate, become one with me. I could almost see it detaching itself.
And I felt hopeful freedom.
It wasn't contagious, the sickness of abuse and denial that ran through my family. I didn't catch it. I wasn't like him. Or her. Or any of them.
I saw my heart.
And a crack disappeared.
all the way to the end of the world
I like it when you climb into bed with me and we whisper about boys and friendship drama and movies and Dave Matthews, and we giggle and snort.
I admired you when we ran together. At 17 you could run the world round and round while doing jumping jacks and hurdles without breaking a sweat. I ran two miles and sounded like a mortally wounded animal looking for a place to die. I loved you and envied you and yes, parts of me were cussing you, when you hopped from one foot to another at the top of the hill, cheering me on, “Come on Mommy. You got this. Almost there!”
I love that you still call me Mommy. Its music words to my lyrical soul.
I felt so old, so mom-ish when I took you to your very first concert, Justin Timberlake, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a super cute (I thought) blazer and black converse but I was surrounded by teenagers and young twenty-something’s dressed in high heels and short skirts, hoping to be the “one” that gets noticed. I had to tell you and your sister, “You can’t sit at a concert. Get up and move!” I’m sure I embarrassed you with all my old lady gyrating.
I felt so privileged to calm you down on the phone when you got into a fight with your boyfriend because he didn’t want you to have other boy¬friends. Then we agreed how dumb it was and he was and boys can be in general.
Not all girls are this strong.
Not all girls have a heart so defined.
oh and when the kids are old enough
Moving you to Washington to, “the most remote Coast Guard station in the country”; an adult now, trained, training, working, rescuing, flying. I felt my heart grow bigger, loving the grown up you while treasuring the small you and so incredibly proud of everything you are.
Bre. Breann. Noble. Strong. Virtuous. Honorable. You.
How could we have known when we picked your name it would fit so perfectly? We were just kids - your dad and me. Did you grow into your name? No. No, baby girl. God knew. He knew what you would be from the start.
we gonna teach them to flyyyyyyy
Today I was looking around inside World Market, and they had all these really cool Christmas ornaments, some sparkly and bright, others eclectic and colorful, and I started thinking about how I get you a new ornament each year so that when you move out, you'll have your own. I wondered what I would pick for you this year, even though you are already gone.
I knew right then I will buy you your own ornament forever.
And then I started to cry.
Right there in the middle of the store because I missed you so bad. It didn’t last long. Soon after I started laughing because I could hear you so clearly say to me in your grown-up still a girl voice, "Oh madre - you're such a dork ".
you & me together we could do anything, baby
I can see your heart. It is whole, intact, beautiful, and safe. I did all I could, all I knew and all I wished for to protect it. I kept my monsters away. I fought them banished them cut them from your life my life our heart family.
But
I’ve also tried to warn you, without inhibiting you, that this won’t always be the case. The cracks will come. Sometimes a crack so big a piece may break and you may think you will die from it.
But you won’t.
It takes a lot to kill a heart.
Other hearts come that see inside and they share. They breathe and with each breath, love flows, filling in the cracks, leaving scars… long, deep, red, painful, and sometimes brutally ugly. But ugly scars are perfect. So so so perfect.
you & me together yes, yes
Even when we are grown-ups, finding our own way, it is good to be loved.
There are so many things i could write about Bre, her fearlessness that makes anything i did or say look like a ride at Chuck-E-Cheese. Or maybe her determination, the way she focuses and moves forward, not letting anyone, or anything, hold her back. Maybe it is her heart, so beautiful and yet set way up with a wall around it, a defense against a man world, yet it beats hard in truth and justice. I am beyond proud.
But i think all i can say about how much i love her, I have already said.
Several years ago I wrote an essay about her. Reading it now, it sets me right back in each place with her.
So in honor of her and me and all that we have survived, some of it unknowingly, and how brave she is and how much i miss her; I will post it here. I warn you, it is lengthy, and you may want to stop now. Please forgive the format ... it doesn't carry over to blog so well, but, you'll get it.
And the italics, those are song lyrics. You and ME by Dave Matthews. I realize this is a song for married people but let's not get hung up on technicalities. I love Dave. She loves Dave. And we're both flying.
You'll get it.
For you baby girl, my Sunshine. XOXO
Mommy
You and Me
I don’t remember what the day was like, sunshine or rain, or what I was wearing or who I called, and I must admit I have forgotten the exact time. (Was it 11:16 or 11:20 pm?) I do know that I was so terrified of getting poo on the bed, I insisted they let me get up and use the restroom, even when the nurse insisted just as strongly (I’m a professional) that I don’t.
But I won. Your mama is so stubborn.
And then I got stuck in the bathroom for 20 minutes because the contractions came so hard I couldn’t get up. I thought for sure I would have you right there in a hospital toilet. But thankfully I finally got that slide latch to move. I mean, really, who puts a lock like that in a bathroom?? I don’t remember what time your dad came to the hospital or how many people saw my hooha when I pushed and screamed and grabbed my dad’s chest so tight I drew blood, as he chanted “You can do it. I’m right here.”
But I do recall I was starving and your Papa Gary snuck me a snickers bar. I gobbled the entire thing in seconds and I didn’t throw it up like the nurse (the professional) said I would.
The wonderful night of you still brings a soft smile to my face. I know it is soft because it doesn’t feel how my smiles usually feel – all stretched out and big and loud. This smile makes me feel gentle, like a white Egyptian cotton curtain, moving in the breeze.
you & me together we can do anything, baby
Getting you home was easy but then your dad and I wondered for days, when were we allowed to drive with you in the car? I mean, we were running low on food and there was church and family… We wanted to ask someone, a parent maybe? But then we realized, with wide –eyed teenage faces, we were the parents. I did a very responsible thing then and I looked it up. “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” didn’t give a specific date, only stating a car seat was needed. We had that. But the way your tiny head would flop to the side, like a little stuffed animal whose neck had been stretched out, scared me to death and I was convinced the book left out vital information.
Changing your diaper furthered our concerns on the wisdom of being alone with you. It took two of us to do it for at least a week. The size of the diaper was the size of my hand and yet, I couldn’t get one out and the other in quick enough. The day you decided to stream out mustard from your butt all over my arm is one I will never forget. I sat there yelling at your dad, completely grossed out, “Get it off! Get it off!!” But he was laughing so hard, I was almost afraid he would pass out from not being able to breathe. There he stood, red-faced; clutching his belly, body heaving with his mouth wide open but NO sound coming out. It lasted forever. Ok, maybe 3 minutes. But when there’s poo running down your arm, that’s on its way to forever.
I wanted to ram my mustard-poo arm in his face.
you & me together yes, yes
Watching you grow up has been the greatest gift. I have always said that you saved me. And you did. You saved me from the monsters that lived under my bed, and in the closet, and in my family pictures and forced Thanksgivings full of pretend love. You. You let me feel real love, the fragility and solidity of it, all at the same time.
want to pack your bags something small
I’ve never lied to you.
Even though at times I wanted to.
I didn’t want you to always know the truth. I thought sometimes if you did, the heart that holds so much love would crack a little. Hearts can take a lot of cracks. A knick. Sometimes even a chunk.
And it will still be a heart that loves.
But I didn’t want to be the one to chip it. Like mine was. Chipped and taped and glued and band-aided and held together with toothpicks. That’s what happened when I became your mom. You were my mirror – reflecting all of my good, the laughter and openness and bravery, and all of my bad too; the fear and the rage and horrible emptiness of rejection and abandonment. There was so much bad. I had to teach myself to be a better person than I had seen. I had to learn that I could right all the horrible left hand turns, dead ends, and railroad tracks that had been done to me. I could make our lives straight.
take what you need & we disappear
A terrible mom moment haunts me always. Sometimes I just couldn’t get away from them; from her. I was my mom and her dad and my dad and her family, all rolled into one yelling, screaming, pulsating, frantic 19 year old. It was my rock-bottom mom loser mom crazy mom desperate mom moment. The words of my own mother shrieked inside me, “I hate you”, “I wish you were dead”, “I don’t want a daughter like you”. I could feel all of these rages trying to claw out of me; pushing on my fingers and straining against the confines of my own skin, gripping my toes, making my breath fast and my head thud and my eyes big. But nothing came out of my fingers or my hands.
It all came out of my mouth. Word vomit and soul sickness. It poured out of me and on to the floor, chasing you down the hallway.
You ran towards your room and I followed you, stomping my feet so you could hear me behind you, slamming my hands against the wall and bellowing from the bottomless pit of my fury. I didn’t say my own bad mom words; instead I let out a howl that sounded like the damned wishing for an escape. Thinking of it now I feel SHAME tattooed on my face, big and bold and red. My scarlet letter. You turned and looked at me, tears running down your small pale face, your big blue ocean eyes full of fear, and you sat, hunched down in the hallway, and said quietly, “ mommy, mommy, I’m sorry…” I stopped dead where I was.
It was waking up from the worst nightmare. Except I wasn’t dreaming.
I was the nightmare.
I remember I cried, and like any broken selfish person, I hugged you and let you comfort me.
All small 3 years of you.
without a trace, we'll be gone, gone
So many times in your life I have thought of this day and wondered if you remembered. If it pursues you the way some of my memories hunt me. So many times I wanted to beg you to forgive me. Forgive me for almost being them. Forgive me for not being... a heart without cracks and chunks missing. A mother.
But then I didn’t want to bring it up. I didn’t want you to look at me different than you do now, trusting, loved, protected. My child.
Me. Mother. Coward.
The moon & the stars follow the car
I used to rub my belly all the time. I loved sitting on the couch, with my shirt up, and watching it roll and bulge and hiccup, as you moved and got comfy inside. I could see your little foot and I marveled that you were in me and I was giving you life. And you were giving me life back.
& then when we get to the ocean,
I told your dad that I was afraid. I made him promise he would always be the one to give you a bath. I was terrified that if I gave you a bath, if I did it wrong, if I accidentally touched you or washed you then… then I would be like the monster.
I didn’t know until later monsters don’t happen by accident.
Your dad looked at me and I saw love. The warm hazelnut of his eyes reached out and swaddled me tight in a protective cocoon. Safe.
His heart trying to patch all the cracks on another.
Your dad gave you your very first bath. He was very gentle, delicate. I was in awe. I saw your dad’s heart. I saw him give it to you. And it was beautiful. It was whole.
we're going to take a boat to the end of the world...
I gave you your second bath, your dad standing next to me, borrowed strength. The moment I washed your tiny foot with its long finger-toes, and your little hand gripped mine (so strong so strong tiny brave girl), I knew I would never, ever, hurt you. I felt release. The fear lifted from my heart. It came out of the crack groove it had been embedded in for so long, the 8 year old me that had been forsaken had inhaled it and let it attach, permeate, become one with me. I could almost see it detaching itself.
And I felt hopeful freedom.
It wasn't contagious, the sickness of abuse and denial that ran through my family. I didn't catch it. I wasn't like him. Or her. Or any of them.
I saw my heart.
And a crack disappeared.
all the way to the end of the world
I like it when you climb into bed with me and we whisper about boys and friendship drama and movies and Dave Matthews, and we giggle and snort.
I admired you when we ran together. At 17 you could run the world round and round while doing jumping jacks and hurdles without breaking a sweat. I ran two miles and sounded like a mortally wounded animal looking for a place to die. I loved you and envied you and yes, parts of me were cussing you, when you hopped from one foot to another at the top of the hill, cheering me on, “Come on Mommy. You got this. Almost there!”
I love that you still call me Mommy. Its music words to my lyrical soul.
I felt so old, so mom-ish when I took you to your very first concert, Justin Timberlake, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a super cute (I thought) blazer and black converse but I was surrounded by teenagers and young twenty-something’s dressed in high heels and short skirts, hoping to be the “one” that gets noticed. I had to tell you and your sister, “You can’t sit at a concert. Get up and move!” I’m sure I embarrassed you with all my old lady gyrating.
I felt so privileged to calm you down on the phone when you got into a fight with your boyfriend because he didn’t want you to have other boy¬friends. Then we agreed how dumb it was and he was and boys can be in general.
Not all girls are this strong.
Not all girls have a heart so defined.
oh and when the kids are old enough
Moving you to Washington to, “the most remote Coast Guard station in the country”; an adult now, trained, training, working, rescuing, flying. I felt my heart grow bigger, loving the grown up you while treasuring the small you and so incredibly proud of everything you are.
Bre. Breann. Noble. Strong. Virtuous. Honorable. You.
How could we have known when we picked your name it would fit so perfectly? We were just kids - your dad and me. Did you grow into your name? No. No, baby girl. God knew. He knew what you would be from the start.
we gonna teach them to flyyyyyyy
Today I was looking around inside World Market, and they had all these really cool Christmas ornaments, some sparkly and bright, others eclectic and colorful, and I started thinking about how I get you a new ornament each year so that when you move out, you'll have your own. I wondered what I would pick for you this year, even though you are already gone.
I knew right then I will buy you your own ornament forever.
And then I started to cry.
Right there in the middle of the store because I missed you so bad. It didn’t last long. Soon after I started laughing because I could hear you so clearly say to me in your grown-up still a girl voice, "Oh madre - you're such a dork ".
you & me together we could do anything, baby
I can see your heart. It is whole, intact, beautiful, and safe. I did all I could, all I knew and all I wished for to protect it. I kept my monsters away. I fought them banished them cut them from your life my life our heart family.
But
I’ve also tried to warn you, without inhibiting you, that this won’t always be the case. The cracks will come. Sometimes a crack so big a piece may break and you may think you will die from it.
But you won’t.
It takes a lot to kill a heart.
Other hearts come that see inside and they share. They breathe and with each breath, love flows, filling in the cracks, leaving scars… long, deep, red, painful, and sometimes brutally ugly. But ugly scars are perfect. So so so perfect.
you & me together yes, yes
Apr 14, 2014
Time heals what ?
Most of us are familiar with the expression, "Time heals all wounds." It's what we say to someone who has been incredibly hurt, someone that has been left stunned, blind-sided, and doubled over in heart pain with their guts sliding through their fingers. We know swimming with an army of hungry Great Whites and not being swallowed whole is far more likely than an apology from the person who left our friend looking like the walking dead, so we offer up a platitude on a silver tray with a pat on the head.
Neat. Clean. Sterile. Seemingly, the best we can do if we are avoiding complete honesty.
The real response, the one we feel deep in our own gut of pain and camaraderie is, "That really sucks. Let's go get some steel-toed boots and ski masks and kick the crap out of that assjack".
But we don't say this.
Even though it is by far the more empathetic approach.
The wound does suck.
Time does not heal. Time passes.
I think it is funny that we assume if we just put some space between the day of the wound and the apology that never happens, we will be ok.
It's not ok. The wound is not ok.
It just has days of band-aids piled on top of it. It can be 25 band-aids or 1,095 band-aids. (that's three years worth - a lot of freakin band-aids)
For some of us, probably all of us, we have wounds, scrapes, gashes, amputated limbs and heart gouges, inflicted upon us that the inflicter will never take responsibility for. And that really sucks. It does. I have my fair share of imaginary steel-toed boots in my closet with the names of the inflicter engraved on the toe. They are ready.
But i haven't needed them.
I have found that time does not heal the wound but,
forgiveness does.
Forgiveness.
Not letting them back in. Not giving them another boxing glove so they can knock me out on the other side of my face. Not laying down at their feet so they can jump up and down on me like a rag doll and watch the stuffing pop out of my eyes. Not handing them my duct-taped heart so they can throw it against a wall. Again.
Forgiveness.
Just letting it go. Choosing to not let them have control of my happiness. Just saying, "I am not waiting anymore for you to make it better. It's going to be better anyway."
Some people forgive and it's a one time deal. I'm not sure how that kind of forgiveness works but I am slightly envious about it. It's like their soul gets dunked once, really really deep, and they come out all shiny and forgiving. My soul takes a shower in forgiveness each day. It's not a one time dunk for me. Each day i choose, am i going to let forgiveness wash over me or not?
So one day i might be really shiny and new and other days I may have some grease spots and need a change of clothes.
But you know what? So far, this is working.
Matthew 6:11 says, "Give us this day our daily bread." (emphasis mine) He's not talking about food here. He is talking about our needs. God wants us to depend on Him each day for what we need - our physical needs, our spiritual needs, and our emotional needs.
Or in plain English - our strength, our money, our pantry, our love, our kindness towards others, our absence of road rage, and yes, our forgiveness.
Otherwise, we might get a little high and mighty and start thinking about how really great we are and how really lame everyone else is.
If you hurt, you don't have to. I'm not saying it is easy. I'm not gonna lie; some days I'd rather peel my face skin off with my fingernails than forgive some of the people that have hurt me.
But each day it gets a little easier.
Not because time is passing, but because it is becoming easier for me to trust God to meet my need and letting go of my expectation of people to.
XOXO
Neat. Clean. Sterile. Seemingly, the best we can do if we are avoiding complete honesty.
The real response, the one we feel deep in our own gut of pain and camaraderie is, "That really sucks. Let's go get some steel-toed boots and ski masks and kick the crap out of that assjack".
But we don't say this.
Even though it is by far the more empathetic approach.
The wound does suck.
Time does not heal. Time passes.
I think it is funny that we assume if we just put some space between the day of the wound and the apology that never happens, we will be ok.
It's not ok. The wound is not ok.
It just has days of band-aids piled on top of it. It can be 25 band-aids or 1,095 band-aids. (that's three years worth - a lot of freakin band-aids)
For some of us, probably all of us, we have wounds, scrapes, gashes, amputated limbs and heart gouges, inflicted upon us that the inflicter will never take responsibility for. And that really sucks. It does. I have my fair share of imaginary steel-toed boots in my closet with the names of the inflicter engraved on the toe. They are ready.
But i haven't needed them.
I have found that time does not heal the wound but,
forgiveness does.
Forgiveness.
Not letting them back in. Not giving them another boxing glove so they can knock me out on the other side of my face. Not laying down at their feet so they can jump up and down on me like a rag doll and watch the stuffing pop out of my eyes. Not handing them my duct-taped heart so they can throw it against a wall. Again.
Forgiveness.
Just letting it go. Choosing to not let them have control of my happiness. Just saying, "I am not waiting anymore for you to make it better. It's going to be better anyway."
Some people forgive and it's a one time deal. I'm not sure how that kind of forgiveness works but I am slightly envious about it. It's like their soul gets dunked once, really really deep, and they come out all shiny and forgiving. My soul takes a shower in forgiveness each day. It's not a one time dunk for me. Each day i choose, am i going to let forgiveness wash over me or not?
So one day i might be really shiny and new and other days I may have some grease spots and need a change of clothes.
But you know what? So far, this is working.
Matthew 6:11 says, "Give us this day our daily bread." (emphasis mine) He's not talking about food here. He is talking about our needs. God wants us to depend on Him each day for what we need - our physical needs, our spiritual needs, and our emotional needs.
Or in plain English - our strength, our money, our pantry, our love, our kindness towards others, our absence of road rage, and yes, our forgiveness.
Otherwise, we might get a little high and mighty and start thinking about how really great we are and how really lame everyone else is.
If you hurt, you don't have to. I'm not saying it is easy. I'm not gonna lie; some days I'd rather peel my face skin off with my fingernails than forgive some of the people that have hurt me.
But each day it gets a little easier.
Not because time is passing, but because it is becoming easier for me to trust God to meet my need and letting go of my expectation of people to.
XOXO
Apr 11, 2014
Oh Boy
Being a mother is the hardest thing i have ever done. It has left me feeling crazy euphoric and woefully inadequate. It's a roller coaster of the most extreme, between the pride and the horror. And how is it there isn't a test first to make sure anyone should even be a parent? It must be because no one would pass. We pass later. Like, after they move out. I'm not sure if it even matters what they do in life, we just all made it to the move out stage in one piece. No permanent damage. hallelujah.
It's not an easy road though, is it? Oh sure, when they are small and everything is so cute and funny and post-worthy. Have you ever noticed how often parents (ok, mothers - let's just get it out there) share pictures and stories of their kids, sometimes multiple times a day, but if you look closely, you notice this all stops at about, well, 8th grade. There is a shift, it is small at first but as it widens, you can almost feel yourself being pulled out into isolation. This is especially true if you have teenagers and all your friends have kids in the adorable stage. Not that teenagers can't be adorable.... well,ok. They can't. Adorable is not the word for a teenager. EVER.
But the island of Isolation can quickly show you the neighboring island of Fear and then look, there is also Doubt, and then a small boat ride away is Worry. Every now and then you think you can spot the island of Peace but it quickly gets blown up by a volcano and well, you know how long those take to build back up again. So there you are, amidst your islands, paddling hard to stay away from the one called Crazy.
I love my boy. Who looks like a man. Just thinking about him, i can literally feel my heart swell inside of me. It is all of those islands, thumping together inside an ocean of Love. It has been a rough two years. And by rough i mean crying outside in the dark with a cigarette clutched in my frozen fingers in the corner of the yard so no one can see me. I mean conversations with his dad that lasted longer than the movie Titanic with the repeated question, "what are we going to do?" with the same nerve stretching answer, "i don't know." I mean going into his room at night while he sleeps and standing over his bed, with tears sliding down in silence while i pray, begging God to help the both of us. I cry now just typing this because the islands are still here and my heart is raw.
It does not matter what the struggles have been. Our struggles, your struggles - we may be on different cruise ships but it's the same ocean. Sometimes calm with the sun glittering off the surface and sometimes - not.
Hurricane weather.
I cannot list them - that's another thing about having teenagers, you respect their feelings, realizing what you write about them could hurt them. But if i must be completely honest, if i must peek under the band-aid, there is also the fear someone is going to judge my kid, hold his dumb, and sometimes mortifying, decisions against him, think badly of him, whisper to their spouse at night, "i'm so glad our sweet little johnny isn't like so and so." Because hey, even though i know my kid has made some mistakes, that kind of whispering still makes me want to punch you in the throat. You just wait. Those years are coming for ya.
The other Truth though is this - we always wonder, maybe fathers do too but mothers, oh yes, we take the whole world into our heart on this one - what did i do? Or even better, what did i not do right?
Feel me?
I have to pause as i write that because it echoes inside ... wanting an answer. What did i not do right?
I have asked God that so many times. I have cried it, whispered it, yelled it to my lawn. It has pounded itself into my skull and the Enemy of course, taunts me with it. It must be my fault. I am the worst mom. Stupid.
It's because you got divorced. It's because you lost them. It's because you didn't spend enough time. It's because you didn't give enough space.
endless endless condemnation. The island Crazy is getting closer. I can see the dock.
But one night.. one night while i sat in the dark, exhausted in my Worry, numb with it all, i heard God. It sounded like me - in monotone - but it wasn't. It was much to hopeful for that.
"I love him too." Quiet. A still, small voice.
I blinked.
"I love him, just like I love you. You can give him to Me. You can trust Me. Lay him at My feet."
My eyes blurred in the fresh tears.
"I have a plan for him too. A path he must walk. He has to learn to trust me ... just like you did."
and then i sobbed. loud. with snot and weird faces. God saw me. I was Hagar. He saw my heart and how it was twisted all inside out and knotted. He saw my torment and my pain. He saw how much i love my son. He saw me. He heard me. And He met me.
And i got it.
I know the road traveled to know God and then to believe God can be SO HARD.
The Enemy does not want us on this road and so he will throw huge rocks at us to make us fall. I saw the rocks, the boulders, he throws at my son.
Insecurity. Bullying. Indifference. Acne. Self-Esteem. Girls. Peer pressure. Expectations.
But i also see my Jesus. And he is bigger than these rocks. bigger than the Enemy. And so i am choosing today, to believe Him. I am choosing today to rest on His island of Peace and i will not fear the volcanoes nor the hurricanes. I am choosing today God knew what He was doing when he gave me the privilege of being my kid's mom.
God doesn't make mistakes.
It's not an easy road though, is it? Oh sure, when they are small and everything is so cute and funny and post-worthy. Have you ever noticed how often parents (ok, mothers - let's just get it out there) share pictures and stories of their kids, sometimes multiple times a day, but if you look closely, you notice this all stops at about, well, 8th grade. There is a shift, it is small at first but as it widens, you can almost feel yourself being pulled out into isolation. This is especially true if you have teenagers and all your friends have kids in the adorable stage. Not that teenagers can't be adorable.... well,ok. They can't. Adorable is not the word for a teenager. EVER.
But the island of Isolation can quickly show you the neighboring island of Fear and then look, there is also Doubt, and then a small boat ride away is Worry. Every now and then you think you can spot the island of Peace but it quickly gets blown up by a volcano and well, you know how long those take to build back up again. So there you are, amidst your islands, paddling hard to stay away from the one called Crazy.
I love my boy. Who looks like a man. Just thinking about him, i can literally feel my heart swell inside of me. It is all of those islands, thumping together inside an ocean of Love. It has been a rough two years. And by rough i mean crying outside in the dark with a cigarette clutched in my frozen fingers in the corner of the yard so no one can see me. I mean conversations with his dad that lasted longer than the movie Titanic with the repeated question, "what are we going to do?" with the same nerve stretching answer, "i don't know." I mean going into his room at night while he sleeps and standing over his bed, with tears sliding down in silence while i pray, begging God to help the both of us. I cry now just typing this because the islands are still here and my heart is raw.
It does not matter what the struggles have been. Our struggles, your struggles - we may be on different cruise ships but it's the same ocean. Sometimes calm with the sun glittering off the surface and sometimes - not.
Hurricane weather.
I cannot list them - that's another thing about having teenagers, you respect their feelings, realizing what you write about them could hurt them. But if i must be completely honest, if i must peek under the band-aid, there is also the fear someone is going to judge my kid, hold his dumb, and sometimes mortifying, decisions against him, think badly of him, whisper to their spouse at night, "i'm so glad our sweet little johnny isn't like so and so." Because hey, even though i know my kid has made some mistakes, that kind of whispering still makes me want to punch you in the throat. You just wait. Those years are coming for ya.
The other Truth though is this - we always wonder, maybe fathers do too but mothers, oh yes, we take the whole world into our heart on this one - what did i do? Or even better, what did i not do right?
Feel me?
I have to pause as i write that because it echoes inside ... wanting an answer. What did i not do right?
I have asked God that so many times. I have cried it, whispered it, yelled it to my lawn. It has pounded itself into my skull and the Enemy of course, taunts me with it. It must be my fault. I am the worst mom. Stupid.
It's because you got divorced. It's because you lost them. It's because you didn't spend enough time. It's because you didn't give enough space.
endless endless condemnation. The island Crazy is getting closer. I can see the dock.
But one night.. one night while i sat in the dark, exhausted in my Worry, numb with it all, i heard God. It sounded like me - in monotone - but it wasn't. It was much to hopeful for that.
"I love him too." Quiet. A still, small voice.
I blinked.
"I love him, just like I love you. You can give him to Me. You can trust Me. Lay him at My feet."
My eyes blurred in the fresh tears.
"I have a plan for him too. A path he must walk. He has to learn to trust me ... just like you did."
and then i sobbed. loud. with snot and weird faces. God saw me. I was Hagar. He saw my heart and how it was twisted all inside out and knotted. He saw my torment and my pain. He saw how much i love my son. He saw me. He heard me. And He met me.
And i got it.
I know the road traveled to know God and then to believe God can be SO HARD.
The Enemy does not want us on this road and so he will throw huge rocks at us to make us fall. I saw the rocks, the boulders, he throws at my son.
Insecurity. Bullying. Indifference. Acne. Self-Esteem. Girls. Peer pressure. Expectations.
But i also see my Jesus. And he is bigger than these rocks. bigger than the Enemy. And so i am choosing today, to believe Him. I am choosing today to rest on His island of Peace and i will not fear the volcanoes nor the hurricanes. I am choosing today God knew what He was doing when he gave me the privilege of being my kid's mom.
God doesn't make mistakes.
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