I am out of practice, of all things important and the sum of all my parts. Even now, I hesitate.
I don't know how to write edited. I don't know how to voice; censored. It goes against everything I have been taught and all that I am. I will do my best to keep my pearls separate; to know which I can hold close for protection and which I can throw out for trampling.
This past year has been a process of inner deconstruction and navigating unknowns; an education in long-suffering and quiet.
It has hurt like a motherfucker.
I learned a long time ago these hurts, rejection and withdrawal, will not kill me. No. Nothing so definite and absolute.Nothing so extreme and dramatic and ... quick.
Instead,they will bring me to my knees. They will kick the air out of me.
They will grab me by the hair and yank back my head and force me to look
andlookandlookandlookandlook
until the complete decimation of all that I held dear has become a public play of mockery of which I have no part.
The screaming doesn't stop. Neither do the tears. Not for a long time.
The "why's" do. Blessedly. Mercifully.
The "why's" slink away and eventually the "what if's" follow them.
And then I can breathe again.
Some days I can stand. Sometimes I can laugh. And then eventually,
I wake up
and
I stop looking.
There.
Mostly.
And this is a mercy. This is a gift. And I am so grateful for it I squeeze my eyes shut and pray the prayer I have said over and over this year,
God. GodGodGodGodGodGod
GOD.
And my heart thumps, and my hands shake, and I feel a little clammy and queasy sick but I know, I know, I know, He is hearing me. He is seeing me there, all huddled up and broken, kicked to pieces and bruised, bloody heart and shredded character. He sees me. He hands me a blanket to wrap myself in, a tissue for the snot.
He tells me I'm going to be ok and also, it's time to start minding my own business. He holds my heart and reminds me He will heal it up, as He always has, but I have to stop grabbing it out of His hand and hunting for the things that damage.
Time. Time passes.
Time gives distance, but it does not give healing.
Trust does.
Reflection does.
Praying does.
Finding a mirror helps.
Beginning the shaky walk on a footpath to forgiveness will get you on your way.
Even if it's only a teeny bit at a time.
Even if you find yourself wanting to be an indian giver and grabbing it back because it's become wood for a fire you are tending religiously within you.
I gotta let that fire burn out.
If I don't,
if I let it rage and find it's own life,
it will burn to the ground all that was good and wonderful and right for a
very. long. time.
It will consume me until I'm nothing but ash and memories stained with bitterness.
I don't want stained memories. I want real ones. I can't let the difficulty of relationship take that from me.
I know. Sometimes watching the fire burn is mesmerizing. It warms me. It whispers that I'm right. I become entranced with my own pride and ego. There are some days I sit next to it and think, just for a minute. What's the harm in just a minute?
It takes a lot of grit to turn away and walk in the cold, where stark clarity and a new reality slap you in the face. Hard.
Be gritty. Let it sting.
You don't have to have the strength to walk it.
Crawl.
Lay on your back and look at the stars when crawling is too much.
Embrace the reminder that you are small and fleeting and just a speck of breath, and all of that is more than ok. Let it free you. I am letting it free me.
Crawl again.
Let the pebbles dig in your knees. Let your hands scratch and bleed. Feel it all.
You are alive. I am alive.
In this moment, this right now,
I. Am. Here.
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Jan 3, 2017
Sep 30, 2016
Fear factor
It's Friday night.
I love Friday next as much as the next twenty-something. Mine just looks a little different.
Because I am forty.
And trying hard to rewrite my definition of fun.
Typical Friday night before 6 days ago:
Hang out with the boy. This likely includes carne asada fries or pizza with a Disney movie (Aladdin last week!MY pick!!!) or something weird like zoo animals turning into zombies (this is a real thing. and also, manchild's pick). After manchild goes to bed, the hubs and I grab a beer (something NOT fancy for him - think Fosters or Mickey's - in a can the size of my face, and a Shocktop Twisted Pretzel for me. Because that is the best beer on the PLANET.)
We go outside, grab our smokes, settle in our chairs and proceed to talk for at least three hours. Minimum. We talk, we plan, we belly laugh, we give kisses, we high-five, and we dream a little more. Then we go to bed.
Friday night as Day 6 of NO SMOKING. What does THAT look like?
Well - we did not go into this decision unprepared. This life change was the topic of conversations many Friday nights.
We planned how we would stop smoking while we smoked our brains out.
You see, we've tried before. Or - Jeff has.
I am the one with the pitchfork and horns in this situation. I am the BAD INFLUENCE. He has done 6 days. He has done TWO WEEKS. And I'm outside like, "No one is making me quit. I'll smoke if I wanna." puff puff flick. puff puff flick.
That plan doesn't work. Not for us. We both had to or it wasn't going to happen. All. Nothing. All. Nothing.
And I didn't want to. I was adamant about it. I would quit when I was ready and you know, I didn't think I ever would be. Even typing this sentence right this second, I feel scared. I feel scared about not smoking.
Jeff wouldn't push me and he'd come back outside and we would continue.
Oh, I'd feel shame. For sure. What kind of WIFE doesn't support her husband when he wants to quit smoking? When he wants to better himself?
I'll tell you,
A selfish one. An addicted one. A struggling one. A scared one.
But I'd rationalize, and he would too, and the shame would crawl back into the mud it came out of. See you next time.
puff puff flick.
I started smoking when I was twelve. It started as pressure, for sure. Not the kind you would think though. I didn't smoke to "be cool." I smoked to disappear. It's a lot easier to disappear when you look like everyone else.
A year later I was living in a group home. We ALL smoked. To disappear. To be outside. To avoid slamming each other's heads against the wall. To not cry out our fear and rage. Instead we sucked it down. We sucked it all down.
puff puff flick.
And that continued for me for the next 27 years. Cigarettes became my bestie. Sure, I knew the dangers, I'm not an idiot, but those seemed far, far removed from me. Like a city on a continent I've only seen pictures of. I know it's real but I don't have plans to go there.
I smoked and I sucked it all down - abandonment, anger, loss, insecurity, fear, and fear, and fear. I inhaled deep and controlled my exhale out. I would not let these things beat me. I would not.
And even as I write this I wonder, who will be my friend? When all is quiet and everyone is asleep and my mind is goinggoinggoing and I am trying to pray and trying to feel and also trying not to, who will be my friend?
But, I can't think about that. I have to focus. I have to remind myself Jeff and I have a plan. We made a plan and part of that plan is, don't think too far ahead. And a second part is, we're going to feel it all and we're going to give grace and love like we're made with it. And another part is, we're going to learn how to talk, like normal people, we will learn how to talk. While doing dishes, and laying in bed, and walking the dogs. And maybe we will gain a little bit of weight but we are going to keep saying, You are BEAUTIFUL and You are STRONG, and so we will smile and keep going. I will do this. We will do this.
We have to.
The thought of losing Jeff scares me frozen. I could not bear it.
He started coughing a while ago. He started coughing and its been so long since I've heard the cough that I can't remember when it started. All I know is that sometimes he hunches over and he coughs so hard it reaches out and squeezes my heart until I think it might shatter. He coughs so hard he can't breathe and I hold my breath and not breathe either until he does again.
I found myself making deals with God, "If you let him be ok, I'll stop. I really will." And then I would light another one. I'm not very good at this deal business. I am good at fear.
Here's the thing. I had to decide which fear was bigger - living without my constant of the last 28 years or living without Jeff?
And Jeff wins. Jeff wins every time.
Maybe it's because we're forty now. Maybe its because over the past two months, two people we know have died and left us shaking our heads thinking, "What the fuck is happening? He was SO young!" Maybe it's realizing, this life is pretty damn precious and if I want it, I better live like I want it. Maybe its finally beginning to believe, I am worthy. I am worthy of not just surviving in this life,
but thriving in every second of it too.
And so, come. Come, new Friday night with food and movies and no beer and no smokes.
Come.
I am going to see you. I am going to face you.
And I am going to be OK.
I love Friday next as much as the next twenty-something. Mine just looks a little different.
Because I am forty.
And trying hard to rewrite my definition of fun.
Typical Friday night before 6 days ago:
Hang out with the boy. This likely includes carne asada fries or pizza with a Disney movie (Aladdin last week!MY pick!!!) or something weird like zoo animals turning into zombies (this is a real thing. and also, manchild's pick). After manchild goes to bed, the hubs and I grab a beer (something NOT fancy for him - think Fosters or Mickey's - in a can the size of my face, and a Shocktop Twisted Pretzel for me. Because that is the best beer on the PLANET.)
We go outside, grab our smokes, settle in our chairs and proceed to talk for at least three hours. Minimum. We talk, we plan, we belly laugh, we give kisses, we high-five, and we dream a little more. Then we go to bed.
Friday night as Day 6 of NO SMOKING. What does THAT look like?
Well - we did not go into this decision unprepared. This life change was the topic of conversations many Friday nights.
We planned how we would stop smoking while we smoked our brains out.
You see, we've tried before. Or - Jeff has.
I am the one with the pitchfork and horns in this situation. I am the BAD INFLUENCE. He has done 6 days. He has done TWO WEEKS. And I'm outside like, "No one is making me quit. I'll smoke if I wanna." puff puff flick. puff puff flick.
That plan doesn't work. Not for us. We both had to or it wasn't going to happen. All. Nothing. All. Nothing.
And I didn't want to. I was adamant about it. I would quit when I was ready and you know, I didn't think I ever would be. Even typing this sentence right this second, I feel scared. I feel scared about not smoking.
Jeff wouldn't push me and he'd come back outside and we would continue.
Oh, I'd feel shame. For sure. What kind of WIFE doesn't support her husband when he wants to quit smoking? When he wants to better himself?
I'll tell you,
A selfish one. An addicted one. A struggling one. A scared one.
But I'd rationalize, and he would too, and the shame would crawl back into the mud it came out of. See you next time.
puff puff flick.
I started smoking when I was twelve. It started as pressure, for sure. Not the kind you would think though. I didn't smoke to "be cool." I smoked to disappear. It's a lot easier to disappear when you look like everyone else.
A year later I was living in a group home. We ALL smoked. To disappear. To be outside. To avoid slamming each other's heads against the wall. To not cry out our fear and rage. Instead we sucked it down. We sucked it all down.
puff puff flick.
And that continued for me for the next 27 years. Cigarettes became my bestie. Sure, I knew the dangers, I'm not an idiot, but those seemed far, far removed from me. Like a city on a continent I've only seen pictures of. I know it's real but I don't have plans to go there.
I smoked and I sucked it all down - abandonment, anger, loss, insecurity, fear, and fear, and fear. I inhaled deep and controlled my exhale out. I would not let these things beat me. I would not.
And even as I write this I wonder, who will be my friend? When all is quiet and everyone is asleep and my mind is goinggoinggoing and I am trying to pray and trying to feel and also trying not to, who will be my friend?
But, I can't think about that. I have to focus. I have to remind myself Jeff and I have a plan. We made a plan and part of that plan is, don't think too far ahead. And a second part is, we're going to feel it all and we're going to give grace and love like we're made with it. And another part is, we're going to learn how to talk, like normal people, we will learn how to talk. While doing dishes, and laying in bed, and walking the dogs. And maybe we will gain a little bit of weight but we are going to keep saying, You are BEAUTIFUL and You are STRONG, and so we will smile and keep going. I will do this. We will do this.
We have to.
The thought of losing Jeff scares me frozen. I could not bear it.
He started coughing a while ago. He started coughing and its been so long since I've heard the cough that I can't remember when it started. All I know is that sometimes he hunches over and he coughs so hard it reaches out and squeezes my heart until I think it might shatter. He coughs so hard he can't breathe and I hold my breath and not breathe either until he does again.
I found myself making deals with God, "If you let him be ok, I'll stop. I really will." And then I would light another one. I'm not very good at this deal business. I am good at fear.
Here's the thing. I had to decide which fear was bigger - living without my constant of the last 28 years or living without Jeff?
And Jeff wins. Jeff wins every time.
Maybe it's because we're forty now. Maybe its because over the past two months, two people we know have died and left us shaking our heads thinking, "What the fuck is happening? He was SO young!" Maybe it's realizing, this life is pretty damn precious and if I want it, I better live like I want it. Maybe its finally beginning to believe, I am worthy. I am worthy of not just surviving in this life,
but thriving in every second of it too.
And so, come. Come, new Friday night with food and movies and no beer and no smokes.
Come.
I am going to see you. I am going to face you.
And I am going to be OK.
Apr 24, 2016
Flat
I couldn't bring myself to go to church today. I could barely bring myself to do life. Jeff knows something is wrong. He stopped doing today so he could sit on the couch with me and watch a movie. I did not ask him too but I think he knew I needed the support in my nothingness.
I wanted to spend time with God on my own and sometimes the best place for me there is when I write.There are no secrets for me here, in the written word. I let it all out - even if people decide not to like me anymore. It's the place I find my voice. It is here I can feel safe in the dark that moves inside me.I want people to see it. I invite you in to relate or repel. Pretending is too exhausting for words.
The disappointment I am learning to live with is almost tangible. I can taste it; everything I consume is muted, as if I have a cold. I can feel the heavy, a thick blanket that I wrap tighter rather than throw off. I've never been a person who gets depressed. I think I am too stubborn for it. The thought of something or someone getting the best of me is enough to keep me moving, keep me doing, keep striking a line through the tasks on my list.
Until now.
I am tired, God. I am.
I am tired of smiling when I don't mean it. I am tired of hugging, tired of thinking of an answer, tired of making excuses for other people. I am tired of putting their shoes on my feet when I know they don't fit me anymore. I am tired of walking in them, with them, when they are so tight I cannot breathe, so constricting in where they are taking me, in a life, in a story, I don't want as my own.
I remind myself, God, to love them like I want to be loved.
But here is what I am learning, God, what I have known deep within,
you can't make people love you back. Not even a little.
I remember my ex-husband saying to me one time, a thousand times, screaming;
Why can't you ever have my back? Why can't you take my side?
Those words have remained on me, deep in my skin, a scar that will not ever be unseen.
And now I know exactly what he meant.
It was always with good intentions, God, always with good intentions that I tried to see why people do the jacked up things they do. Maybe they had a fight with their spouse. Maybe their kids are too much today. Maybe they don't know how untangle themselves from the lassos others threw around them. Maybe they like it there because they learned how to walk in ropes.
This feeling, God, this feeling is so unknown and I do not like it here.
But here's the thing,
I don't know how to get out.
My list is not working. Distractions are not working. I listen to your songs, God, but I feel like I don't belong in them so I turn it off. I see the quotes, God, one inspirational word after another and all I can think is,
"Shut up. I'm so sick of your blanketness." I write cards, God. I write cards and I feel so much better for a minute because I do know, in that act, I am saying what I need to hear and I think, maybe someone else needs to hear it too? But then I tape it somewhere and I walk away and I walk away from the words. They have left me.
The tears come in the most unlikely of moments. At the grocery store, driving home from work, in the bathroom while I change to workout, in reading the thoughts of a fictitious twelve year old girl who lives in the pages of a book.
Are you there God? It's me, Shannon.
I walked out on my mother last week while we had dinner. I couldn't do it God. I couldn't sit and listen and nod and smile and pretend that all the words she spoke were true. I couldn't stop myself when I asked, "Oh, is that how it happened, Mom?" Even though I know better, even though I know she doesn't like to be questioned, even though I know it's a mistake to interrupt what she has re-written.
But it came out anyway, God, it did, and I'm not sorry for it because I was there too and I had to remain silent then but I won't remain silent now.
She is demanding too much. She is taking more than I can give out.
And so I warned her. I did. You heard me, right God? You heard me say, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
But the Carrie-show stops for no one. It never has and she kept right on.
Her proclaimed epiphany was a joke, and not one of those ha-ha-ha ones God, it was more of a, what-the-fuck-is-she-saying-I'm-so-stunned-I-gotta-laugh ones.
But it's when our eyes met, and hers narrowed, and she instructed me to "go ahead and put a smile on my face", that I kind of lost it God. But not in a typical "Shannon" fashion so hey God, that's an improvement right? I didn't curse at her or make a scene or take her face and smash it into the basket of tortilla chips. Instead I stood up, so calm God, did you see how calm I was? And I grabbed my things and said thank you to Steve and I left. I heard Jeff behind me. I heard him stand up too. I heard him say to her, "you should have stopped. She asked you to stop." (unlike me, Jeff can always be counted on for a good back-having moment) and then he was with me, side by side, all the way out.
And still God, there was nothing, no ranting or yelling, nothing more than an occasional, she's fucking crazy, but even that was measured.
I know God.
I know all those "fucks" are unrighteous at best, deep-rooted sin time at worst, but I gotta tell you God, I think just about every one of those "fucks" was earned. I hear people say it all the time, "You can choose better words to express yourself" and hey, I've said it to my own kids.
But if I get right down to it, I really can't think of anything else that fits. So fuck it is.
I'm not trying to be disrespectful to you, God. Really I am not. I am being as up front with you as I can. Isn't that when prayer works best? Isn't that when you come in and do your biggest work? When we let it all hang out?
So there it is God. I am letting it hang. I am stuck. Believing in you is not a problem. Believing you is not a problem either.
The problem is me.
The problem is smiling when hey, it's not all alright.
The problem is I just don't have it in me right now to go that extra mile.
I'm having issues crawling.
Steps are kind of out of the question.
I know you God. I know you love me no matter what. I know you are going to stick by me, in all this junk I keep trying to toss out but when my back is turned, it's like someone is refilling the can. I know you are going to help me here, in this place. I know you will wait. I know you will speak.
But here's what I don't know.
Who else?
I wanted to spend time with God on my own and sometimes the best place for me there is when I write.There are no secrets for me here, in the written word. I let it all out - even if people decide not to like me anymore. It's the place I find my voice. It is here I can feel safe in the dark that moves inside me.I want people to see it. I invite you in to relate or repel. Pretending is too exhausting for words.
The disappointment I am learning to live with is almost tangible. I can taste it; everything I consume is muted, as if I have a cold. I can feel the heavy, a thick blanket that I wrap tighter rather than throw off. I've never been a person who gets depressed. I think I am too stubborn for it. The thought of something or someone getting the best of me is enough to keep me moving, keep me doing, keep striking a line through the tasks on my list.
Until now.
I am tired, God. I am.
I am tired of smiling when I don't mean it. I am tired of hugging, tired of thinking of an answer, tired of making excuses for other people. I am tired of putting their shoes on my feet when I know they don't fit me anymore. I am tired of walking in them, with them, when they are so tight I cannot breathe, so constricting in where they are taking me, in a life, in a story, I don't want as my own.
I remind myself, God, to love them like I want to be loved.
But here is what I am learning, God, what I have known deep within,
you can't make people love you back. Not even a little.
I remember my ex-husband saying to me one time, a thousand times, screaming;
Why can't you ever have my back? Why can't you take my side?
Those words have remained on me, deep in my skin, a scar that will not ever be unseen.
And now I know exactly what he meant.
It was always with good intentions, God, always with good intentions that I tried to see why people do the jacked up things they do. Maybe they had a fight with their spouse. Maybe their kids are too much today. Maybe they don't know how untangle themselves from the lassos others threw around them. Maybe they like it there because they learned how to walk in ropes.
This feeling, God, this feeling is so unknown and I do not like it here.
But here's the thing,
I don't know how to get out.
My list is not working. Distractions are not working. I listen to your songs, God, but I feel like I don't belong in them so I turn it off. I see the quotes, God, one inspirational word after another and all I can think is,
"Shut up. I'm so sick of your blanketness." I write cards, God. I write cards and I feel so much better for a minute because I do know, in that act, I am saying what I need to hear and I think, maybe someone else needs to hear it too? But then I tape it somewhere and I walk away and I walk away from the words. They have left me.
The tears come in the most unlikely of moments. At the grocery store, driving home from work, in the bathroom while I change to workout, in reading the thoughts of a fictitious twelve year old girl who lives in the pages of a book.
Are you there God? It's me, Shannon.
I walked out on my mother last week while we had dinner. I couldn't do it God. I couldn't sit and listen and nod and smile and pretend that all the words she spoke were true. I couldn't stop myself when I asked, "Oh, is that how it happened, Mom?" Even though I know better, even though I know she doesn't like to be questioned, even though I know it's a mistake to interrupt what she has re-written.
But it came out anyway, God, it did, and I'm not sorry for it because I was there too and I had to remain silent then but I won't remain silent now.
She is demanding too much. She is taking more than I can give out.
And so I warned her. I did. You heard me, right God? You heard me say, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
But the Carrie-show stops for no one. It never has and she kept right on.
Her proclaimed epiphany was a joke, and not one of those ha-ha-ha ones God, it was more of a, what-the-fuck-is-she-saying-I'm-so-stunned-I-gotta-laugh ones.
But it's when our eyes met, and hers narrowed, and she instructed me to "go ahead and put a smile on my face", that I kind of lost it God. But not in a typical "Shannon" fashion so hey God, that's an improvement right? I didn't curse at her or make a scene or take her face and smash it into the basket of tortilla chips. Instead I stood up, so calm God, did you see how calm I was? And I grabbed my things and said thank you to Steve and I left. I heard Jeff behind me. I heard him stand up too. I heard him say to her, "you should have stopped. She asked you to stop." (unlike me, Jeff can always be counted on for a good back-having moment) and then he was with me, side by side, all the way out.
And still God, there was nothing, no ranting or yelling, nothing more than an occasional, she's fucking crazy, but even that was measured.
I know God.
I know all those "fucks" are unrighteous at best, deep-rooted sin time at worst, but I gotta tell you God, I think just about every one of those "fucks" was earned. I hear people say it all the time, "You can choose better words to express yourself" and hey, I've said it to my own kids.
But if I get right down to it, I really can't think of anything else that fits. So fuck it is.
I'm not trying to be disrespectful to you, God. Really I am not. I am being as up front with you as I can. Isn't that when prayer works best? Isn't that when you come in and do your biggest work? When we let it all hang out?
So there it is God. I am letting it hang. I am stuck. Believing in you is not a problem. Believing you is not a problem either.
The problem is me.
The problem is smiling when hey, it's not all alright.
The problem is I just don't have it in me right now to go that extra mile.
I'm having issues crawling.
Steps are kind of out of the question.
I know you God. I know you love me no matter what. I know you are going to stick by me, in all this junk I keep trying to toss out but when my back is turned, it's like someone is refilling the can. I know you are going to help me here, in this place. I know you will wait. I know you will speak.
But here's what I don't know.
Who else?
Apr 3, 2016
Everyday People
"I don't have any friends."
She said it drunk. She said it after she laughed so hard she just might pee. She said it after we bonded over pickle juice and whiskey. She said it perched on a stool with laughter coming out of her mouth and sadness making her eyes bright.
They say a drunk never lies.
I knew she meant every single word.
I don't have any friends.
What do you mean, I asked her? Your friends are here.
No. No, these are people I used to know. I don't have any friends now.
I have no one. I'm all alone.
She looked at me, eyes glazed with Christmas red and eyeliner that had given up hours earlier, and asked the same question I have begun to ask myself, "How did this happen?"
And long after we had moved on in conversation, long after I had puked up the trendiest line of shots I've ever done while sitting cross-legged on a bathroom floor, long after we were dropped off at our hotel and I realized I forgot my new beanie in their car, long after more ounces of iced coffee a person should consume in one sitting was drunk in tired desperation, and long after I arrived back home to wash party clothes still clinging to last nights smokes, her words haunted me.
I had no idea a drunken conversation at a Christmas party would stick with me like a shadow. Always at the peripheral, showing itself just enough to let me know, I'm right behind you.
I am almost 40 and I have close to zero friends.
I'm not talking about the life friends that you call if you lose your job, or your husband has an affair, if your mom is dying of cancer, or your kid came home to tell you they are pregnant. We all have these friends, right? When something major starts throwing down on your life, they will suddenly show up,
and shoulder you up.
They will let you cry, and be afraid, and wait for you to settle enough to get in your face with harsh realities and "pull-up-your-big-girl panties-you're-stronger-than-this-shit" lectures, just in time for you to get brave again. Yes.
I have these friends, the Rally-ers. The Charge-ers. The Cheer-ers.
I am grateful for them because guess what folks? These times are coming. They come to all of us.
No. I'm talking about the everyday friend. The one who is there for the ins and the outs of the mundane and the frustrating. The one who meets you for a coffee and a beer.
Preferably at the same time.
The one who calls on a Wednesday to see if you want to get together Friday. The one who doesn't bother to clean their house when you come over because that's just how real it is now. Piles of laundry and dog hair in tufts on the floor be damned. The one you can text while you're at Target to say, "Which doormat? The one with flowers or the bike and flowers?"
The one who sends you a quick text to say, "hey!!! thinking about you. Let's kick some ass today!" The one you can complain to about not getting laid in over a week. The one you can say, "I just don't feel enough today - do you think Jesus is giving up on me?" The one who reminds you Jesus never gives up on you, and hey, neither will I.
Everyday friends are important. Necessary. Breath.
I know. Life has different stretches for all of us. And there's a time and a place for different people as we walk down our roads.
I know. This is true. We grow. We change. I know.
But I also know this is bullshit.
We invite the people we want to walk with us,
and we leave the rest behind.
Have you ever been in the "leave the rest behind" group? (insert hand raised emoji here.)
It sucks ass doesn't it? ( and insert poop emoji here.)
I am so guilty. So guilty of saying, hey! Let's get together soon! And having absolutely no intention of hanging out. In six months. Or maybe even ever.
I'm just being polite. Everyone knows how to play the polite game.
I'm not talking about polite. I'm not talking about acquaintance pleasantries.
I'm talking about people who were your people and now they are not. Or you aren't sure.
Which is almost worse.
And our culture right now makes it so hard to say that, doesn't it?
So hard to say,
I miss you.
Why don't we talk anymore?
What happened?
You're my friend and I need you.
We can't say that. It makes us needy. It makes us high-maintenance. It makes us jealous.
When really, we aren't any of those things. Maybe all we are is sad.
These things can get messy and I'm not trying to get messy. Six months ago, a year ago, it would have been real messy. I'm talking fat-tears and snot-river messy. I'm talking emotions stretched and frazzled and waving white flags with middle fingers while screaming and crying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Why is this happening? I"M SORRY!!!" And you have no idea what you are apologizing for but you just want to make it better and also go away.
Messy.
I'm not messy right now. I am observant. A little bewildered. A lot reflective.
And I am sure I am not the only one.
Here's what I am learning.
I'm doing ok by myself.
Now, we aren't built to be on our own f o r e v e r by any means. Humans are designed for relationship.
But it's good to be alone and work your thoughts and see what you are capable of,
and what you are not.
We all need to know this.
Also, I'm walking in a new way with Jesus. Rather than talking to my everyday friend and then going to Jesus, I am now going to Jesus (or Jeff. I'm not perfect here) and then,
that's it.
There's no everyday friends to bounce it back off of. To clarify. To affirm.
It's Jesus and me. And that can be brutal and beautiful all at once. You know what I mean if you've had to do this. There's a realness in my talk with God. It's so real in fact that sometimes I wonder if I am slipping backwards.
When pretense and "supposed to's" are waved out of the way, when walls are walked around and you're just standing there, all raw and exposed and blinking, it's unsettling. Wobbly.
And in nervousness or conviction or repentance or need,
You get down with the Lord. You let it all hang out because well, there aren't any closets, or any hat racks for that matter. There are only your hands and your heart and you figure what else can you do but open it real wide and just let him see it all?
He's going to keep on loving you or he's a liar.
And also , it's ok to be me.
It's ok to say, "I need this." And it's ok when someone else says, "I can't give that to you."
It's ok to know what makes me feel special and how I like to connect. It's ok when other people are not capable of making that connection.
We all have our own stretch of road.
My fear,
my fear,
my fear though,
is that we will give up too quickly and realize too late,
it was something worth digging for, worth suffering for, worth doing more,
for.
But we'll have told ourselves,
I'm too busy
I'm too hurt
We're too different.
And we'll all become people we used to know.
She said it drunk. She said it after she laughed so hard she just might pee. She said it after we bonded over pickle juice and whiskey. She said it perched on a stool with laughter coming out of her mouth and sadness making her eyes bright.
They say a drunk never lies.
I knew she meant every single word.
I don't have any friends.
What do you mean, I asked her? Your friends are here.
No. No, these are people I used to know. I don't have any friends now.
I have no one. I'm all alone.
She looked at me, eyes glazed with Christmas red and eyeliner that had given up hours earlier, and asked the same question I have begun to ask myself, "How did this happen?"
And long after we had moved on in conversation, long after I had puked up the trendiest line of shots I've ever done while sitting cross-legged on a bathroom floor, long after we were dropped off at our hotel and I realized I forgot my new beanie in their car, long after more ounces of iced coffee a person should consume in one sitting was drunk in tired desperation, and long after I arrived back home to wash party clothes still clinging to last nights smokes, her words haunted me.
I had no idea a drunken conversation at a Christmas party would stick with me like a shadow. Always at the peripheral, showing itself just enough to let me know, I'm right behind you.
I am almost 40 and I have close to zero friends.
I'm not talking about the life friends that you call if you lose your job, or your husband has an affair, if your mom is dying of cancer, or your kid came home to tell you they are pregnant. We all have these friends, right? When something major starts throwing down on your life, they will suddenly show up,
and shoulder you up.
They will let you cry, and be afraid, and wait for you to settle enough to get in your face with harsh realities and "pull-up-your-big-girl panties-you're-stronger-than-this-shit" lectures, just in time for you to get brave again. Yes.
I have these friends, the Rally-ers. The Charge-ers. The Cheer-ers.
I am grateful for them because guess what folks? These times are coming. They come to all of us.
No. I'm talking about the everyday friend. The one who is there for the ins and the outs of the mundane and the frustrating. The one who meets you for a coffee and a beer.
Preferably at the same time.
The one who calls on a Wednesday to see if you want to get together Friday. The one who doesn't bother to clean their house when you come over because that's just how real it is now. Piles of laundry and dog hair in tufts on the floor be damned. The one you can text while you're at Target to say, "Which doormat? The one with flowers or the bike and flowers?"
The one who sends you a quick text to say, "hey!!! thinking about you. Let's kick some ass today!" The one you can complain to about not getting laid in over a week. The one you can say, "I just don't feel enough today - do you think Jesus is giving up on me?" The one who reminds you Jesus never gives up on you, and hey, neither will I.
Everyday friends are important. Necessary. Breath.
I know. Life has different stretches for all of us. And there's a time and a place for different people as we walk down our roads.
I know. This is true. We grow. We change. I know.
But I also know this is bullshit.
We invite the people we want to walk with us,
and we leave the rest behind.
Have you ever been in the "leave the rest behind" group? (insert hand raised emoji here.)
It sucks ass doesn't it? ( and insert poop emoji here.)
I am so guilty. So guilty of saying, hey! Let's get together soon! And having absolutely no intention of hanging out. In six months. Or maybe even ever.
I'm just being polite. Everyone knows how to play the polite game.
I'm not talking about polite. I'm not talking about acquaintance pleasantries.
I'm talking about people who were your people and now they are not. Or you aren't sure.
Which is almost worse.
And our culture right now makes it so hard to say that, doesn't it?
So hard to say,
I miss you.
Why don't we talk anymore?
What happened?
You're my friend and I need you.
We can't say that. It makes us needy. It makes us high-maintenance. It makes us jealous.
When really, we aren't any of those things. Maybe all we are is sad.
These things can get messy and I'm not trying to get messy. Six months ago, a year ago, it would have been real messy. I'm talking fat-tears and snot-river messy. I'm talking emotions stretched and frazzled and waving white flags with middle fingers while screaming and crying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Why is this happening? I"M SORRY!!!" And you have no idea what you are apologizing for but you just want to make it better and also go away.
Messy.
I'm not messy right now. I am observant. A little bewildered. A lot reflective.
And I am sure I am not the only one.
Here's what I am learning.
I'm doing ok by myself.
Now, we aren't built to be on our own f o r e v e r by any means. Humans are designed for relationship.
But it's good to be alone and work your thoughts and see what you are capable of,
and what you are not.
We all need to know this.
Also, I'm walking in a new way with Jesus. Rather than talking to my everyday friend and then going to Jesus, I am now going to Jesus (or Jeff. I'm not perfect here) and then,
that's it.
There's no everyday friends to bounce it back off of. To clarify. To affirm.
It's Jesus and me. And that can be brutal and beautiful all at once. You know what I mean if you've had to do this. There's a realness in my talk with God. It's so real in fact that sometimes I wonder if I am slipping backwards.
When pretense and "supposed to's" are waved out of the way, when walls are walked around and you're just standing there, all raw and exposed and blinking, it's unsettling. Wobbly.
And in nervousness or conviction or repentance or need,
You get down with the Lord. You let it all hang out because well, there aren't any closets, or any hat racks for that matter. There are only your hands and your heart and you figure what else can you do but open it real wide and just let him see it all?
He's going to keep on loving you or he's a liar.
And also , it's ok to be me.
It's ok to say, "I need this." And it's ok when someone else says, "I can't give that to you."
It's ok to know what makes me feel special and how I like to connect. It's ok when other people are not capable of making that connection.
We all have our own stretch of road.
My fear,
my fear,
my fear though,
is that we will give up too quickly and realize too late,
it was something worth digging for, worth suffering for, worth doing more,
for.
But we'll have told ourselves,
I'm too busy
I'm too hurt
We're too different.
And we'll all become people we used to know.
Mar 30, 2016
Interruptions
I am learning sometimes the dream has to wait.
Be put on hold.
Go on a bathroom break.
Clock out for ten minutes. Or maybe even ten days.
Life interrupts.
Or rather, people do. People we love.
Our tribe. Our family. Our friends.
Life is never neat. And no matter how many to-do lists I have or how many items I cross off, it's never as organized as I try to make it either.
I write.
And when I am not writing I am thinking about writing. Feelings become describable and words become life. It's all I can do to scribble them down in my notebook or record it in my iphone as a barely deciphered "note' before I forget. And let's be honest, Siri doesn't get it ya'll. All the updates in the world hasn't fixed the words lost in translation just yet.
Even as I try to write this, my computer has shut down, restarted, and begun to download Windows 10.
Mid-type. Three consonants in.
Interruptions.
(sigh)
I am inspired as much as the next person by all the affirming slogans and handmade signs reminding us to, Be You!, Follow your Happy, and Just Write.
I hang these on my walls,(a lot you guys. Instagram is taking ALL MY MONEY) and would gladly purchase all the buttons and totes and stickers in my feed, if that would make them all come true.
But can I be real here?
For just a sec?
I can't do that all the time. Even if it's penciled in. Even if it's important.
And I'll tell you why.
My husband is going gangbusters in his business. And watching him swells my heart and make me wish for a set of pom-poms. That's how stinkin' proud I am.
But guess what it means?
Long nights in the office for him.
Dinner clean up and dishes for me. (or better known as - No writing.)
I have a daughter who is moving out in ONE DAY (sob sob just kidding. I'm happy. But then I'm sobbing too so basically I'm a mess), and if she has a story to tell or if she just wants to sit on the couch and Friends it out - I'm down. Like James Brown. I'm going to sit on that couch with her and not move. Because guess what folks?
The season of Sammi is coming to an end. I know it. She knows it.
The adulting that has started knows it, and once we adult we can't kid again. Not in the same way.
So I'm soaking it up. Every sigh. Every MOM. Every scare as I walk out of the bathroom and she throws the embarrassment up on Snapchat. Every frustration with the utility company and every excitement of a room that almost sits empty.
Next week it will be Jeff's new office. A restart of something we can't even grasp.
But this week,
this week,
it is being hallowed out.
Just like me.
I sat in the middle of her floor after we sold her bed and I tried hard not to cry.
There's always something. I know. I'm pounding this out on my lunch hour instead of walking. So there's that. My writing is done but my exercise and fresh air is taking the hit.
It's ok. One thing is always going to cancel out another.
So here's what I am saying ...
Be You.
Follow your Happy.
Just Write.
But know that some days your happy is going to look different than you expected. It's not going to be written on your list or located in your calendar.
I think these can be some of the best kinds of happy though. Interruptions are God things. It's when He redirects us.
It's when he whispers, "oh no .. you think that's THE most important thing but THIS is...."
I think we can miss it though. I know I can.
I miss it in the midst of my guilt.
The constant chatter.
"You didn't work out. You didn't write. You didn't get the laundry done. You forgot stamps. You need more eggs. You didn't write the card. You didn't call your friend. You didn't spend enough time with Jacob."
and on and on and on and on.
There's a name for this radio station friends. I'll share it with you another day. Just know,
you are not alone,
AND,
turn the station off.
We are all doing the best we can.
Some days I am going to bang out twenty pages of my book.
Other days I'm going to stare at my outline for hours without writing one word. (hellooooo all last week!)
Some days,
you are going to get to each thing on your list. You'll feel accomplished and stretch hard to pat yourself on the back.
Other days,
you are going to wonder who hijacked your life.
But then you'll realize,
it's everyone you really love.
And all the things that make your Happy.
XO
Be put on hold.
Go on a bathroom break.
Clock out for ten minutes. Or maybe even ten days.
Life interrupts.
Or rather, people do. People we love.
Our tribe. Our family. Our friends.
Life is never neat. And no matter how many to-do lists I have or how many items I cross off, it's never as organized as I try to make it either.
I write.
And when I am not writing I am thinking about writing. Feelings become describable and words become life. It's all I can do to scribble them down in my notebook or record it in my iphone as a barely deciphered "note' before I forget. And let's be honest, Siri doesn't get it ya'll. All the updates in the world hasn't fixed the words lost in translation just yet.
Even as I try to write this, my computer has shut down, restarted, and begun to download Windows 10.
Mid-type. Three consonants in.
Interruptions.
(sigh)
I am inspired as much as the next person by all the affirming slogans and handmade signs reminding us to, Be You!, Follow your Happy, and Just Write.
I hang these on my walls,(a lot you guys. Instagram is taking ALL MY MONEY) and would gladly purchase all the buttons and totes and stickers in my feed, if that would make them all come true.
But can I be real here?
For just a sec?
I can't do that all the time. Even if it's penciled in. Even if it's important.
And I'll tell you why.
My husband is going gangbusters in his business. And watching him swells my heart and make me wish for a set of pom-poms. That's how stinkin' proud I am.
But guess what it means?
Long nights in the office for him.
Dinner clean up and dishes for me. (or better known as - No writing.)
I have a daughter who is moving out in ONE DAY (sob sob just kidding. I'm happy. But then I'm sobbing too so basically I'm a mess), and if she has a story to tell or if she just wants to sit on the couch and Friends it out - I'm down. Like James Brown. I'm going to sit on that couch with her and not move. Because guess what folks?
The season of Sammi is coming to an end. I know it. She knows it.
The adulting that has started knows it, and once we adult we can't kid again. Not in the same way.
So I'm soaking it up. Every sigh. Every MOM. Every scare as I walk out of the bathroom and she throws the embarrassment up on Snapchat. Every frustration with the utility company and every excitement of a room that almost sits empty.
Next week it will be Jeff's new office. A restart of something we can't even grasp.
But this week,
this week,
it is being hallowed out.
Just like me.
I sat in the middle of her floor after we sold her bed and I tried hard not to cry.
There's always something. I know. I'm pounding this out on my lunch hour instead of walking. So there's that. My writing is done but my exercise and fresh air is taking the hit.
It's ok. One thing is always going to cancel out another.
So here's what I am saying ...
Be You.
Follow your Happy.
Just Write.
But know that some days your happy is going to look different than you expected. It's not going to be written on your list or located in your calendar.
I think these can be some of the best kinds of happy though. Interruptions are God things. It's when He redirects us.
It's when he whispers, "oh no .. you think that's THE most important thing but THIS is...."
I think we can miss it though. I know I can.
I miss it in the midst of my guilt.
The constant chatter.
"You didn't work out. You didn't write. You didn't get the laundry done. You forgot stamps. You need more eggs. You didn't write the card. You didn't call your friend. You didn't spend enough time with Jacob."
and on and on and on and on.
There's a name for this radio station friends. I'll share it with you another day. Just know,
you are not alone,
AND,
turn the station off.
We are all doing the best we can.
Some days I am going to bang out twenty pages of my book.
Other days I'm going to stare at my outline for hours without writing one word. (hellooooo all last week!)
Some days,
you are going to get to each thing on your list. You'll feel accomplished and stretch hard to pat yourself on the back.
Other days,
you are going to wonder who hijacked your life.
But then you'll realize,
it's everyone you really love.
And all the things that make your Happy.
XO
Feb 14, 2016
Mother-of-the-bride
In one week my daughter will wake up with a new name.
In six days I will watch her have her make-up done,
slip into her wedding dress,
cover her face with a veil.
I wonder if she will laugh in nervousness? Cry in excitement?
I wonder if she will notice as her hands shake when she takes her dad's arm and begins the procession towards her soon-to-be husband? I wonder if her voice will catch on a ball of tears as she repeats her vows? I wonder if she will laugh instead because she cannot contain her happy.
All of these thoughts, and more, slip in and out of my focus today, as I count centerpieces, check off wedding favors, and scribble a new list of last-minutes.
She looked like Snow White when she was little. All that pale skin and dark hair with big, blue eyes that absorbed the world. It's hard to convince people how shy she was in her early years. Introverted. That's what the teachers called her.
She doesn't say a lot.
She doesn't have very many friends.
Of course, the anxiety started immediately. I worried she would grow up friendless and lonely, wearing an obscene amount of black eyeliner with combat boots to make the statement she didn't need anyone, but would cry in the bathroom stall at school because no one would speak to her. She wouldn't have a boyfriend, go to prom, or have sleepovers with her 4 closest friends. I wouldn't hear them all squeal when talking about the cute boys while demolishing bags of potato chips. Oh, how I worried.
You know, like any mother would.
It was at her 3rd grade parent/ teacher conference when we were asked to speak to her about talking in class.
She was a chatterbox and it was distracting.
Her dad and I nodded our heads in agreement, dutiful parents who are taking the teacher's recommendations seriously, but when we walked out of the class and around the corner, we high-fived each other in triumph.
She's talking! Too much, even! And she has friends!! Parent win! (all the flexing, fist bump emojis here)
And we never brought it up to Bre.
Last week, while I sat on a green rug, in an unfamiliar living room, with eight other people I am still getting to know, a sweet friend, said a prayer for me.
"Lord, don't let all the preparation steal her joy. Let her enjoy this time with her daughter, this time of her wedding."
The simplicity and truth of it was so profound, it knocked the breath right out of me.
Sometimes when people pray, I am fervently trying to focus on what they are saying but actually thinking, "Oh my gosh - are they ever going to stop? This is taking f o r e v e r." (we've ALL thought this. COME ON.)
But not this time. Not this prayer. I wanted to stop time for just a little bit, seconds even, to let it soak all the way in. I wanted to grab her hand, and say,
wait,
slow down,
say it again,
say it ten times.
I can't forget this.
It was truth and need. It was spirit interceding for spirit. It was God seeing me when I hadn't asked him to.
You see, so much had been hard to enjoy. Oh sure, a few glimpses, some smiles and laughs, ... but mostly, moments of being happy she was enjoying the process, not because I was.
I know. It isn't about me. It's not. I am SO THANKFUL she is having every precious second of this process. I pray always it is, and will be, everything she hopes and more.
But there is a place for me too.
As her mom.
As the one who carried her in my body, whispered in her ear, cheered her achievements, listened to her dreams, prayed for her wisdom, and loved her through every second of her life. I have held her heart, her victories, her secrets, her disappointments, her wailing's, and her pain.
I have held it all inside my body as if it were my own, letting it beat with my beat and breathe with my breath.
And now, the next thing, the next beautiful step, just days away.
There hasn't been any time to sit and savor.
The list much too long. Time much too short.
And me, much too inadequate.
All this wedding planning and crafting and doing has left me feeling very small.
This is a job for someone else. Someone who knows how to decorate, and entertain, and be all things girly.
Someone who is not me. Someone who is better.
And this is the time I certainly cannot fail. I cannot. I must do the BEST job for her.
My best is not even good enough.
It must be perfect. It is her wedding.
And so to compensate for all my short-comings I am painfully aware of, I am unable to sit in any one thing for more than a few minutes before my mind begins jumping into the next to-do.
I had unconsciously crossed over from a Mary to a Martha.
And in doing so, I had let every opportunity for joy and excitement, slip into the crevices of lists and worry and an abyss of self-doubt.
Thank God for honest (and to the point) prayers.
I'll tell you the first time I really let myself live as mother-of-the-bride.
Not semi-wedding planner. Not list maker. Not bouquet taper.
Just her mommy.
I was stopped at a red light on a country road and I checked my Facebook.
Her post from minutes before was the first in my feed.
"Ten more days until I marry my best friend!"
I remember how I felt when I married my best friend.
I remember the thrill, the giddy, the shout-it-from-the-rooftops-I-want-the-whole-world-to-know-I-am-almost-hitched euphoria.
And I could feel it in my daughter's post. I could picture the giant smile on her face. I could imagine the dreams in her head, all hearts and waterfalls and big blue ocean.
And I began to cry.
Because guess what everyone?
MY DAUGHTER IS GETTING MARRIED!!!
My daughter, the once shy chatterbox who is now a fearless woman with a heart that sees; is going to walk down the aisle and start her own life, with all its twists and turns and road bumps, with her best friend.
I have one week left.
One week left to savor every second. One week left to be needed in this specific way. One week left to be her "Mommy" before she is someone else's "Wife."
I am going to try my hardest to walk this week as Mary, sitting in each precious moment, resting in my role as her mom.
I have one week left.
Let it be all joy.
XO
In six days I will watch her have her make-up done,
slip into her wedding dress,
cover her face with a veil.
I wonder if she will laugh in nervousness? Cry in excitement?
I wonder if she will notice as her hands shake when she takes her dad's arm and begins the procession towards her soon-to-be husband? I wonder if her voice will catch on a ball of tears as she repeats her vows? I wonder if she will laugh instead because she cannot contain her happy.
All of these thoughts, and more, slip in and out of my focus today, as I count centerpieces, check off wedding favors, and scribble a new list of last-minutes.
She looked like Snow White when she was little. All that pale skin and dark hair with big, blue eyes that absorbed the world. It's hard to convince people how shy she was in her early years. Introverted. That's what the teachers called her.
She doesn't say a lot.
She doesn't have very many friends.
Of course, the anxiety started immediately. I worried she would grow up friendless and lonely, wearing an obscene amount of black eyeliner with combat boots to make the statement she didn't need anyone, but would cry in the bathroom stall at school because no one would speak to her. She wouldn't have a boyfriend, go to prom, or have sleepovers with her 4 closest friends. I wouldn't hear them all squeal when talking about the cute boys while demolishing bags of potato chips. Oh, how I worried.
You know, like any mother would.
It was at her 3rd grade parent/ teacher conference when we were asked to speak to her about talking in class.
She was a chatterbox and it was distracting.
Her dad and I nodded our heads in agreement, dutiful parents who are taking the teacher's recommendations seriously, but when we walked out of the class and around the corner, we high-fived each other in triumph.
She's talking! Too much, even! And she has friends!! Parent win! (all the flexing, fist bump emojis here)
And we never brought it up to Bre.
Last week, while I sat on a green rug, in an unfamiliar living room, with eight other people I am still getting to know, a sweet friend, said a prayer for me.
"Lord, don't let all the preparation steal her joy. Let her enjoy this time with her daughter, this time of her wedding."
The simplicity and truth of it was so profound, it knocked the breath right out of me.
Sometimes when people pray, I am fervently trying to focus on what they are saying but actually thinking, "Oh my gosh - are they ever going to stop? This is taking f o r e v e r." (we've ALL thought this. COME ON.)
But not this time. Not this prayer. I wanted to stop time for just a little bit, seconds even, to let it soak all the way in. I wanted to grab her hand, and say,
wait,
slow down,
say it again,
say it ten times.
I can't forget this.
It was truth and need. It was spirit interceding for spirit. It was God seeing me when I hadn't asked him to.
You see, so much had been hard to enjoy. Oh sure, a few glimpses, some smiles and laughs, ... but mostly, moments of being happy she was enjoying the process, not because I was.
I know. It isn't about me. It's not. I am SO THANKFUL she is having every precious second of this process. I pray always it is, and will be, everything she hopes and more.
But there is a place for me too.
As her mom.
As the one who carried her in my body, whispered in her ear, cheered her achievements, listened to her dreams, prayed for her wisdom, and loved her through every second of her life. I have held her heart, her victories, her secrets, her disappointments, her wailing's, and her pain.
I have held it all inside my body as if it were my own, letting it beat with my beat and breathe with my breath.
And now, the next thing, the next beautiful step, just days away.
There hasn't been any time to sit and savor.
The list much too long. Time much too short.
And me, much too inadequate.
All this wedding planning and crafting and doing has left me feeling very small.
This is a job for someone else. Someone who knows how to decorate, and entertain, and be all things girly.
Someone who is not me. Someone who is better.
And this is the time I certainly cannot fail. I cannot. I must do the BEST job for her.
My best is not even good enough.
It must be perfect. It is her wedding.
And so to compensate for all my short-comings I am painfully aware of, I am unable to sit in any one thing for more than a few minutes before my mind begins jumping into the next to-do.
I had unconsciously crossed over from a Mary to a Martha.
And in doing so, I had let every opportunity for joy and excitement, slip into the crevices of lists and worry and an abyss of self-doubt.
Thank God for honest (and to the point) prayers.
I'll tell you the first time I really let myself live as mother-of-the-bride.
Not semi-wedding planner. Not list maker. Not bouquet taper.
Just her mommy.
I was stopped at a red light on a country road and I checked my Facebook.
Her post from minutes before was the first in my feed.
"Ten more days until I marry my best friend!"
I remember how I felt when I married my best friend.
I remember the thrill, the giddy, the shout-it-from-the-rooftops-I-want-the-whole-world-to-know-I-am-almost-hitched euphoria.
And I could feel it in my daughter's post. I could picture the giant smile on her face. I could imagine the dreams in her head, all hearts and waterfalls and big blue ocean.
And I began to cry.
Because guess what everyone?
MY DAUGHTER IS GETTING MARRIED!!!
My daughter, the once shy chatterbox who is now a fearless woman with a heart that sees; is going to walk down the aisle and start her own life, with all its twists and turns and road bumps, with her best friend.
I have one week left.
One week left to savor every second. One week left to be needed in this specific way. One week left to be her "Mommy" before she is someone else's "Wife."
I am going to try my hardest to walk this week as Mary, sitting in each precious moment, resting in my role as her mom.
I have one week left.
Let it be all joy.
XO
Jan 19, 2015
Awestruck
I could not take my eyes off the lightening. It stretched and ripped across the night, making everything else fall back into the peripheral. I turned my head to blurt out to the guy sitting next to me, "Hey! Did you see that?" But his headphones were on and his eyes were closed and he wouldn't have seen it anyway - I had the window seat. I looked around to check if anyone else had their face glued to the 1x1 pane but no, people were nodding off, reading, staring at the tv, completely oblivious to what was happening outside, high up in the air with us.
I turned back to the window. I must have stared in silence for five minutes. The lightening didn't look any farther away; in fact, it looked closer. Like it was dancing towards us, a zigzag salsa, a rolling of the hips, a tease in its legs.
"I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now I'm not." Step back. "I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now, I'm not." Step back.
The black turned gray and pinkish against the clouds as the lightening sliced through the air again.
Almost at the same time, the plane rocked.
What?
I must be imagining things.
Again, the lightening flashed.
Again, the plane rocked.
My heart thumped. I closed my eyes.
I gripped my armrest.
There it was again!
And we rocked, again.
I am not a flyer. I mean, I will fly if needed and I don't have to be completely inebriated to do so, but I prefer to drive. Oh, I know the statistics, you're far more likely to get into a car crash than a plane crash and blah blah blah, but I can't help it. There is something especially terrifying about hanging in the air in a metal tube. I mean, if a bird the size of my foot can take it down if it gets caught in the fan blade ... how safe can it be? And I don't care how many times I see a flight attendant demonstrate how your seat becomes a raft if you hit the ocean; I for one, will pray for an immediate heart attack. I don't even think I would have to pray. It would just happen. My heart will thump so fast in terror it will literally thump itself out and I will squeeze my eyes and meet Jesus before anything crashes, explodes, or gets sucked into the ocean full of giant sharks to match their giant teeth.
I opened my eyes.
Yes. The lightening was definitely closer.
It shot across the sky, eerily defined, it seemed like I could make out each electrical pulse.
The plane rocked ...
and then dipped down.
People began shifting in their seats. I could hear them murmuring, "Whoa! Did you feel that?"
Yes, yes I did.
And then with each flash across the sky:
f e a r.
It's as if it had been waiting on the floor, hiding under the seats, staying out of sight until it was ready to make its move. And move it did.
I felt it start in my toes as they clenched and squished in my flip flops. I felt exposed, like I needed a blanket, or at least some socks. Up it crept, until my hands were clammy and my heart was racing and panic prayers erupted in my skull.
What's a panic prayer? This is a panic prayer.
"Oh my Jesus. Oh my Jesus. I don't want to die. helpme helpme helpme ..."
Perhaps you have said these before too.
I normally have them when I wake from a nightmare, get a call from the school principal, or when I ride in airplanes with lightening right outside my window.
I was starting to FREAK OUT.
I did the only thing I know how to do when things are bigger than me.
I began to pray.
Something slightly more literate than a panic prayer, but not much.
And then I was reminded of a boat that rocked and bounced in the storm while Jesus slept. I was reminded of how the disciples panicked as they saw the waves and the black sky. I was reminded of what they said to Jesus.
"Wake up! Save us! Oh Lord, don't you even care that we are going to die?!"
A panic prayer if I have ever heard one.
Oh sure, we can try and justify ourselves by saying, "Well, Jesus was right there. He was with them! Why would they panic?"
But isn't He right there with us too? Wasn't he with me?
“You of little faith, why are you so afraid?”
And then I wasn't.
Just like that.
Praise God.
I looked back out the window.
The lightening was still striking. (I know - biggest storm ever it seems like.)
The plane still rocked.
But now I could see how beautiful it was.. how magnificent. I noticed all the color in the clouds as the lightening went through them. It was so ... pretty. My fear had been replaced by awe. The awesomeness of God and the power of his majesty. My mouth hung open just a little.
I wonder.
How many times do we allow the Enemy (because that's where fear comes from) to keep us so focused on that one thing, and make us so afraid, that we fail to see the beauty of our situation? And there is beauty. In all things.
You may think there isn't, that there couldn't possibly be ... but that is the Enemy.
God says,
I will turn beauty from ashes.
My mercies are new every morning.
Great is My faithfulness.
And great it is my friends. Great it is.
XOXO
I turned back to the window. I must have stared in silence for five minutes. The lightening didn't look any farther away; in fact, it looked closer. Like it was dancing towards us, a zigzag salsa, a rolling of the hips, a tease in its legs.
"I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now I'm not." Step back. "I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now, I'm not." Step back.
The black turned gray and pinkish against the clouds as the lightening sliced through the air again.
Almost at the same time, the plane rocked.
What?
I must be imagining things.
Again, the lightening flashed.
Again, the plane rocked.
My heart thumped. I closed my eyes.
I gripped my armrest.
There it was again!
And we rocked, again.
I am not a flyer. I mean, I will fly if needed and I don't have to be completely inebriated to do so, but I prefer to drive. Oh, I know the statistics, you're far more likely to get into a car crash than a plane crash and blah blah blah, but I can't help it. There is something especially terrifying about hanging in the air in a metal tube. I mean, if a bird the size of my foot can take it down if it gets caught in the fan blade ... how safe can it be? And I don't care how many times I see a flight attendant demonstrate how your seat becomes a raft if you hit the ocean; I for one, will pray for an immediate heart attack. I don't even think I would have to pray. It would just happen. My heart will thump so fast in terror it will literally thump itself out and I will squeeze my eyes and meet Jesus before anything crashes, explodes, or gets sucked into the ocean full of giant sharks to match their giant teeth.
I opened my eyes.
Yes. The lightening was definitely closer.
It shot across the sky, eerily defined, it seemed like I could make out each electrical pulse.
The plane rocked ...
and then dipped down.
People began shifting in their seats. I could hear them murmuring, "Whoa! Did you feel that?"
Yes, yes I did.
And then with each flash across the sky:
f e a r.
It's as if it had been waiting on the floor, hiding under the seats, staying out of sight until it was ready to make its move. And move it did.
I felt it start in my toes as they clenched and squished in my flip flops. I felt exposed, like I needed a blanket, or at least some socks. Up it crept, until my hands were clammy and my heart was racing and panic prayers erupted in my skull.
What's a panic prayer? This is a panic prayer.
"Oh my Jesus. Oh my Jesus. I don't want to die. helpme helpme helpme ..."
Perhaps you have said these before too.
I normally have them when I wake from a nightmare, get a call from the school principal, or when I ride in airplanes with lightening right outside my window.
I was starting to FREAK OUT.
I did the only thing I know how to do when things are bigger than me.
I began to pray.
Something slightly more literate than a panic prayer, but not much.
And then I was reminded of a boat that rocked and bounced in the storm while Jesus slept. I was reminded of how the disciples panicked as they saw the waves and the black sky. I was reminded of what they said to Jesus.
"Wake up! Save us! Oh Lord, don't you even care that we are going to die?!"
A panic prayer if I have ever heard one.
Oh sure, we can try and justify ourselves by saying, "Well, Jesus was right there. He was with them! Why would they panic?"
But isn't He right there with us too? Wasn't he with me?
“You of little faith, why are you so afraid?”
And then I wasn't.
Just like that.
Praise God.
I looked back out the window.
The lightening was still striking. (I know - biggest storm ever it seems like.)
The plane still rocked.
But now I could see how beautiful it was.. how magnificent. I noticed all the color in the clouds as the lightening went through them. It was so ... pretty. My fear had been replaced by awe. The awesomeness of God and the power of his majesty. My mouth hung open just a little.
I wonder.
How many times do we allow the Enemy (because that's where fear comes from) to keep us so focused on that one thing, and make us so afraid, that we fail to see the beauty of our situation? And there is beauty. In all things.
You may think there isn't, that there couldn't possibly be ... but that is the Enemy.
God says,
I will turn beauty from ashes.
My mercies are new every morning.
Great is My faithfulness.
And great it is my friends. Great it is.
XOXO
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
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 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.
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.
Apr 9, 2014
What is my darkest anyway?
On my facebook page, my cover photo displays a heart with this in the middle, "Shannon - I have loved you at your darkest. I have always loved you. - God."
It's beautiful to me and ever so comforting. I don't know how dark your darkness is, but mine is intense. The kind of dark that makes you wonder if you still exist or if you are floating into nothing. dark. alone. small.
So what is my darkest anyway?
And where did God say that? Because it sounds surprising hip and not very King Jamesey.
When i think of my darkest, my first thoughts are of all the bad things that have happened to me. Things in which i had no control. Things that make me shudder and whimper and want to puke. Those things are black. Yes, yes they are. But are those my darkest? I mean i can claim them as parts of my life but i can't own them as my own. They are things some other evil did to me. And yes, God loved me there (that's a whole other post)or I would not have made it through ... But what are MY things? What dark did I spread? Because if God loved me at my darkest - He loved me in my own darkness.
Not as easy to write.
But i know what they are.
All the times i tore someone down with my words, peeling their feelings away from their heart, layer by layer with each swipe of my sharp tongue. I could stop there and it would be enough. Don't scoff. Don't say,"that's not so bad". Because it is. Oh yes it is dear friends. Still not convinced?
How would you like to hear..
I don't love you anymore. * You're getting fat. * I wish you had never been born. * Why do you make my life so hard? It would be easier if you were just gone. * I hate you. * You make me sick. * I should just kill myself and everyone would be happier. *I hate me. * You're not my friend anymore. *
Can you feel it friends? Can you feel the darkness slithering up on you with each statement? I can. Some of these i have said. Some have been said to me. This is dark.
Or how about lust? Oh i know... lust?! What's the big deal? The world makes it so easy to lust doesn't it? We see so much skin, it's become commonplace. We tell ourselves it's ok if we look, if our spouse looks, because no one wants to be THAT girl - the one that isn't "secure" right? The one that must have self-esteem issues. The one that is a prude and no fun. We want to be the cool chick.
lie. lie. lie.
It's amazing how we fight for so many things but when it comes to our marriages we throw boundaries out the window, we practically shove them out the door, and then we wonder why things fall apart later? But i digress. That is another post as well.
What about MY lust? Looking too long at someone that is not mine. Allowing myself to think, to imagine, what it would be like. Fantasy. I know. It's just fantasy, right? It's not real. It's just in my head. And here's the best part - no one else has to know. Oh secrets secrets. How you trap us from the inside out. It's dark here friends. My dark. Because the more you lust, the more unsatisfied you become. The more your spouse starts to irritate you. The more you notice his nose hairs aren't trimmed and did he really just fart again?! He didn't take out the trash and he bought you flowers but geez, doesn't he know by now what my favorite is? The itch spreads. The complaint list grows. Distance becomes reality. You can both feel it. Gratefulness has been replaced bitterness. Gentleness for abrasion. And it all started in my head.
There are other darks. The Enemy is doing the happy dance right now with placards being raised to remind me of them all. "Smoker!" "Drunk!" "Rude!" "Unforgiving!" "Impatient!" "Road-rage freak!" "Shopper at Target when there is no money!"
You get it.
So I'm going to stop now and move into the light. You know, the love part.
Where does it say God loved me at my darkest?
It's a paraphrase folks. Of the coolest kind. This is what it does say ...
But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5:8
Now for some of you, the whole "sin" word puts your panties in a bunch. That's kind of your issue. Sin. Wrong-doing. Bad choices. Whatever package you want to wrap it in - it's still sin. You know it. How? Because you felt guilty when you did it and some really bad stuff went down afterward.
For some of us - for me - love has not been easy. I have always always had the fear of doing something wrong and i would lose it. This has been my truth. More than twice. Losing love. Because i wasn't worth it.
But here - in this verse - a new truth.
While i was still a sinner.... while i lusted, while i tore down, while i was drunk, while i was high, while i screamed there is no God, while i had sex with people i did not know, while i took my frustrations out on my kids, while i nagged, while i was selfish, while i laughed when someone else was down, while i did all these and more - he loved me anyway. he wanted me anyway. he waited for me anyway.
darkness. gave way to light.
Apr 7, 2014
hello ...
i love to write. it has been my dream to write a book. why a book? well it just seemed like the most natural thing to do. writers write books.
But here's the thing - i am not a very good book writer.
I am unorganized. I am a little scattered. And i have a tendency to get stuck. Some can write their darkest, set down their pen, and go eat a piece of cake. I write my darkest, throw my pen against a wall, and eat the entire cake. My mind can't say "see ya later" to the dark spot. It's like checking into a hotel thinking it will be a quick overnight and next thing you know, you are renting the room by the month. And we all know what those hotels look like. Say hello to sleeping with the lights on and not walking around with bare feet. You get it.
So for now, the book is out. i have to admit, this really bothered me. I thought to myself, "Why God? Why did you give me this desire but not the follow-through? I mean, i feel like LOSER is stamped on my forehead."
And then God answered me. I think he tried to answer me a long time ago but i wouldn't stop talking at him long enough to hear ... or maybe i thought i heard but dismissed the idea as not good enough. Weird right?
Real writers don't blog.
Do they?
i have no idea. i am not sure what makes a "real writer" anymore. All i know for pretty certain, certain enough that i don't feel like i need to swallow a bottle of pepto to quell the queasiness, is this, this blog thing, feels pretty alright.
So here i am. and here you are.
Can i just say thank you for reading this at all? I know there are so many options, and not a lot of time. My hope is that you find hope in this. That it makes your day a little easier, a little brighter, or at the very least, that you feel understood. If you can ever read anything i write and think, "yessss" then that would make my heart pump a little faster. Isn't that what we all want? Just to be seen.
What will this blog be about? I asked God that too.
Remember i said i am a little unorganized? a little scattered? So expect that.
It will be about life,
and stuff,
and everything.
Some will be daises and butterflies... others will look like something from Coraline - dark and creepy with the distinct impression something is not right. But that's life. At least what i have seen so far. I love the daises and butterflies ... but i will face that dark. i will take hold of the creepy. and together we will stare down the things that just are not right.
we will do this together.
I'm in.
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