The problem is, I keep trying to be creative. I want the words to look nice, sound nice, feel nice. I want you to enjoy reading the words, even if they mean something awful. Even if I am only writing to tell you about laundry, damn it I want you to want to read about laundry.
That sounded terribly co-dependent and I apologize. But it's what came out. I will deal with it later, after I deal with this silly little desire to write well, instead of write something.
I'm trying to get it together. My life, that is. I live in a two bedroom apartment with my six month old son (who happens to be the size of a twelve month old), my almost 20-year old sister who sleeps on the fold out couch, and Vincent: the albino Beta fish Aunt Liv has kept alive for going on a month now.
The Christmas tree box sits in my psuedo dining room, next to the carseat Judah outgrew months ago. The couches are mismatched, but I own the most comfortable arm chair ever from Goodwill. I rarely hang up my clothes anymore, because I don't have time. There are alwas at least three laundry baskets, full of dirty clothes, and a sinkful of dishes and bottles.
Lately, I've been trying to get it together. I came up with the best way to organize all of Judah's clothes, getting them out of laundry baskets. I boxed up all his small clothes he's grown out of, the many pairs of shoes his feet never fit in, and they are stacked against the wall. I cannot bring myself to give them away.
Last month I bought a lot of books. Cheap. For a few pennies on Amazon. The only one I've finished is: The Fault in Our Stars. Which is in no way an intellectual book; it did not increase my vocabulary or teach me to think critically. But I couldn't put it down. I enjoyed reading the words. They felt nice. Even the ones that felt awful.
The other books are gathering dust on the shelves. Not because I don't want to read them, but because I don't want to dust. And by the time Judah falls asleep at night, it's all I can do to keep my eyes open during an episode of The Big Bang Theory. But there are books by Anne Lammot. Slaughterhouse Five is sitting on my shelf. My therapist recommended a book, which is sitting on my kitchen table, because I meant to read it. Then I forgot to.
I was given a crock pot and a blender last night. I am more excited about these two appliances than anything in a long while. I have spent most of my lunch breaks the past few days exploring the archives for smoothie recipes, and crock pot meals so I can actually eat at night. I'm not really interested in going on a diet -- I am too realistic for all that crap. But eating regularly would be nice. Something other than break and bake cookies and wheat saltines.
My work pays for a gym membership for me. I get over there a couple of times a week, leave Judah in the childcare with some rather snarky teenage girls, and workout for about an hour. I feel guilty every time I do, even though I know it's a misplaced emotion. I pick him up from daycare and drop him off at childcare and think... surely he knows I'm coming back. I lost all the baby weight by November of last year, but pregnancy changes your entire shape. I am currently a shape I don't particularly care for, let alone anyone else. But pregnancy -- baby -- also makes your body resistant to more change. As if it's saying, "hold on. The last time you had an idea, we were pretty uncomfortable for almost ten months. Your ideas are bad." But I am working hard. Setting small goals. Attending zumba on Saturday mornings, which is more of an exercise in humility than cardio. If the only thing I learn in 2013 is how to laugh at myself, I think I'll have accomplished a great deal.
Judah has started eating solids. My sister taught me how to make homemade baby food a few weekends ago, and while I cannot do this at my own house, he is still eating on banana puree and plums. I bought avacodos yesterday, after days of looking for ripe ones. There's something I love about the idea of teaching Judah to eat many different kinds of foods early on. Just the other day he started eating Cheerios for the first time. He hasn't quite figured out the fine motor skill of finger to thumb... but grabs the food with his palm and brings his whole hand to his face. The little things he learns on a daily basis are truly a miracle. Every once in a while I get a glimpse of him as a four year old, of him as a teenager, and my mind is blown. All because of Cheerios.
I sat in on a Citizen's Review Panel last Friday and was reminded of my commitment to advocacy. Job searching may be my least favorite thing to do. But I know I need to explore my options. Sitting in on the brainstorming session, the social think tank, my mind was blown at the power of connection. The networking of key players. What blew my mind even more was that as I sat at the table in the school library, was that I was considered one of those players.
My friends have been telling me to take my own advice. God opened my mind and heart a few weekends ago, after a week of feeling utterly hopeless and defeated. I was sure no man in his right mind would willingly choose my little family. No one would look at our situation and pick us. No good, responsible, kind, mature man, that is. Which was when God reminded me, "Anna, how many good, responsible, kind, mature men do you know?" His gentle prodding led me to realize how young the men in my world are. And God began to build a picture in my head. Allowing a little bit of hope to grow. Now that doesn't mean I'm going to join Match.com today. I don't think.
I am inheriting an entertainment center my granddaddy made. It's been sitting in my youngest uncle's garage and I've been trying to get it to my place for months now. That might actually happen this week... this fire I have lit under my tail is really getting stuff done. Even if all the "stuff" doesn't seem congruent, or is missing the corner pieces. I am going to try and make my own headboard. My bed has a basic, metal frame from American Freight that cost me $27 last summer. There are pictures hanging above it that I reguarly hit my head on. So I have found a place that sells burlap coffee bean bags. I'm going to buy plywood and batting and borrow a staple gun and pretend I'm Martha Stewart. And make a freakin headboard. I also have friends who renovated their house and have window frames in their basement. They've given me permission to steal these and I'm researching now the different ways to use them to decorate.
I may live in a small two bedroom apartment with no washer or dryer and no more storage space, but I am tired of feeling like I live in a dorm. Last week I broke down and realized I felt like all my houses for the past seven years have been temporary. Seven years. No permanency, no stability, no sense of home. And if there's one thing I want to provide for my son, it's that. A sense of belonging, of shared, lived-in space. A home should reflect the people living in it. And I may not be the most exciting woman in the world. But surely I'm more interesting than the colorless walls.
It just feels like a complicated puzzle. Trying to get all the pieces to fit right. I want to feel like I have it together. Like I have a flat stomach and a strong butt and clear skin and no dead ends. Like my clothes match and I know how to be a good mom. I want to be able to carry on an intelligent conversation, be the sort of woman people come to for company and advice and comfort. I want people to see grace in me, not hatefulness.
And there's the progression. There's the thing you cannot see.
Because the whole time I've been trying to fix the outside, I'm trying even harder to fix the inside. I have tried to be patient and I have tried to be wise and kind. I don't want to be admired for my home. But for how people feel when they are in my home.
There is something to be said for congruency, however. And right now this is what I crave. For the outside to match the inside. For the results of years of hard work, of prayer, of struggle, of torn muscles and repaired wounds to finally make some sense. For seamlessness.
Not perfection. I am one scarred, bruised, battered individual. Even the healed places aren't smooth anymore.
But I want what people know, what they see, and what they feel... to be the same.
I want my mind to be stimulated. I want to smell nice things, see nice things, feel nice things, taste nice things. I want Judah to learn to crawl, then walk, and talk. I want him to grow up knowing the importance of the inside being even more beautiful, more handsome, better than the outside. But to have the peace, which comes from the congruency.
This has nothing to do with expensive things. New things. Nothing to do with money, nothing to do with what we can and cannot afford. It has to do with the creative spirits we were given. End of story.
It has to do with telling a better story. Being the kind of protagonist the reader falls in love with.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Apology
I'm sorry.
The words echo in my ears and I say them, repeatedly, knowing he doesn't know what they mean yet.
Unfortunately the reality of this world is that "I'm sorry" is often said and not meant, or never said when it should be.
And just six months into his little life, I already find myself begging his forgiveness.
Some stories don't need to be told.
But today marks the day of redirection. A day, I can only pray, is a milestone. That from this day forward, we only learn how to do better. Just he and I.
I pray one day he will accept my apology, especially for those things out of my control. That he might trust my judgement and be confident in my unconditional love for him.
And that one day I'd forgive myself and find someone to teach him how to shoot a basketball and lift the heavy things in our house.
The words echo in my ears and I say them, repeatedly, knowing he doesn't know what they mean yet.
Unfortunately the reality of this world is that "I'm sorry" is often said and not meant, or never said when it should be.
And just six months into his little life, I already find myself begging his forgiveness.
Some stories don't need to be told.
But today marks the day of redirection. A day, I can only pray, is a milestone. That from this day forward, we only learn how to do better. Just he and I.
I pray one day he will accept my apology, especially for those things out of my control. That he might trust my judgement and be confident in my unconditional love for him.
And that one day I'd forgive myself and find someone to teach him how to shoot a basketball and lift the heavy things in our house.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
The Dove Story
I have strep throat. Fever, chills, swollen throat. It feels like I'm swallowing nails and my head is in someone's vice grip. I don't get sick. Rarely, anyway. And when I do, I don't go to the doctor. But I have a son now, I've been fighting this for a week, and the last thing I wanted to do was return to Lexington tomorrow and get Judah sick. So, without insurance, I went to a clinic here in Elizabethtown. Put my name and address and symptoms in a computer and waited for them to call my name.
I sat down and picked up Donald's book and read for a few minutes. My phone vibrated and I scrolled through a few text messages and then added an appointment into my calendar. Facebook apparently uploads all my "friend's" birthdays into my calendar and today just happens to be his birthday. The intern from Ethiopia. I should probably wish him a happy birthday, but I haven't seen him in three years.
Three years.
I sat in the chair in the awkward waiting area of the clinic and stared at the pharmacy ahead of me and just sank. Sank deep into the congruence I had been seeking. I swear. If I don't meet God in the strangest of places...
We were in Africa on his birthday. I can't remember what we did exactly, but I think it involved digging a foundation during the day and eating guacamole at night. But we were in Africa. And as sweet as he was, his birthday really doesn't mean anything to me today.
Except we were there. In Africa. This day. Three years ago.
There are quite a few of you who know the events, which led me on my journey across the world. Everything from God speaking at traffic lights to big, stone doves, Virgin Mary in a red headdress, and windstorms.
All those things make a great story. I can tell it now almost from an outside perspective. Almost. It feels like someone else lived that life. But what still remains dangerously intimate, the memory I have which still cuts deep and moves me... is the memory of the prayer I prayed.
One prayer.
Repeatedly. Day after day. For months and months, I prayed a single prayer in repetition. Persistently knocking at the throne room door. "Hey, excuse me. I'm here again. Let's talk. Yes, about that same thing. I know you heard me yesterday, but I wanted to make it clear... this is what I'm after."
It was simply a prayer for discernment.
Three years later I am in a very different place. And I don't know if I'll ever go back to Africa. Or what the big, stone dove and the red headdress even really meant. But I do remember the windstorm. The windstorm that came out of nowhere -- no rain, no thunder. Wind in the dry season. Waking us up and pushing the fires through the mountains and frustrating the donkeys. Wind, telling me Jesus was as close as He could be.
And I know maybe, He wanted me to associate the dove with Him.
Not with a message. Not with directions. But as a reminder. To seek Him the way I sought Him then. To ask for discernment, perception, and insight. To ask about risk and the wisdom to understand.
A few weeks ago, something changed in my life. There was a glimmer of hope and I was excited. I thought prayers were being answered and I thought... just maybe... a long prayed prayer was being answered. I was skeptical of the "rightness" I perceived and walked around for a few days holding my breath.
Then I saw the dove.
My heart skipped a beat and I immediately assumed the wrong thing. I immediately assumed this was God's way of giving me direction. Of affirming something. Like the big, flashing sign I always need to understand Him when He says "here it is! That thing I want for you."
This, however, was not what He meant by the dove this time. Just like it was not what He meant by the dove the first time.
It took just a few hours, I think. Maybe twelve. Before I heard the small voice -- like the one He used for Moses on the mountain. The small voice, requiring me to lean in, to give Him my full attention. So I could hear Him say, "pray the old way, Anna. Pray the way you did then. Just like that."
This is my gift. At the end of the day, I have nothing but this. And so I whispered an equally quiet prayer. For my eyes to be opened to the risks He wanted me to take and to give me the courage to take the next step. For discernment, perception, and insight. Wisdom to understand.
Two weeks later, it's all done. And I'm quite frustrated with myself for letting it go as long as it did. The discernment came quickly, with great strength and resolve. But I still admonish the enemy for trying to capture my son and me in our vulnerability.
Not so quietly, I remind the enemy and the world, exactly Who we belong to. Exactly Whose wing we live under. I am grateful too, then, that three years ago I learned how to pray this way. A listening muscle was developed in me, and all the hurt and damage which has been done since then did not destroy it.
The wind is blowing in Elizabethtown this week. I am back in my hotel room and I know God has met me here in an equally strong and valiant way as when He met me in east Africa.
And a truth has been built in me.
About the character of the God we love. God, the Father, the storyteller. Who foreshadows. Who prepares us and equips us for battles.
March 1, 2010: I will be reaping this for the rest of my life.
I sat down and picked up Donald's book and read for a few minutes. My phone vibrated and I scrolled through a few text messages and then added an appointment into my calendar. Facebook apparently uploads all my "friend's" birthdays into my calendar and today just happens to be his birthday. The intern from Ethiopia. I should probably wish him a happy birthday, but I haven't seen him in three years.
Three years.
I sat in the chair in the awkward waiting area of the clinic and stared at the pharmacy ahead of me and just sank. Sank deep into the congruence I had been seeking. I swear. If I don't meet God in the strangest of places...
We were in Africa on his birthday. I can't remember what we did exactly, but I think it involved digging a foundation during the day and eating guacamole at night. But we were in Africa. And as sweet as he was, his birthday really doesn't mean anything to me today.
Except we were there. In Africa. This day. Three years ago.
There are quite a few of you who know the events, which led me on my journey across the world. Everything from God speaking at traffic lights to big, stone doves, Virgin Mary in a red headdress, and windstorms.
All those things make a great story. I can tell it now almost from an outside perspective. Almost. It feels like someone else lived that life. But what still remains dangerously intimate, the memory I have which still cuts deep and moves me... is the memory of the prayer I prayed.
One prayer.
Repeatedly. Day after day. For months and months, I prayed a single prayer in repetition. Persistently knocking at the throne room door. "Hey, excuse me. I'm here again. Let's talk. Yes, about that same thing. I know you heard me yesterday, but I wanted to make it clear... this is what I'm after."
It was simply a prayer for discernment.
Three years later I am in a very different place. And I don't know if I'll ever go back to Africa. Or what the big, stone dove and the red headdress even really meant. But I do remember the windstorm. The windstorm that came out of nowhere -- no rain, no thunder. Wind in the dry season. Waking us up and pushing the fires through the mountains and frustrating the donkeys. Wind, telling me Jesus was as close as He could be.
And I know maybe, He wanted me to associate the dove with Him.
Not with a message. Not with directions. But as a reminder. To seek Him the way I sought Him then. To ask for discernment, perception, and insight. To ask about risk and the wisdom to understand.
A few weeks ago, something changed in my life. There was a glimmer of hope and I was excited. I thought prayers were being answered and I thought... just maybe... a long prayed prayer was being answered. I was skeptical of the "rightness" I perceived and walked around for a few days holding my breath.
Then I saw the dove.
My heart skipped a beat and I immediately assumed the wrong thing. I immediately assumed this was God's way of giving me direction. Of affirming something. Like the big, flashing sign I always need to understand Him when He says "here it is! That thing I want for you."
This, however, was not what He meant by the dove this time. Just like it was not what He meant by the dove the first time.
It took just a few hours, I think. Maybe twelve. Before I heard the small voice -- like the one He used for Moses on the mountain. The small voice, requiring me to lean in, to give Him my full attention. So I could hear Him say, "pray the old way, Anna. Pray the way you did then. Just like that."
This is my gift. At the end of the day, I have nothing but this. And so I whispered an equally quiet prayer. For my eyes to be opened to the risks He wanted me to take and to give me the courage to take the next step. For discernment, perception, and insight. Wisdom to understand.
Two weeks later, it's all done. And I'm quite frustrated with myself for letting it go as long as it did. The discernment came quickly, with great strength and resolve. But I still admonish the enemy for trying to capture my son and me in our vulnerability.
Not so quietly, I remind the enemy and the world, exactly Who we belong to. Exactly Whose wing we live under. I am grateful too, then, that three years ago I learned how to pray this way. A listening muscle was developed in me, and all the hurt and damage which has been done since then did not destroy it.
The wind is blowing in Elizabethtown this week. I am back in my hotel room and I know God has met me here in an equally strong and valiant way as when He met me in east Africa.
And a truth has been built in me.
About the character of the God we love. God, the Father, the storyteller. Who foreshadows. Who prepares us and equips us for battles.
March 1, 2010: I will be reaping this for the rest of my life.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Help
I was angry.
A year's worth of anger, fear, sadness, hurt, inadequacies, let downs, insecurities had been stockpiled in a place out of my reach. I did it for my own good, stored it away, because I knew what I had to do. What I had to do and how to get it done, and I knew... I knew better than to let anything else get in the way.
This week, a chapter closed. A new one began and I step forward with as much trepidation and uncertainty as one might begin any new journey. I have no map, no directions -- and worst of all, no one clued me into my destination. I feel, unfortunately, quite lost. Safe. But lost.
And not to my surprise, these new feelings, this new path, reached high and deep and long and found the place where I kept it all. There, on the shelf in the back of my mind. Smelling like so much life and of so much struggle and of all kinds of secrets. Pretending I was capable, ready, to deal with it all, it came tumbling down. Piled at my feet. Mounding beside me, hot and sticky and not all bad -- but all very dangerous.
The knot grew in my chest, the tears burned behind my eyes. Sadness welled there, and anxiety pushed at my armpits. As if it all, all this life, was trying to find some way to escape me. I would not let it, for whatever reason. And I shake my head, wondering at my ability to cling to that which is no longer of use to me.
I was angry.
I didn't use to be angry. I used to be scared and sad and remorseful and all those things you feel when you think it's all your fault. Those things you feel when the world, when the church, has put the scarlet letter on your coat and every day conversation begins with subtle mentioning of your shortcomings.
I am able to stand here now and say a host of things I never was able to say before. Some of you have waited for the day that I'd agree with you -- the past few years have been laden with mistakes and failures and I, myself, am full of character flaws.
And it's not that I agree. But you're right -- in the sense we have to understand exactly where things started falling apart, to be able to ever begin putting it back together. It's not that I agree, because I truly believe our culture -- especially the church, the helping culture -- has taught us that freedom is in admitting our flaws. Be honest, repent, admit, they quip. Although scripture does say "if we confess our sins He is faithful and just", it seems like most things the church has turned this practice into something it was never intended to be.
But I have grown. In ways I was promised and in ways I'd never anticipated. And much like the stages of grieving, I got there. To an angry place. Past the sad place, the lonely place, the insecure place. Straight to the top. To the angry place.
I don't like the angry place. I never stay there long. It's hot and bothersome and I can't see straight up there. I think, perhaps, I can't breathe properly up there either. Because I get dizzy. "Seeing red" was a term they coined about me. So I race to the top, have my moment of hating the world and everything in it and say lots of words, very quickly, that I earnestly mean but shouldn't have said.
Then I am done. Back down the mountain. I don't like staying there at the top -- I don't like being angry. I dislike it so, I refuse to let myself feel anger for too long. Maybe I'm not really a forgiving person, since my motive for forgiving is often selfish. But at the end of the day, it is just true. I don't like the angry place.
But I was angry.
And I was pumping gas. And words were spewing and colors were blurring. I was staying too long there, at the top. But I could not find my way down.
Too many unkind words. Too many accusations. Too many consequences. Too many implications. Too much advice. Too many opinions. Too much rejection.
It had all gotten me here. And I couldn't find my way out.
A year's worth of anger, fear, sadness, hurt, inadequacies, let downs, insecurities had been stockpiled in a place out of my reach. I did it for my own good, stored it away, because I knew what I had to do. What I had to do and how to get it done, and I knew... I knew better than to let anything else get in the way.
This week, a chapter closed. A new one began and I step forward with as much trepidation and uncertainty as one might begin any new journey. I have no map, no directions -- and worst of all, no one clued me into my destination. I feel, unfortunately, quite lost. Safe. But lost.
And not to my surprise, these new feelings, this new path, reached high and deep and long and found the place where I kept it all. There, on the shelf in the back of my mind. Smelling like so much life and of so much struggle and of all kinds of secrets. Pretending I was capable, ready, to deal with it all, it came tumbling down. Piled at my feet. Mounding beside me, hot and sticky and not all bad -- but all very dangerous.
The knot grew in my chest, the tears burned behind my eyes. Sadness welled there, and anxiety pushed at my armpits. As if it all, all this life, was trying to find some way to escape me. I would not let it, for whatever reason. And I shake my head, wondering at my ability to cling to that which is no longer of use to me.
I was angry.
I didn't use to be angry. I used to be scared and sad and remorseful and all those things you feel when you think it's all your fault. Those things you feel when the world, when the church, has put the scarlet letter on your coat and every day conversation begins with subtle mentioning of your shortcomings.
I am able to stand here now and say a host of things I never was able to say before. Some of you have waited for the day that I'd agree with you -- the past few years have been laden with mistakes and failures and I, myself, am full of character flaws.
And it's not that I agree. But you're right -- in the sense we have to understand exactly where things started falling apart, to be able to ever begin putting it back together. It's not that I agree, because I truly believe our culture -- especially the church, the helping culture -- has taught us that freedom is in admitting our flaws. Be honest, repent, admit, they quip. Although scripture does say "if we confess our sins He is faithful and just", it seems like most things the church has turned this practice into something it was never intended to be.
But I have grown. In ways I was promised and in ways I'd never anticipated. And much like the stages of grieving, I got there. To an angry place. Past the sad place, the lonely place, the insecure place. Straight to the top. To the angry place.
I don't like the angry place. I never stay there long. It's hot and bothersome and I can't see straight up there. I think, perhaps, I can't breathe properly up there either. Because I get dizzy. "Seeing red" was a term they coined about me. So I race to the top, have my moment of hating the world and everything in it and say lots of words, very quickly, that I earnestly mean but shouldn't have said.
Then I am done. Back down the mountain. I don't like staying there at the top -- I don't like being angry. I dislike it so, I refuse to let myself feel anger for too long. Maybe I'm not really a forgiving person, since my motive for forgiving is often selfish. But at the end of the day, it is just true. I don't like the angry place.
But I was angry.
And I was pumping gas. And words were spewing and colors were blurring. I was staying too long there, at the top. But I could not find my way down.
Too many unkind words. Too many accusations. Too many consequences. Too many implications. Too much advice. Too many opinions. Too much rejection.
It had all gotten me here. And I couldn't find my way out.
~
This weekend I am watching a little boy we call Bear. Judah will look like him in two years and that baffles me. I have known Bear since before he could walk and there's a special place in my heart for this small little boy. His mom is a single mom too, and we have vowed from day one to help each other out. That's what we do -- look out for each other.
This weekend, she was the one who needed help. So I offered. And for the past two days, I've been a mommy to two. Judah's had a big brother and my conversations have revolved around what color Cheez-Its are and when it's time to go to the potty. Where are your eyes, Bear? What sound does a dinosaur make?
I live on the second story of an apartment complex. With all of our stuff in my arms, including Judah and his carrier, Bear and I walked up to the apartment building and then inside. I started climbing the stairs and turned around and there stood Bear, at the bottom of the steps. He looked up at me with the big brown eyes of someone who is scared, a little person in a big, new place.
"Help?" He whispered, staring at the steep, carpeted staircase.
I had forgotten he was little.
I had forgotten that he was little and needed help still.
I walked back down the steps and Bear grabbed my free pinky finger and we took the staircase one step at a time until we reached the top.
~
I was angry.
The gasp pump filled my tank and I replaced the nozzle and walked inside the Speedway to buy coffee.
And somewhere, between the pump and the door, I asked for help.
Plain and simple. It was cold and my hands smelled like gasoline and I was still seeing colors every time I took a breath. I was still hurt in such a deep way that it didn't cause me pain anymore, it just kept me there, at the top in the place I didn't want to stay.
And somewhere, between the pump and the door, I just whispered "I don't want to be angry anymore."
I took a deep breath and January filled my lungs and I breathed out -- and maybe that's when it happened.
I'll never know. Not for certain anyway. Whether it was my own will or the advocate, the Spirit, who breathed a sigh of relief and petitioned for me. "She just asked for help! I heard her! Not in so many words, but yes, I know my Anna and that was it. That was what we've been waiting for, Father. She asked, let's help her."
Because by the time I got back to my car, the anger was gone.
And I was walking serenely back down the mountain, back to where I wanted to be.
~
"Help" is such a scary word. It means we cannot do this thing, whatever it is, on our own. The word interprets inability as inadequate.
But would you ever look at a child who can't climb the stairs on his own and call him inadequate? He is incapable. He cannot do this big, steep, scary thing on his own. And he told you so. Because he knows. He knows he can't. He told you, because he needs help. This, this act of young bravery, this act of honesty, that one small word that the world teaches grownups we can't use... is all confession ever was intended to be.
Help, we should cry. Every time the sorrow and the sin and the hurt and the hatred has tried to bury us alive. Help, we should cry. Every time we get to the place we hate and cannot find our way back down.
Help. Not in our inadequacies, but in our inabilities. Help, we cry, not asking for judgement or to be reprimanded or to be isolated. But we cry help because this thing, this thing we need to do, we cannot do on our own.
Sometimes, though you may not want to admit the demons are real, we are plagued by them. We are attacked by them. The voice, sounding so much like our own, like our fathers, like that boy you loved, breathing that fear and anger and hurt into your lungs.
Sometimes, their literal or metaphorical tactics are to cover our ears and make us think we are battling this alone. That the pile of hurts and memories and smelly stuff now laying at your feet, is a pile you have to sort through alone.
Or that staircase you have to climb, that steep staircase, is one you have to climb by yourself.
My friend, it is not.
And my prayer is that we would grow to be a community, we'd find ourselves living in a world, where it is not just the young who are willing to whisper "help". We'd find ourselves living in a world, a community, where we respond to the request, the confession, the plea, with nothing but grace and a free pinky.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Able
1.13.13
There's a host of hurts we come across
None of which alike
From the air inside the birthing room
To the darkness where we die
Though I feel I'm just as strong as any man I know
I'm not able on my own
Carry round the secrets
Only heaven knows
Crawl into our darkened rooms where only victims go
Though I feel I'm strong enough to carry all this load
I'm not able on my own
(Needtobreathe - Able)
And so we find ourselves here, a year later. The words find my ears and I am startled -- unexpected and out of place and painfully familiar. Voice carries note and meaning and memory all the way to my ears. And if I hadn't before, I now feel as though I've lived an entire year in twenty four hours.
I have buried emotions deep enough, I may recall them but I can avoid feeling the pain again. Of sitting on the floor and asking something impossible of God. Of sitting in the doctor's office, twice, not even having words for my questions. Of calling him, meeting him at his house, sitting on the bed and all the start of all the confusion. Of the pain and judgement and nausea and fear that followed.
Fear, it seems, often leads us into the next chapter of our stories. Whether or not we let fear control our lives determines the nature and quality of that next chapter. And I, despite the temptation, did not succumb.
But I am haunted -- haunted by waters full of memories and intensity and the way the rain smelled that morning. Haunted by the remembering, of sitting on an unfamiliar street and staring at traffic in my parked car. When the a strain of music caught my ear and He told me what I needed to hear. Not on my own.
How often do we stand neck deep in life. Armpits aching with the nervousness of it all. We can't see far enough ahead. We cannot fathom how our prayers might be answered. We think we know best -- an alternative is out of the question. We beg and cry and take deep breaths and somehow, we collect days. Somehow we make it to sundown every time. And our beds swallow us and we resolve to do it again.
Somehow, we think. Somehow we will do this. Even if some of those days our eyes are squinted shut and some days we finish rather worse for wear. The days add up. The hours pass.
Then one day you wake up and it is one year later. Somehow, though we couldn't tell you how, we've made it here. And though the world thinks this is an unremarkable day, it's implications wake you up in the morning. You know. You know what this day means.
In not so many words, today means you survived. You arrived today, as a conquerer.
There's a host of hurts we come across
None of which alike
From the air inside the birthing room
To the darkness where we die
Though I feel I'm just as strong as any man I know
I'm not able on my own
Carry round the secrets
Only heaven knows
Crawl into our darkened rooms where only victims go
Though I feel I'm strong enough to carry all this load
I'm not able on my own
(Needtobreathe - Able)
And so we find ourselves here, a year later. The words find my ears and I am startled -- unexpected and out of place and painfully familiar. Voice carries note and meaning and memory all the way to my ears. And if I hadn't before, I now feel as though I've lived an entire year in twenty four hours.
I have buried emotions deep enough, I may recall them but I can avoid feeling the pain again. Of sitting on the floor and asking something impossible of God. Of sitting in the doctor's office, twice, not even having words for my questions. Of calling him, meeting him at his house, sitting on the bed and all the start of all the confusion. Of the pain and judgement and nausea and fear that followed.
Fear, it seems, often leads us into the next chapter of our stories. Whether or not we let fear control our lives determines the nature and quality of that next chapter. And I, despite the temptation, did not succumb.
But I am haunted -- haunted by waters full of memories and intensity and the way the rain smelled that morning. Haunted by the remembering, of sitting on an unfamiliar street and staring at traffic in my parked car. When the a strain of music caught my ear and He told me what I needed to hear. Not on my own.
How often do we stand neck deep in life. Armpits aching with the nervousness of it all. We can't see far enough ahead. We cannot fathom how our prayers might be answered. We think we know best -- an alternative is out of the question. We beg and cry and take deep breaths and somehow, we collect days. Somehow we make it to sundown every time. And our beds swallow us and we resolve to do it again.
Somehow, we think. Somehow we will do this. Even if some of those days our eyes are squinted shut and some days we finish rather worse for wear. The days add up. The hours pass.
Then one day you wake up and it is one year later. Somehow, though we couldn't tell you how, we've made it here. And though the world thinks this is an unremarkable day, it's implications wake you up in the morning. You know. You know what this day means.
In not so many words, today means you survived. You arrived today, as a conquerer.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
The Story of 2012
I just spent New Year's Eve sick and laying in bed.
Larry and Emily took Judah for me so I spent the last few hours of 2012 completely alone.
It's the first morning of the new year and it's still dark outside and I miss my boy terribly. But I am enjoying the quiet for just a little while longer, trying to reclaim the sentimentality of this holiday, the reflection, which always accompanies the turn of a new year.
New Year's Eve is always about this: the looking back, the preparing. A milestone so we remember where we've come from, and if we need to, take a deep breath and change direction.
Life, my life, has a funny of way of foreshadowing.
On December 31, 2011 I wrote : But that happens sometimes. Sometimes we try things and we fail. We have good intentions and we mean well. And we have no way of knowing what's coming our way. No way to really prepare for the battles we are going to fight. To predict the ways we are going to turn.
Thirteen days into the new year I found out I was pregnant. I went out the night before to enjoy some time with girlfriends and had taken a cheap pregnancy test before going. The test was faulty, partially indicating "pregnant" -- blurry, incomplete, not enough for me to be concerned.
This, it turns out, would be the story of 2012. The plot line that would move my story forward.
Very few of you know this entire story. Frankly because some stories are not written to be told. But this chapter of my life built my character, tested my faith, and strengthened me in ways I never could have anticipated.
I think back to the beginning of last year and I am queasy just at the thought. I think about snowy nights at Horseman's Lane and dark nights on Woodland Avenue. I think about walking to class in the snow, fighting morning sickness. Leaving my research class with Dr. Royse to throw up for the first time in the janitors bathroom of the basement in POT.
I think about round ligament pain while working at Orange Leaf, taking my break to drive to Jamba Juice, because nothing else would stay down. About eating whole sleeves of wheat saltines and falling asleep the moment I laid my head to the pillow. I remember the nightmares and wish I did not.
I remember the worst semester of my college career. Classes taught by PhD students and ungracious hippies and demanding social workers from Ghana. I remember UK winning the national championship. Sitting on the steps of my studio apartment listening to the wild parties because I could not participate.
I am almost physically uncomfortable remembering this season of my life.
On April 19th I found out I was having a little baby boy. Judah Nathaniel. He was already named. God had told me he was a boy -- and given me a name. I found out I was having a little boy just two days after Katherine and David found out they were too. A generation of girls, giving birth to a generation of boys.
I also found out that Judah had a calcium deposit on his little heart. And I prayed the boldest, most trusting prayer I've ever prayed. Only to have God answer me with that peace that transcends all understanding.
In May I moved out of my studio apartment and spent the months of May and June technically homeless. I slept on Nubia's futon. Got a job at a daycare. Sat in the truck with him and finally learned a truth that would still, today, impact my life.
In May I also started a practicum at NECCO. A Private Child Caring Agency. I came to intern with them for what I thought would be a summer placement. I took trips to the detention center and sat in on intakes and multiple times almost threw up in my supervisor's vehicle while driving down the interstate. I became a social worker -- if not in credentials, in mentality.
And at the end of June I moved back to Redding Road after twenty some odd years. Larry calls us homing pigeons, always returning home.
In July, I saw my son's face for the first time. We were checking on the EIF in his heart, and because there were so few patients in the office that day, the US tech gave me a free 3D ultrasound. So many people would tell me that these 3D ultrasounds were not a strong indicator of what babies would actually look like once they're born. But they were wrong. That day the US told me my son was healthy and whole. And to this day, I watch Judah make the same faces he did while he was in the womb.
In August Mary and Jamere got married. I was part of their story from day one -- the late night in the club when Mary texted me and joked about this "baby" she'd met. Not even a year later, they'd be married. My only regret is I didn't dance at their wedding.
In August I was also hired on at NECCO, my practicum placement, as a part time home resource assistant. Without an interview, I laid my resume on the Program Director's desk and was hired the next day. Making it possible for me to quit my jobs at Orange Leaf and Crestwood and put myself in position for a promotion.
I also started my last semester of college. Walking into class and sitting sideways in the desk because my belly was too big to fit.
I bought a new car -- trading my Ford Focus in for a Corolla. My second investment as a mother.
On September 1st Elijah David Rector was born. The first son, first grandson, first great-grandson, first great-nephew. My first nephew. He was born with a thick head of hair and amazed us at the way he grew cuter every day.
On September 12th 2012, on Olivia's 19th birthday, I was admitted to Central Baptist Hospital to be induced. Judah was comfortable and didn't want to come on his own. I was miserable. Feet were swollen, PUPPPS in full effect. I drove myself to the hospital. Registered in a private room.
And on September 13th at 6:05pm, fifteen hours of labor and one hour of pushing, Judah Nathaniel was born. 8 lbs 5 oz and 21 1/2 inches long.
This, he, was the story of 2012.
He is almost four months old now and it has been the longest and shortest four months of my life. Those hard battles, which I had foreshadowed in 2011, continue to be fought.
On December 14th, I graduated from University of Kentucky with a Bachelor's Degree in Social Work. Against all odds, I am now done. Anna Vaughan, BASW.
So much heartbreak has continued to happen. I have never asked God "why" so many times in my life. Never felt so hopeless, so excited, so terrified, so inadequate.
As the new year rolls over I am still laying in bed recovering from the stomach flu. Larry has Judah and I am alone. This week... this week ahead means more than last night ever could have.
This week means closure. This week is a greatest expression of all the grace I have left. This week is an anniversary. This week is a promotion. This week has already been hard conversations and certain levels of hurt. So much thinking as the new year approached. I can't even get my mind to a place where I can make any plans. I don't even know what I want for this next year. Except for peace and progress.
I am so thankful. I am thankful for him for staying when he didn't have to. For loving my son. For being my big man, who in so many ways, has fixed so many things in my heart and in our lives.
I am so thankful for Olivia -- Judah's Aunt Liv. Who moved into my living room in September and never left.
I am so thankful for those who have walked me through 2012. Who have listened to my crying, who have put up with the horrible drama, who have fed me, and clothed Judah. Who have taken out my trash and taken me out. I am so thankful for those loved me enough to include me.
I am so thankful for those people who still look like Jesus.
And I am thankful for those who haven't given up on me. Who know the Father and the Spirit well enough to still see them in me.
As the New Year starts, I can't help but think about him. And hope that, even though he is not involved, his life would be blessed and impacted one day. That the hurt he caused would heal and his place would be taken. But mostly that one day, he would look back and not be hurt by his mistakes, but encouraged by our grace.
And so, as always, my New Year's resolution is to "do better". It's just that the things I need to "do better" at this year are different than ever before.
This year, I hope I am a better mother. A better friend. I hope the work I do on a daily basis helps better the lives of forgotten children. I hope when people look at my life, they see a better picture of Jesus.
I hope to do better at balancing. To find ways to contribute, to stretch myself, to love the people in my life better. I hope to learn to be more gracious, more patient, more understanding. I hope I am a better friend.
I hope to stand up for myself and my son and be brave enough to walk away from the things that hurt us.
I hope I remember how to risk and to listen.
I hope I get answers. I hope I get closure. I hope we find freedom in being and loving the way we were created to.
I hope I keep learning.
And that at the end of this year, I hope I have a new story to tell.
Larry and Emily took Judah for me so I spent the last few hours of 2012 completely alone.
It's the first morning of the new year and it's still dark outside and I miss my boy terribly. But I am enjoying the quiet for just a little while longer, trying to reclaim the sentimentality of this holiday, the reflection, which always accompanies the turn of a new year.
New Year's Eve is always about this: the looking back, the preparing. A milestone so we remember where we've come from, and if we need to, take a deep breath and change direction.
Life, my life, has a funny of way of foreshadowing.
On December 31, 2011 I wrote : But that happens sometimes. Sometimes we try things and we fail. We have good intentions and we mean well. And we have no way of knowing what's coming our way. No way to really prepare for the battles we are going to fight. To predict the ways we are going to turn.
This, it turns out, would be the story of 2012. The plot line that would move my story forward.
Very few of you know this entire story. Frankly because some stories are not written to be told. But this chapter of my life built my character, tested my faith, and strengthened me in ways I never could have anticipated.
I think back to the beginning of last year and I am queasy just at the thought. I think about snowy nights at Horseman's Lane and dark nights on Woodland Avenue. I think about walking to class in the snow, fighting morning sickness. Leaving my research class with Dr. Royse to throw up for the first time in the janitors bathroom of the basement in POT.
I think about round ligament pain while working at Orange Leaf, taking my break to drive to Jamba Juice, because nothing else would stay down. About eating whole sleeves of wheat saltines and falling asleep the moment I laid my head to the pillow. I remember the nightmares and wish I did not.
I remember the worst semester of my college career. Classes taught by PhD students and ungracious hippies and demanding social workers from Ghana. I remember UK winning the national championship. Sitting on the steps of my studio apartment listening to the wild parties because I could not participate.
I am almost physically uncomfortable remembering this season of my life.
I also found out that Judah had a calcium deposit on his little heart. And I prayed the boldest, most trusting prayer I've ever prayed. Only to have God answer me with that peace that transcends all understanding.
In May I moved out of my studio apartment and spent the months of May and June technically homeless. I slept on Nubia's futon. Got a job at a daycare. Sat in the truck with him and finally learned a truth that would still, today, impact my life.
In May I also started a practicum at NECCO. A Private Child Caring Agency. I came to intern with them for what I thought would be a summer placement. I took trips to the detention center and sat in on intakes and multiple times almost threw up in my supervisor's vehicle while driving down the interstate. I became a social worker -- if not in credentials, in mentality.
And at the end of June I moved back to Redding Road after twenty some odd years. Larry calls us homing pigeons, always returning home.
In August Mary and Jamere got married. I was part of their story from day one -- the late night in the club when Mary texted me and joked about this "baby" she'd met. Not even a year later, they'd be married. My only regret is I didn't dance at their wedding.In August I was also hired on at NECCO, my practicum placement, as a part time home resource assistant. Without an interview, I laid my resume on the Program Director's desk and was hired the next day. Making it possible for me to quit my jobs at Orange Leaf and Crestwood and put myself in position for a promotion.
I also started my last semester of college. Walking into class and sitting sideways in the desk because my belly was too big to fit.
I bought a new car -- trading my Ford Focus in for a Corolla. My second investment as a mother.
On September 12th 2012, on Olivia's 19th birthday, I was admitted to Central Baptist Hospital to be induced. Judah was comfortable and didn't want to come on his own. I was miserable. Feet were swollen, PUPPPS in full effect. I drove myself to the hospital. Registered in a private room.
This, he, was the story of 2012.
He is almost four months old now and it has been the longest and shortest four months of my life. Those hard battles, which I had foreshadowed in 2011, continue to be fought.
So much heartbreak has continued to happen. I have never asked God "why" so many times in my life. Never felt so hopeless, so excited, so terrified, so inadequate.
As the new year rolls over I am still laying in bed recovering from the stomach flu. Larry has Judah and I am alone. This week... this week ahead means more than last night ever could have.
This week means closure. This week is a greatest expression of all the grace I have left. This week is an anniversary. This week is a promotion. This week has already been hard conversations and certain levels of hurt. So much thinking as the new year approached. I can't even get my mind to a place where I can make any plans. I don't even know what I want for this next year. Except for peace and progress.
I am so thankful. I am thankful for him for staying when he didn't have to. For loving my son. For being my big man, who in so many ways, has fixed so many things in my heart and in our lives.
I am so thankful for Olivia -- Judah's Aunt Liv. Who moved into my living room in September and never left.
I am so thankful for those who have walked me through 2012. Who have listened to my crying, who have put up with the horrible drama, who have fed me, and clothed Judah. Who have taken out my trash and taken me out. I am so thankful for those loved me enough to include me.
I am so thankful for those people who still look like Jesus.
And I am thankful for those who haven't given up on me. Who know the Father and the Spirit well enough to still see them in me.
As the New Year starts, I can't help but think about him. And hope that, even though he is not involved, his life would be blessed and impacted one day. That the hurt he caused would heal and his place would be taken. But mostly that one day, he would look back and not be hurt by his mistakes, but encouraged by our grace.
And so, as always, my New Year's resolution is to "do better". It's just that the things I need to "do better" at this year are different than ever before.
This year, I hope I am a better mother. A better friend. I hope the work I do on a daily basis helps better the lives of forgotten children. I hope when people look at my life, they see a better picture of Jesus.
I hope to do better at balancing. To find ways to contribute, to stretch myself, to love the people in my life better. I hope to learn to be more gracious, more patient, more understanding. I hope I am a better friend.
I hope to stand up for myself and my son and be brave enough to walk away from the things that hurt us.
I hope I remember how to risk and to listen.
I hope I get answers. I hope I get closure. I hope we find freedom in being and loving the way we were created to.
I hope I keep learning.
And that at the end of this year, I hope I have a new story to tell.
I hope.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Dec. 25th
This morning we spent crying. Bellies were full, his diaper was dry, we'd both slept for at least a few hours. But we wanted to cry. His, a throaty, guttural scream. Mine, silent tears streaming down my cheeks.
I can sit and listen to him cry and not be anxious. Not because I like for him to cry. Not because it doesn't bother me. But because sometimes I can't fix it, and I'd rather sit and listen to him cry than to walk away. Sometimes we just need to cry. Together.
Others who are not moms do not understand this. They hear the cry and they want to soothe and they want to bounce and they want to sway and they want to walk, stand, sit, whatever it takes to soothe the tears of the baby.
Normally, Judah is easily soothed. But not this morning. This morning we sat in the hand me down chair and I cupped my hand on his cheek and held him tight. And we cried.
Because it is Christmas today. And nothing either of us could do would fix whatever hurt it was we were feeling.
After the crying had gone on too long, I breathed deeply and prayed over sweet Judah. Prayed that whatever it was that hurt him that I couldn't see, whatever was wrong that I couldn't fix, Jesus would fix. And quietly, gradually, his breath started to even and his eyes started to droop and through shudders and sniffles and sighs, he fell asleep.
I cried off and on throughout the day and even now, at 8:30, I sit in bed. Defeated by this day. With many more tears ready to fall.
This goes far beyond Christmas blues. This had nothing to do with the hype of Christmas being all over. All presents unwrapped. Or even with going back to work. This had everything to do with the anti-climactic nature of this holiday. Christmas 2012 went by without me noticing. Without truly being celebrated. Alone. Un-enjoyed.
Judah is too little to really give gifts to. Next Christmas, or may the year after, we will wrap presents to put under the tree. We will get up and open them together and then, I truly believe, the magic of Christmas will return. But this year... I woke up alone. Olivia and I exchanged small gifts -- hers made me cry. But I was not able to get her anything near what I wanted to. I was almost embarrassed by the gift card I handed her. I know that emotion all too well.
Christmas, we learn from an early age, is not about gifts.
But I did not get my mind right before this holiday.
I counted on spending today differently than I did. And because of that, I feel like I wasted my day. What I had planned never came to pass, so I feel like I spent most of my day waiting. Wishing. Even crying. If I had known better, if I had been wise and thought it through, I would have created our own Christmas. And counted on no one else.
Now the New Year will approach so quickly I won't even be able to think straight. And I will be overwhelmed with a deluge of memories and regrets and hopes and stories to tell. This year... this year just about took me out. But it didn't. And this week I will tell you that story.
Tonight, I am surrendering. I'll probably cry some. And fall asleep early. Tomorrow will be a casual work day and then Long Avenue Christmas.
I wait and anxiously hope for the day that Judah runs into my room and jumps in my bed to wake me up to open Christmas presents. When we bake cinnamon rolls and grill steaks and go see a movie and open presents together, one at a time-- because he and I are Vaughans. And that is what we do. When maybe one day we bundle up and drive to Aunt Kat and Uncle David's, because that's where all the family gathers. And I will teach Judah that Christmas is about more than presents, but I will still get to be the next greatest stocking stuffer. And I will watch Elijah grow up with Judah and we will watch people be added to our family. And hopefully I won't be the one in the driver's seat.
Things will continue to change. Be different. Get better.
But this Christmas is over. And we'll never have to do that again. The Christmas tree will go back in the box and we will carefully wrap all the ornaments in the tissue paper from the gift bags. I will put the furniture back where it belongs and put away the evergreen scented candle.
Even tonight, I just made a huge leap. A giant step towards closure and hope and resolution. The greatest gift I could have given myself. And I marvel at how long it has taken me. There's a peace, settled on my heart because I know it was the right decision. And right decisions on Christmas are a sweet thing.
But I still need to cry some more about it.
I can sit and listen to him cry and not be anxious. Not because I like for him to cry. Not because it doesn't bother me. But because sometimes I can't fix it, and I'd rather sit and listen to him cry than to walk away. Sometimes we just need to cry. Together.
Others who are not moms do not understand this. They hear the cry and they want to soothe and they want to bounce and they want to sway and they want to walk, stand, sit, whatever it takes to soothe the tears of the baby.
Normally, Judah is easily soothed. But not this morning. This morning we sat in the hand me down chair and I cupped my hand on his cheek and held him tight. And we cried.
Because it is Christmas today. And nothing either of us could do would fix whatever hurt it was we were feeling.
After the crying had gone on too long, I breathed deeply and prayed over sweet Judah. Prayed that whatever it was that hurt him that I couldn't see, whatever was wrong that I couldn't fix, Jesus would fix. And quietly, gradually, his breath started to even and his eyes started to droop and through shudders and sniffles and sighs, he fell asleep.
I cried off and on throughout the day and even now, at 8:30, I sit in bed. Defeated by this day. With many more tears ready to fall.
This goes far beyond Christmas blues. This had nothing to do with the hype of Christmas being all over. All presents unwrapped. Or even with going back to work. This had everything to do with the anti-climactic nature of this holiday. Christmas 2012 went by without me noticing. Without truly being celebrated. Alone. Un-enjoyed.
Judah is too little to really give gifts to. Next Christmas, or may the year after, we will wrap presents to put under the tree. We will get up and open them together and then, I truly believe, the magic of Christmas will return. But this year... I woke up alone. Olivia and I exchanged small gifts -- hers made me cry. But I was not able to get her anything near what I wanted to. I was almost embarrassed by the gift card I handed her. I know that emotion all too well.
Christmas, we learn from an early age, is not about gifts.
But I did not get my mind right before this holiday.
I counted on spending today differently than I did. And because of that, I feel like I wasted my day. What I had planned never came to pass, so I feel like I spent most of my day waiting. Wishing. Even crying. If I had known better, if I had been wise and thought it through, I would have created our own Christmas. And counted on no one else.
Now the New Year will approach so quickly I won't even be able to think straight. And I will be overwhelmed with a deluge of memories and regrets and hopes and stories to tell. This year... this year just about took me out. But it didn't. And this week I will tell you that story.
Tonight, I am surrendering. I'll probably cry some. And fall asleep early. Tomorrow will be a casual work day and then Long Avenue Christmas.
I wait and anxiously hope for the day that Judah runs into my room and jumps in my bed to wake me up to open Christmas presents. When we bake cinnamon rolls and grill steaks and go see a movie and open presents together, one at a time-- because he and I are Vaughans. And that is what we do. When maybe one day we bundle up and drive to Aunt Kat and Uncle David's, because that's where all the family gathers. And I will teach Judah that Christmas is about more than presents, but I will still get to be the next greatest stocking stuffer. And I will watch Elijah grow up with Judah and we will watch people be added to our family. And hopefully I won't be the one in the driver's seat.
Things will continue to change. Be different. Get better.
But this Christmas is over. And we'll never have to do that again. The Christmas tree will go back in the box and we will carefully wrap all the ornaments in the tissue paper from the gift bags. I will put the furniture back where it belongs and put away the evergreen scented candle.
Even tonight, I just made a huge leap. A giant step towards closure and hope and resolution. The greatest gift I could have given myself. And I marvel at how long it has taken me. There's a peace, settled on my heart because I know it was the right decision. And right decisions on Christmas are a sweet thing.
But I still need to cry some more about it.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Weight of it All
The days now are a whirlwind. So much moving, so much leaving, ending, coming, and going. Preparedness is essential, in case something does not go as planned. Ever in a state of problem solving, of soothing, my mind is more tired than my body. Spend so much time in the dark, trying to rest, remain quiet. We are growing, him and I. Even now I watch as he has learned to pull his knees up under his belly, and I know he will be on the move soon.
This week marks the year, an anniversary if you will. I have pictures from last December. And so many regrets. Leaving me with an ensuing dizziness, making colors and all sorts of sense blur.
And I am terrified, for lack of a better word, that in all irony it will happen again.
It is dangerous to love, it turns out. To unlock those hefty latches on your heart and feel such a thing again. The kind of feel, which burns. It aches like an overused muscle. When all you want is to be part of their whole, and they a part of yours. To heal their hurt. To be what they need -- because they are what you need. And you want them to see it. You don't want it to hurt, but you want them to know. You want to be treasured, as you treasure.
Not too many days after a horrific tragedy occurs in New England, my mind is reeling. I was not with my Judah when I found out the news. Details unfolded as I got ready for my commencement, and I found myself just wanting to hold him. The greatest moment fear of a parent being, I think, when you realize you cannot protect this small person from the world.
In an interview, one of the Sandy Hook teachers tells us that while hiding her entire class of students in a bathroom, she told them that "bad guys were out there. And we have to wait until the good guys come."
My heart breaks at what a young age these children have had to learn what a bad man looks like. How young they were to have had to stand in the face of pure evilness.
For my mother-heart to be broken is something I wish I could have postponed. It happened so early on, weeks and weeks ago. And our pain, mine and Judah's, can never compare. But the desire of a mother to protect her child is the same. The desire to prevent hurt is so strong, instinctual. But here we are again, worrying the pain like a loose tooth. We always wish we could delay the hurt.
And so night falls. This time of year it comes quickly, seeping and fluid, without much hope for morning. Winter brings the kind of nights you swear you'll never survive. Gloom and noise and frigidity. You're not sure you can make one more bottle. Or that you have the energy to take him back to his crib. The heat kicks the door open again, and the fear that kicks in your heart means sleep won't come for a while.
You find yourself waking, even when he does not, waiting to hear the familiar sound of the door being opened. It catches, my front door. And from the back of the apartment you can hear it open and then shut. You hear him meander heavily, finding his way back to us.
How is it, I wonder, he always finds his way back?
I am terrified, those nights the door doesn't open. The things my heart needs are too many and our lives are too complicated and I am certain, in the most worried part of myself, that this makes me unloveable. I am certain, in all my fear, I will keep getting left. I want to delay this hurt too.
But he finds his way back. Like the greatest of promises. And the instant his giant shadow darkens the door, something is righted in our world. A peace falls over our home, and it scares me the way it reminds me.
Reminds me of cold nights on Long Avenue. Usually Mondays and Tamera is cooking dinner and the windows in the kitchen and the water glasses are sweating. We'd hear his car pull up -- the old '69 Chevelle. And he would sit in the car for half an hour sometimes, talking on his phone. When he came in, he would put his keys, loose change, and half eaten roll of Certs on the short dresser in the back room. Then he would play the piano.
That kind of peace.
A coming home, a family kind of peace.
This week marks the year, an anniversary if you will. I have pictures from last December. And so many regrets. Leaving me with an ensuing dizziness, making colors and all sorts of sense blur.
And I am terrified, for lack of a better word, that in all irony it will happen again.
It is dangerous to love, it turns out. To unlock those hefty latches on your heart and feel such a thing again. The kind of feel, which burns. It aches like an overused muscle. When all you want is to be part of their whole, and they a part of yours. To heal their hurt. To be what they need -- because they are what you need. And you want them to see it. You don't want it to hurt, but you want them to know. You want to be treasured, as you treasure.
~
Not too many days after a horrific tragedy occurs in New England, my mind is reeling. I was not with my Judah when I found out the news. Details unfolded as I got ready for my commencement, and I found myself just wanting to hold him. The greatest moment fear of a parent being, I think, when you realize you cannot protect this small person from the world.
In an interview, one of the Sandy Hook teachers tells us that while hiding her entire class of students in a bathroom, she told them that "bad guys were out there. And we have to wait until the good guys come."
My heart breaks at what a young age these children have had to learn what a bad man looks like. How young they were to have had to stand in the face of pure evilness.
For my mother-heart to be broken is something I wish I could have postponed. It happened so early on, weeks and weeks ago. And our pain, mine and Judah's, can never compare. But the desire of a mother to protect her child is the same. The desire to prevent hurt is so strong, instinctual. But here we are again, worrying the pain like a loose tooth. We always wish we could delay the hurt.
~
And so night falls. This time of year it comes quickly, seeping and fluid, without much hope for morning. Winter brings the kind of nights you swear you'll never survive. Gloom and noise and frigidity. You're not sure you can make one more bottle. Or that you have the energy to take him back to his crib. The heat kicks the door open again, and the fear that kicks in your heart means sleep won't come for a while.
You find yourself waking, even when he does not, waiting to hear the familiar sound of the door being opened. It catches, my front door. And from the back of the apartment you can hear it open and then shut. You hear him meander heavily, finding his way back to us.
How is it, I wonder, he always finds his way back?
I am terrified, those nights the door doesn't open. The things my heart needs are too many and our lives are too complicated and I am certain, in the most worried part of myself, that this makes me unloveable. I am certain, in all my fear, I will keep getting left. I want to delay this hurt too.
But he finds his way back. Like the greatest of promises. And the instant his giant shadow darkens the door, something is righted in our world. A peace falls over our home, and it scares me the way it reminds me.
Reminds me of cold nights on Long Avenue. Usually Mondays and Tamera is cooking dinner and the windows in the kitchen and the water glasses are sweating. We'd hear his car pull up -- the old '69 Chevelle. And he would sit in the car for half an hour sometimes, talking on his phone. When he came in, he would put his keys, loose change, and half eaten roll of Certs on the short dresser in the back room. Then he would play the piano.
That kind of peace.
A coming home, a family kind of peace.
~
I am learning we have to meet people where they are. To truly, truly love someone you have to help them be the best version of themselves and love them in the way they need. Sometimes "the way they need" is for you to understand how to accept their love. And, God Almighty, if this isn't the hardest thing I've ever had to learn how to do.
Already this story is so different than I imagined. Six months ago, had I been asked how I wished things would "work out", or resolve, I would not have painted this picture. Not exactly. Even ten weeks ago, when the story took a sharp right turn, I could not have told you the sweetness of this. Perhaps the beauty of being chosen is greater.
Fear grips and I grit my teeth against unwanted tears. And I remind myself, who I really am is not unreasonable. I remind myself not to mess up something sweet. To be gracious and merciful and to accept grace and mercy so I can become the kind of woman worthy of love. My son's love, his love.
I am a mother now. This revelation still baffles me on a daily basis. Desperately I want to raise my son to be strong and gracious and kind. I don't know how else to do this other than to show him how. To show him how and also allow people so strategically in our lives, who both need strength and kindness and grace, and are the manifestation of it.
I find these attributes hard to come by when I am lonely. Loneliness is a bear all itself, hurting my heart and making me question. Question everything I should be certain of. Making me defensive and completely unlike myself. But on those dark nights, I can't talk myself out of it. And I beg sleep to come, if peace will not. Reminding myself I can try harder tomorrow. To love harder -- be sweeter and less weak.
This, then, is what I carry into this next chapter. Perhaps, what comes next will come like morningtime. I can only pray. This is not a story about delaying hurt, of protecting ourselves from any and all danger. But a story, as it has always been, about risk and trust and hope.
There's just a lot of weight to it. This story.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
New Chapter
And so begins a new chapter.
As simple as that, I am done. Camera flashes, walk across the stage, hands by my side, they snap a photo. Applause, you're done. I have finished -- against all odds.
I have not done more than most. It may seem like it, but I have watched at least two other women this weekend graduate. Both have husbands and two little girls each. What I have done, with only Judah to care for, is probably not so hard in comparison. Which is why, I have learned, we do not play that game.
Yesterday was supposed to mark the end of a stressful season of life. "Supposed to" is a horrible phrase, always letting me down. On Thursday I got some disheartening news and a new level of stress was piled on. Expecting a decrease and experiencing an increase will boggle the mind.
I have been learning so much. Outside the classroom, life has been teeming with lessons and learning experiences. I work in a field shaped by heartbreak and hardship. If I thought I knew anything about human behavior before... I was sorely mistaken.
I am watching my son grow up. I had never paid much attention to the growth of children before, as strange as that seems. Taking for granted the daily changes and the growth spurts and the developmental milestones. My life is characterized by children who operate with a delay, whose childhood has been stolen because of maternal drug use, physical abuse, and severe neglect.
So when I lay my three month old on his belly and he raises his head to look at me, when he rolls from his belly to his back, when he reaches up and grabs a toy (or touches my cheek), I am amazed at the miracle he is.
He is the miracle I cling to, when all else seems to fail. The way he looks at me and smiles, regardless of whether I've left his sight for eight hours or three minutes. Every day he gets stronger and becomes more animated, I fall in love even more. And I think quietly, so not to make it come too quickly, about special days to come. When he walks, talks, goes to school, and has a decent amount of hair on his head.
I will take one more day then, before I take the necessary steps to enter into this next chapter. One more day of rest and peace and remembering before I start doing scary things again.
I hope this next season is characterized by love. Learning how to love one another the way we need to be loved, receiving love that's offered. Asking for and receiving grace and mercy. Learning how to write again... and how to operate within my gifts and outside my comfort zone.
Tonight, the good words just aren't there.
As simple as that, I am done. Camera flashes, walk across the stage, hands by my side, they snap a photo. Applause, you're done. I have finished -- against all odds.
I have not done more than most. It may seem like it, but I have watched at least two other women this weekend graduate. Both have husbands and two little girls each. What I have done, with only Judah to care for, is probably not so hard in comparison. Which is why, I have learned, we do not play that game.
Yesterday was supposed to mark the end of a stressful season of life. "Supposed to" is a horrible phrase, always letting me down. On Thursday I got some disheartening news and a new level of stress was piled on. Expecting a decrease and experiencing an increase will boggle the mind.
I have been learning so much. Outside the classroom, life has been teeming with lessons and learning experiences. I work in a field shaped by heartbreak and hardship. If I thought I knew anything about human behavior before... I was sorely mistaken.
I am watching my son grow up. I had never paid much attention to the growth of children before, as strange as that seems. Taking for granted the daily changes and the growth spurts and the developmental milestones. My life is characterized by children who operate with a delay, whose childhood has been stolen because of maternal drug use, physical abuse, and severe neglect.
So when I lay my three month old on his belly and he raises his head to look at me, when he rolls from his belly to his back, when he reaches up and grabs a toy (or touches my cheek), I am amazed at the miracle he is.
He is the miracle I cling to, when all else seems to fail. The way he looks at me and smiles, regardless of whether I've left his sight for eight hours or three minutes. Every day he gets stronger and becomes more animated, I fall in love even more. And I think quietly, so not to make it come too quickly, about special days to come. When he walks, talks, goes to school, and has a decent amount of hair on his head.
I will take one more day then, before I take the necessary steps to enter into this next chapter. One more day of rest and peace and remembering before I start doing scary things again.
I hope this next season is characterized by love. Learning how to love one another the way we need to be loved, receiving love that's offered. Asking for and receiving grace and mercy. Learning how to write again... and how to operate within my gifts and outside my comfort zone.
Tonight, the good words just aren't there.
Eight Weeks
11/3/12
I have nothing to do today. Submitted a 15 page paper last night, which means I have 75% done with my last class for undergrad. 25% left, 5 weeks to go. I bought my cap and gown the other day and on December 14th our tiny little cohort will walk across the stage and accept diplomas. And I can't really help but think how, except for our small group of family and friends, no one will really know all it took to get us there. How symbolic it all is, that we're finishing together. That after so long, after so much, we will soon be done.
But today I am choosing not to do anything. There's another paper to write. And a quiz to take. Research to be done. But today is Saturday. And the lights are switched off in my apartment and Judah is asleep on my chest. We will take this day as our own. We will settle in this day, the third day of November, and enjoy each other. My precious weekends.
I got a few pieces of mail yesterday, which sent my stress level skyrocketing. I made a mental checklist of the things I have to take care of on Monday and I created a mental image of myself... franticly spinning plates.
That is how I feel right now. Like I am trying to keep so many plates spinning. I can't keep up with all the obligations and deadlines and fax numbers and well, there are days when each of those plates teeters precariously and I wonder... will it all fall down?
Here soon, while walking across that stage, I will be able to gently take down one plate. It won't fall and break. It will just slow down, slow its spinning. And I will walk over and take it down, wrap it up, and put it away neatly. It will be done.
And that just makes me cry more. All while spinning all these plates. All while trying to see farther than I am supposed to.
I have nothing to do today. Submitted a 15 page paper last night, which means I have 75% done with my last class for undergrad. 25% left, 5 weeks to go. I bought my cap and gown the other day and on December 14th our tiny little cohort will walk across the stage and accept diplomas. And I can't really help but think how, except for our small group of family and friends, no one will really know all it took to get us there. How symbolic it all is, that we're finishing together. That after so long, after so much, we will soon be done.
But today I am choosing not to do anything. There's another paper to write. And a quiz to take. Research to be done. But today is Saturday. And the lights are switched off in my apartment and Judah is asleep on my chest. We will take this day as our own. We will settle in this day, the third day of November, and enjoy each other. My precious weekends.
I got a few pieces of mail yesterday, which sent my stress level skyrocketing. I made a mental checklist of the things I have to take care of on Monday and I created a mental image of myself... franticly spinning plates.
That is how I feel right now. Like I am trying to keep so many plates spinning. I can't keep up with all the obligations and deadlines and fax numbers and well, there are days when each of those plates teeters precariously and I wonder... will it all fall down?
Here soon, while walking across that stage, I will be able to gently take down one plate. It won't fall and break. It will just slow down, slow its spinning. And I will walk over and take it down, wrap it up, and put it away neatly. It will be done.
~
Last night, he winked at me. Walked by and grabbed my waist like he used to. And I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't skip a beat. I was overwhelmed with the remembering. Oh my. I wonder sometimes if when we meet people, we got a glimpse of a year down the road, how different we would handle our relationships.
You meet him and know, a year later he is gone already.
You meet her and you can't see it now, but in twelve months she will be the best friend you've ever had.
You meet him and normally wouldn't think twice. Assume. Reject. And there he is... this time next year... one of the most precious people in your life.
~
The words don't come like they should. And every time I reveal a bit of my breaking heart, I worry you question my love.
Only you, you who have children, might understand. The way you feel like your most vital part is missing when your child is somewhere else.
Those moments, deep and at 4 in the morning, when he decides he is awake. He lays beside me, cooing with his deep little man voice, staring at the world, as if he can see all its beauty. And I wonder if I will yell at him when I teach him to parallel park. Or if I will cheer for him at a ball game. Or if we will cry over algebra. And I daydream about the first time he kisses me and the first time he presses his forehead up against our big man's. Or ... be still my heart ... when he squeezes my hand three times.
And I think about the first steps. Who will be at the receiving end?
I'm tired of being told it is selfish, and I am tired of worrying if others think I don't know... that all things work out for the good, and the right man will choose us, and Judah is better off.
I know these things. I KNOW THEM. And I am broken, in so many parts, and there is so much healing in my Judah. And life is beautiful right now in all its purity and all in every act of provision and every baby wrinkle.
In every night that door is darkened. In every sleeping breath and in the contrast of the big and the small. And in the whispered words of Jesus when he tells me about redemption. When He reminds me of Boaz.
Of Ruth.
And damn it if I can't stop crying.
Crying about little boys lost in hurricane waters. Crying about daddys back from deployment. Crying because I am selfish and I sat beside a sweet young woman who found her love, like the love I'm praying for, and she has to be away from him. And I'm not sure which is harder. But I am sure it doesn't matter.
And I just think that eight weeks has gone by so quickly.
And that just makes me cry more. All while spinning all these plates. All while trying to see farther than I am supposed to.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
The Graduate
Your story continues here...
I saw the words on a van as I drove, through the misty rain, towards campus. And it struck me in such a way, I knew those words were meant for me. The slogan of a local retirement home, actually, had found me in traffic. And meant something wholly and entirely different in this -- what we have come to call -- pivotal moment.
I presented my research project, proposing an increase training for foster homes willing to take foster youth with a LOC higher than 3. Very few people who walked up to my poster had any interest in my topic of research, however. Instead they looked around frantically, asking where Judah was. My research professor feigned interest, then quipped some bad joke I didn't get, and announced to the people standing around, "isn't this the best poster? Even for a homeschooler, don't you think she did the best?"
The Dean of Admissions, my favorite professor/seminar instructor, and old practicum instructor all made their rounds, looked me deep in the eyes, and told me they were proud of me. "You did it" they said. I almost cried. "We're so proud of you."
One classmate came up to me, in her typical frenzy, and I looked at her and whispered "it's time to calm down now. Just breathe. You're done." The wrinkles relaxed around her eyes and mouth and she started in on her characteristic rambling. We'd gotten through two and a half years of classes together -- and it had taken me a year and a half to learn any kind of patience for her. I am a better social worker now, because of her. If only because she taught me to meet people where they are. Before the end of the night she came up to me and said "I know you don't like being hugged, but..." and wrapped me up in a big hug and said "you knew I could do it. When no one else did. I couldn't have done this without you."
I looked around the room, repeatedly, and was overwhelmed. I remember the first time I saw these people. I remember the day I chose social work as my career. As a classmate gave her speech and said, in a sweet eastern Kentucky accent, "your sense of humanity increases the sense of humanity in me", I remembered all the life that's happened since then.
And I missed Judah terribly.
I did this for him. Even though that wasn't how it started out. Even though my mind and heart could not comprehend him, years ago when I chose this career path. Now it is over, it has ended, and it has all been for him.
On Friday I will go through the motions of "graduating". But I am already done.
I saw the words on a van as I drove, through the misty rain, towards campus. And it struck me in such a way, I knew those words were meant for me. The slogan of a local retirement home, actually, had found me in traffic. And meant something wholly and entirely different in this -- what we have come to call -- pivotal moment.
I presented my research project, proposing an increase training for foster homes willing to take foster youth with a LOC higher than 3. Very few people who walked up to my poster had any interest in my topic of research, however. Instead they looked around frantically, asking where Judah was. My research professor feigned interest, then quipped some bad joke I didn't get, and announced to the people standing around, "isn't this the best poster? Even for a homeschooler, don't you think she did the best?"
The Dean of Admissions, my favorite professor/seminar instructor, and old practicum instructor all made their rounds, looked me deep in the eyes, and told me they were proud of me. "You did it" they said. I almost cried. "We're so proud of you."
One classmate came up to me, in her typical frenzy, and I looked at her and whispered "it's time to calm down now. Just breathe. You're done." The wrinkles relaxed around her eyes and mouth and she started in on her characteristic rambling. We'd gotten through two and a half years of classes together -- and it had taken me a year and a half to learn any kind of patience for her. I am a better social worker now, because of her. If only because she taught me to meet people where they are. Before the end of the night she came up to me and said "I know you don't like being hugged, but..." and wrapped me up in a big hug and said "you knew I could do it. When no one else did. I couldn't have done this without you."
I looked around the room, repeatedly, and was overwhelmed. I remember the first time I saw these people. I remember the day I chose social work as my career. As a classmate gave her speech and said, in a sweet eastern Kentucky accent, "your sense of humanity increases the sense of humanity in me", I remembered all the life that's happened since then.
And I missed Judah terribly.
I did this for him. Even though that wasn't how it started out. Even though my mind and heart could not comprehend him, years ago when I chose this career path. Now it is over, it has ended, and it has all been for him.
On Friday I will go through the motions of "graduating". But I am already done.
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