Month: September 2013

Parents or Grands?

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If you just glanced in their direction, they looked like many other young couples you might see in our area. With a quick scan, they seemed the kind of couple that may leave some of us wanting to eat healthier and update our hair style.
Tall, well-manicured and clean-shaven, carrying themselves with an ease and confidence that was anything but hurried.

So when the waddling blonde who stretched just to the top of their knees and sucking a pink binky reached for grown-up arms, I wasn’t sure if I was looking at mom and dad or grandma and grandpa.

I studied him, the way his gray started above his ears and sloped down to his neck like sunglasses with a neck strap. I searched her face for wrinkles and blotchy skin. But I couldn’t really tell from the mixed messages of her lustrous, A-line bob and his dark wash, bootcut jeans. It could have gone either way: they started having kids early…or late.

The guitar of our lead worship pastor strummed, voices harmonized. I was singing. And I was still looking at the seats in front of me.

Little one wanted up, and so she was.
Little one was bored, so the Iphone she played.
Little one was tired, and so they rocked.

Snuggles, snacks, Siri. All of it was marveled by the two adults taking care of her.

That’s how I figured it out, of course, that they were grandparents. They were much too patient.

A place for the ugly and inadequate

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The end of my nose is as cold as my toes while I sit on my bed, laptop on my legs. I’m feeling uninspired, disconnected from myself and pressured to blog. It’s been a couple days, I should keep up. But what to say?

If Natalite Goldberg were here she would tell me to just start writing. “Junk,” even.

So that’s what I do. A list of sorts, the words staggered like the black and white of piano keys, down the binding of my journal.

Talk to Mom in the car.
Tears.
Psalm 34
Rabbit food for dinner.
Sore throat.
Meeting.
Dark when I get home.

It seems so pointless. How do I ever find anything about which to write?
Dig. Deeper. Deeper still.

I start to realize I’m holding back. This public arena, it’s a place to be honest and vent and explore, but with everything? How do I know what I give here will be handled respectfully, delicately, or honored? I don’t. It is unsafe.

And isn’t this the waltz of relationships? (I’m not really a waltz kind of gal but hokey pokey didn’t really flow)

“Healthy relationship is defined by commitment,” I heard recently. “I can show you everything because I know you aren’t going anywhere.”

Ah, a place for the ugly and inadequate parts of me. Yes, that is a risky place. I often do this backwards. There’s coffee in the hands and friendship in the works and I dive right in. The good, the bad, the ugly. I pour out, tell it all, because that’s how you make friends, right? No one wants to hang out with someone who is nicely sharpened all the time. But it’s around this time when  I hear the force of an uneasy laugh, see the twist of a wrist as the person across from me checks their watch. I recognize these signs from before, and it’s a palm in my face that says: You, are too much. And instead of getting commitment, I get rejection. Instead of connection, a void. It’s left me cut and careful.

But they need to be known, these less-than-sparkling pieces of me.

“We hide our truest selves and offer only what we believe is wanted, what is safe. We act in self-protective ways and refuse to offer what we truly see, believe, and know. We will not risk rejection or looking like a fool. We have spoken in the past and been met with blank stares and mocking guffaws. We will not do it again. We hide because we are afraid. We have been wounded and wounded deeply. People have sinned against us and we have sinned as well. To hide means to remain safe, to hurt less. At least that is what we think. And so by hiding we take matters into our own hands. We don’t return to our God with our broken and desperate hearts. And it has never occurred to us that in all our hiding, something precious is also lost- something the world needs from us so very, very much.”                               -John Eldredge, Captivating

So I tread lightly, until I know you are safe. And then I vomit my heart all over you. Consider it a privilege.  

I CAN’T

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Pick the things that matter the most to you in the moment, and do those.

The dishes have piled their way up to the spout of the water filter and next to the lip of sink. I can smell last night’s taco meat on some of them when I walk back into the house after taking my kids to school. Gallons of apple juice and ungodly amounts of syrup are neatly in row by the coffee pot. A pink and yellow polka dot jacket is crumpled on the floor, along with Barbies, a Build-A-Bear friend, clothing tags ripped off in the rush of morning rituals, crumbs from various meals over the last two days, play pots…Are you tired yet? Get it together, this is only the first level.

Upstairs is folded and unfolded laundry in procession, all my son’s blankets (why are those out?), dirty clothes, books, a pink car, a pink hippo, combs, hairspray, a towel that’s pushing the bathroom rug into a mess and making me want to ring the neck of the careless ingrate that put it there, blue toothpaste…everywhere.

And I’m supposed to exercise, because it’s good for me.

And I need to eat balanced, because I should be healthy.

And I could use a shower, because I’m in a marriage and it’s a teensy bit important.

And I need to make my bed, because that one act alone can make my entire bedroom feel picked up.

And I need to put my little one down for nap.

And brush my teeth.

And write and read, because that’s for me and the only way to survive this stage of life is have a little me.

And I CAN’T. I. Just. Can’t.

So I won’t. I’m picking what matters most to me today.

The taco smell, gone.
The preschooler, down.
The bed.
The shower, not the make-up.
The writing and reading.
And the rest will wait. Because when my older two hop down the bus steps, my youngest wakes up warm and soft, and my sawdusted husband walks through the garage door, I will look them in the eye and ask, “How was your day?” and mean to know it.

Dads are Superheroes

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He’s the first to notice that Dad is missing.

Like a fan of feathers, his hair is sprawling, uninhibited, unaware, the same way he sleeps. Crumbs of brown sugar toast are still around the edges of his mouth when he asks if he can go outside.

“Sure,” I say. I know what he’s looking for.

He is eager, alive.

The girls are inside. One of them, arms as noodle-like as the scarf she’s twirling, is humming and singing as she spins. The other one has three princesses on her shirt and is combing Barbie’s pink and blonde hair.

“Yours is so ratty and if you don’t stop that you are gonna get a spankin’.”

It is a stark contrast. And it is the outside that draws me today.

Dad is climbing a mountain of a ladder. With a bad back no less. There are large paint buckets filled with swirls near his feet, trails of hoses, and a schizophrenic motor that isn’t sure if it needs to be on or off. There are rollers, brushes, and tape. There is brown paper lining the windows and tarps for drips.

And there is a boy in Iron Man pajama pants, hanging out with his very own superhero.  

“…the silence is too big, my voice too alone.”

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I break through the hush in the room because it’s my turn. I am awkward, in the medium between child and adult, and trying to find my way to the person that is me. Normally I relish the chance to perform, always wanting the biggest speaking part or sweetest solo in junior choir. But on this day, the silence is too big, my voice too alone. I know that I have to start, and once I do I can’t stop or I’ll look foolish.

Every desk is facing me, as is my entire sense of worth. It is more than I can handle and it’s closing in so fast that my heart speeds to catch up. I feel out of my body, detached from anything but the fact that I’m on show. So I do the only thing that will connect me back to myself. I run out of the classroom.

“It’s my skin that is difficult to escape.”           -Ann Voskamp

Over a decade and through a thousand more episodes like this one, I’m sitting in therapy angry, drained, and desperate for answers. I’d pleaded with God to take it away, I’d been to counseling for years, and pretty much tried everything short of bleeding out, though that seemed like a viable option at the time.

“It’s very manageable. Don’t worry, we’ll tackle this,” the psychiatrist tells me. I nearly break at her words. Thank. God.

Panic disorder. It is part of me. But it’s not who I am.

At my worst I’d have ten attacks a day. I was scared to make phone calls, avoided study groups. In college I dropped out of courses (though I forced myself to do public speaking and barely survived), or simply skipped projects that required my stage presence. I remember calling my counselor at one point, my second child just a tot, and asking her if this was something I should be concerned about.

“I would be worried if you were having one attack a day. Ten is a problem.”

Well okay then.

It took the right doctor, the right medication at the right dose, and some serious cognitive therapy, which are just fancy words for stare it in the eye and don’t back down. It’s a “God, hold my hand every step because I just don’t know if I can do this,” kind of deal.  

The truth? I will always have this. It will float around in the background of my life until my hair is silver and I can’t stand on my own feet without help. It’s a genetic predisposition on my mom’s side, which is comforting that if Chase gets fed up with me and sends me to the loony bin, I’ll have company. 

It takes some kind of strong to be with a person who goes through days of anxiety. That just needs to be said.

Also the truth, I don’t have to let it control me. I make the decisions around here. Like cancer or diabetes, it’s a daily choice to stay as healthy and vibrant as I can. There are good days and hard ones. Setbacks and progressions.

But I choose to fight, and “live life to the fullest.” -Jesus

Parenting Grown-Ups

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Arms folded tight across my chest, my jaw jutted out (Chase does a great impression of this) I was thinking, “I’ve got him. I’m beyond right, I’m brilliant.”

Often, I was. But is that the point?

I grew up an only child, caught in the crosshairs of a civil divorce. What they say is true, a great divorce is still a divorce. Luckily, I’m close to all my parents. But one of the aftereffects of this was my uncanny ability to relate to people older than me. Add to this the fact my mom worked at a college campus where I spent many of my post-school hours and summer days. I was surrounded by them: grown-ups.

After kindergarten I’d go straight to the president’s office (the father of my mom’s best friend) and schmooze him with my charm. He’d give me snacks. I returned daily.

I hung out with 20-something’s on a regular basis, was really good at P-I-G because I had a basketball rim at my constant disposal, and knew all the professors on a first-name basis, though I still said Mr. Then I’d go home to my mom, another grown-up.

It was a couple years into marriage that I realized my husband didn’t have the same appreciation for these stellar relational skills. In fact, he thought they were downright annoying. Recently I’ve also learned that I tend to communicate aggressively when things don’t go my way. Said husband would also say this is not a becoming quality of mine.

But so became our toxic dance.

“You come home and just check out.”

“Nothing’s ever good enough for you.”

Round and bitterly around we went for a long time. I was the parent who was always picking up the slack. He was never reaching the bar.

We both wanted to be seen. I wanted him to know that when he was in the room, I still felt alone. He wanted me know that all his hard work all day long was for us. I wanted him to know that connecting was important to me. He wanted me to know that he was doing that the best he knew how.

“He’ll always fail you, you know. He can’t really fill you. No human can,” said an oh-so-wise woman to me once. 

Huh. Are you sure? Because I’m pretty certain if he acted exactly like Westley in The Princess Bride everything would be fine.

Of course she was right. People let me down, all the time. They’re people, I’m people and that equals mess. I haven’t mastered this perfect balance of give and take, love and let live. It turns out, grown-ups can think for themselves. It turns out, so can I. And when I do, I have a lot more to actually offer.

Eveyone is someone’s, someone.

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Savage, rushing water sounds like city traffic. And it can be just as deadly if you are caught unprotected in it’s eye.

Was she screaming? Did she try to claw her way to higher ground, hungry and even weaker in her frail bones than normal? Did she grip the backs of her ears with stiff, aged fingers to try to block the sound of what was coming? When it finally found her feet, was the water frigid, muddy, and full of pieces of her neighbor’s front porch furniture?

She was born somewhere around 1933, Roosevelt’s inaugural year. She would live through 13 president’s in all, including the first black leader of our country. Is that what went through her mind as her living room became a pool? Her best friend in grade school, her mom’s famous casserole, the kiss her lover gave her on their wedding day, WWII and it’s end, Tom and Jerry in black and white, Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier in baseball, the Civil Rights Act, a new baby boy or the constant emptiness of her arms, fighting and bills and anniversaries, Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, Elvis dying, the economy swinging up then down a thousand times, grandbabies, death and loss.

 A life. A legacy.

At a certain point that day, she had to know how it would end. That it would end. And in all the ways we go did she ever guess that this was going to be her journey?

Maybe she was in her Sunday best. Stockings, pearls, and heels that clasped at ankles. Her hair perfect and sprayed stable, maybe she wore her favorite cotton dress with pearl buttons and the earrings she got for Mother’s Day one year. Maybe she sat peaceful, pretty, clutching her tattered Bible and family albums, waiting for Him to take her home.

However she died, whatever she was thinking, she is now dearly missed. Everyone is someone’s, someone.  

This is based on a news story of a woman who died in the Colorado flooding last week. Please join me in praying for the families who have lost loved ones and homes in this devastating event.

Twangy, Southern Drawl

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Masculine, brawny, deep. I’ve decided I want Sam Elliott’s voice to narrate my life.

If Siri had this option, I’d buy an IPhone. If an out-of-my-reach sports car had his husky tones in the navigation system, I’d make payments for the rest of my life.

I remember him most for his roles in Prancer and Tombstone. So naturally, now I want to live on a farm in the arctic and drink whiskey.

I want to ride sidesaddle in an ankle-length dress made of silk and lace that collects in a bustle in the back. 

I want to run a Dodge truck over boulders and through the mud.

I want to eat steak and wash it down with the Banquet Beer.

And I just think things like stirring oatmeal or folding size 3T underwear would somehow be a little more heroic with that twangy, southern drawl in the background.  

It Matters

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Tragedy.

An icy road that takes a parent’s only child.

The stroke that racks the body of a grandma loved by three generations.

Cancer that ravages organs of a husband’s true love.

Despair so deep it grips the soul of a teenager until their one relief comes with taking their own life.

A single defining day when our home’s soil was attacked, forever changing the lives of hundreds of people, and a great country.

Life lost matters; it is never easy. We remember with an ache because we know what once was. We know what used to fill the remains, the void, the dry bones of a building.

We don’t forget, and we stand tall. With courage, we fight to keep going. Because tragedy doesn’t define us.

“And Life Comes Back”

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She always says I’m so cute, but she’s the one with playful red curls framing her face.

I met her on a retreat last spring during a winter season in my life. Pacing the hallway of our hotel I demanded of myself to pull together, but her words had pierced me so deeply. As she finished with a couple other women I walked to her, in pieces. She held my hand and did not look away. She waited, quietly, for words I couldn’t say. Finally she filled the heavy silence.

“Sweet girl, I want to talk to you. But I think this is bigger than me.”
I slobbered. “Yes, you are very perceptive.”

Five months later I’m reaching for her hand over lemon pound cake and an old-fashioned chocolate doughnut. She looked weary, tired and told me for the millionth time, “He was so great, B.” I believe her, though I don’t know for myself. We sit there, crying together over the man whom she loved and is no longer here.

Mere hours after this, I am back to the driveling. The bus has left the school where my two older kids attend and I am unable to peel myself away from her words. I need to go, walk down the sidewalk, but how? Stuck in the first chapter of her book, the story that feels utterly real in the moment, I simply count each minute and get in as much as I can.
Not to mention, my face looks like I just had a run-in with a loving St. Bernard. No child should be greeted from school like that.

“There are no words to describe the hollow, piercing ache.”  -Tricia Lott Williford

This book, her writing will grab you immediately and it won’t let you go for long after you finish the last page. It is a story she lives, tells with audacity, and invites you to see.

It is two days before Christmas when this much-too-young woman takes the title widow. And she isn’t the only one he leaves. Two tender-aged boys journey this with her.

You will read how she navigates being there when her husband died, anger, memories, a double parenting duty, post trauma panic, and the hope for more. She, does, not, hold back.

“I am wordless, swept away by the long lost ideas of home and safety.”

“We pray for healing, but I wonder if we really know what we’re asking for. Is there greater glory in a pain free life, or in his people knowing and trusting him in the shadowed valley?”

“I was furious. Furious that they didn’t watch, furious that my heart spills into my lungs and makes it hard to breathe, furious that he isn’t here.”

–Tricia Lott Williford

The curls fly, her chin points up, mouth open. She laughs full and genuine. It is a great sound for someone with a great sense of humor and it’s evident in her writing. You will laugh with her, and find one of the most beautiful parts of her personality.

She is so authentic, this friend of mine. Her boys ask, and she answers…anything. The memories come, and she doesn’t hide from the hard ones. In fact, she dialogues a fight they had once. She talks openly about death and then dares to move forward.

“I have to let him go. The strings that keep us attached are the same chords that keep me tethered. I have to let go. This is the only way I can hold tightly to the memories, keep them sacred without taunting them.”

“The truth is, if and when the new daddy and I find each other, that’s a gift I intend to give him: he won’t have to fill a void. It won’t be his task to replace what has been lost, to heal my heart, to create my joy. There will be a new place that will be all his…”

–Tricia Lott Williford

You will read quickly, not because it’s a book you’ll want to hurry through, but because every page compels you to the next.

Read it. You will love her. As I do.