Post 40 | Try To Remember

remember when I was young 
and so were you?
and time stood still and love was all we knew?
alan jackson

Long division almost made me runaway from home.  I sat at our white kitchen table, atop white large kitchen tiles, in a white stucco San Diego town-home devising my plan.  The sun light reflected off the interior brightness; I could hear perfect squeals of fun and happiness from my neighbor buds playing outside in the goodnight sun air.  My brothers and sister were out there, too.  But I was stuck.  Stuck inside while mom made dinner.  Stuck staring at numbers and ruled-notebook paper.  Stuck in the dumb education system.  I thought about running away.  Boxcar Children style.  I'd live in a barn by the sea and eat buttered green peas for lunch.  I didn't understand long division.  I already hated math but long division took me to a new level of despair, stress and frustration.  I felt like an idiot.  I felt hot and flushed.  I felt anxious.  Both of my parents had been tenderly patient, and had come at it from all kinds of angles.  We'd been working on it for days.  It wasn't their fault (I went on to have about five other math teachers besides my parents, and my understanding and ability to complete 'math' only got worse.  It's just how I am.) but it wasn't fair, I felt.

"Never forget this," I told myself, "all these people say it's so easy.  It's NOT easy.  And if someday it ever is easy, don't forget how hard it used to be.  This is THE worst."  I would send myself mental e-mails.  Everything in life was now based on how hard long-division was.  Sick in bed with strep throat? Not as bad as doing long division.  Having to mop the bathroom floor? Not as bad as doing long division.  I kept my word to myself and I never forgot.

It's helped me be a mama.  For some reason I remember 'little kid struggle' awfully well.  It's the same.  Sure, long division isn't the 10 on the 1-10 hardship scale anymore, but I always had a 10.  Everyone does.  Isn't it hard to see someone move into your dream house, while you have to sell yours because money sucks?  Isn't it hard to see her nice jewelry and her cute little gym body and her expensive haircut, while you don't have enough to pay your monthly bills?  Isn't it hard to find out another one is pregnant, and you aren't... again?  Isn't it hard that he isn't in your life -- whether he is real or 'someone hoped for'?  Isn't it hard to see life-you-can't-have paraded in front of you?  Be honest! Be human.  Yeah it's hard!  Well, it's hard to be four and to walk into a grocery store and see dozens and dozens of life-you-can't-have paraded in front of you.  It's hard to be told "No. Not for you, at least not for now."  Whether that's financial stability or a pack of M&M's.

Isn't it hard to be hungry?  I get snappy, short, quiet.  Leave me alone and get me some food.  It's hard to wait an hour at a restaurant for a table to open up.  Heck, it's hard to wait for the food to arrive after the waiter takes the order!  "Goshdernit, it's been 20 MINUTES.  What on earth is taking them so long?! This is RIDICULOUS.  I'm going to talk to the manager." It's hard to be patient when your body is ready for it's basic needs.  Isn't it hard to feel miserably uncomfortable in your clothes?  Your bra has been on too long, and is too tight, and needs to stop?  Your pants have become too small after a full-meal?  You sneezed too hard and weren't prepared and now you just need to change? You spilled pasta sauce down the front of your shirt?  Your body isn't at the health and fitness level that feels 'right' and you want to hide?  You feel uncomfortable, messy, blah?  I hate wearing a maxi pad that needs to be changed, let alone a whole diaper!  It's hard! It makes me cranky too!

It's the same.  They're the same.  Their struggle is the same.  At least to them in their world it is.  They don't know any better.  Of course you know you're not going to leave them alone in a dark room forever.  But do you ever fear that you'll feel *this* lonely forever?  It's unnerving!  It's unknown!  You want someone to come be with you!  Of course you know eating vegetables is good for them.  Do you know that swallowing untasty, hard things in life is good for you?  Or do you sulk in your chair and chant for dessert and try to sneak cauliflower into your pockets so you don't have to swallow? (Tip: if you're going to try to get rid of your food by throwing it under the table, make sure it doesn't hit your mom in the shin.)  Of course, now is not a good time to do something silly like take off your clothes and explore the magic of a Sharpie.  We're late! We have to go! Why are you undressed again?! But do you ever procrastinate on silly things?  Do you ever come up with something you feel motivated and excited to do, even though you have a large to-do list of things you should 'really' do first? 

Babies, toddlers, children, teenagers, young adults, mid-lifers, the elderly want to be loved, want to be understood, want to be valued, want to be respected, want to be heard.  My husband listening to my story, enjoying my sense of humor, looking me in the eye, sharing his story of the day and communicating through tone, touch, body language, words, (whatever!) that he is delighted to be with me changes my day.  Those practices consistently can change a life.  

"Imagine yourself as your child.  Try to examine what life for him is really like.  Be honest.  Are you the kid who wants to paint more than anything in the world but your mom doesn't want the mess?  Are you the one who stands with your mom while she complains about you to strangers in line?  Do you feel lonely, left out, ignored, a burden?  Do you have reason to believe your parents aren't interested in you?  Do your parents only seem to give token hugs?" Rachel Jankovic

Parents work your imaginations, tap into their hearts, understand that they may honestly, in their naive-visioned way, be lonely, scared, sad, confused, tempted, distracted or hurt.  Perhaps if we hourly connect with their hardships we may gain their magic.  Maybe we'd get to be carefree more often.  Maybe we'd lose ourselves in a game.  Maybe we'd believe, just for a second, that the floor is made of lava.  Maybe we'd laugh harder.  Maybe our work would become sweeter.  Maybe enhancing their crazy instead of hampering it would change the attitude in their heart. Maybe we'd be able to see the good quicker.  Maybe the annoying things wouldn't pinch as aggressively.  Maybe we'd care less what 'everyone' thought.  Maybe diaper changes wouldn't be so easy to complain about.  Maybe we'd make private memories just for our household.  Maybe it would inspire us.  Maybe God would make plain His creativity, compassion, happiness through the bizarre thoughts, noises and actions of children.  Maybe they'd know.  Maybe it'd change their life.  Maybe they'd never forget.

Because, see, I never forgot mama going over long division again, and again, and again.  Patiently.  Again.  One more time. Again.  While folding socks.  Again.  While stirring pasta sauce. Again.  In bed. Again.  They'll never forget that you were there, aware, ready when their 10's came.  So enjoy the easy ones through threes, don't brush off the fours through sixes, stop everything for the sevens to nines... and then you'll have the discernment, care and heart for the tens.  For the really bad diaper rash. For teething.  For temper tantrums.  For wanting to be barefoot.  For long division.  For shot-gunning the window seat.  For not making the team.  For being the weird one in class.  For final exams.  For disappointing report cards.  For moving away to college. For the first real heart breaks.  They have to face these things.  They have to feel them and go through them.  Understanding their struggle doesn't mean you hide them from any negative experience.  It doesn't mean that you don't discipline, set boundaries, and tell them "No, not now" at the grocery store.  But it means you remember and that you have their back; and remembering them and supporting them means you care.

“Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a searching adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be... This does not mean that I ought to be trapped or enclosed in any of these ages...the delayed adolescent, the childish adult, but that they are in me to be drawn on; to forget is a form of suicide.

Far too many people misunderstand what *putting away childish things* means, and think that forgetting what it is like to think and feel and touch and smell and taste and see and hear like a three-year-old or a thirteen-year-old or a twenty-three-year-old means being grown-up. When I'm with these people I, like the kids, feel that if this is what it means to be a grown-up, then I don't ever want to be one. Instead of which, if I can retain a child's awareness and joy, and *be* fifty-one, then I will really learn what it means to be grownup.”  Madeleine L'Engle

Post 39 | The Best Vacation of Our Lives

“I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I'm old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.” [Evelyn Waugh]

Post 38 | Thank You

"your love is too way too much 
to give us lesser things."
laura story

almost two years ago when mom was first admitted to the hospital for returned breast cancer and collapsed lungs -- i'm very grateful.  two whole years!  two more please? actually, at least ten? 

When it comes to "actually loving and good and supportive support" I'm finding myself grateful for three kinds: those who are understanding, those who understand and those who know. 

Thank you, understanding ones.  Thank you for you patience, gracious spirits and lack of demand.  Thank you for understanding the unanswered note, email, text and phone call, and for sending them anyway.  Thank you for holding us to different standards and not expecting more than we can do.  We probably aren't particularly close.  You know of us, or know one of the children, or maybe used to be friends with mom or dad at some point and you care.  We aren't intimate, but you do what you can.  Your heart sinks a bit at sad news, and is genuinely warmed at good news.  You bring meals, or pray, or wrap presents, or fold laundry, or think of us and it means so much.  Thank you for being the fuzzy sea out in the distance -- we see you, we know you're there, you make life better.  The sun reflects off of you and its dazzling.  Thank you, understanding ones.

Thank you, those who understand.  Those who under us stand.  You're like a bridge, holding us up and being rather strong.  Maybe you have not quite walked our shoes, but you're throwing yourself into being as available, helpful and sensitive as you can.  You understand what life looks like for us, and you know what to ask, and you "take the hints."  We're close and you're the sort of friend who drops anything. "I'm on my way.  Give me 15 minutes."  You can joke with us about baldness, and pray with us without making us uncomfortable, and when you come in our house there is increased joy.  Thank you for defending us and having our back.  Some might wonder why we do so much if we can't keep up with it all -- you understand the deep desire to try to keep normalcy, tradition.  You know how much mama bear wants to watch her husband coach her boy.  So we add it to our lives, even if there is no more room -- even if other people are washing their jerseys.  Thank you for, in so many ways, holding us up.  Thank you for not making us feel bad when we call or ask for things -- it's not fun to do, but you don't make us feel stupid.  Thank you, you really do understand.

Thank you, those who know. Also, I'm sorry too.  I'm sorry you know.  I'm sorry you've been on this side.  I hate this for all of us.  Thanks for not freaking out when I start crying, thanks for crying too.  Thanks for affirming that it's normal to eat salted caramel pretzel ice cream with your fingers in a parking lot (even though you're supposed to be losing weight).  Thank you for knowing how you can be exhausted on every level and yet not be able to sleep.  Thank you for knowing that sometimes there is more to a person than being professional at work; that sometimes people have long, hard days and gosh it makes a world of difference when someone is human with you and not "business business!" with you.  We can feel like we're the rocks.  Not because we're solid and dependable and sturdy.  But because we're dark, laying in the dirt, and cold.  We can sometimes feel like there is a world of balloons.  Not because they are air-heads or childish.  But because they are colorful, and flying high!, and having a great view.  Why can't we be the balloons?  I love parties.  You know how badly scripture can sting, or how completely empty it can feel.  And oftentimes just having someone who nods their head, says nothing, and lets tears slide down their face can speak more to God's presence, kindness and heart than anything else.

We've had our "trials that no one brings dinner for."  The depression, rebellion, isolation, betrayal, silent and alone hardships.  The ones where your character is skewed, your motives are harshly judged, your mistakes are aired and your trust is broken.  We're grateful that today is not one of those kinds of burdens.  We're grateful that we have love coming out of our ears and literally filling our bellies.  Thank you for your empathy and for "giving us your very selves."

God is in our midst; He's here through you. 

Ps.  ^ This is so concise, poignant and true.  If you want a little tid-bit on loving people in in sad places, this is excellent.  "Empathy fuels connection... empathy is feeling with people."

Post 37 | What I Want

"oh, had i wings i would fly away,
and be at rest."
chelsea moon + the franz brothers

It's just that I don't want to do it.  I recently watched a video where a friend of mine shared her 'last words' and end-of-life heart.  She was born a month before me and died this December.  As good, empowering and hope-filled as her words were, the only thing I could think as I watched was: I don't want to do it.

I don't want to record somebody's -- my somebody -- last words.  I don't want to say good-bye.  I don't want to delete her number from my phone, but I also don't want to look at it and know that she won't be there on the other side if I call or text.  I don't want to describe her to my kids, making them imagine her.  I don't want to labor through labor without her there to fight with me, and without her there to gaze at my new one like I do.  I don't want to hear her children say something funny and not pass on the story to her later in the evening.  I don't want to see an empty bed someday.  I don't want to watch my sisters fall in love and get married and look through the wedding pictures and see her missing.  I don't want my brother's to be dads -- tender and delicate and kind -- to their own babies without her able to watch on, without her able to see her gentleness passed on to them.  I don't want to live in a house she hasn't seen or design a kitchen without her thoughts or pick out fabric for the curtains without her hawk-sense for a deal.  I don't want to watch her get worse.  I don't want to stop going to chemo appointments because there is no one to bring.  I don't want her to miss their game winning lay-ups and home-runs and penalty kicks, and, well, I don't want her to miss their blow-out losses either.  I don't want to be the second emergency contact.  I don't want my sisters to look to me for things I looked to her for.  I don't want to never eat her salsa and fried tortillas and rice and tacos again.  I don't want other people to wrap her little kids' Christmas presents.  I don't want to know that no matter what there will be no "happy event" in my or their entire lives that will ever be shared with her ever again; that the best of times will never include her.  I don't want to lose her. I don't want to do it!

“My Father! If it is possible, let this cup be taken away from me!"

Sometimes the cup doesn't pass.  Sometimes it is upturned onto our heads, smoking, boiling, burning oil runs it's horrible pain over us.  It didn't pass for God himself.  And though He wanted us, He didn't want to experience death and hell.

“My Father! If it is possible, let this cup be taken away from me! But I want your will, not mine.”

That's the statement.  I've learned recently how acceptable and even right it is to vent to my Father.  I hate this.  I don't want it. Please remove this from me.  Oh God, make it stop.  But then that statement appears.  I want your will, not mine.  God that's easy to say when you're reciting the Lord's Prayer in a congregation when you're fourteen.  Thy Kingdom come! Thy Will be done! Woo hoo! Go God! Do your thing!  You can't say that statement flippantly when your whole heart and desire and prayer and beg and belief is in direct opposition to what God might will, is likely willing.  It's quite pleasant to say when His will feels comfortable, practical, pleasant and successful.  "All glory to God!" when He's giving.  Oooh, the words -- meaning the words -- struggle out when He's taking.  You can't fake it, like you fake worship when the photographer is capturing you.  All glory to God when she's missing?  All glory to God that my friend -- who dreamed of husband and babies and houses and ministry and more -- is not here?  All glory to God?  Oh, you watch what you say.  You don't say things you don't mean.  It's not a motion or habit; it's real and it hurts.  Therefore:

I don't want to lose her and yet I want Your will, not mine.  

Post 36 | A Morris Christmas Hunt

Four Christmases ago he sat in my family living room and opened presents. My brothers and sisters were painfully polite in front of him, a genuinely amused behind his back. It's only fitting that My Christmas Angel made a gut-call, last-minute, crush-stricken decision to fly to Florida and be with me on December 25th. To re-phrase Dorothy Custer: "And after that, there was only Caleb."

The following year he didn't just spend the holiday with us -- his entire family did too. My mom had cancer again and we didn't know it yet. I felt 'so fat' after gaining confident, happy, carefree, un-insecure, believed-I-was-beautiful dating weight. We wined + dined + hiked + biked + couch-snuggled our way through the summer and fall. Research shows that women tend to add pounds when they are in happy, long-term relationships and lose pounds when they are going through a break-up. I don't know. I just liked pasta carbonara, and him, and life.

Last year was the big change. The Christmas before I was 'just' his girlfriend, and then all of a sudden in one year I was married to him and growing his firstborn son. It freaks me out looking back at the pace, but it felt perfect at the time. We cut down a tree together that year, a new experience for both of us. "Next year we'll bring a BABY with us!" we noted. "Promise we'll still do things like this with a baby?" "Promise." Pine needles and cinnamon were a couple out of, well, three smells I could tolerate. The smell of "fresh air" and "clean bed sheets" and old books and newly washed hair disgusted me. Our apartment was intolerable. Saved by the evergreen! As soon as our (not so little) tree was installed, I could manage living in my own home again. Caleb helped me step out of urined pants and underwear, he tied my hair up high (the best that he could), he immediately handed me warm, damp washcloths so I could wipe off my nose and mouth. He bleached the floors over and over. He caught my vomit in his hands. He made me three meals, and I'd eat none of them and when I asked for a fourth ("I really think I can eat Honey Nut Cheerios. THAT is what I want. I'm sorry.") he made it happily. He rubbed my feet because I couldn't stand the smell of him and I needed him far away.

It's still hard to believe a person came out of me. My body grew a body. It's just... earwax comes out of my body. Saliva and sweat come out of my body. Hair comes out of my body. And this other body came out too. For me it is like pushing words out of my head, onto paper and then my story spoke back to me with a wet "craaaaaa-Ah!" It came out of (ripped through? literally tore through?) me and my heart and it was hard, with bones and cheeks and a reproductive system. It was hard meaning it wasn't a cloud or a puff of mist or a memory. I could touch My Living Story. He came out of us, and we love him just because. He reminds us every day that Hope Has Come. Hope had mini-bones and kitty-cries, too. Hope looked up at His mama, too, and just His eye-contact alone whispered "The LORD comforts Zion. Your LORD reigns. Behold, I am with you." Her breasts dripped milk and it dried in her clothes and she had to wash Hope's milk out of her garments. Hope has come, and He came very tiny, and He rules the world with Truth + Grace. Rowdy is a Wonder of His Love.

Christmas with my family. Christmas with my baby. Christmas with my husband. Christmas post-Jesus. Christmas in the details. Christmas in the tears. Christmas in the eye-contact. Christmas in the relief. Christmas in the longing. Christmas in the snow. Christmas in the bitter cold. Christmas for us. Christmas because we matter much. Christmas with Bing Crosby and Mariah Carey. Christmas with my mom. Christmas for victory! Christmas for 'at last!' Christmas because my boys and tree farms. Christmas because He came happily, He wanted to. Christmas for cookies -- homemade or storebought and definitely full of fat. Christmas because a teenage mama swept a swept a slimy, wailing, cheesy, helpless, mess of a baby into her arms and pronounced love to Him. Christmas because He loved her more. Christmas because of delivery. Christmas since The Word of God tore through the canals of Humanness and was attached to a woman by an umbilical cord. Christmas because our soul's have worth and we are loved by a Very Good King. I don't think the beautiful starkness of glowing tree (or even candle) in a dark place, in a cold season, is missed by Him.

Merry eff-ing charming real hopeful Christmas, rascals.