The Table is Set

We've been here two weeks today. Unpacking, resting up, getting settled. It's been so great to be together day in and day out. I don't think it's really registered with me
that I live in Virginia. It doesn't feel like home, yet.

Our house though is wonderful. In many ways it feels like retreat- a sanctuary. The back yard is small but beautiful. A courtyard, really. Shaded by trees. A brick patio with a fire pit and chairs in a circle. Every night some, if not all, of us venture out to sit under the lights. We listen to music, talk, laugh. Just hang out. If I didn't know better I'd think I was sitting in the courtyard of a winery in Sonoma. It's peaceful and soul-restoring.

So, the journey to Virginia has ended. Another one has begun. Who knows where this leg of the race will take us. Perhaps we will stay in Virginia for a long time- maybe even the rest of our lives. I doubt it  knowing us. Perhaps in 18 months we will be packing up again to begin another adventure. For now, I'm content to be here. To be where I am.

Last night at dinner Noah kept asking if he could stay up late. Did he have to go to bed at his normal bed time. Over and over he kept asking. Finally, Harrison looked at him and said, "Dude, do you know what living in the moment is? Stop thinking about bedtime and enjoy your dinner."

When Harrison said that it reminded me of one of my favorite quotes. It's from a book by C.S. Lewis- from his space trilogy.  "The meal in front of us is the best meal we've ever eaten." That's it. That sums up how I want to live my life. In the right now. What is in front of me right now is the best.

Steve and I have committed to one another not to talk about what's next for us-not until the Lord brings it up. For now, we are here. In Norfolk. In the the neighborhood of Ghent. At Kempsville Presbyterian Church. Feasting on the meal that is before us today.

No Great Expectations

Two weeks until Maddie graduates. Three weeks until the move. Harrison has already moved up and is looking for a summer job. We have the house on the market and a potential renter. The basement is full of boxes. It's happening.

And reality is sinking in.

Yesterday, I ran into my neighbor at the YMCA. She asked me where we were moving and when I told her we were leaving Charlotte- moving away-  she looked at me with huge eyes and said, "Is that okay with you?" What? I was speechless. She is the first person, besides Steve, who has asked me that. And with Steve he didn't ask me in those words.

Am I okay with this?

All this week I have been full of anxiety. The pressure of having people come look at our home- having to keep it clean and be gone so much of each day has been overwhelming. It seems like such a small thing but it hasn't been -it's been huge for me. I HATE anxiety. Hate so much feeling this way- like I can't breathe. I can't think clearly and even doing the simplest task feels like too much.

I never really believed we'd live in Charlotte forever. But I wanted to. And, Steve and I did talk about it. We talked about how maybe this would be it... our last assignment- the one that we could spend the rest of our lives doing- invest here for the long haul. It hasn't happened like I hoped.

But then again, I know me. I know us. We are adventurers. We like a challenge. We like the new and unknown. I guess it was just easier when I was younger with younger kids. Now, I long to settle somewhere- to build a lifelong community with the people around me.

But, can I hope again?

Yesterday morning over breakfast, I told my friend that I have no expectations. I'm making this move with no expectations.

But hope isn't expectation and maybe I expected too much from living in Charlotte, from our assignment here. This was the first place we had lived that truly felt like home. From the moment we found our house and moved in- Charlotte was home to me. I wanted so desperately to raise my kids in the same house - to see them grow up with the same friends. I realize now I put my hope in where we lived.

Maybe I'm anxious about the move because I have no hope. I've confused hope with expectation.

I want to be hopeful. Hopeful that the next two years will be an oasis for me, for my family. That after three years of being apart so much, that we can begin to rebuild what's been lost and build on what's been gained. Because, there have been things that have been gained. There have been good things about the last season of our life.

Maybe that's hope. Looking back and seeing the beauty from ashes. That even though these last years have been painful that God has been doing good things. So, perhaps the next couple of years will not be easy. But, they can be good- if I hope in Him who is working all things out for His glory. And my good.

It's not about where I live. But Christ, living in me. My hope and my glory..

Hitting the Wall

I recently decided I was done with blogging.... again. I've come to this decision many times and for various reasons. This time is was because I've hit the wall. I've run out of steam with this whole moving thing. I'm tired of thinking about it, talking about it and definitely tired of writing about it. Who cares, anyway? We're moving. People move all the time. Steve and I are separated. Couples are separated all the time.

I've run out of endurance.

I'm ready for a new chapter. A new plot line.

Then Monday happened. April 15, 2013. The Boston Marathon.

In 1998 Steve and I were living in Boston. We had just moved to the campus of Gordon-Conwell, where Steve was getting his M.Div. The whole marathon thing was new to us.  The Monday of the run we were watching the race on TV, sitting in our den, and I'll never forget the moment. Steve looked at me and said, "I'm going run that next year." I said back, "You should!"

Now, at the time Steve was not a runner. He was in good shape and he has always been an athlete but running a marathon? That's a whole new game and we had no idea how he should start. He found out in order to run Boston you have to run another marathon first and qualify. Steve's mind was made up so he set out to make it happen. Pretty quickly he realized he was going to need some help. I was more of a runner at the time, but not distance- maybe 3 - 4 miles a day, but we set out on this adventure together.

He heard about a guy on campus that had run the Boston marathon so Steve sought him out and asked him if we would help him qualify for Boston. Rob gave him some great tips, even running with him some. We trained for 5 months (I decided to train for a half marathon) We picked the Disney marathon to be his qualifying race.

It was a long, difficult training. Steve had never run more than a few miles and that was in high school when we was playing soccer. He was training through the fall and into the winter (in Boston, remember??) Running in rain, wind, snow. And, to top it all off, one day while playing with the kids, he tore his left ring finger almost off. After surgery and a few days of recovery he was back to running. Of course, he had to run with his arm above his head and with a grocery bag tied around it! Yeah, this was definitely against the doctors orders.

But, after our long journey (I say "our journey" because I was training too, but also if you are the spouse of a marathoner then you know..... it's a joint effort to get them to the finish line!)

Over Christmas break we drove down to Florida to run the Disney marathon and half marathon. In order for Steve to qualify to run Boston he had to run the race in 3:10. I finished my run and painfully, slowly made my way to the finish line of the marathon where Steve crossed at 3:36.  To say he was devastated would be an exaggeration, but to say he was disappointed seems a bit to mild. Hey, we'd both just finished our first big races and I'm pretty sure 3:36 is a great first marathon by anyone's standards but still no Boston for Steve that April.

THEN.... we got back to school and Steve told Rob all about the race. Rob's response:  "There's one more race you can run to qualify. It's right here in Cape Cod. I'll get you ready and run it with you."

WHAT?!?! The Cape Cod marathon was less than two months away. But, naturally Steve jumped at the chance and Rob began training him. The week before the race it snowed almost 30 inches. The day of the race we woke up to sub zero temperatures. Steve and Rob had driven up to Cape Cod the day before so that morning Katy (Rob's wife), the kids and I drove up to be there for the end of the run.

We got to the finish line and looked down the course to see piles of snow on either side. I'm talking two walls of snow! There was a huge clock showing the time and it was about 2 1/2 hours into the race. We waited and cheered on the few that did cross.  It was the 3 hour mark. No Steve, no Rob. I knew for them to do it sub 3 hours would have been amazing so I wasn't too worried. Then 3: 05, 3:06. Now, I was worried.

Two guys, running side by side. They were too far away to tell if it was our guys. Yes, no, maybe? Katy and I are yelling, screaming. People around us start asking questions about who were cheering for. We tell them our husbands, who are trying to qualify for Boston.  A guy beside me, in typical Boston fashion says, "Oh my Gawd, they better hurry." Yeah, no joke. These guys running were not Rob and Steve.

It's 3:09. I start to give up. Start to tell myself there is always next year. Then two runners turn the corner for the home stretch. It could be them... maybe? Everyone at the finish line starts yelling. I still can't tell if it's them, then someone says, "one of the guys is shirtless!" It's Steve! I know it! The colder it is the better he runs! We are literally going crazy by then. Jumping up and down, screaming, grabbing each other. Steve crosses the finish line at 3:09. 36. He makes qualifying by 24 seconds!
To this day, it is one of the most exciting events I've ever witnessed!

That April. April 1999 Steve ran his first Boston marathon. Harrison and I were on the side line- just a few feet from the finish line. It was a great day.

Last night, Maddie and Ellie went to a run. A Boston marathon memorial run. In 1999, Maddie was 4 and Ellie 2. Now, they are young women. As they left to run, Ellie wearing one of Steve's medals from Boston, I cried. I cried because I was so sad. Saddened by the devastation of Monday, by the horror of what so many witnessed up close and what the rest of us witnessed from a distance. I cried because I am grieving. Grieving for the families of the lost and injured. But, also because I was so proud. Proud of my girls for going out at 9pm on a Tuesday night to take part in a community effort to honor and remember what happened at the marathon. I was proud that they wanted to stand up and say, "we will  not give in to fear, to grief, to the horror. We will stand for light and hope. We will endure!"

There is another finish line right now. This time I am not on the sideline but in the race. When the bombings happened on Monday I could feel myself falling behind even more, tempted to drop out all together. Sometimes, it's just feels easier to give up and honestly, sometimes I think it's okay to drop out. I believe there are times you need to give yourself a break- give yourself grace.

As I think about how hard Steve trained that first year, how much we worked together to get him to that first Boston finish line I can't help but feel a small stirring in my heart. A renewed desire to finish this race. I want to feel the pride of knowing it was a race well run. I've just got to get over the wall. Endure. The finish line is around the corner. Virginia Beach is in sight. Living together as a family again.... we can make it!

Goodbye Old Friend

We said goodbye to a dear friend recently. Our trampoline. We've had a trampoline for 14 years, since Harrison was 6. I don't think a day has gone by that someone hasn't been outside on it - weather permitting. Or sometimes because of the weather.....

Noah and Lydia making snow angels on the trampoline. 

I could always count on looking out the kitchen window and seeing the kids, the neighbor kids or sometimes Steve out there. We all loved it. As Harrison, Maddie and Ellie turned into teenagers they still managed to find their way out there when there friends came over.

Noah wouldn't believe the trampoline was gone until he could see it with is own eyes. The day our friend came to take it we weren't home. On our way home that afternoon I told him when we got home the trampoline wouldn't be there anymore. All he could say was, "Stop teasing me! I know you are joking." Even after assuring him over and over, until he was standing in the backyard he wouldn't believe me.

This move will be full of many goodbyes but in some ways the first goodbye will be the hardest. It's more than saying farewell to a friend that we love but will see again. It's saying goodbye to childhood. To the physical reminder of Harrison, Maddie and Ellie's childhood. Hot summer days spent doing tricks, learning flips, butt busters- even playing chase. I think of the countless times I had to run outside to the sound sound of one of the kids yelling, "Mom, come see! Watch what I can do!"
The endless "shows" put on by the kids while jumping.

It's hard making this move out of state, away from family and friends. It's even more difficult because it's coming at a time when we are going through changes as a family. Maddie graduating high school and going to Texas. Ellie entering her Senior year and last year with us. Lucy leaving elementary school. Noah starting kindergarten. Lots of changes.

I have always enjoyed the seasons of life of our family- but sometimes I just want to hang on to the way things are right now- here in the moment. And sometimes, I wish I could go back in time for just a bit. Maybe a moment where I was holding Harrison, wiping away a tear or bandaging a knee. A hot humid day when Maddie's hair was blonde and curly and sticky. When she had dirty hands from making mud pies. Or when Ellie was three and wore a red scarf everywhere she went!  I can see her now with that long red scarf tied around her head and flowing down to her feet.

Life moves on and we say goodbye. Goodbye to the people and things that have been dear to us. The ones that have made our life what it has been. My life has been rich so far. Sweet and bitter. Full of love and laughter. I wouldn't trade it. And I'm thankful for the memories. Even though we're not taking our trampoline with us to Virginia we're definitely taking the memories.

Goodbye faithful tramp.

Road Trip

Six hours on the road. Stopped to eat lunch, pee, rent a video from Redbox, get gas. Ellie in the front seat with a blanket over her head for most of the trip. Lucy, Lydia and Noah in the back. Six hours in the car with sticky gum wrappers, emptied water bottles, ground in goldfish, whiny, sleeping, happy, crying, talkative kids. It's amazing the emotions you can experience in six hours.

We arrived home to a tightly locked house. Maddie at work and me with no house key. So, we all pile back into the car and drive to Smoothie King to get a house key. I'm exhausted.

But, the weekend in Virginia Beach with Steve was definitely worth the trip (twice). The trip up had much less stopping and much more anticipation. Ellie and I chatted much of the way, she drove for a good bit for me. The kids in the back laughed, talked, played games and were happy to watch the one video I did bring along. Funny how anticipation is so different from the mundane. Returning to our life in Charlotte. What we know, what we live, what we are enduring now so we can make it to the end.

I stood in the kitchen tonight fixing dinner for the little guys. They sat at the bar asking for water, more chicken, more cheese and crackers. I stood there feeling every second tick off the clock. But, for a split second I wanted to really feel the moment so I made myself be still. I could feel the weight of my body pressing my feet into the floor. Feel this moment. Be present here and now. Hear the children, listen to their constant chatter. Be present, take it all in.

But it was gone as quickly as I willed it to come. Fatigue and impatience set in and all I can think is, "go to bed!"  Them and me.

I'm thankful for the small moments of being aware. Thankful that I have even that. But, the impatience far overshadows  those moments right now. I'm snappy, barking orders, giving killer looks to my kids so often I surprised I have any left. (kids, that is)

Today though, I'm taking refuge in the small victories. A quick snuggle, a kiss, a prayer at the end of the day. When we remember to say " thank you" or "I love you". These are the moments that are getting me through right now. I'm praying that these moments will begin to overshadow the fatigue and loneliness. That love will burn brighter than fear.

Perfect Love cast out all fear. So it must cast out all grumpiness, too. I'm counting on it.

Day 19. 102 to go!

The Long and Winding Road

121 Days. 17 weeks. 4 months. However you think about time- that is how long this journey to Virginia Beach is going to take us. It's a long road.

Steve in Virginia. The rest of us in North Carolina. Separated by 350 miles.

Today is day 6.

Last Friday was day one and Steve, our three oldest kids and I caravanned up to move Steve into his temporary digs. We spent the weekend getting to know the area, unpacking a few boxes of books in his new office and meeting some future friends. We also celebrated our Ellie's 16th birthday.

We walked on the beach (more like ran out there to see it and ran back) It was freezing! We discovered a great authentic Italian restaurant we'll be frequenting. Oh, and a fun sushi place. Ellie loves sushi.

It's been a whirlwind of a couple of months. Thanksgiving weekend when Steve's off-season with NASCAR began, we'd not thought of living in Virginia Beach. We'd not thought of taking a position as an interim pastor - a two year commitment. Yet, two and half months later- here we are. Living what feels like in many ways, someone else's life.

But, it's not. It's ours. We chose to have this adventure. So, no matter how hard it is right now- it is ours.

Over the last three years Steve has averaged being away from home about 120 days a year. We're just cramming all 121 days into the first part of the year and then we'll be finished. No more being apart. Together. Forever....maybe.

Who can ever say what the future holds?

Were doing it this way so our kids can finish the school year. Mainly, so our daughter Maddie can graduate from the high school she's been at for the last four years. I couldn't bear the thought of making her move her senior year. We've moved so much in her lifetime. Seven times. But, we've lived here in Charlotte since she was 10. This is her home- where all her lifelong friends live. At least for now. She'll be moving on in the fall anyway. But why make her do it prematurely?

This is a choice I never thought I'd willingly make. Living away from my soulmate. But, over the last few years of being apart so often I learned a few things.

I learned Steve is my soulmate but not my Source. I learned to really be in the moment you are in and to appreciate the days as they come. And,that just because I am without my husband it doesn't mean I am alone.

I learned I'm stronger than I thought.

So...... here we go!!  The long road to Virginia Beach. It's going to be quite the journey, I can tell.

Take Heart!

Today I had to ask someone for help. A favor. A pretty big one, too. I held the phone in my hand for a solid five minutes before I made the call. This was after putting it off for hours. She was so gracious and kind and of course, said yes. Yes, she'd love to help me.

Yesterday, I reached out to someone in a text that I hadn't talked to for several months. Someone that I saw every week for over a year. We were pretty close. Her response to my text? "Who is this?"

You win some. You lose some.

It's fascinating to me how even the smallest gesture of vulnerability can feel excruciating. We are all part of the human race. We all have needs. A need for help, for contact,  for connection or community. We all feel the need to be seen and valued.

And  yet, putting myself out there in these two small ways- with very little risk- felt so risky.

I guess along with shame comes the fear of exposure. Being exposed for who I really am. Being truly vulnerable means allowing others to see me at my weakest. I don't know anyone who wants to have their neediness exposed and yet, when I think about the people who I know that have taken the risk to let others see them in that way,  I'm always amazed at their honesty. I'm always encouraged by their courage.

I recently listened to a devotional where the speaker says that Jesus was hard on the Pharisees because they were hypocritical. They hid who they really were- presenting a false piety to the world.

Jesus was never hard on anyone in scripture for being weak or real. In fact, he often brought out their weakness so he could address it. So he could heal them, forgive them and make them whole. An encounter with Jesus is always exposure without wounding.

Unless you are a Pharisee. The Pharisees were the opposite of vulnerable. They were proud and arrogant in their own strength. These men Jesus wounded. Yet, even for them -and for those of us today who are afraid of exposure- there is healing in his wounds, if we allow our weakness to be exposed by him.

I'm realizing these days that vulnerability is not weakness. It is courage. It's strength.

And, even if I'm not rejoicing in my neediness being exposed, at least I don't have to be afraid. I can take heart that Jesus is there to step into my weak places with hope and courage.

Walking With a Limp

My son keeps telling me to move. Move my blog that is. I tried but I'm overwhelmed by starting something new. Just the thought of it makes me feel anxious. Silly? Yes, I guess. But, true.

I've been absent for a while. No writing.

My loving and generous husband bought me a laptop just so I would write. He believes in me. It was as if this kind and thoughtful gesture paralyzed me. Also, I started reading Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. A book, by one of my favorite authors, about writing. I was so inspired by her and then- so paralyzed.

I've been in a dark place again. I've been thinking about what would I call this place along my journey. A valley? A desert? Maybe I've been adrift at sea. I feel too lost to even recognize the landscape.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to write about it.

But, recently I watched two TED talks by Brene Brown. The first one about vulnerability and a second one on shame. Very powerful and very heart wrenching for me to watch.

I've been practicing vulnerability. Very slowly and with much trepidation. And, honestly I haven't always been pleased with the results. In fact, this week I spent three days injured from practicing this art. Yes, injured. And no, not emotionally, physically.

Steve and I were in the midst of a hard talk. One of those "talks" where your voice goes up about three octaves and you begin to sweat.... well, maybe that's just me. I was sharing with him some things that were very difficult for me to say. I didn't realize it but I had my right leg in a toe pointy tight thing. I guess it's called "en pointe" in ballet terms. Anyway, I was so tense that I actually injured my calf muscle. I couldn't walk without intense pain for three days! I'm not kidding!

Vulnerability really is painful.

Honestly though, the shame I have felt over sharing myself is way more painful than a torn calf muscle. In her TED talks Dr. Brown shares that in her research she discovered that people who are vulnerable are people who believe they are worthy- worthy to be seen, to be heard, to take up someone's time sharing of themselves. Well, this is the crux of it for me. I have never felt I was worthy of that. I've never believed that who I am was worth anyone's time.

So, I've finally come to understand that this is what keeps me from writing. Shame. It's not feeling overwhelmed that paralyzes me -it's the shame that does that.

Shame sucks. But, I've decided that living a false life sucks more. I'm going to try vulnerability instead. I'm going to stare down shame, choose not to listen to it's insidious voice. I'm going into the arena. I have no doubt I'll emerge bruised and wounded. But, I believe these wounds will heal and the true me will be left standing. I've also decided I'm worth the risk.

Stay tuned if you want to read up on my journey into discovering the real me. I can't promise it's going to be pretty but I do promise to keep writing no matter how loud the voice of shame gets. I've got my gloves on and I'm not taking them off anytime soon.


Here is the link for Brene Brown's talks. If you have a few minutes they are more than worth your time.
http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html, and her Ted Talk 2 on shame  http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_listening_to_shame.html

Is This TMI?

Tonight, as I was getting ready to head out the door to meet some friends for dinner I paused to look in the mirror. Once I got through the insecurity of my jeans being a bit too tight, I really liked what I had on. White jeans, black top, my favorite wedge sandals and a beautiful blue scarf I borrowed from my daughter.

 But, as I drove away from the comfort of my home and headed for the wine bar doubts began to settle in my heart and shake my already precarious confidence.

Who was I to think I could pull off a dramatic scarf loosely wrapped around my neck and draped over one shoulder? I love this look, but me? Growing up in a home where I was primarily praised for how I looked, aging has not been as smooth a road as I would have hoped. At 43 my neck is getting wrinkly, my hands a bit nobby, my hair is greying and not as smooth and thick as it once was. I look in the mirror and see crows feet and is that my imagination or are my eyes a bit sunken in?

My mom, at 74 has beautiful smooth skin. Recently, she stopped coloring her hair and it is this amazing brilliant white. Really lovely. I have good genes.

So, I wonder, has this life journey taken more out of me than I expected? And, no I'm not talking about looks here- well, not entirely. I'm pretty content with my appearance. I've got great facial bone structure- even if my chin is a bit too sharp. I do have lovely red(ish) hair and I've always loved my feet. Not that feet make you pretty but, I like mine.

Why then, at 43, don't I feel secure enough to walk into a wine bar feeling fabulous? If it's not my appearance then it must be my lack. But lack of what? If it's true that life has taken more out of me than I expected, what has it taken? And can I get it back?

When did my confidence become so tottery? Internally, I feel like a 9 year old girl walking around in her mother's heels. Ready to take a spill at any moment. The only difference is a 9 year old loves playing dress up. I on the other hand am tired of pretending.

Lately, I've been thinking quite a bit about duplicity and ways in which I am duplicitous. Not true. Not honest. Not me. It's a word that is taking me a while to get my head and heart around. I'm often checking to see if I am presenting a false self to others around me. The challenge? I'm having to get to know myself on a deeper level. The larger test? Being okay with who I am.

I have a friend who says sometimes she feels she is too much. Too much for people to handle. Don't we all feel that way sometimes? I do. I believe if I really let the true Jane 100% out it would be too much. Too loud, too sensitive, too selfish, too much emotion, too much honesty, just too much!

So, tonight as I sat in the parking lot debating on whether or not to take the scarf off; I thought about all these things. I finally came to the conclusion that it would be duplicitous of me to not wear it because, I love it. I love scarves. I feel beautiful, strong, and confident when I wear them. Weird maybe, but true.

I know my insecurity tonight wasn't about how I dress, but something deeper. A fear of being true. An anxiety about being too much. Yes, this life journey has taken a lot out of me. My confidence and self-love have slowly eroded over time. That's life. It happens to most of us.

What I'm thankful for- is that much has been put back. Words of life have been spoken to me and have soaked through to my soul. The friends I met tonight, like many of the women in my life, have done that for me. They have been life givers. The four of us sat around the table sharing so much more than wine and food.  We shared grace and truth. We shared Life.

And so, I ended the night the same way I began it- looking in a mirror. The mirror of true friendship. And, as I gazed into what they reflected back to me- what I saw surprised me. I saw that sometimes, I am too much to handle. I saw that we all are. I also saw Beauty. The beauty of unconditional love. That I am never too much for Him. And, that my friends know how to let go of what is overbearing for them and allow it flow to the cross where it's all been born already. It's all been held by the Only One who can ever bear it all. The one who none of us are ever too much for, Jesus.

The Whisper

I haven't been doing much writing lately, which I think is a sign of what is going on inside more than outside. I would like to blame it on being busy. The kids. The house. Steve being around more during his non-travel season. But, I don't think those things are completely true. I have also been telling myself -and others- that I don't have a lot to say right now. I don't think that's true either. The truth?

I've just been avoiding listening to myself.

God's been doing a lot of talking through books I've been reading and thoughts I've been thinking. But, when it comes time for me to turn those thoughts, ideas or impressions inward I'm finding lots of other things to occupy my time, my mind, my heart.

For one, TV. I'm loving Parenthood right now. Also, Downton Abbey on Masterpiece Theater. The Food Network and HGTV never disappoint! I've also been napping, eating, and basically just escaping. It's been great, actually. No complaints. But then, I get in bed at night and just before I fall asleep, I hear the whisper of a longing in my heart.

Yesterday, I had lunch with my sisters, and for the first time I said out loud for others and myself to hear all the thoughts and feelings that have been stirring.

It's been a year of dealing with loss. With grieving. Not just the twins. But more. So much more.

Pretty big things, too. Things like leaving our church and experiencing the loss of that community. Relationship shifts with friends and family. Our oldest son leaving home for college has been a daily loss and then there is Steve being away from home 1/3 of the year last year. These are all big deals and not even all the losses we experienced.

But, underneath the grief is the longing. The whisper of more. It's what I'm hearing when I let my soul get quiet. There's more than what we've had. There's more than what we've known. Right now, it's still just a longing. A vague idea, a vague hope.

But it's there and it's what brings me back to writing. To putting down on paper and letting my eyes see what's been kept quietly away. You see, if I put it down in black and white then it becomes for me. Becomes more real, more true. Becomes more than a thought, more than a feeling. It becomes a promise.

Hope. Trust. Wait.

This is the whisper.

A Phone Call

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.