When my cell phone rang this morning I didn't recognize the number so I almost didn't pick up, but at the last second I did. I was surprised to hear my good friend's voice on the other end. She had just read my blog and was in tears. I seem to get this response a lot. We talked for a few minutes and made plans to see each other face to face.
After I hung up, I started thinking about an email I had gotten a few days ago from another close friend. She was sharing the pain that was stirred in her when she had read my blog. I wasn't exactly sure how my friends' responses were making me feel but I realized it did stir a longing in me to reach women through my writing. I began to say to Jesus, "Whatever you want to do with all this is fine. I give it to you."
But wait! My heart began to pound. This was so familiar. I couldn't finish the prayer and the words were stuck in my throat. I had to choke them back. I realized I didn't mean this prayer. And, I knew why.
Instantly, I was back in our first apartment. Steve had just dropped me off after THE doctor visit. The one where we found out we were having twins. I remember coming into our apartment, alone. It was early afternoon and Steve had gone back to work. As I stood there in our small den I found myself kneeling by our second-hand couch and praying. I prayed, "Thank you, Jesus for this miracle. It's not what we expected but I give them to you. Whatever you want with them is fine with me."
This morning, with my cell phone still in hand, I knew I couldn't pray that same prayer over my blog. I couldn't pray that over my kids, my husband, even myself.
But, I have prayed this prayer over the years. Of course, I have. I've prayed many times "not my will, but Yours be done." But, as I sat there this morning I knew- I knew in the deepest place of knowing- I've never meant it. Not one word of that prayer have I meant since the day I prayed it over David and Ruth. Whatever God chooses is not okay with me.
He let me down. He chose something no loving heavenly father would ever choose. He chose death for them. He chose to allow them to die. He allowed it. He could have stopped them from dying. He could have stopped the infection that was raging through my body and killed them and almost killed me. He didn't. He looked the other way.
So many disappointments over the years, so many broken dreams and dashed hopes. It's not just the twins, it's everything. It's the moving 8 times, the leaving behind and the starting over. It's the broken friendships, the financial strain, the thoughtless words spoken between Steve and me. The angry teens and the whiny toddlers. It's the sleepless nights and the lost vacations. It's the looks of disappointment on our parishioners' faces. The so many "No's" we've heard, and the so few "Yes".
Where has God been in all of this?
On a dark night, not too long ago I lay on my bedroom floor railing against the Lord. I cried out from a place within me that was so deep I wasn't sure I could return from it. It was so raw, so honest that there was a big part of me that was afraid. Afraid to go there, afraid to be so real with God. It gave new meaning to Psalm 42. "My tears have been my food day and night."
I feel as if I've feasted on my tears for so many years.
That night, after my tears ran dry and exhaustion began to set in, I still lay there on the floor, straining to hear a word from the Lord. No explanations came. No answers. But an invitation.
I heard my heavenly Father invite me to take communion. I held my breath. I must have heard wrong. How could He extend himself to me in that way after all the accusations I had just hurled at him?
Then an answer came. Forgiveness.
I sat on our front porch with the wine and the bread, and with renewed tears took communion. Nourishing tears this time. The food of forgiveness. The drink of Love.
I will pray those words again, "Your will be done." And, I will mean it. I know God doesn't have to answer to me for anything. I know I will never understand many of the things that have happened in my life. Much of the pain and grief will always be a mystery. Even the small day to day disappointments that may seem to much to bear are in the hands of my Savior. And I believe, if not all the time, then most of the time, that that is exactly where it all belongs.
In the bruised hands of Love.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Mom in Training
It's 5:30 a.m. and I'm up giving goldfish to Noah, my three year old. The time change is a bear. I like getting up early to have some quiet time to start my day. To gather my thoughts and pray. It was difficult before the time change to beat Noah out of bed but now it's impossible. He's the lightest sleeper we've ever had. If I breathe while walking past his room then his head flies off the pillow and he's at the door. He doesn't sleep well either. He's up 2 or 3 times a night. Our last two kids have been terrible sleepers, so basically I haven't slept since 2004.
If I wasn't so sleep deprived I'm sure I'd think it was funny in a weird kind of way. In my twenties I'm sure I could have handled this lack of sleep better but now, twenty years later and many children later I need some sleep! What was God thinking giving me a strong willed, energetic, extroverted boy at 40? I'm tired. I'm sure there's some irony here, some lesson to learn but it's hard to learn anything when you can barely think straight enough to tie your shoes.
In bible study the other morning my group was having a deep, theological discussion about Paul. I swear I sat there thinking about what I had put in my kid's lunches that morning. The conversation bounced around me like a one of those small bouncy balls you get from a gum ball machine. All crazy and out of control. I admire that these women can be so fresh and insightful at 9:30 in the morning. I decided right then and there if anyone wants any deep and penetrating idea from me it needs to be in the 11 am. hour. That's my good hour. Any time before and I'm fuzzy from the lack of sleep and the frenzied morning pace. Any time after and I'm already starting my wind down for the day. The slow descent into housework, laundry, carpooling, homework, dinner, baths and finally bedtime.
I worry sometimes that my life will never return to "normal". I wonder if I will one day get back to a rational way of thinking and talking.
Last night in the car, on the way to soccer practice my daughter asked me, "what time does practice start?" My response was, "what practice?" Unfortunately, my two teenage daughters were in the car. You'd have thought I was on stage at Comedy Central. I started to yell at them, tell them I'd like to see them sit in a chair and have six people talking to them all at once, asking questions, demanding things and see if they could utter a sane syllable. But, I didn't. I stopped myself because honestly, it was funny. And too, I thought about my mom and how she'd said crazy things that never made sense like, "for crying out loud someone go unbark that dog!" We, all five of her children, laughed at her and even wrote down her sayings so we could remember them and laugh again one day at her absurd words.
Maybe I am befuddled and a little mentally hectic these days. But, if I allow myself I can also be full of laughter and whimsy. Letting go of the expectation that I might have something meaningful to say at bible study or go a full day without jelly on my shirt could actually put me on the right track toward, if not lucidness, then at least some good humor.
I love being a mom but I haven't always loved the journey. Late night feedings, scraped knees and sore throats are some of the things that have worn me out and made me stumble. And there have been too many days spent in depression, anxiety and loneliness. Grief has made me want to run ahead and not "sit" in the pain, allowing it's power to transform instead of cripple.
So, maybe at 40 I'm not completely "with it" but I do believe I'm a little wiser and a little more emotionally stable. And that counts for something. That counts for a lot.
This morning after dropping Steve off at the airport I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that Noah, with the sun in his face and his cheeks flushed bright red was asleep. Asleep! At 10:45 in the morning. I sighed. Poor guy, he just doesn't know how to pace himself.
If I wasn't so sleep deprived I'm sure I'd think it was funny in a weird kind of way. In my twenties I'm sure I could have handled this lack of sleep better but now, twenty years later and many children later I need some sleep! What was God thinking giving me a strong willed, energetic, extroverted boy at 40? I'm tired. I'm sure there's some irony here, some lesson to learn but it's hard to learn anything when you can barely think straight enough to tie your shoes.
In bible study the other morning my group was having a deep, theological discussion about Paul. I swear I sat there thinking about what I had put in my kid's lunches that morning. The conversation bounced around me like a one of those small bouncy balls you get from a gum ball machine. All crazy and out of control. I admire that these women can be so fresh and insightful at 9:30 in the morning. I decided right then and there if anyone wants any deep and penetrating idea from me it needs to be in the 11 am. hour. That's my good hour. Any time before and I'm fuzzy from the lack of sleep and the frenzied morning pace. Any time after and I'm already starting my wind down for the day. The slow descent into housework, laundry, carpooling, homework, dinner, baths and finally bedtime.
I worry sometimes that my life will never return to "normal". I wonder if I will one day get back to a rational way of thinking and talking.
Last night in the car, on the way to soccer practice my daughter asked me, "what time does practice start?" My response was, "what practice?" Unfortunately, my two teenage daughters were in the car. You'd have thought I was on stage at Comedy Central. I started to yell at them, tell them I'd like to see them sit in a chair and have six people talking to them all at once, asking questions, demanding things and see if they could utter a sane syllable. But, I didn't. I stopped myself because honestly, it was funny. And too, I thought about my mom and how she'd said crazy things that never made sense like, "for crying out loud someone go unbark that dog!" We, all five of her children, laughed at her and even wrote down her sayings so we could remember them and laugh again one day at her absurd words.
Maybe I am befuddled and a little mentally hectic these days. But, if I allow myself I can also be full of laughter and whimsy. Letting go of the expectation that I might have something meaningful to say at bible study or go a full day without jelly on my shirt could actually put me on the right track toward, if not lucidness, then at least some good humor.
I love being a mom but I haven't always loved the journey. Late night feedings, scraped knees and sore throats are some of the things that have worn me out and made me stumble. And there have been too many days spent in depression, anxiety and loneliness. Grief has made me want to run ahead and not "sit" in the pain, allowing it's power to transform instead of cripple.
So, maybe at 40 I'm not completely "with it" but I do believe I'm a little wiser and a little more emotionally stable. And that counts for something. That counts for a lot.
This morning after dropping Steve off at the airport I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that Noah, with the sun in his face and his cheeks flushed bright red was asleep. Asleep! At 10:45 in the morning. I sighed. Poor guy, he just doesn't know how to pace himself.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Two Books to Help Start the Journey
My friend, Karen gave me a book to read. Well, actually just one chapter of a book. The chapter on mourning. The book is Mudhouse Sabbath by Lauren Winner. It's a book in which the author talks about integrating her Christian faith with the Jewish traditions and religious practices she grew up with. In the chapter on mourning she shares that, "Judaism understands mourning as a discipline, one in which the mourner is not only allowed, but expected, to be engaged." She explains that the Jewish bereavement is marked by the days and months and yes, even the years after a death.
The first stage is called aninut which is the burial. It is followed by shiva. Shiva is the seven days after burial when the mourners come to literally "sit shiva". This is what Job's friends did for him when they came and sat with him for seven days and seven nights. The point is we are not meant to grieve alone but in community.
Last Friday night Karen came to "sit shiva." She brought a meal for my family, "because," she said, "I didn't know you 20 years ago to do this." But, she knows the journey I am on now. We sat on the couch in my living room. It was mostly quiet in the house with five kids. We sat. We cried. No words were spoken except for me to say thank you. After a while she read the Mourners Kaddish. She hugged me tight and left.
Twenty years ago I never felt permission to grieve. I only felt pressure to move on with my life. Like a splinter in my finger I only wanted the pain removed and to forget it was ever there.
Henri Nouwen in his book, Can You Drink the Cup? says, "We want to drink our cup together and thus celebrate the truth that the wounds of our individual lives, which seem intolerable when lived alone, become sources of healing when we live them as a part of a fellowship of mutual care."
The cup of sorrow is best drunk at a table of loved ones, who allow you to lift your glass, hold it before them, and empty it's contents. To drink it down to the dregs. They drink with you, loving and accepting you as you choke down the bitter liquid. "Then," Nouwen says, "the cup of sorrow becomes the cup of joy."
I'm very thankful that this time around I have people helping me to hold my cup. Like Karen, others have come around me to say they want to enter into the pain, to understand what it means to grieve over loss. On my couch last Friday night I believe I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, "one year." I finally understand now, that in this twenty-first year, I will travel the road of sorrow but will not have to do it alone.
The first stage is called aninut which is the burial. It is followed by shiva. Shiva is the seven days after burial when the mourners come to literally "sit shiva". This is what Job's friends did for him when they came and sat with him for seven days and seven nights. The point is we are not meant to grieve alone but in community.
Last Friday night Karen came to "sit shiva." She brought a meal for my family, "because," she said, "I didn't know you 20 years ago to do this." But, she knows the journey I am on now. We sat on the couch in my living room. It was mostly quiet in the house with five kids. We sat. We cried. No words were spoken except for me to say thank you. After a while she read the Mourners Kaddish. She hugged me tight and left.
Twenty years ago I never felt permission to grieve. I only felt pressure to move on with my life. Like a splinter in my finger I only wanted the pain removed and to forget it was ever there.
Henri Nouwen in his book, Can You Drink the Cup? says, "We want to drink our cup together and thus celebrate the truth that the wounds of our individual lives, which seem intolerable when lived alone, become sources of healing when we live them as a part of a fellowship of mutual care."
The cup of sorrow is best drunk at a table of loved ones, who allow you to lift your glass, hold it before them, and empty it's contents. To drink it down to the dregs. They drink with you, loving and accepting you as you choke down the bitter liquid. "Then," Nouwen says, "the cup of sorrow becomes the cup of joy."
I'm very thankful that this time around I have people helping me to hold my cup. Like Karen, others have come around me to say they want to enter into the pain, to understand what it means to grieve over loss. On my couch last Friday night I believe I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, "one year." I finally understand now, that in this twenty-first year, I will travel the road of sorrow but will not have to do it alone.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Travel
Steve's been home for the last two weeks and it's been so nice having him here. It's great having him drive the girls to school, help with homework, cook dinner, put Noah to bed. These are things I don't take for granted anymore since he started traveling 3- 5 days a week. But what I really miss is waking up together and having our morning cup of coffee on the couch. I love slowly waking up, reading the bible and praying together each morning he is home. I miss sharing a glass of wine on the back porch before dinner while the kids play or do their homework. We've been married for almost 21 years and he's been traveling for only 15 months. It's been difficult, to say the least, getting used to him being away.
If there is an upside to this job it's that it has caused us to do a lot of soul searching. I've come face to face with the ugliness in me. The selfishness of wanting things my way, the way they've always been. It's also forced us to be more honest with one another. Neither one of us has ever been good at keeping our feelings a secret but the last year has brought us to a entirely new place of honesty in our relationship. I've spent a lot of time trying to wrap my head around why being apart has been so hard on us. I know the obvious answer is we are married thus one flesh and all that. And maybe it is that simple. And that complicated.
When he took this job last year and started traveling my anxiety attacks showed back up. It had been years since I'd had any real anxiety. The day he left for his first trip of this season I was in the grocery store grabbing a few things for dinner and all of the sudden I started crying. I got a heavy feeling in my chest and an overwhelming desire to wring my hands. Yes, I literally shake my hands when I feel anxious. I felt like I wasn't going to be able to take my next breath. Thankfully, I had my sunglasses with me so I put them on to cover my suddenly red eyes. Because, you know sunglasses inside are so less obvious than tears. I think the reason I had such a strong anxiety attack is because this was our second season with his job and I knew what was coming this year. His first year was difficult but it was all new and I was trying to figure it out, like Steve was. But this year we both know.
We know the impossible schedule, the exhaustion he feels from being on the road and I feel from being home with the kids. We know what it's like to try to communicate over a cell phone or through text what our day was like or even more difficult what we are feeling and thinking. We know the disappointment we all felt when he missed Harrison coming home from Europe after being away for 6 months, Lucy's first soccer game or Ellie winning her cross country meet for the first time. These are memories he doesn't share except through pictures and the retelling of the stories. It's hard on all of us.
Lately, we've been asking ourselves is it worth it to continue? This year he was the only chaplain for the teams but next year there will be another one. This year was only our first full season but next year we will be more used to the schedule. This year he has spent many hours building relationships but next year he'll have that foundation already. There are reasons to continue and there are reasons to quit and work at Wal Mart!
I've always enjoyed the twists and turns that my life has brought me but often it's in the looking back and seeing the "good", the hand of God where I have found peace or purpose in my journey. But lately, I've been painfully aware of wanting to be in the moment and enjoy this time in my life without having to wait to look in the rear view mirror to see the incredible moments I am living right now.
After twenty years of living with unresolved grief I think I've finally learned that I have to grab hold of the present to be able to fully embrace my future when it does arrive. Looking back at the days after David and Ruth died all I can see is a young woman trying desperately to make the pain go away by racing ahead on the journey. I sprinted down the road rather than allowing myself to walk it and take it in. I missed a great deal because of that and today I am having to re-walk the road of grieving.
I refuse to be angry at myself for the path I've taken. Do I have regrets? Sure. Do I wish I had done things differently? Of course. But, here I am. I can't go back, only forward. So, forward I shall go.
If there is an upside to this job it's that it has caused us to do a lot of soul searching. I've come face to face with the ugliness in me. The selfishness of wanting things my way, the way they've always been. It's also forced us to be more honest with one another. Neither one of us has ever been good at keeping our feelings a secret but the last year has brought us to a entirely new place of honesty in our relationship. I've spent a lot of time trying to wrap my head around why being apart has been so hard on us. I know the obvious answer is we are married thus one flesh and all that. And maybe it is that simple. And that complicated.
When he took this job last year and started traveling my anxiety attacks showed back up. It had been years since I'd had any real anxiety. The day he left for his first trip of this season I was in the grocery store grabbing a few things for dinner and all of the sudden I started crying. I got a heavy feeling in my chest and an overwhelming desire to wring my hands. Yes, I literally shake my hands when I feel anxious. I felt like I wasn't going to be able to take my next breath. Thankfully, I had my sunglasses with me so I put them on to cover my suddenly red eyes. Because, you know sunglasses inside are so less obvious than tears. I think the reason I had such a strong anxiety attack is because this was our second season with his job and I knew what was coming this year. His first year was difficult but it was all new and I was trying to figure it out, like Steve was. But this year we both know.
We know the impossible schedule, the exhaustion he feels from being on the road and I feel from being home with the kids. We know what it's like to try to communicate over a cell phone or through text what our day was like or even more difficult what we are feeling and thinking. We know the disappointment we all felt when he missed Harrison coming home from Europe after being away for 6 months, Lucy's first soccer game or Ellie winning her cross country meet for the first time. These are memories he doesn't share except through pictures and the retelling of the stories. It's hard on all of us.
Lately, we've been asking ourselves is it worth it to continue? This year he was the only chaplain for the teams but next year there will be another one. This year was only our first full season but next year we will be more used to the schedule. This year he has spent many hours building relationships but next year he'll have that foundation already. There are reasons to continue and there are reasons to quit and work at Wal Mart!
I've always enjoyed the twists and turns that my life has brought me but often it's in the looking back and seeing the "good", the hand of God where I have found peace or purpose in my journey. But lately, I've been painfully aware of wanting to be in the moment and enjoy this time in my life without having to wait to look in the rear view mirror to see the incredible moments I am living right now.
After twenty years of living with unresolved grief I think I've finally learned that I have to grab hold of the present to be able to fully embrace my future when it does arrive. Looking back at the days after David and Ruth died all I can see is a young woman trying desperately to make the pain go away by racing ahead on the journey. I sprinted down the road rather than allowing myself to walk it and take it in. I missed a great deal because of that and today I am having to re-walk the road of grieving.
I refuse to be angry at myself for the path I've taken. Do I have regrets? Sure. Do I wish I had done things differently? Of course. But, here I am. I can't go back, only forward. So, forward I shall go.
Friday, September 9, 2011
The Shed
I've done a lot over the years to cope with my depression and anxiety. Lately, I've found myself doing what I call breathing prayer. It's basically just deep breathing and saying "help me, Jesus" at the same time. It does help. It gets my focus off of me and what I am anxious about and onto the One that can actually help. Worshiping also helps, although I find that some music can aggravate my anxiety at times. Over the years, I've tried all kinds of herbal remedies. Some may have helped a little. Years ago I learned that exercise was the best thing for me. Sweating A LOT is great for my emotional well being. Recently, counseling has been the thing that has helped the most. And hurt.......
When I started counseling, it was mainly because I had come to a breaking point personally. There have been so many changes in my life in the last three years that I felt I could barely stand up under the weight of them. In my sessions we've done a lot of digging, talking, praying, crying (well, that's been mostly me... thankfully my counselor isn't doing too much crying!) It's all been very healing but at the same time very painful. In recent weeks I have felt intense joy and intense anxiety at the same time. I didn't even know this was possible. I've been wondering about this in the last few days. It's as if I'm digging in the dirt and I unearth this beautiful treasure while simultaneously disturbing a nest of worms. It's exhilarating and gross all at the same time! In this picture I have of me digging I know I've disturbed the worms that have lain dormant for so long. I also know that eventually I'll get the treasure out, free of worms but it's taking a lot more energy and work than I realized it would.
I suppose when things lay undisturbed for a long time they can begin to rot away, like the abandoned house. Or, like some plants and flowers these things can reemerge more lovely and beautiful than before. Perhaps the key to all of this for a person is knowing when to dig those things out. For me, I needed help. Don't we all? I tried to manage for so many years and I guess I still would be if circumstances in my life hadn't led me to seek help.
Today, Steve and I are scheduled to clean out our shed. I can think of about a million things I'd rather be doing.... like nothing! It's his day off I think we should take a nap. But, the shed calls. It really is bad. In the six years we've lived in this house the shed has become the place we just throw things we don't have a place for. Tools, bikes, tennis rackets, scooters, the lawn mower etc... I'm almost afraid to open the door! Who knows what will come pouring out. I can hear us now, "oh, so that's where you've been." "Can you tell me WHY we hung on to this?" I know it's going to take a lot of work, we're going to get dirty and run into some spiders probably, but at the end of the day I will love the feeling of knowing the shed is free of clutter. It will be such a good feeling and it will be so worth the work. And, who knows just maybe we'll find a treasure or two.
When I started counseling, it was mainly because I had come to a breaking point personally. There have been so many changes in my life in the last three years that I felt I could barely stand up under the weight of them. In my sessions we've done a lot of digging, talking, praying, crying (well, that's been mostly me... thankfully my counselor isn't doing too much crying!) It's all been very healing but at the same time very painful. In recent weeks I have felt intense joy and intense anxiety at the same time. I didn't even know this was possible. I've been wondering about this in the last few days. It's as if I'm digging in the dirt and I unearth this beautiful treasure while simultaneously disturbing a nest of worms. It's exhilarating and gross all at the same time! In this picture I have of me digging I know I've disturbed the worms that have lain dormant for so long. I also know that eventually I'll get the treasure out, free of worms but it's taking a lot more energy and work than I realized it would.
I suppose when things lay undisturbed for a long time they can begin to rot away, like the abandoned house. Or, like some plants and flowers these things can reemerge more lovely and beautiful than before. Perhaps the key to all of this for a person is knowing when to dig those things out. For me, I needed help. Don't we all? I tried to manage for so many years and I guess I still would be if circumstances in my life hadn't led me to seek help.
Today, Steve and I are scheduled to clean out our shed. I can think of about a million things I'd rather be doing.... like nothing! It's his day off I think we should take a nap. But, the shed calls. It really is bad. In the six years we've lived in this house the shed has become the place we just throw things we don't have a place for. Tools, bikes, tennis rackets, scooters, the lawn mower etc... I'm almost afraid to open the door! Who knows what will come pouring out. I can hear us now, "oh, so that's where you've been." "Can you tell me WHY we hung on to this?" I know it's going to take a lot of work, we're going to get dirty and run into some spiders probably, but at the end of the day I will love the feeling of knowing the shed is free of clutter. It will be such a good feeling and it will be so worth the work. And, who knows just maybe we'll find a treasure or two.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Restoration
Every morning and afternoon during the school year I drive by an old house. I first noticed it because it stands out from the other homes nearby. This old, brick house sits on a beautiful tree-lined street in a classic old-money neighborhood. The reason it stands out is it's state of disrepair, especially in this community. It's a lovely old home with lots of character. I've often wondered the story behind this home. Who are the owners? Where are they? Why does no one live there now and why did they stop taking care of this house? I want to know it's story.
I've been seeing a counselor for several months and she's been helping me unfold my story. It's amazing to me, like that old home, I somehow managed to stop taking care of myself. The me that is most important, my spirit. This past week as I walked through the grieving process over David and Ruth I realized that I had shut that part of me down years ago. The part that didn't want to feel the pain. I decided it hurt too much. I felt it was too much for God to ask me to bear and so I closed the door to the pain, and like an old house that doesn't get used my pain began to rot away parts of who I am.
It was a choice. A choice that has had dire consequences for my spirit and soul. Depression for one. A loss of my full identity for another. These are no small things. When I wrongly believed I couldn't stand the hurt and grief I unknowingly disassociated myself from a vital part of who I am and what God was doing in me. Like rooms in an abandoned home part of who I am has been unused and locked away, growing dusty.
Recently I had a dream that I was swinging. I was swinging side to side instead of front to back. It was wonderful. I felt so free. As I was swinging a friend came up and began to pray over me. She prayed for healing over past wounds. When I woke up I heard in my spirit, " I want to restore your sanguine personality." Restoration. Just what I need.
At the time of the dream I wasn't sure all that it meant but in the last few days I've come to understand. I lost part of me when the twins died. A big part. I understand now what I didn't then. That when we say no to pain and grief we are saying no to our very selves. No, you can't walk the road marked out for you. No, you can't feel this. No you can't be a whole person, you can't be who you are meant to be. No, you can't heal.
I need and want a total restoration of who God made me to be, not who I've been saying I am through a filter of depression.
Part of me is angry at myself for falling for the lies of the enemy. Part of me is mad at God for... well for all of it! But the bigger part of me is thankful. Thankful that I have a God who takes the old and worn out soul and makes it new again. A God who restores. I'm working through my anger knowing that it's part of the process, part of the restoring.
Maybe it's taken me twenty years to get to this place on my journey but it's okay, it's better than never getting here. It's better than sitting vacant and empty. I'm choosing differently now. I'm choosing to allow the pain. The pain of a redo. I'm going to lean in as best I can and let the restoration begin.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Happy Birthday
I just put a cake in the oven. No big deal, really. It's the first day of school and I'm planning a special dinner to celebrate. I look forward to sitting around the table listening to stories of the day. My favorite way to celebrate just about anything is with a good meal. I love to cook and I love even more cooking for my family and then sitting down to share that meal. The smells, the warmth and laughter and yes, even the occasional fights around the table. It's all real. It's something I can hold onto. Something I can see and touch and taste.
Today, August 24, 2011 is the 20th anniversary of my twins birth and death. David and Ruth. They were our firstborns. I've been thinking for a while now that I wanted to somehow mark this day, to set it aside as special and remember them. I haven't been able to think of anything. My dream would have been to be at Wrightsville Beach on the dock where we held their memorial service. I would have sat and watched the water, smelled the salt air, listened to the birds and remembered the words our pastor spoke as he talked about heaven being closer, now that a part of us was already there. Steve and I held each other and wept as we thought about David and Ruth. It was only the beginning of a long and painful grief.
The grief has had a way, like the ocean, of ebbing and flowing. There are days where I felt I would drown under the weight of it, like a huge wave crashing over you and spinning you over and over under the water. You come up gasping for breath and feeling like you've just wrestled with the wave and lost. Your nostrils burn from the salt, your bathing suit is twisted and in places it shouldn't be. You're left to take the "walk of shame" out of the ocean, praying no one saw you get completely thrashed by water. Then, gracefully the days come where the grief recedes like the tide going out. You can safely play on the shore with no fear of losing your balance. The best days though have been the days when the pain is all around me, lapping at my feet. I've stood at the edge of the grief and just let it slowly rise as I take baby steps deeper and deeper, slowly feeling it engulf my body. In the distance I can see mercy and grace so I walk towards it. I've always loved sandbars at the ocean. They seem so magical to me. You go into the water and before you know it you're swimming because you can't touch the ocean floor, then you can! I love that. Those are the good days. The days when the grief is real but somehow, magically, like a sandbar you're standing on the waves.
Today, as I put the cake in the oven I thought about how I never made a birthday cake for David and Ruth. I thought about how today has been a day of slowly being engulfed by the grief and honestly not seeing the sandbar, not yet anyway. I miss them. I miss who they would have been and I miss celebrating them.
From where I'm sitting at my computer I can see our dining room table. I can see the chairs around it, ready for our family to fill them. Perhaps this is my sandbar today, my moment of grace and mercy? I think it is. I think this is the best way to remember them today, to sit with my family, their family around a meal and celebrate the new.
Happy Birthday David and Ruth.
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