I feel so... stretched. There is so much going on, so much change, just a lot of "new" and challenge and we both know I am not a big fan.
There are things I know you have asked of me (commanded?) that I am having such a miserable time with, but I submit because I know it's not about how I feel, but rather about whether or not I will obey in spite of how I feel. I'll be honest (which is sort of funny to say because You actually know better than I do what I am thinking, feeling and intending, but I digress...) I keep waiting for a reprieve. I know Lord you have asked me to do ________ for the sake of ___________ , but I'm not feeling any better about doing what You've asked, I am actually feeling worse. And I know You have asked me to make it about worshiping You, and and loving You, and loving specific "others" but my heart isn't in it.
I really don't believe there is any reprieve on the horizon, but I am watching for it anyway.
You asked me almost a year ago to focus on two things-- living open-handed and to remember that Your grace is sufficient. You asked me THIS right after You directed me to go back to school after a 22 year hiatus. You asked me to go back without any plan, but I knew you were asking me. And now people say, "What are you going back for?" and I can only answer, "I don't know, I'm just doing it because the Lord asked it of me." And let's be real, to a large percentage of people, even in my world, that sounds a little nuts. But when you gave me the addendum of open-handedness and Your grace's sufficiency, I thought you meant regarding school specifically.
That hasn't turned out to be the case at all. In fact, the whole open-handed thing has had a LOT more to do with life beyond school. And my impression that it meant holding loosely because things would be removed was accurate, though it stretched much further than I could anticipate. But it also meant to keep my hand open for things you wanted to place there even when I didn't want you to (refer to paragraph 2 above.) Sometimes it feels like holding something heavy in my open hand. I'm tired, I don't want to, but the choice isn't to just hold it or put it down, it is to obey or disobey, and the truth is, I know there is only one right answer when I look at it that way.
School, by the way, isn't as exciting or new as it was when You asked me to go back. So now as I hear you say "stay" and "press on" I feel the tilt of the hill increasing, and yet-- I STILL don't know the why or where of the journey you have called me to. Perhaps that's why Your Word says "the STEPS of the righteous are ordered by the Lord" rather than the journey or the destination. I feel like a soldier instructed on a "need to know" basis, and You have so far determined, I do not need to know.
I guess that's why I keep thinking back to things you have spoken before. Like, that I am to trust Who you are rather than what you are doing. When all I can think is "I just don't get it," You don't try to make any explanation of yourself at all, you just want to know, "Do I know Who You are?" (And in context remember who I am not.) And "do I believe that You are good?" These are the only questions I really need to concern myself with. And they are questions I really need to have answered in advance.
(Deep sigh.) I know Who You are. And I know that You are good.
That's what I have to turn back to when things are hard - not just my things, but much bigger things in the lives of those around me. Loss, sickness, death, loneliness, hardship. You are still God and You are still good even in the midst of them.
That means I know that being in places I don't want to be, and doing things I don't want to do or at least don't understand, and even going through hard times, and hard things-- if you have asked it of me, it must be ok. You have a purpose. You are God, so you always have purpose. And You are good, so if that's true, there must be some good you will bring out of it. Not that that eases the process, but it offers the glimmer of hope in the darkness.
I love you Father. You are better to me than I could ever deserve. I know in my heart that this life will always be full of challenges and difficulties because I am not where I belong... and I am not yet who I am meant to be. It's not about skills or opportunities, but it is about your chisel in my life, chipping away the things (the big giant chunks of me) that don't please You, don't bless others. Sometimes it hurts like hell, but it really isn't anything like the hell you rescued me from.
Help me get my focus on Who and What I know. Help me get it off my circumstances, especially those that displease me, and help me get it back on on pleasing You. Not because it gains me favor, but because I love You-- for Who You are, and because You are good. That's what I know on this "need to know" basis.
I press on, in Jesus' name.
Love,
Me.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Labor and Delivery
I woke up alone early on the morning of February 10th, 1994, and something felt strange; the mattress was damp. I called Neal on the phone immediately. "Honey," I said, "I think my water might have broke."
Neal rushed home and we headed to the hospital. I felt no pain, no contractions, but our Natural Child Birth teacher had really emphasized the importance of not messing around with leaking amniotic fluid. She'd shared horror stories and all.
The road was dark; Neal seemed excited. I felt terrified. I remember telling him I didn't think I could do it. All that was on my mind was the birth videos I'd watched. I'm actually pretty confident if you showed them in freshman health class in high schools you could probably cut the teen pregnancy rate by at least half. I just could not imagine that my body had the capacity to push the little baby inside me out. The thought of it terrified me. Neal assured me I could do it, moreover he pretty much guaranteed me that I really had no choice-- so here we were on our due date on the way to the hospital ready to meet our son.
They almost sent me home that morning. I wasn't in active labor and at first they didn't think I'd actually sprung an amniotic leak. But eventually signs indicated that my water was on the road to breaking, and since I had been on bed rest for several weeks due to high blood pressure they kept me and decided to help the labor process along. Besides, he was due. It was time, his due date had arrived.
Tomorrow a different kind of due date has arrived. I feel about it a lot like I did the first one. I don't really know how I'm gonna do it. I can't imagine how it's going to be possible to 21 1/2 years later "deliver my son" out into the world. The night before the first due date I broke all the rules of my bed rest and some serious nesting occurred. I cleaned the kitchen, mopped the floor and did the dishes. It helped me feel like I was getting ready, even though I had no idea if he would come for sure the next day.
Tonight there isn't any "nesting" to do. In fact the last few days I have sat back quietly while my son has pulled all the sticks and twigs that are his from this nest of mine. The "boys' room" has been vacated, and by tomorrow night it will only belong to Ethan. There are a few pieces of memorabilia from Ducks stuff that have migrated to his little sister's room, but most everything else has been boxed and stored or shipped ahead to his dorm room in Virginia. 21 1/2 years ago, just Neal and I home, I sat with my hand on my belly imagining how my life would change when this new little person came home to live. Tonight sitting here, just Neal and I home, I find myself imagining what it will be like when the young man I carried so long ago moves on and leaves, and doesn't live here anymore.
Labor the first time hurt like hell. Being forced into labor loses the easing in process of the first contraction and then progression. When they induce you the labor comes on hard and fast, and when they did that with me it wasn't very effective. From 6 in the morning to 2 in the afternoon I had a lot of pain, tried a lot of meds and made very little progress. Then a lovely nurse came along and suggested we break all the rules I had learned, and offered me an epidural even though I was only at 2 cm. I heart epidurals, and when the pain subsided I was tired and Neal was hungry, so he left me alone and I took a long nap. It was a phone call to my room from my friend 2 hours later that woke me up.
The doctor came in to check my progress while I chatted with my friend. While completely unconscious I had managed to progress beautifully, and in two hours with no pain I had gone from 2 cm to 8 1/2. My friend congratulated me on the news and then I hung up to throw up. And because there were no such things as cellphones in 1994, I just sat alone excited and waited for Neal to come back. It was getting close, the baby was coming soon.
There's no medication for the pain I'm feeling this time. There's no taking a nap and waking up feeling better about this delivery. The last few weeks and months whenever I've woken up I have immediately felt the sadness and anxiety of the impending departure of my boy. It's very bittersweet. My heart aches. I am really going to miss my son. But, just like Neal told me on the drive to the hospital, this delivery is unavoidable, it has to come. It's still hard. As much as I was excited for his arrival, I am just as sad to see him leave.
At the hospital it was just a little while longer before the doctor told me it was time to push. Neal was back and fed. Things were chaotic at the hospital. My body was doing strange things, I was shaking and I didn't have enough feeling in all the places I needed to. Nurses were growing frustrated by family members who kept sneaking down the hall listening for our baby's first cry. And when it came time to push not all was as it should be and there was a lot of flipping and rolling trying to get the baby in the right position to be born. It took me an hour and a half to push him out.
This time as I prepare to "push him out" everything is running smoothly, in fact it's required no actual labor on my part at all. And unlike the infant who seemed to hesitant to come into this world 21 1/2 years ago, the man he has become hardly seems able to contain his excitement about now moving on. Pride and sadness are a strange mix of emotions, and they greatly contrast the mix of pride and joy I felt the night we first met.
"It's a boy!" Neal confirmed what I'd known in my heart from the moment I found out I was carrying the little life inside. Baby Jacob was so quiet it frightened me. I demanded to know why he wasn't crying, panic rising up in my heart, it started to infect Neal as well. "Relax," the doctor told us, "he's completely pink. He's fine." And then I think the doctor pinched him just to allay my fears. He let out a beautiful cry. In hindsight I now realize that his subtle easygoing entrance was just foreshadowing on the laid back and unobtrusive man he has become. He has always been a gentleman.
Within minutes of Jacob's birth, my delivery room was filled with all our family and closest friends, more than 20 people came into the room, and they literally lifted him out of my arms and passed him around. Grandparents, uncles, cousins, friends-- he passed through them all. I found myself feeling a little left out as he said all his tiny little helloes. I've felt a lot like that this week as well, as he's been gone an awful lot to make his farewell stops and say all his big goodbyes.
I finally asked if I could have my baby back, and Neal got him and brought him to me. I pulled back his little blanket and took in the wonder of this tiny little person who now firmly held my heart. It was only a matter of minutes before the nurse came in and told me she had to take him away. I wistfully watched, a little sad, but knowing he'd be back before too long.
Less than 24 hours from now Jacob will be on a flight to Phoenix, his first of two stops before he finally arrives in Virginia early Saturday morning. Having let him be "passed around" the past few days since his Guatemala return Sunday last, I am awaiting the short bit of time I can hold on to him before that big airplane whisks him away. Just like those brief moments felt too few in the delivery room, tomorrow's brief time together doesn't feel like long enough to say goodbye. And even though I know it's right on time on his and that his "due date" is here, it still kinda feels too soon.
Let me clarify that despite the possibly dark and somewhat melancholy tone that may be in this blog post, underneath the hard stuff, I am excited for my son. I am proud of the man he has become. And I do look forward to hearing about the things that God is going to do in His life, and the things God will use him to do. But, it's still hard. Chalk this up to another of life's experiences that you cannot truly anticipate your response to until you get there. I thought that I would be the mom who would have no trouble letting go. I was wrong.
21 1/2 years ago I was enamored with this tiny little person I did not know. He rode on my tailbone so long while I pushed that he came in as a literal pain in my butt. But the pain was worth it, even though it stayed with me for the next six months. The labor of 11 1/2 hours was hard on my body, but in the end it was all worth it.
I had no idea back then that the end of that first delivery was actually the beginning of a different kind of labor, one in our case that would last 21 years, six months and 11 days. Over the course of those years there have been lots of times that Jacob has been a figurative pain in my butt, but I'm pretty sure that this time the feeling was pretty mutual. This long labor was full of push and pull, pain and progress. At the end of the first labor I became a mom and had a hand to hold. At the end of this second labor, I'm still a mom, but I'm a mom who instead of holding on is finally letting go.
Neal rushed home and we headed to the hospital. I felt no pain, no contractions, but our Natural Child Birth teacher had really emphasized the importance of not messing around with leaking amniotic fluid. She'd shared horror stories and all.
The road was dark; Neal seemed excited. I felt terrified. I remember telling him I didn't think I could do it. All that was on my mind was the birth videos I'd watched. I'm actually pretty confident if you showed them in freshman health class in high schools you could probably cut the teen pregnancy rate by at least half. I just could not imagine that my body had the capacity to push the little baby inside me out. The thought of it terrified me. Neal assured me I could do it, moreover he pretty much guaranteed me that I really had no choice-- so here we were on our due date on the way to the hospital ready to meet our son.
They almost sent me home that morning. I wasn't in active labor and at first they didn't think I'd actually sprung an amniotic leak. But eventually signs indicated that my water was on the road to breaking, and since I had been on bed rest for several weeks due to high blood pressure they kept me and decided to help the labor process along. Besides, he was due. It was time, his due date had arrived.
Tomorrow a different kind of due date has arrived. I feel about it a lot like I did the first one. I don't really know how I'm gonna do it. I can't imagine how it's going to be possible to 21 1/2 years later "deliver my son" out into the world. The night before the first due date I broke all the rules of my bed rest and some serious nesting occurred. I cleaned the kitchen, mopped the floor and did the dishes. It helped me feel like I was getting ready, even though I had no idea if he would come for sure the next day.
Tonight there isn't any "nesting" to do. In fact the last few days I have sat back quietly while my son has pulled all the sticks and twigs that are his from this nest of mine. The "boys' room" has been vacated, and by tomorrow night it will only belong to Ethan. There are a few pieces of memorabilia from Ducks stuff that have migrated to his little sister's room, but most everything else has been boxed and stored or shipped ahead to his dorm room in Virginia. 21 1/2 years ago, just Neal and I home, I sat with my hand on my belly imagining how my life would change when this new little person came home to live. Tonight sitting here, just Neal and I home, I find myself imagining what it will be like when the young man I carried so long ago moves on and leaves, and doesn't live here anymore.
Labor the first time hurt like hell. Being forced into labor loses the easing in process of the first contraction and then progression. When they induce you the labor comes on hard and fast, and when they did that with me it wasn't very effective. From 6 in the morning to 2 in the afternoon I had a lot of pain, tried a lot of meds and made very little progress. Then a lovely nurse came along and suggested we break all the rules I had learned, and offered me an epidural even though I was only at 2 cm. I heart epidurals, and when the pain subsided I was tired and Neal was hungry, so he left me alone and I took a long nap. It was a phone call to my room from my friend 2 hours later that woke me up.
The doctor came in to check my progress while I chatted with my friend. While completely unconscious I had managed to progress beautifully, and in two hours with no pain I had gone from 2 cm to 8 1/2. My friend congratulated me on the news and then I hung up to throw up. And because there were no such things as cellphones in 1994, I just sat alone excited and waited for Neal to come back. It was getting close, the baby was coming soon.
There's no medication for the pain I'm feeling this time. There's no taking a nap and waking up feeling better about this delivery. The last few weeks and months whenever I've woken up I have immediately felt the sadness and anxiety of the impending departure of my boy. It's very bittersweet. My heart aches. I am really going to miss my son. But, just like Neal told me on the drive to the hospital, this delivery is unavoidable, it has to come. It's still hard. As much as I was excited for his arrival, I am just as sad to see him leave.
At the hospital it was just a little while longer before the doctor told me it was time to push. Neal was back and fed. Things were chaotic at the hospital. My body was doing strange things, I was shaking and I didn't have enough feeling in all the places I needed to. Nurses were growing frustrated by family members who kept sneaking down the hall listening for our baby's first cry. And when it came time to push not all was as it should be and there was a lot of flipping and rolling trying to get the baby in the right position to be born. It took me an hour and a half to push him out.
This time as I prepare to "push him out" everything is running smoothly, in fact it's required no actual labor on my part at all. And unlike the infant who seemed to hesitant to come into this world 21 1/2 years ago, the man he has become hardly seems able to contain his excitement about now moving on. Pride and sadness are a strange mix of emotions, and they greatly contrast the mix of pride and joy I felt the night we first met.
"It's a boy!" Neal confirmed what I'd known in my heart from the moment I found out I was carrying the little life inside. Baby Jacob was so quiet it frightened me. I demanded to know why he wasn't crying, panic rising up in my heart, it started to infect Neal as well. "Relax," the doctor told us, "he's completely pink. He's fine." And then I think the doctor pinched him just to allay my fears. He let out a beautiful cry. In hindsight I now realize that his subtle easygoing entrance was just foreshadowing on the laid back and unobtrusive man he has become. He has always been a gentleman.
Within minutes of Jacob's birth, my delivery room was filled with all our family and closest friends, more than 20 people came into the room, and they literally lifted him out of my arms and passed him around. Grandparents, uncles, cousins, friends-- he passed through them all. I found myself feeling a little left out as he said all his tiny little helloes. I've felt a lot like that this week as well, as he's been gone an awful lot to make his farewell stops and say all his big goodbyes.
I finally asked if I could have my baby back, and Neal got him and brought him to me. I pulled back his little blanket and took in the wonder of this tiny little person who now firmly held my heart. It was only a matter of minutes before the nurse came in and told me she had to take him away. I wistfully watched, a little sad, but knowing he'd be back before too long.
Less than 24 hours from now Jacob will be on a flight to Phoenix, his first of two stops before he finally arrives in Virginia early Saturday morning. Having let him be "passed around" the past few days since his Guatemala return Sunday last, I am awaiting the short bit of time I can hold on to him before that big airplane whisks him away. Just like those brief moments felt too few in the delivery room, tomorrow's brief time together doesn't feel like long enough to say goodbye. And even though I know it's right on time on his and that his "due date" is here, it still kinda feels too soon.
Let me clarify that despite the possibly dark and somewhat melancholy tone that may be in this blog post, underneath the hard stuff, I am excited for my son. I am proud of the man he has become. And I do look forward to hearing about the things that God is going to do in His life, and the things God will use him to do. But, it's still hard. Chalk this up to another of life's experiences that you cannot truly anticipate your response to until you get there. I thought that I would be the mom who would have no trouble letting go. I was wrong.
21 1/2 years ago I was enamored with this tiny little person I did not know. He rode on my tailbone so long while I pushed that he came in as a literal pain in my butt. But the pain was worth it, even though it stayed with me for the next six months. The labor of 11 1/2 hours was hard on my body, but in the end it was all worth it.
I had no idea back then that the end of that first delivery was actually the beginning of a different kind of labor, one in our case that would last 21 years, six months and 11 days. Over the course of those years there have been lots of times that Jacob has been a figurative pain in my butt, but I'm pretty sure that this time the feeling was pretty mutual. This long labor was full of push and pull, pain and progress. At the end of the first labor I became a mom and had a hand to hold. At the end of this second labor, I'm still a mom, but I'm a mom who instead of holding on is finally letting go.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Kudos to all the moms
Kudos to all the moms out there who feel like they've got a great handle on this role in life.
I am not one of you.
Just this week I lost my cool with one of my kids in a big way... big way... righteous anger ignition lighting a fire of less than righteous expression of it. Sigh... it is a lifelong struggle. Well, it's a mom-lifelong struggle. I don't think I ever knew how much of a temper I had until I had kids. Now I am constantly aware of the shortness of my fuse. This week the fuse was lit, and it wasn't pretty.
Also along the way this week I find myself swimming through the puddle of mess that I randomly become as I prepare to send another of my children off into the world "on his own..." It's a good thing, it's the right thing, it's even a necessary thing, it's even time for it to happen, but it 21 years I still never managed to prepare myself for it. So I dwell far more on the lack and mistakes of the 21 years and waver between despair of regret, and wanting to pull the trigger and get it over with quickly. Sometimes in between I just try to find a numb place of denial, which is a little more comfortable.
Kudos to the moms who feel fulfilled in their role as a mother.
I am not one of you.
Most of the time being a mom makes me feel frustrated and inept. I mean, I have had moments of feeling fulfilled as a mother. I think back to seasons filled with crazy sleepless nights (mind you, I had two babies in the same calendar year) where I managed to get all three children to bed and asleep all for the same few hours and I felt quite accomplished. But in all honesty, the longer I am a mother, the more I feel like I don't have a clue, and I am not doing it right and I'm aware of just how much I have managed to screw up. I waver between wishing that the "success" of motherhood were measurable, and being really, really, really glad that it's not. Sometimes in between I just try to find the numb place of denial, which is a little more comfortable.
Kudos to the moms who feel like they have a solid plan that works when it comes to things like direction and discipline for their kids.
I am not one of you.
I think God has a little bit of a sick sense of humor. There, I said it, I do. He gave me the first child who was sweet-natured, passive and compliant... and tricked me into thinking that had something to do with my parenting. Then the limit ran out on that infant/ toddler nature in the first kid (though it sort of swayed in and out and still does to this day), but to make sure I knew how little it had to do with me, seven years later he gave me this complicated, fiercely independent, challenging child... and then less than ten months later He gave me another one, and that one had a really bad attitude to boot.
It didn't take me long to figure out that three very different kids required three very different kinds of parenting all from this same mom. I not only lacked one solid plan, I lacked three very needed plans. And I figured out, for me at least, this whole parenting thing was one long science experiment of trial and error... and error... and error. It is really quite a trial. I waver between commitment to figuring it out and wanting to throw my hands up in hopelessness. Sometimes in between I just try to find the numb place of denial, which is a little more comfortable.
Kudos to all the cuddly, comforting, patient and nurturing moms.
I am not one of you.
Sometimes my kids are talking, talking and talking, and I just can't even force myself to focus, and I keep trying in my head to say, "LISTEN!!" Sometimes I do, sometimes I fake it well enough to get by, and sometimes they look back it me and exasperation and ask, "Are you even listening to me???" And I have to shake my head "no." On a good day I ask them to try to tell me the story again, on not so good days I just shrug, apologize and slip away.
Sometimes my kids struggle with big challenges, especially middle school bullsh... ivek... (just really got hit lately with how much I need to work on my language... courtesy of one of my kids... anyway...) bulshivek problems, and I just want to scream, "SUCK IT UP!! GET OVER IT!!!!" And sometimes I don't just want to, I actually do.
Sometimes one of my kids wants to (yes, still) crawl in my lap, or lay on my chest, or rub on my arm, and I just want to be left alone. If I had a dollar in 21 years for every time I told one of them "GET OFF ME!" I could probably take a pretty nice cruise with the hubby. But I waver between (yes, still) wanting to hide in the bathroom (or now that they're older, my car) and ignore them and knowing these days are fleeting and wanting to get over my no touchy-feely self and soak in every fleeting moment. Sometimes in between I just try to find the not numb enough place of denial, which is a little more comfortable.
Kudos to the moms who love their children with all their hearts and more than their own lives.
.........
..............
.....................
I AM one of you.
Even though I don't always love this role - mom - the one people like to call "the toughest job you'll ever love," I love my children more than life itself. I don't always love the painful, difficult, humbling, challenging, heartbreaking job of being their one and only mom though. It's hard, at times hurtful, often stressful. It's not a job I have found to get easier or more manageable, if anything I find it gets harder and harder as they grow up and get older. It's not a job that you can be trained for (have yet to find a single book that taught me everything I needed to know to love and rear my three very different kids). It's not a job where success or failure is easily measured. I don't even know at what point you get to decide the job is "complete" enough to be "graded." Even as my 21-year-old prepares to move out and far away, I still feel the pain of responsibility, and accountability... did I prepare him? Will he succeed? Does he know I love him? Believe in him? But even when he gets through college, even if he gets through well, when he becomes a husband and father, I know I will look at his strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures and tie them back to the job I did as his mom. So even though the role of mom changes, it never really ends. There's no report card to look forward to.
The longer I have this job, in all its increase of challenge and difficulty, the more I realize how much less it had to do with what I could teach and impart to my children, and it's so much more about the work God is doing--- in my kids, and even more, in me. It's messy work.
The longer I do this job, the less opinionated I become about the "right vs. wrong way" of raising my children. More importantly I am much less opinionated about how other people raise their children. I finally recognize that not one of us can understand the specific process, challenge and struggle of being who you are, raising the kids you are, parenting the way you are. I really think that the whole "train up a child in the way he should go," is less about finding the ONE RIGHT WAY, and more about trying to just keep, as best you can, trying to just keep them directed the right general direction. Realizing that in the midst of my own fumbly, failure-filled, uphill trek as a mom, God has a handle on all the roads that are there... mine, my hubby's, and the three different paths for each of my kids.
At the end of the day, I am just really grateful that I was never called to be the perfect parent, but that Christ has promised to work in my many, many, many imperfections. Beautifully, not just for my own good, but for the good of those three precious kids he entrusted to me, knowing full well my innumerable shortcomings.
Being a mom makes me tired-- physically, emotionally and spiritually tired. It also makes me desperately needy, and that is a good thing. That is a God thing.
Kudos to all the moms like me, who despite all the struggle, never give up-- even when they really want to. Kudos to the moms who love their kids in their own failing, fumbling, falling short kind of way, who just do their best because their best is all they can do-- even on the days when their best doesn't seem like much at all. Kudos to you. Kudos to us.
I am not one of you.
Just this week I lost my cool with one of my kids in a big way... big way... righteous anger ignition lighting a fire of less than righteous expression of it. Sigh... it is a lifelong struggle. Well, it's a mom-lifelong struggle. I don't think I ever knew how much of a temper I had until I had kids. Now I am constantly aware of the shortness of my fuse. This week the fuse was lit, and it wasn't pretty.
Also along the way this week I find myself swimming through the puddle of mess that I randomly become as I prepare to send another of my children off into the world "on his own..." It's a good thing, it's the right thing, it's even a necessary thing, it's even time for it to happen, but it 21 years I still never managed to prepare myself for it. So I dwell far more on the lack and mistakes of the 21 years and waver between despair of regret, and wanting to pull the trigger and get it over with quickly. Sometimes in between I just try to find a numb place of denial, which is a little more comfortable.
Kudos to the moms who feel fulfilled in their role as a mother.
I am not one of you.
Most of the time being a mom makes me feel frustrated and inept. I mean, I have had moments of feeling fulfilled as a mother. I think back to seasons filled with crazy sleepless nights (mind you, I had two babies in the same calendar year) where I managed to get all three children to bed and asleep all for the same few hours and I felt quite accomplished. But in all honesty, the longer I am a mother, the more I feel like I don't have a clue, and I am not doing it right and I'm aware of just how much I have managed to screw up. I waver between wishing that the "success" of motherhood were measurable, and being really, really, really glad that it's not. Sometimes in between I just try to find the numb place of denial, which is a little more comfortable.
Kudos to the moms who feel like they have a solid plan that works when it comes to things like direction and discipline for their kids.
I am not one of you.
I think God has a little bit of a sick sense of humor. There, I said it, I do. He gave me the first child who was sweet-natured, passive and compliant... and tricked me into thinking that had something to do with my parenting. Then the limit ran out on that infant/ toddler nature in the first kid (though it sort of swayed in and out and still does to this day), but to make sure I knew how little it had to do with me, seven years later he gave me this complicated, fiercely independent, challenging child... and then less than ten months later He gave me another one, and that one had a really bad attitude to boot.
It didn't take me long to figure out that three very different kids required three very different kinds of parenting all from this same mom. I not only lacked one solid plan, I lacked three very needed plans. And I figured out, for me at least, this whole parenting thing was one long science experiment of trial and error... and error... and error. It is really quite a trial. I waver between commitment to figuring it out and wanting to throw my hands up in hopelessness. Sometimes in between I just try to find the numb place of denial, which is a little more comfortable.
Kudos to all the cuddly, comforting, patient and nurturing moms.
I am not one of you.
Sometimes my kids are talking, talking and talking, and I just can't even force myself to focus, and I keep trying in my head to say, "LISTEN!!" Sometimes I do, sometimes I fake it well enough to get by, and sometimes they look back it me and exasperation and ask, "Are you even listening to me???" And I have to shake my head "no." On a good day I ask them to try to tell me the story again, on not so good days I just shrug, apologize and slip away.
Sometimes my kids struggle with big challenges, especially middle school bullsh... ivek... (just really got hit lately with how much I need to work on my language... courtesy of one of my kids... anyway...) bulshivek problems, and I just want to scream, "SUCK IT UP!! GET OVER IT!!!!" And sometimes I don't just want to, I actually do.
Sometimes one of my kids wants to (yes, still) crawl in my lap, or lay on my chest, or rub on my arm, and I just want to be left alone. If I had a dollar in 21 years for every time I told one of them "GET OFF ME!" I could probably take a pretty nice cruise with the hubby. But I waver between (yes, still) wanting to hide in the bathroom (or now that they're older, my car) and ignore them and knowing these days are fleeting and wanting to get over my no touchy-feely self and soak in every fleeting moment. Sometimes in between I just try to find the not numb enough place of denial, which is a little more comfortable.
Kudos to the moms who love their children with all their hearts and more than their own lives.
.........
..............
.....................
I AM one of you.
Even though I don't always love this role - mom - the one people like to call "the toughest job you'll ever love," I love my children more than life itself. I don't always love the painful, difficult, humbling, challenging, heartbreaking job of being their one and only mom though. It's hard, at times hurtful, often stressful. It's not a job I have found to get easier or more manageable, if anything I find it gets harder and harder as they grow up and get older. It's not a job that you can be trained for (have yet to find a single book that taught me everything I needed to know to love and rear my three very different kids). It's not a job where success or failure is easily measured. I don't even know at what point you get to decide the job is "complete" enough to be "graded." Even as my 21-year-old prepares to move out and far away, I still feel the pain of responsibility, and accountability... did I prepare him? Will he succeed? Does he know I love him? Believe in him? But even when he gets through college, even if he gets through well, when he becomes a husband and father, I know I will look at his strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures and tie them back to the job I did as his mom. So even though the role of mom changes, it never really ends. There's no report card to look forward to.
The longer I have this job, in all its increase of challenge and difficulty, the more I realize how much less it had to do with what I could teach and impart to my children, and it's so much more about the work God is doing--- in my kids, and even more, in me. It's messy work.
The longer I do this job, the less opinionated I become about the "right vs. wrong way" of raising my children. More importantly I am much less opinionated about how other people raise their children. I finally recognize that not one of us can understand the specific process, challenge and struggle of being who you are, raising the kids you are, parenting the way you are. I really think that the whole "train up a child in the way he should go," is less about finding the ONE RIGHT WAY, and more about trying to just keep, as best you can, trying to just keep them directed the right general direction. Realizing that in the midst of my own fumbly, failure-filled, uphill trek as a mom, God has a handle on all the roads that are there... mine, my hubby's, and the three different paths for each of my kids.
At the end of the day, I am just really grateful that I was never called to be the perfect parent, but that Christ has promised to work in my many, many, many imperfections. Beautifully, not just for my own good, but for the good of those three precious kids he entrusted to me, knowing full well my innumerable shortcomings.
Being a mom makes me tired-- physically, emotionally and spiritually tired. It also makes me desperately needy, and that is a good thing. That is a God thing.
Kudos to all the moms like me, who despite all the struggle, never give up-- even when they really want to. Kudos to the moms who love their kids in their own failing, fumbling, falling short kind of way, who just do their best because their best is all they can do-- even on the days when their best doesn't seem like much at all. Kudos to you. Kudos to us.
Monday, August 3, 2015
Being Jacob's Mom
I was twenty-two years old when I truly decided I was ready to be a mom. That's the point in my life that I was married and settled, and I really chose to make an effort to get pregnant, have a baby and become a mom. Now, twenty-three years later, I don't actually remember my process or my reasons specifically, but I know I had them.
I was an only child who wasn't really around little kids much. A couple of my girlfriends had started their families and had a couple babies under their belts, but my involvement extended to shower gifts, well wishes and an occasional "hold and coo" session. I had babysat a little as a teenager, but really - I was clueless.
I guess becoming a mom was part of the "natural next step." I was married, now you had babies - and babies, including my friends babies were cute. They were soft and cuddly to hold, and when they dozed and cooed they were absolutely precious.
For me there was fertility treatment involved in my pregnancy efforts, so I know I was fully committed to the idea. The idea.
The idea.
That was the thing about becoming a mom, it started out as an idea. I imagined how in doing things completely different from my own mom my relationship with my own children would be better... perfect, even. Now mind you it wasn't like my mom had done a bad job, I mean, after all, she had raised me. But still, I knew how differently I would do... everything. And I was so confident about how my kids would react, respond. I remember a lot "I'll never's" and "My kids won't ever's..." (Giggle) Because the thing about being a mom, is when it's theoretical, and you're parenting theoretical kids, well... everything goes perfectly.
It took more than a year of trying after a bad miscarriage to find out I was finally pregnant. In fact the heartbreaking longing for motherhood had bruised my heart pretty badly between my miscarriage and seemingly fruitless fertility treatments. A year is a really long time when you are surrounded by girlfriends who say "I think we might like to try (BOOM pregnant) have another baby...." Baby showers were, once upon a time, THE most painful event to weather through.
Then one night in June 1993 I was home by myself, well, just me and the dog. I had my bible out and worship music blaring and I poured my heart out like Hannah in the Bible before the Lord. I prayed for a child, and then I prayed for God's will. And I told the Lord if it was NOT His will for me to be a mom, then I didn't want to be one. And I had peace. And I meant my prayer. And then I remembered there was one last pregnancy test under the sink in my bathroom. And as an act of faith, I decided I would just get rid of it.... but I wouldn't waste it. So, I peed on the stick.
I took the stick back out into the living room and I went back to the Word and worship. After a while I glanced over at the stick, and much to my surprise where there had always been a (-) there was a (+). I looked at the stick, I looked up to heaven. I looked at the stick. I looked at the dog, resting at my feet. I looked up to heaven. I picked up the stick in disbelief. I looked up to heaven. Then I jumped up, and down, and up and down and up again. And I told the dog I was pregnant. He jumped up and down with me.
Ironically (if you know my oldest) my husband Neal was at a Stanley Cup Hockey game that night. These were the days before cell phones. So as hard as I tried to keep this exciting news between me and the dog, I called my mom and three or four of my closest girlfriends and shared the news. My mom came over, she stopped and picked up five more pregnancy tests on her way. When she got there, I took three more. All the results were the same.
But it was as I sat out on the porch in the dark waiting for my mom to get there that as I was quietly thanking and praising God that something stirred in my spirit and I knew I was carrying a son. That's a point of interest really because a couple years before during a deep emotional healing process as I first came to Christ over an abortion in my teens, the Lord had promised me very clearly that I would have a daughter. But I knew, practically from the moment I found out he was coming, that Jacob was a boy.
I loved being pregnant. Even in utero he was this mellow, calm quiet kid. He never kicked me, he would stretch and roll, and get the hiccups, but he was unobtrusive. Once he tapped to a beat while his dad was practicing on a drum pad, but most of the time he was just really chill. The same was true when he came into the world. He took his time (literally) getting out, and he came in quietly.
Everyone has seen enough TV shows and movies to know babies are supposed to cry when they are born, but Jacob didn't. I actually panicked, I asked why he wasn't crying and my fear lit fear in Neal. "Cry, cry, cry," I said. The doctor told me "Relax, he's completely pink!" And then I think maybe he pinched him just to calm my fears. That loud cry he let out was the sweetest sound. He was a beautiful baby, perfect. And in all honesty, he kinda stayed that way for a long time. Careful, obedient, cautious, sweet - these words would describe the baby who slept about 16 hours a day (that may explain how big he grew.)
I remember when Jake was 11 months old and he cruised over to me from kitchen chair to kitchen chair and put his hand on my cheek and tapped it lightly, he said his first word, "Mama." The boy never crawled. We worried a little, Neal and I would sit him at one end of the hall and we would sit at the other and try to coax him to come to us. He just laughed at us and rolled over on his side. He didn't care much about being mobile, then one day when he was not quite a year old we had a picnic in the house. I walked over and bent down and let him have a sip of my Foster's Freeze chocolate shake. Then I turned and walked across the room and sat down. Out of nowhere the boy stood straight up and walked over to me for more.
As a toddler he was smart, funny, vivacious-- he used to like to perform little skits, and would pop out of an empty cupboard in an entertainment center and perform "The Jacob Show!!!" He loved to watch Disney - Mickey Mouse's "The Prince and the Pauper" over and over and over and over again... "More Mee Mow, Mommy, more Mee Mow." He spoke well, looked and acted older than he was and was never stubborn about anything until potty training and giving up his pacifier (and potty training was harder than the pacifier.) But once he decided he was ready he did it in a week, never even had a single accident.
Jacob's first tantrum wasn't until he was four. I can still play the video of it in my head. I remember as I watched him kick and scream in the middle of the aisle at Payless Show Source wondering what alien life force had taken over my kid. It was the beginning of a pattern, my typically easy kid started to give me trouble about every four years - at 8 (when the two new siblings had shown up in the same year; 12 (when puberty kicked in): 16 (because I think that's in the teenager handbook); and 20 (because being a grown adult and living under your mom's roof, especially this mom's roof-- is hard.)
It's funny, I started this blog wanting to talk about what it's like to be a mom, and somehow it became all about the kid. And really, that is what you don't know when you're twenty-two years old and you decide you want to have a baby. You don't think, or at least I didn't think, much past what the cute and cuddly part is like. I didn't even actually have a fully accurate picture of that (it wasn't until the siblings came along that I understood what having an uncooperative baby was like-- Jacob really suckered me in thinking I had a handle on things those first few years.)
I'm gonna be honest, I am not the "give the kid the last cookie" mom. In fact, I know in a lot of ways I have been a pretty selfish parent at times. I know I have been tough, strict, and hard. That especially manifests itself in the first child - the practice kid, like Jake. It requires too many years of experience to really know and accept you don't know what you're doing as a parent, but really, neither does anyone else. Being a perfectionist didn't help. In hindsight there are a lot of things I would have tried to make bother me less (the phrase "don'tcry scream over spilled milk" comes to mind.) But you can't go back.
The Bible gives some rather vague instruction on parenting, "train up a child in the way he should go..." where I would like an instruction manual to proceed, God wants my dependence to follow. The Bible also talks about "iron sharpening iron," and you never really understand that metaphor the same way until you are a parent. I am the chisel, sometimes painfully pounding on the block that is my kid. I am so focused on what I can participate in forming on the block, and all along God is working on reshaping the chisel - it's a horrible irony, really.
I never really remembered until I started writing this blog that I had poured out a "Hannah Prayer" for my first born son. In Hannah's day, she kept her Samuel only long enough to wean him before she delivered him to the temple. It's hard to imagine giving away a toddler. What I didn't know 22 years ago when I prayed that prayer was that it's not a whole lot easier to deliver a "child" to the temple when he's 21 either. Oh, it's necessary, mind you, but it's not easy.
I will always be Jacob's mom, perhaps to his dismay at times, but a big huge part of my job (which has been dwindling for years) is actually coming to an end as we prepare to send him off... to the temple... to "bible college"... to Ignite in just over two weeks. (yeah, I am totally swallowing back tears right now, and if you know me, you know how much that pisses me off!) Some might think we're late - he's 21, why is he still here? Some days I have honestly asked that question myself, but I can tell you wholeheartedly, it has NOT been too long. In fact in many ways it just doesn't feel long enough.
My son drives me crazy sometimes (part of the practice kid syndrome, partly because we are too much alike and partly because we are way too different-- yes it can be both.) Right now, as I look at him, as he prepares to leave, I am far more aware of the hard things, my failures, our challenges in relationship-- it was good to reminisce about happier days in this post. But I love my son, and more importantly (even though he may not know it) I really like him. I respect him. I'm proud of the person he has become. He's still smart, funny and vivacious. He's also kind, compassionate, caring, he's found passion, he loves God, he loves others.
I hope that in the midst of my awareness of the ways I have blown it, failed him as his mom, made mistakes as a parent, that part of my influence has also helped him become the good person that he is-- the godly person that he is.
Being a mom turns out to be the hardest thing I will ever do in my life. Maybe not all moms feel that way, but that has been my experience. Stretch marks, sleepless nights, toddler temper tantrums, homework, carpools, puberty, teen years, heartbreaks, disappointments, failures-- yours and theirs, all hard-- so, so hard. But none of it compares to this, to letting go.
I thought 11 1/2 hours of labor and an hour of pushing him into the world was hard, but it does not compare to the culmination of the 21 1/2 years of labor that followed pushing him out on his own. There's no epidural for this part.
I've failed a lot as a mom... a LOT a lot (I have two more, let's be real, I am STILL failing a LOT)... But my God, I love my kids-- if you're a mom, you'll understand when I say, "more than they will ever know." But this is it. It's time to leave the nest, soar or fall, fail or fly, it's time to stretch those wings and go. Part of my heart is leaving, and going out into the world in a way I never understood at 22 years old. I didn't know. And I have spent a while now trying to stay in denial, but it's here, no more clipping the wings.
Gotta let go.
Gotta let him fly.
Nobody told me.
But it's time.
I hope he soars.
I was an only child who wasn't really around little kids much. A couple of my girlfriends had started their families and had a couple babies under their belts, but my involvement extended to shower gifts, well wishes and an occasional "hold and coo" session. I had babysat a little as a teenager, but really - I was clueless.
I guess becoming a mom was part of the "natural next step." I was married, now you had babies - and babies, including my friends babies were cute. They were soft and cuddly to hold, and when they dozed and cooed they were absolutely precious.
For me there was fertility treatment involved in my pregnancy efforts, so I know I was fully committed to the idea. The idea.
The idea.
That was the thing about becoming a mom, it started out as an idea. I imagined how in doing things completely different from my own mom my relationship with my own children would be better... perfect, even. Now mind you it wasn't like my mom had done a bad job, I mean, after all, she had raised me. But still, I knew how differently I would do... everything. And I was so confident about how my kids would react, respond. I remember a lot "I'll never's" and "My kids won't ever's..." (Giggle) Because the thing about being a mom, is when it's theoretical, and you're parenting theoretical kids, well... everything goes perfectly.
It took more than a year of trying after a bad miscarriage to find out I was finally pregnant. In fact the heartbreaking longing for motherhood had bruised my heart pretty badly between my miscarriage and seemingly fruitless fertility treatments. A year is a really long time when you are surrounded by girlfriends who say "I think we might like to try (BOOM pregnant) have another baby...." Baby showers were, once upon a time, THE most painful event to weather through.
Then one night in June 1993 I was home by myself, well, just me and the dog. I had my bible out and worship music blaring and I poured my heart out like Hannah in the Bible before the Lord. I prayed for a child, and then I prayed for God's will. And I told the Lord if it was NOT His will for me to be a mom, then I didn't want to be one. And I had peace. And I meant my prayer. And then I remembered there was one last pregnancy test under the sink in my bathroom. And as an act of faith, I decided I would just get rid of it.... but I wouldn't waste it. So, I peed on the stick.
I took the stick back out into the living room and I went back to the Word and worship. After a while I glanced over at the stick, and much to my surprise where there had always been a (-) there was a (+). I looked at the stick, I looked up to heaven. I looked at the stick. I looked at the dog, resting at my feet. I looked up to heaven. I picked up the stick in disbelief. I looked up to heaven. Then I jumped up, and down, and up and down and up again. And I told the dog I was pregnant. He jumped up and down with me.
Ironically (if you know my oldest) my husband Neal was at a Stanley Cup Hockey game that night. These were the days before cell phones. So as hard as I tried to keep this exciting news between me and the dog, I called my mom and three or four of my closest girlfriends and shared the news. My mom came over, she stopped and picked up five more pregnancy tests on her way. When she got there, I took three more. All the results were the same.
But it was as I sat out on the porch in the dark waiting for my mom to get there that as I was quietly thanking and praising God that something stirred in my spirit and I knew I was carrying a son. That's a point of interest really because a couple years before during a deep emotional healing process as I first came to Christ over an abortion in my teens, the Lord had promised me very clearly that I would have a daughter. But I knew, practically from the moment I found out he was coming, that Jacob was a boy.
I loved being pregnant. Even in utero he was this mellow, calm quiet kid. He never kicked me, he would stretch and roll, and get the hiccups, but he was unobtrusive. Once he tapped to a beat while his dad was practicing on a drum pad, but most of the time he was just really chill. The same was true when he came into the world. He took his time (literally) getting out, and he came in quietly.
I remember when Jake was 11 months old and he cruised over to me from kitchen chair to kitchen chair and put his hand on my cheek and tapped it lightly, he said his first word, "Mama." The boy never crawled. We worried a little, Neal and I would sit him at one end of the hall and we would sit at the other and try to coax him to come to us. He just laughed at us and rolled over on his side. He didn't care much about being mobile, then one day when he was not quite a year old we had a picnic in the house. I walked over and bent down and let him have a sip of my Foster's Freeze chocolate shake. Then I turned and walked across the room and sat down. Out of nowhere the boy stood straight up and walked over to me for more.
As a toddler he was smart, funny, vivacious-- he used to like to perform little skits, and would pop out of an empty cupboard in an entertainment center and perform "The Jacob Show!!!" He loved to watch Disney - Mickey Mouse's "The Prince and the Pauper" over and over and over and over again... "More Mee Mow, Mommy, more Mee Mow." He spoke well, looked and acted older than he was and was never stubborn about anything until potty training and giving up his pacifier (and potty training was harder than the pacifier.) But once he decided he was ready he did it in a week, never even had a single accident.
Jacob's first tantrum wasn't until he was four. I can still play the video of it in my head. I remember as I watched him kick and scream in the middle of the aisle at Payless Show Source wondering what alien life force had taken over my kid. It was the beginning of a pattern, my typically easy kid started to give me trouble about every four years - at 8 (when the two new siblings had shown up in the same year; 12 (when puberty kicked in): 16 (because I think that's in the teenager handbook); and 20 (because being a grown adult and living under your mom's roof, especially this mom's roof-- is hard.)
It's funny, I started this blog wanting to talk about what it's like to be a mom, and somehow it became all about the kid. And really, that is what you don't know when you're twenty-two years old and you decide you want to have a baby. You don't think, or at least I didn't think, much past what the cute and cuddly part is like. I didn't even actually have a fully accurate picture of that (it wasn't until the siblings came along that I understood what having an uncooperative baby was like-- Jacob really suckered me in thinking I had a handle on things those first few years.)
I'm gonna be honest, I am not the "give the kid the last cookie" mom. In fact, I know in a lot of ways I have been a pretty selfish parent at times. I know I have been tough, strict, and hard. That especially manifests itself in the first child - the practice kid, like Jake. It requires too many years of experience to really know and accept you don't know what you're doing as a parent, but really, neither does anyone else. Being a perfectionist didn't help. In hindsight there are a lot of things I would have tried to make bother me less (the phrase "don't
The Bible gives some rather vague instruction on parenting, "train up a child in the way he should go..." where I would like an instruction manual to proceed, God wants my dependence to follow. The Bible also talks about "iron sharpening iron," and you never really understand that metaphor the same way until you are a parent. I am the chisel, sometimes painfully pounding on the block that is my kid. I am so focused on what I can participate in forming on the block, and all along God is working on reshaping the chisel - it's a horrible irony, really.
I will always be Jacob's mom, perhaps to his dismay at times, but a big huge part of my job (which has been dwindling for years) is actually coming to an end as we prepare to send him off... to the temple... to "bible college"... to Ignite in just over two weeks. (yeah, I am totally swallowing back tears right now, and if you know me, you know how much that pisses me off!) Some might think we're late - he's 21, why is he still here? Some days I have honestly asked that question myself, but I can tell you wholeheartedly, it has NOT been too long. In fact in many ways it just doesn't feel long enough.
I hope that in the midst of my awareness of the ways I have blown it, failed him as his mom, made mistakes as a parent, that part of my influence has also helped him become the good person that he is-- the godly person that he is.
I thought 11 1/2 hours of labor and an hour of pushing him into the world was hard, but it does not compare to the culmination of the 21 1/2 years of labor that followed pushing him out on his own. There's no epidural for this part.
I've failed a lot as a mom... a LOT a lot (I have two more, let's be real, I am STILL failing a LOT)... But my God, I love my kids-- if you're a mom, you'll understand when I say, "more than they will ever know." But this is it. It's time to leave the nest, soar or fall, fail or fly, it's time to stretch those wings and go. Part of my heart is leaving, and going out into the world in a way I never understood at 22 years old. I didn't know. And I have spent a while now trying to stay in denial, but it's here, no more clipping the wings.
Gotta let go.
Gotta let him fly.
Nobody told me.
But it's time.
I hope he soars.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
A very dark place
There are certain things in life that are very difficult, dare I say impossible, to comprehend unless you have experienced them for yourself. There are those things I have not experienced that I can still say that about with confidence, and there are those things I can say that about with certainty because of my experience. I would only dare to speak though, to those things I have experienced.
I'm writing this blog laying in bed, in the middle of the night on my cell phone because I am too restless to sleep. It's been a long, difficult and challenging day, even though from the outside looking in that might not seem at all obvious. When I woke up this morning I could almost SEE the cloud of depression as it blew in from origins unknown. It's as though it was waiting for me to wake.
I would venture to say it came in with a dessert wind as these last few weeks have felt very much like a spiritual desert-- dry, difficult-- the Lord has seemed mostly silent, despite my persistent efforts to be faithfully in the Word and prayer every morning. It's like I've lost my spiritual signal in the desert, and no communication is coming through.
Both the desert and depression are difficult, together they can be completely overwhelming, but if you've never experienced them, apart or together, they can be almost impossible to comprehend.
My worst experience with the depression and desert pairing happened about five years ago, and to a certain degree they lasted for nearly three years. It was probably the most gut wrenching experience of my life, and it was primarily misunderstood or even completely unnoticed by the people around me. That's the thing about deserts and depression, they can be well masked-- smiling on the outside while falling apart on the inside, functioning in life while feeling like your spirit might die.
I remember a lot of nights during that two year stretch, slipping away to be alone and just trying so hard to pour my heart out before God, begging Him even at times to just take me home into his presence, begging not to wake up the next day. But the sun kept rising, and I kept having to get up with it, to be the wife, the mom, the daughter, the employee... I functioned in my life because I had to. For me I was never suicidal, but I could picture myself cutting myself to release the strain. I never did it, but I could see it in my mind's eye.
I did hurt myself with food, however. I'm not a drinker or a drug user, but I can absolutely understand the compulsion, and I ate with the same fervent compulsion as the alcoholic drinks or the drug addict uses. But nobody ever calls out the fat girl for gaining back weight.
It's really hard to reach out and talk to other people about deserts and depression, because if they don't understand it, their well-intentioned advice usually only makes matters worse. "You shouldn't feel that way," they'll say, or "you just need to think positive," they'll admonish. And suddenly you start to wonder if the desert and depression is really your own fault. Even people who have had the desert or depression experience can be limited in how helpful they can be because there is no simple solution-- and the temptation to assume what helped them will automatically be successful for others can be problematic. This scenario makes me think of Job and his overly confident friends.
Depression and desert seasons are like dirty little secrets in the church. Christians aren't "supposed" to have these kinds of struggles. The joy of the Lord is supposed to be or strength, and it's impossible to fathom the existence of a desert or depression in its presence... and yet.
I'm not writing this blog because I feel like I have answers, I guess rather my intention is to just be real and say, "I love Jesus with all my heart, and yet sometimes I find myself in a very painful dark place." Battling depression or feeling distant from God does not negate my love for Him, nor does it even diminish my faith. I guess really in some ways it proves my faith when I'm able to hold on, if only by a strand, even in the midst of being completely overwhelmed.
I do feel so unsettled, and like I'm in a battle against the dark cloud that wants to consume me. It's not to the degree it was five years ago, but it's enough that I remember the pain from before. So I try to push back, first and foremost with prayer-- my own as well as the prayers of faithful friends. That may be the biggest difference between this time and five years ago-- then I felt far more alone. The cloud before succeeded in isolating me, even though it's trying this time I have learned to recognize the danger of withdrawal. So I reach out, I talk about it, I try to stay as open and honest as I can, though carefully so. Even people who know me and love me, maybe even BECAUSE they know me and love me, can be tempted to say things like "don't feel that way." Or they might try to assign fault to my temperament instead of being able to understand that this is really as much an outward battle as an inward one.
The cloud is thick, it tries to rush in and cover me, isolating, but also it makes me very raw, that makes reaching out to others harder because on top of being challenged and tired it makes me highly sensitive and prone to hurt. That's just a hard place to be.
I guess my hope is for a fresh wind, a refreshing wind from the Holy Spirit, to blow coolly in and push back the cloud of depression and whisper away the dry desert season. It's really the only answer that brings hope... not that the depression and desert won't happen, but that they can be battled back, not even so much by me, but for me by the living, loving God, who even when He seems distant and silent is still there, still for me, still letting nothing separate me from The reality of His love, even when I am lost to the sense if it.
I know this blog will probably be lost on most people, but if it's read by just one person who needs to hear it, then the self-exposure is worth it. Just know, it's not just you, you are NOT the only one... Hang on to whatever strands you can fit as long as you can... You may not see it now, but God is still there, still working, and He will break through and draw you out of the cloud. Don't give up. God is still good.
Apologies for what I am certain is innumerable typos and grammatical errors, typing on my phone is convenient, not necessarily conducive to great writing. I hope the message got through here anyway.
Love,
Diana
I'm writing this blog laying in bed, in the middle of the night on my cell phone because I am too restless to sleep. It's been a long, difficult and challenging day, even though from the outside looking in that might not seem at all obvious. When I woke up this morning I could almost SEE the cloud of depression as it blew in from origins unknown. It's as though it was waiting for me to wake.
I would venture to say it came in with a dessert wind as these last few weeks have felt very much like a spiritual desert-- dry, difficult-- the Lord has seemed mostly silent, despite my persistent efforts to be faithfully in the Word and prayer every morning. It's like I've lost my spiritual signal in the desert, and no communication is coming through.
Both the desert and depression are difficult, together they can be completely overwhelming, but if you've never experienced them, apart or together, they can be almost impossible to comprehend.
My worst experience with the depression and desert pairing happened about five years ago, and to a certain degree they lasted for nearly three years. It was probably the most gut wrenching experience of my life, and it was primarily misunderstood or even completely unnoticed by the people around me. That's the thing about deserts and depression, they can be well masked-- smiling on the outside while falling apart on the inside, functioning in life while feeling like your spirit might die.
I remember a lot of nights during that two year stretch, slipping away to be alone and just trying so hard to pour my heart out before God, begging Him even at times to just take me home into his presence, begging not to wake up the next day. But the sun kept rising, and I kept having to get up with it, to be the wife, the mom, the daughter, the employee... I functioned in my life because I had to. For me I was never suicidal, but I could picture myself cutting myself to release the strain. I never did it, but I could see it in my mind's eye.
I did hurt myself with food, however. I'm not a drinker or a drug user, but I can absolutely understand the compulsion, and I ate with the same fervent compulsion as the alcoholic drinks or the drug addict uses. But nobody ever calls out the fat girl for gaining back weight.
It's really hard to reach out and talk to other people about deserts and depression, because if they don't understand it, their well-intentioned advice usually only makes matters worse. "You shouldn't feel that way," they'll say, or "you just need to think positive," they'll admonish. And suddenly you start to wonder if the desert and depression is really your own fault. Even people who have had the desert or depression experience can be limited in how helpful they can be because there is no simple solution-- and the temptation to assume what helped them will automatically be successful for others can be problematic. This scenario makes me think of Job and his overly confident friends.
Depression and desert seasons are like dirty little secrets in the church. Christians aren't "supposed" to have these kinds of struggles. The joy of the Lord is supposed to be or strength, and it's impossible to fathom the existence of a desert or depression in its presence... and yet.
I'm not writing this blog because I feel like I have answers, I guess rather my intention is to just be real and say, "I love Jesus with all my heart, and yet sometimes I find myself in a very painful dark place." Battling depression or feeling distant from God does not negate my love for Him, nor does it even diminish my faith. I guess really in some ways it proves my faith when I'm able to hold on, if only by a strand, even in the midst of being completely overwhelmed.
I do feel so unsettled, and like I'm in a battle against the dark cloud that wants to consume me. It's not to the degree it was five years ago, but it's enough that I remember the pain from before. So I try to push back, first and foremost with prayer-- my own as well as the prayers of faithful friends. That may be the biggest difference between this time and five years ago-- then I felt far more alone. The cloud before succeeded in isolating me, even though it's trying this time I have learned to recognize the danger of withdrawal. So I reach out, I talk about it, I try to stay as open and honest as I can, though carefully so. Even people who know me and love me, maybe even BECAUSE they know me and love me, can be tempted to say things like "don't feel that way." Or they might try to assign fault to my temperament instead of being able to understand that this is really as much an outward battle as an inward one.
The cloud is thick, it tries to rush in and cover me, isolating, but also it makes me very raw, that makes reaching out to others harder because on top of being challenged and tired it makes me highly sensitive and prone to hurt. That's just a hard place to be.
I guess my hope is for a fresh wind, a refreshing wind from the Holy Spirit, to blow coolly in and push back the cloud of depression and whisper away the dry desert season. It's really the only answer that brings hope... not that the depression and desert won't happen, but that they can be battled back, not even so much by me, but for me by the living, loving God, who even when He seems distant and silent is still there, still for me, still letting nothing separate me from The reality of His love, even when I am lost to the sense if it.
I know this blog will probably be lost on most people, but if it's read by just one person who needs to hear it, then the self-exposure is worth it. Just know, it's not just you, you are NOT the only one... Hang on to whatever strands you can fit as long as you can... You may not see it now, but God is still there, still working, and He will break through and draw you out of the cloud. Don't give up. God is still good.
Apologies for what I am certain is innumerable typos and grammatical errors, typing on my phone is convenient, not necessarily conducive to great writing. I hope the message got through here anyway.
Love,
Diana
Monday, June 29, 2015
Rainbows
I went for one of my regular walks this morning, and a few streets down in my neighborhood I passed the home of a neighbor I never took much notice to before and I really know nothing about. Then today I noticed something in their yard that was never there before, a giant rainbow colored flag. At the of their walk to their driveway hung a banner with all the rainbow colors that hung so far down it almost resembled a door.
There was a check in my spirit, a moment of annoyance mixed with sadness, much like the sense I've had on Facebook the last few days as I've looked at all the "rainbow-ized" profile pictures of many of my Facebook friends and acquaintances. And then it occurred to me, I still don't know anything about this neighbor with the rainbow flag. I could be tempted to think I do, but the truth is I do not.
There is a list of obvious possibilities-- it could be the home of a homosexual, or a homosexual couple who is excited about the court decision that they see as a victory, a blessing even. Or it could be the proverbial "screw you" from someone of the same persuasion. It could be someone who is not gay themselves but is simply celebrating in solidarity, or someone who wants to piss off a neighbor they have perhaps debated on the issue. I don't know, I can't know, and because I have no intention of walking up and knocking on the door to ask, I won't know. At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter because they are still my neighbor.
I have another house in my neighborhood that I know is the home of a lesbian couple raising a teenage son. I've only had one actual interaction with them in the many, many years that they've lived five houses down my block, and it was in the midst of a neighborhood crisis many years ago that I no longer recall the details to. We used to wave as they drove past my house to theirs, but then a few years back we brought a "Say yes to Proposition 8" sign home from our old church and put it in our yard. I noticed within the week they placed a "Say no," sign in their own yard. And in all honesty, I was angry at the time, and I'm not sure who stopped first, but the waving stopped and angry scowls came from the front seat of their car instead. Looking back later, I just regretted putting up my sign in the first place, all it accomplished was making an enemy out of my neighbor.
As I walked past their house this morning, I looked to see if there was any outward sign of celebration, any rainbows to be seen, and I noted that there was none. But I honestly don't know why. Just as I can presume they were unhappy when Prop 8 passed, they were probably happy with the Supreme Court decision, but I cannot be sure by just walking past their door. And can I tell you a secret? I get it. I get why they would be happy. I get why they would be celebrating. I get that in their minds this is a likely HUGE victory, and a very good thing. And I can't even be angry with them for it. Why should they feel any other way?
OK, now everybody stop for a second and take a deep breath because I realize I may have pissed off a lot of my readers by now-- no matter where they stand on the issue. But right here, just now, I am positive that my most passionate Christian friends on the issue are probably ticked and completely questioning me, my sanity and most of all my Christianity. Can I tell you something? I get that too. There is a person who is not my personal friend, who I see through mutual friends on Facebook who turned her profile pic into rainbow colors, and from a distance I saw her make a deeper commitment to God this weekend, and the two things do not gel together in my mind. And it stirs doubts and concerns. But THIS is that place where the Bible tells me not to judge (condemn) another Christian. Standing over here gathering clues from the distance, I am no expert on her heart.
What a mess it is. The division is what I find so sad. In the church, outside of the church, from the church-- so many mixed messages. We have the adamant and angry who see the celebration of sin and it enrages them... I get it. You have those who want to debate scripture and rewrite what it says in the name of tolerance and peace, and although I don't agree with it, I can understand. And then you have all the people outside the church and the response is just as varied-- we Christians seem to have no better handle on the situation than anyone else. I get why they think so poorly of us all.
I do know this though, it is unrealistic for us as Christians to expect an unbelieving world to live according to a biblical standard. They can't even understand it, much less apply it. Yes, yes, I know (even if they try to rewrite history and deny it) AMERICA WAS BUILT ON JUDEO-CHRISTIAN VALUES!!! It doesn't matter. That's not longer the case. But this I do know, it is our mistake to make those who stand against our beliefs the enemy. People aren't the enemy, and to hate them for believing differently than we do completely undermines what we as Christians claim to believe. Like it or not, as hard as it may be, "Love your neighbor as yourself" is the #2 command. There's no out (excuse the pun) on the gay marriage issue, whether it's the celebrating gay or the sympathetic brother in Christ, we're called to love.
Now relax, I'm not saying you have to abandon your principles or let go of your beliefs, you just can't let that aspect of religion supersede the importance of relationship. I am not saying homosexuality isn't a sin, but ask yourself, are you as angry about the unmarried couple with two kids living down your block... attending your church... serving there even? Because if you're not, then that little issue of hypocrisy we all have to watch for is creeping in. Yeah, I get that suddenly the nation has legalized and authorized this sin you take issue with, but don't forget, God takes issue with all sin. That's why we are Christians in the first place, we at some point at least recognized we were sinners in need of a Savior-- and we still are. But sometimes we forget that after we've been doing the faith walk long enough to impress ourselves.
There is a lot of debate, discord, anger and outrage stirring about. It is coming from all sides, but in all honesty, the "side" that "won" seems pretty happy and content at this point, and the ugly seems to be pouring pretty powerfully out of the conservative Christian camp. That's not a good thing. I see lots of angry, hostile conversation, with hateful words spewed-- words of fear, words of judgment, words of attack. Then suddenly when we realize we've perhaps crossed the line we take a step back and try to settle a little and declare, "well, I love the sinner, I hate the sin." But hear my warning, when the sin is the identity of the person, they cannot separate your feelings for what they do from who they are. They are neither feeling nor receiving our love. Instead of pointing our finger at the sin and declaring our disdain, we as Christians have to figure out a way to look past the sin and love the sinner first. It is the hardest thing to do, but it is what Christ did, and what He wants to do through us.
As I walked past my neighbor's flag today, I realized part of my difficulty is that it's the rainbow that is the symbol that has been chosen to declare the celebration. "Gay PRIDE," they say. And it occurred to me, the rainbow belongs to God-- He is the creator of it, and He invented it for a very specific purpose, and it wasn't about any kind of pride, but rather it's about submission, submission to One Greater than self. It is first and foremost about a promise that God made to His people. It's meant to be a reminder of our all-powerful God's love and His covenant with us. And I suddenly felt the encouragement in my spirit that when I see a rainbow of any kind, that should be my focus-- God's faithfulness, His goodness, His supreme power.
I don't have to be afraid of things going on in the world around me; I don't have to be worried about what the world "is coming to," because I know that God is still sovereign, and He is still in control. Part of His promise is to work all things... ALL things together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. Nothing changes that, and nothing separates God's people from His love.
Sometimes when things are difficult or challenging and I don't know what to do in a hard circumstance, I always go back to the last thing I was absolutely certain God spoke to me. In this big picture challenge, let me encourage the brethren that one thing we know we can go back to that God said is "Love." Love Him and love others. And I would encourage you when you find yourself backed up against the wall of outrage or frustration, remember Who you represent, and remember what He would do. Think of the gentle Christ sitting along side the woman at the well. He didn't deny her sin, but He loved her more and that was what drew her to Him. That was the pathway He built into her life. As Christians I encourage us all today, have our hearts and hands ready to reach out to the world, it needs Hope, and we're the ones who know Him.
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