The Elephant in the Room

We live in a log home with a huge vaulted ceiling on the main floor, with an open balcony connecting the second floor bedrooms, and the floors of the upstairs bedrooms double as the ceilings of the rooms below. It is a beautiful home--open, welcoming, and quite homey with all the wood and rafters.  If it has one drawback, though, it is that you can hear EVERYTHING that goes on in the house, regardless of how many rooms away you are. Sometimes this is good, like when one of the dogs gets upstairs and is wandering around; sometimes it is a bit awkward, like when some amorous friends of ours came up to visit five years ago--yep, heard it all.  Other times, it is frustrating, like when someone (or someone's baby) is trying to get to sleep, and someone else, not sleeping, talks extremely loud. Normally, though, the lack of privacy does not create a huge problem, because normally the only people here are the two of us...me and my husband (plus the three dogs, but two of them are deaf anyway).  

Okay, so enter the holidays--starting in mid November, we have had folks in our house, besides us, for the past 35 days.First it was my mother-in-law, Connie, followed by my parents and my brother, who filled every room in the house, to celebrate Thanksgiving with us.  Not too much of an issue, as at least two of those four extra people are extremely hard of hearing, and most of them went to bed fairly early. My plan?  Connie would get a nice respite from her assisted living home, Alex and I would dote on her graciously, and my parents and Connie would engage in witty and poignant anecdotes about their lives.  The holiday would be topped of by a perfect turkey dinner with all the trimmings, and everyone would have an awesome time. And, by December 2, everyone was going to be gone anyway, so we'd manage.  Right before my mother in law left, our oldest daughter and her family arrived for the month, followed by our middle daughter and her husband and baby, and then, finally, our youngest daughter and family.  I have been looking forward to this Christmas since last Christmas--having all of our kids and grandkids here at the same time.  Idyllic, right?  Yes, I wanted this, yearned for it, and in fact, reveled in it. In my mind, in perfect Nana world, I would be the quintessential grandmother surrounded by her adoring family, while we baked cookies and wrapped gifts and ate dinners and sang Christmas carols together.  Snow would fall softly on December 23rd, and stay for the appropriate amount of time, and we would all gleefully build a snowman and make snow angels and then drink hot cocoa in front of the fire. Then, we would get family photos taken to preserve the memory of the best Christmas ever, and no one would be looking the other way or have their eyes closed or be sticking out their tongues. Oh, and of course, everyone would get along with everyone, no one would argue, no one would be sick, and no one would cry.   

Funny how real life does NOT imitate, or even closely resemble, my imagination.  What I envisioned as a nice, peaceful respite for my mother-in-law, a cozy visit with my parents, and a Hallmark movie Christmas with kids and grandkids,  turned out to be the ultimate test of my extremely fragile psyche.   When my husband arrived with his mom in mid November, the woman who came home with us was a completely different person than the one I have known (and loved) for the past 28 years. The once independent, strong Christian woman was now a depressed widow who had suffered three heart attacks, colon cancer, and the loss of her independence and her husband in less than a year. She required someone to be within earshot, 24/7, and had a medication regimen that rivaled that of any trauma unit. She could barely hear, and, since English is her second language, could not articulate things very well, especially to my 93-year old father who ALSO is hard of hearing. Conversations between them required translators and someone to repeat nearly every word. To complicate things, my dad has been newly diagnosed with bone cancer and has severe COPD, and my mentally handicapped 66 year old brother lives with them. Suffice it to say it was challenging to keep the mood light.  

By December 21 we were at capacity--14 people and four dogs in one house, six of them were under the age of 12, half of them sick with viral croup, and everyone had different biorhythms and family styles. We were four families, living under one roof, out of our element, and trying to accommodate each other without stepping on toes. Normally accustomed to at least 1000 square feet of living space for their own family, they now had to share one house, albeit a fairly large one, and each family unit was confined to one bedroom--five people in one bedroom, three in another, four people and one dog in the basement bedroom, and Alex and me (with three dogs) in our room. Commandeering nearly a third of the living room was a giant, 15 foot Christmas tree, which forced all living room seating to one side. Our dogs, accustomed to the run of the house 24/7, except for their bathroom walks, were now either locked in our room or pushed out onto the deck, to prevent counter surfing or nipping of little fingers and faces. Everyone, including the dogs, had to adapt to a new "normal"--sound levels, sleeping arrangements, meal times, wake up times, extracurricular activities, downtime, even the ability to enjoy a cup of hot coffee. During waking hours, not even 5 minutes would elapse without someone crying or whining (by the way, not always a child), and I could not go anywhere without walking on a lego or a princess.Our kitchen counter became a pharmacy/bakery counter, and the dishwasher was always full of dirty dishes. The laundry room had more visitors than Santa Claus at a busy mall in December,  and we became frequent shoppers at every grocery store within a 30 mile radius.  There were frequent accidents--dogs pooping and peeing in the house, children falling and bumping heads/knees/elbows, cooks burning or cutting themselves, spilled milk/water/coffee/(insert unwanted food by child being pushed on floor here), and occasional hurt feelings, dogs fighting, strained looks between spouses and siblings, cousin squabbles, and kitchen messes.  

Yes, for the past 35 days, Alex and I have had no privacy, not even in the bathroom or getting dressed. Our sleep schedule is nonexistent, and the noise level in the house is comparable to that of a train station. My compulsion towards a neat, organized home was strained to the max, and as a highly sensitive introvert who tends to obsess (putting it mildly) about my every perceived misstep,  the atmosphere was highly charged, and ripe for a breakdown.  It was only a matter of time. Finally, on Christmas Eve, of all nights, Alex and I had a fight...well, I tried to keep it between us, and make him see things my way, then walk away when he wouldn't, but he wouldn't allow that.  He followed me up the basement stairs, stomping on each wooden step in cowboy boots, just as kids were going to sleep, and stormed in the kitchen, shouting at me.  With half of our family in the living room, and the other half right upstairs.  To say I was mortified would be an understatement, and I wrestled with the urge to run away and never come back.  I took out the recycling, calmed down the oldest grandchildren, fought back tears, and then joined the rest of the family.  You could hear a pin drop.  Everyone sat around in the living room, most with pained looks on their faces, looking anywhere but at me, in stunned silence.  Eventually we all blithely participated in some inane, harmless discussions and tried to ignore the elephant in the room.  I apologized quietly to my oldest granddaughter, reassured her Pappy and I would be okay, and then apologized to first one daughter, then the next, and finally the last, but I never truly acknowledged the issue.  

Finally, too cowardly and too ashamed to apologize to the group, I composed a letter, and sent it electronically to each one of them. Then I prayed, and prayed some more. And fought with all my might to NOT be sucked into the vortex of self-blame and regret and self-flagellation that have been the hallmark of my life for nearly 50 years. I stayed awake, all Christmas Eve night, praying, thinking, and blogging. Capturing every thought that would come into my selfish little head, and holding each one up to the standard of my faith, my Christ, God's Word.  Not something so trite as "WWJD," but a full-blown investigation of that thought, the feeling, the nearly uncontrollable urge to rationalize, justify, validate my thoughts and behavior.  All night long, I struggled with my demons, my sinful, human nature, my selfishness, my self-pity, and my need to put myself in a good light, to exonerate myself by blaming others, my past, my situation, my illness, my weakness. Although I have not won the war, I have won this one battle.  In holding up those thoughts that followed my sinful behavior, I feel, no, I know, I have turned a corner. I had to acknowledge I am not merely fighting against human flesh (usually mine), but against supernatural forces. Spiritual warfare is what I am engaged in, and as long as I keep focused on the truth that the victory is already ours through Christ, and hold each thought that pops into my head prisoner and compare it to God's holy truths, I will face my own elephants in the room. And unashamedly acknowledge them, and finally get them out of my life, even if I have to do it an inch at a time.  

By the way, elephant does NOT taste like chicken...

Insecurity: Identity Crisis

When a child spends her entire life trying to earn her mother's love, and is constantly rebuffed, that child learns the lie that she will never EVER be good enough, that no one can love her because, well, she just is not lovable.  She knows from infancy that her mother does not, cannot, and will not love her.  How sad, how tragic, and how utterly regrettable!  Most tragic of all is not knowing who she is, and why she was born. Her identity is tied to to her mother, and since her mother finds her wanting, she is a bad daughter.

The child matures physically, but never really emotionally, because she is constantly seeking approval and love of the one person who should love her but who does not.  As that little girl grows up into an adolescent, then a young woman, she tries to prove she is lovable, and tries to earn the love of anyone and everyone, but really trusts no one.  She makes bad choices--really, really bad choices--and those choices only serve to underscore her insecurity, and her sense of worthlessness.  And, if by some chance she makes a good choice, and finds herself in a relationship with someone who truly DOES love her, well, she does everything in her power to sabotage that relationship.  I mean, seriously, no one really loves her or values her, right?  That person must be using her, or must love someone else more, or must have some evil, ulterior motive.  Her identity is tied to her friends, or boyfriend, or husband. Who is she really though? Is she a friend? A girlfriend? A good worker?  Like a chameleon she changes her identity to reflect the people who give her attention.

So this young woman bumbles through life, trying to earn love, trying to feel loved, trying to be lovable, and, just when she thinks it is hopeless...she becomes a mother. Oh sweet joy!  She immediately adores her children, and knows, without a doubt, those children love her. She basks in their need for her, revels in their happiness, cries when they are hurting, and sacrifices her own identity to them.  They are her life. After almost 30 years of searching for someone to love her, she has found it.  Her children grow, and thrive, and she tries oh so hard to be the kind of mother she wishes she would have had, but it's hard when you have no example, no blueprint to go by.  She reads and watches other mothers, and she vehemently promises she will NEVER repeat her mother's mistakes with her children, but alas, some of the behaviors are so ingrained, so much a part of her psyche, she stumbles. She recovers her balance, but always ALWAYS in the back of her mind is the litany, "you are not good enough, you will never be good enough."   She is a mother.  Her children define her.  

Then her children leave home, as children often do when they grow up, and they go to school, fall in love, get married, and become mothers themselves. The woman, now middle-aged, experiences the ecstasy of being a grandmother, and it is love at first sight when she meets first one, then two, then more children of her children.  Oh happy day! How wondrous! She is a grandmother and a nana! She has so much love her heart is bursting, and her grandchildren love her oh so much! But wait. What if she is not good enough? What if her children resent her? Maybe they wished for a better mother, just like she did (and still does). Maybe she isn't a very good grandmother.  

So on and on it goes, and the woman, now growing older, feels helpless in her search for an identity, in her quest for feeling loved, for deserving love. All throughout her life, ever since she was 7 or 8, she felt love, love not of this earth, and she clung to that feeling with every morsel of her being.  It was her safety net, her life jacket, her parachute when she felt like she would never be loved, never feel love. And no matter what she did, or how hard she tried to ignore it, that Love was always there, warming her, reminding her she is loved, even if she didn't always feel loved. And it is in the sunset of her life, the woman finds and holds onto her true identity. Yes, she is a daughter, a friend, a wife, a veteran, a mother, and a grandmother. But the golden thread holding her together is the realization she is beloved, fearfully and wonderfully made, a child of God.  

This identity has been there all along, trying to be THE identity, the one that matters. But these other identities are strong--they are selfish and vie to be on top.  They tell her, "you are not a good daughter, you are not a good friend, you are not a good wife, or good mother, and you could be a better grandmother, so give up on this child of God thing. You are not worth it."  The woman has to constantly push these feelings down, call them what they are...lies.  

It's exhausting.  Frustrating.   Emotionally draining.  

She is loved.  She is good enough.  

Isn't she?

Striving for Perfection

As I continue on this journey of finding self and my purpose, and discerning God's will, I am discovering a lot of pieces.  Pieces of my life, jumbled about, some with sharp edges, others rounded and worn, even frayed, but pieces nonetheless that, when assembled, make me who I am now.  As I find these pieces, I pick them up, inspect them, and try to figure out where they fit, many times trying to force them into place.  Some of them are clear and in perfect focus, some are blurry and hard to distinguish where they belong, and still others appear to be mirror-images and backwards, like a negative to a photograph. But I persevere, picking up these pieces of me, of my life, my experiences, my relationships, and gradually, slowly, steadily, I am beginning to see who I really am, why I am, what I am, and how I came to be me.

If there is one driving force in my selfish heart, it is the desire for perfection--to be the perfect housekeeper, the perfect wife, be the perfect daughter and mom and grandmother and Christian and, well, you fill in the blank...whatever I do, whatever hat I am wearing, I am crushed and despondent if I am not perfect. My motto is not, "if at first you don't succeed, try try again."  Oh no.  Mine is, "if at first I don't succeed, then there is something wrong with me because I have to be perfect at everything I do the first time I do anything." I know...unrealistic, and about as achievable as weighing what my driver's license says I weigh.  But most of the pieces of "me" point to an overwhelming drive towards, no, obsession with, perfection. So as I walk down this path of sanctification, I am finding pieces that are, let's face it, not perfect. Things that I did, or still do--some are wonderful, and some are things that make me cringe and shrink from embarrassment.  Parts of me are mature in Christ, but part of me still grips on to those sins of the past, going over and over and over them in my mind, as if I could go back in time and undo what I have done. But I cannot. And, even if I could, it would be woefully inadequate to attain the prize of heaven. Wiping out those sins would still find me undeserving of the gift of redemption. Just like any "good" I do will never earn me one iota of salvation.  That is what Christ did, freely.

Take Paul's struggle with perfection, and how, despite all of the horrible things he had done, he was still in Christ, and redeemed in and by Christ. That he was pressing on towards becoming like Christ--the process of sanctification.  

"Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead. I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.  Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, God will reveal that to you also." (Philippians 3:12-14, ESV)

See, if God can (and He does) forget my past sins, and judges me as holy in His sight because of Christ's blood, then really, why should I keep looking back on sins already forgiven?  Isn't that akin to not believing God? Like giving him "the hand" and ignoring the beautiful, perfect gift He has given me? At least that is what I think of when I get stuck in that loop of blame and regret and shame. It is not a pretty or happy place to be, and it is truly counterproductive. And while the resources I am using to put my pieces together into the person God created me to be are useful and helpful and edifying, I must remember those resources were placed here by God, so I can look at my past, and all my pieces, and accept that I was less than perfect, and then move on, no STRAIN FORWARD, because if I keep looking behind me I am going to miss the turn, miss out on the beauty God has for me, and fall on my ass.

Like Paul, and every other human being set aside by God, I am not there yet, but as long as i keep my eyes forward, straining toward the prize, I will make it.  But only by the grace of God, in Christ.  

Hinds Feet on High Places

I am continuously worried, even anxious, about the future, the outcome of things I cannot/do not control (pssst: I don't control anything).  Long ago I read Hannah Hurnaud's "Hinds Feet on High Places" and its message resonated deep within me.  So many times I have felt (and still do feel) lost, attacked, puzzled, overwhelmed.  I have even been physically and spiritually attacked by Satan's angels. But, no matter what I did, how I tried to hide in myself, how I tried to look the other way and run from God's truth, He found me, held me, and enveloped me in His arms.  

The Lord God is my strength, and he will make my feet like hinds' feet, and He will make me to walk upon my high places."  Habakkuk 3:19

I am reading Hannah's book again, for probably the fifth or sixth time in the past ten years. I bought a hardcover copy this time, having given away at least eight copies to friends and acquaintances over the years. And I am reading it slowly, deliberately, thoughtfully, prayerfully.  I want to savor every word, every lesson, and listen for the Shepherd to call to me as He does to Much Afraid. I, too, yearn to reach my high places, to be with my Lord, and to reach it as effortlessly as does He.  But, like Much Afraid, I too am crippled and attacked by my Fearing relatives. 

I feel the seed of God's Love planted within my heart...and although it is painful, that seed sharply urges me to press on, to follow the Shepherd.  

To become more like him, and reach my high places

Easier Said than Done...

Ah the advice, the quotes, the quick and easy fixes.  Forgive and forget.   Let go and let God. Pray for those who hurt you. Love your enemies. Bless those who curse your. Que sera, sera. Get over it already. Count your blessings. Don’t worry, be happy. Hakuna matata. It is what it is.  

Easier said than done. Honestly, nearly impossible, when you have been betrayed. I thought I had experienced pain, that I knew how it felt. I have suffered loss, sickness, abandonment, injustice, disappointment, and sadness, but the pain of betrayal causes a wound so deep, and envelops you in its grasp so completely, it blots out everything good. Betrayal gives birth to deep-seated fear and has caused me to question everything in my life, even the good things. I feel lost, in a fog, and question my very existence. Nothing is safe, or solid, or good anymore.  I reach out to grab hold of something solid, to hold on to even one small slice of happiness, and it slips out of my hands. 

That is the pain of betrayal, and it hurts all the more when it is perpetrated by those you love, those you thought loved you.  A pain so deep, so gut-wrenching,  so pervasive, it is always there, and can never be pushed completely out of my mind.  The kind that sneaks up on you out of nowhere and takes your breath away.  I pray, try to keep busy, listen to music, read books and articles, talk and journal and blog, all to no avail.  The pain is tricky that way, because just when I think it is safe, just when I think the pain is less, that I’m beginning to heal, it smacks me in the face, kicks me in the solar plexus, reminding me it is still there.  Pain so real it is palpable, visible, with a life of its own. The pain lurks around every corner, behind every shadow, and wraps its sinewy arms around my heart and my chest, making it hard to breathe.  The intensity of the hurt makes me furrow my brow, and causes tears to well up without any warning.  

Betrayal does not make me stronger--it makes me weaker. It has not made me wiser--it has made me feel foolish. Everything is harder now--sleeping, enjoying, smiling, praying.  It is there when I wake up, when I go to bed at night, and when I try not to think about it all. Like a jealous lover, the pain of betrayal refuses to allow me to enjoy anything or anyone completely. And it is absolutely exhausting to try to act normal, to smile, to pretend I am doing okay.  

Today was a dark day, the pain and the hurt won. They jumped me when I was least expecting them, and then kept me prisoner all day long, and halfway into the night.  If I was a poet perhaps I could write some splendid verse to capture the pain and thus make it leave, or at least lessen for a time.  But I am not.  

So, for a while, I breathe, therefore I hurt.

Someone make it stop.

FaceTime Part 2

When I was younger, I used to think, “what if the person I was talking to on the phone could actually SEE my face, SEE and HEAR what I was doing and wearing, how awful would THAT be?!” Because, back then, phone calls were expensive, infrequent, and sometimes, obligatory connections to relatives we rarely saw or people who we would rather not see. The other person would see me roll my eyes, or stick my tongue out, or notice I had just put the phone down on the counter and walked into another room while he/she rambled on…the sanctity and security of having a phone call while still doing something more important would be jeopardized if the other party could see me. As long as I was just a disconnected voice on the other end, I could fake sickness/another call/the baby crying/the dog throwing up, and get out of phone calls. Ah, but that would also hold true for the OTHER end…how would I know he/she was really wanting to talk to me?  I had to listen to tone shifts, discern moods by what and how something was said, picture a loved one’s smile in my mind. Yes, phone calls were simultaneously less complicated and more obtuse.  We had to depend on actually spending time with one another, in person, to see the new haircut, marvel at how big children had grown, figure out if everything really WAS okay. Seeing someone’s face while hundreds (or thousands) of miles away seemed like science fiction.  

Facetime….before the information age, before computers and before everyone who could breathe had a smart phone, FaceTime was actually two words, neither of which was capitalized or associated with any application. It was a way of saying you spent time with someone, face-to-face, looking that person in the eyes, talking, conversing (no, not “conversating”—that was not a word then either). Face time could be genuine, sincere, and quality time with family, especially with our children (if we worked all day), or it could also be construed to mean just showing up and showing your face to give the impression you actually cared. Nowadays, though, it is a different animal. FaceTime is a gerund and a verb, as well as a noun and an app (short for application, for those of you not yet familiar with smart phone jargon).  FaceTime is also my lifeline with my children and grandchildren who live far away, and the preferred method of communication between my grandchildren and me.  The photo above could actually be a photo of the 5 year old, Molly, who, for the past two months, has called me nearly every night (and sometimes several times each night), because she misses her Nana. Between 9:30 and 11:00 pm every night, I get an incoming call, and within a few seconds of answering, I see that little blonde forehead pop up, and see those big blue eyes….she almost always has to keep adjusting the phone so I can see her entire face, but even seeing part of her face is a joy. We chat, she asks about my day, then I read her a book (or two, or three), and then I have to “show” her, in no certain order, the dogs, Pop Pop, any care packages I am sending, a photo of Sophie, the room she will sleep in when she visits, the progress of the playhouse Pop Pop is building, and her clothes I have waiting for them.  Usually, her two sisters get in on the call eventually—Lydia, age 7 1/2, likes to act silly and look at her image in the screen on her end, to ensure she still looks cute (she is at that age).  Isabella, or Isa, as we call her, is 3 going on 4, and normally just pops her head into the camera range to show me a big smile and sing a silly ditty she made up. In the background are sounds of their parents talking to visitors, doing dishes, answering the door, and taking whoever isn’t on camera to the bathroom. In reality, I really do not get to see much of their actual faces, but oh, those few minutes I do see their faces make my night.  

The other sets of grandchildren—Raina, 10, and Darren, 8, in Florida, and Sophie, 20 months, in Missouri, have lots of face time with me as well, but via FaceBook messenger video chat. The two oldest ones, Raina and Darren, are enamored with Snapchat, another smart phone app for use with the phone’s camera to add special “effects” to ones video or photo images. Masks, lightning bolts, fire shooting from your mouth, stars, ears coming out of your head…yeah, the elementary school age kiddos love it. Me?  I would rather see their faces, and hear their voices…either way, though, we love to chat. Sophie, of course, does not really chat with me….her mama does. And I very rarely see her face when we videochat, because she is constantly in motion, or sitting facing away from me reading her books. But still, these phone calls/video calls are priceless. They are how I stay connected, see how the kids are growing, how their parents are doing…hard to fib to your mom that “everything is fine” when she can see  the worry on your face!  And, while I am not sure if the video chats or FaceTime actually leave a lasting impression on little brains, or help toddlers remember who I am when I can only physically see them every few months, I like to think they look forward to seeing my face as I much as I do theirs. Even if it is only a forehead, or the back of a head, or a blur running past the screen.  

Yes, being there is so much better.

But when I cannot be there, I won’t send flowers….

I’ll “see them” on my phone!

Practicing Forgiveness

For so long, well, actually for my entire life, I have tried to prove myself worthy of my mom's love. Every time she hurt me, crushed me, abused me, I would stoically accept the blows, until I had been practically stripped of my identity. At the last possible moment, my sense of self preservation would kick into high gear and I would back away, vowing never to go back to leave my heart and psyche open to her barbs. But I always crawled back. I had a need to be wanted, to be loved, to feel like my existence was not an accident. Opened myself up to ridicule and hate and ambiguity. Thought as I grew up things would change.  

Things did not change. But I did. I grew farther away from my past, and clumsily embarked on my growth as a Christian. Of course, in my naive, immature understanding of God's grace, I thought being a Christian meant to let the blows just hit me, to keep my hands to my side, and get beat up, all the while praying and waiting for God to affect my mom's behavior and treatment of me. Same with my sisters, and anyone else who mistreated me...and there were a lot...I would reach out over and over again, giving them my time, my money, my heart, apologizing for any imagined (yet nonexistent) slights. I turned a blind eye to their sins, foolishly thinking I could just set an example of Christ-like behavior and they'd stop in their tracks, instantly realizing they were wrong. That they would abruptly do a behavioral about face. Yeah, not so much. No repentance means no chance at reconciliation. A hard pill to swallow, but over the past 2 years I have begun to more clearly see how, in taking their abuse, I was a participant in my own wounding.  It was as if, as they would run toward me with a razor sharp sword, I would just open up my shirt and close my eyes and run right into the blade, and then act all surprised when they pierced my heart. That is not forgiveness...that is suicide. And condoning their sin.  

I need a lot more practice...

Struggling with Forgiveness

Recently I started seeing a Christian counselor to help me navigate through the painful maze of lies, deception, and hurt inflicted by someone who should never want to hurt me--my mother, and with them, my sisters. I needed to talk not just to any counselor, but one who would be able to help me discern God's path for me, and what He would have me do. At the same time, my daughter sent me an article on forgiveness, something she is working through with one of her friends--a scriptural view of forgiveness. The coincidence of these two events happening at the same time is mind blowing, and I see God's wonderful, loving Hand in it. This week, my counselor gave me "homework," to "identify the forgivable offense."  Makes sense...can't forgive something unless I know what I am forgiving. I read through that aforementioned article, twice...and began to pray, and to think, and finally, to write.  

What is forgiveness, anyway? The root of the word, "forgive", is the Latin word "pardoner," meaning to give completely, without reservation. It is acknowledging a debt, and canceling that debt, even if the other person never asks for that forgiveness. Ah, therein lies the rub. Because it is not just the most recent actions of the past couple of years I must forgive (although being sued by one's mother and maligned by siblings is pretty hard to swallow).  How do I identify a "forgivable offense" that has been perpetrated my entire life?  My mother gave birth to me, took care of my physical needs, but neglected my emotional and spiritual needs. She abandoned me, even though she was present. She looked to me to blame everything on; I have been her scapegoat. I have no pleasant memories of growing up, at least none involving her.  Every time I look back into the kaleidoscope of my past, all I feel is a pervasive sense of inadequacy, of not being good enough to be loved, even by my own mother. So I have gone through life trying to prove I deserve her love, anyone's love. And every attempt at earning HER love blew up in my face. I have struggled with the reality of being the daughter of a woman who is incapable of loving anyone, even her own children. And I was silly enough to think I could change her, but in reality, nothing I do or say or feel or think can change that, or change her heart. The forgivable offense? Giving life to me, and denying love. Because of this, I have struggled for 60 plus years to earn a mother's love and to have a normal mother.  

So, Mom, I forgive you, for not loving me. For decades I tried to earn what you cannot, will not, give. And strangely enough, paradoxically, I thank you for giving me life and being who you are so God could reveal to me who, what, and where He is. Finally, I understand I am no more worthy of His love than I am of yours.  Nothing I do will earn His love. He already loves me, has always loved me, unconditionally, because of who HE is, not because of who I am or what I do or become. I forgive you Mom. And I will continue forgiving you, completely, without reservation, for the rest of my life.

But wait...there's another offense to deal with: the offenses of my sisters. But what IS their offense? Are they accountable? They thought they were right. Perhaps they were trying to prove they do care about their mother, that they knew they were wrong for leaving it all to me. I know they, too, are products of an extremely unhealthy home environment. They were fed passive aggressiveness, clothed in guilt, and schooled in taking sides. We were in a constant state of flux as to which one of us was the "black sheep," for on our mom's "wheel of misfortune" she would spin that wheel, and wherever that needle landed, well, that daughter was "it."  Persona non grata, the black sheep, the bad seed. And the games would begin. She would justify and vindicate herself by tearing one of us down, and dragging the other sheep into it. I took the brunt of it, as the oldest, but also, because I fought back. That fighting back allowed her to put a wedge between me and my sisters; she made them distrust me, and only trust her. She made them need her, because she gave them identity, stilted and deformed as it was.But, above all, she demonstrated why they NEVER wanted to be winner of the Wheel of Misfortune. So, their sin? Not breaking free, not seeing me as a victim of the same, sick manipulations they were experiencing. I had broken free and was now the enemy. Ratcheting up year after year, their mistrust finally culminated in conspiring with our mom to cut me completely out of their lives. They believed the constant whispered lies she told them, distorting everything I had done into something ugly and self-serving.  

They are not blameless, though, as they are, after all, adults, and could cut loose from her control. If only they would surrender to you, God. I pray daily for them to see You, to grow with You--not because of what they have done to me, but because of what they are missing, the eternal cost. But, I forgive them, for all their hate and lies, for betraying me, for trying to destroy me. It will be a lifelong process, because just when I think I have forgiven them, up comes a thought, a memory, triggered by a conversation with family or a song or a place. It unearths the old hurt, and the hate, and I must forgive all over again. I struggle with what I would say or do or feel if I see them. I have, for my own safety and sanity, set boundaries around my life, my heart, trying to insulate myself from being hurt again. Maybe God will bring about reconciliation, I don't know. I do know I must forgive.  

Thank you, Jesus, for giving me the Comforter to guide and console me. Thank you, God, for leading me down this path, a path of rough rocks, vipers, and thorns, so I could realize truly how beautiful is the grace you give me. For I am no more worthy of Your love than I am of those who hurt me. Yet, you have set me apart to be Yours. Thank you. Help me in this lifelong journey to be forgiving, as You have forgiven me.  

Make my feet like the hinds feet on the high places.  

Parles viux Francois?

So, I'm knitting a sweater for Sophie.  It's really pretty and I'm almost finished with it.  The yarn is super soft and multicolored (oh, and discontinued), and the pattern is on the yarn wrapper.  Directions are in English and French.  I bought the last three remaining balls of this yarn at Michaels last month.   The first set of instructions got destroyed and mangled by the vacuum. Grrr.  No problem.  I have two more.  

I unwrapped the second one.  My darling goat-dog, Haley, got a hold of that wrapper, and in 5 seconds, ate only the English instructions.  

On to wrapper #3. Two days later, I come in the house after just leaving Haley for five minutes, I sit down to knit, and what's left?  "Premiere Manche:  en com au bord du poignet de la premiere manche, monter 12 m "

I'm screwed.  Unless I can find the pattern.  

Thank goodness the pattern # didn't end up in Haley's stomach.  

Found the pattern.  I love the Internet. But Haley is on my list right now.  I'm not knitting her anything.  

But how, just HOW did she know to just eat the English instructions?

A light in the darkness

Food for thought today:  When gloom and darkness overwhelm me  I must open the Word.  Psalm 119 says God's Word is a lamp for my feet and a light for my path.   When I'm walking and I don't know where I'm stepping I must open the Word to light the way so I can see the dangers and see the snares. The path of life is full of trouble and joys, blessings, distractions and sorrows, and only the Word can light the way and show us which way we need to go. And not just the Word in the scripture but the Word as in Jesus Christ, who is the Word. He is the way and the truth and the light. He is the Word made flesh. As long as Christ is walking beside me and I am walking WITH him, with the Holy Spirit inside me, His light will light my way.    

Stillness

"Be still, and know that I am God" declares the psalmist. Being still...not my strongpoint. In fact, I would hazard to guess being "still" does not come naturally to any human being. We are too busy keeping busy and planning more busy-ness.  Case in point, today is Sunday, at least for another 46 minutes. I woke up, and from the moment my feet hit the floor, it was a struggle for me to relax, to rest, to be "still." Making the coffee, feeding the dogs, getting ready for church, checking my phone, straightening up the house, making the bed. Not until I got to church did I actually take the TIME to be STILL. The scripture lesson? Psalm 46, of course.  

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.  Therefore, we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.  There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High.  God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns.  The nations rage, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts.  The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.  Come, behold the works of the LORD, how he has brought desolations on the earth.  He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear; he burns the chariots with fire.  "Be still, and know that I am God.  I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!"  The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

With the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey in Texas still fresh on everyone's minds, especially for our pastor and many church members who have had family and friends personally affected and displaced by this most recent disaster, the first four verses seem to cry out to them personally. But I only half listened to the analogies about floods and winds and earth giving way.  And again, when North Korea's most recent nuclear test and the general instability of a lot of the world were referenced in the part about "the nations rage, the kingdoms totter;" again, my mind was not fully engaged. I was focused on my own storm, my own internal wars. I could not be completely still.  

After church, lunch with my husband and his brother. Again, not completely engaged; sitting and eating, conversing (somewhat), but my mind and my heart, not STILL. Then home, and busy-ness took over--give the dogs baths, clean the kitchen, eat dinner, update the calendar, make a dinner reservation, start planning a trip to visit family.  Unable to make any decision on dates.  Trying to not think about the lawsuit. The ugliness of it all. Ashamed that I cannot let go, that I cannot be still, no matter how hard I try. Thinking and worrying about what will happen, how and when and if it will ever be resolved, trying to comprehend why and how this happened: all these thoughts tumble around in my head, 24/7. Every waking moment, heck, even my dreams, are consumed with thoughts of the lawsuit.  

Why?  Because the very existence of it, the fact that it is still NOT resolved, screams at me, YOU ARE NOT IN CONTROL!!!!  

And finally, with less than 30 minutes remaining in the day of rest, a day when I should above all, be STILL, it hits me. I am worried and saddened and irritated with myself for not having control. For not being able, for once, to fix it, solve it, clean it, or put it away where it belongs. Eight little words...

"Be still. Don't do anything, or think anything, or say anything. Just wipe it out of my mind. Think about God.His plan. His timing. Look at everything else that is going on in my life that I should be happy about, praying about, focused on.  

and know. Be aware, cognizant, alert. Be conscious of who I am and what I can and cannot do. That I am not in control. Of anything.  

that I am God." The creator of the universe. The I Am. Omniscient. Omnipotent.  Omnipresent.  

Being still is not inaction, or sleeping, or even waiting for something to happen.  It is to be at peace, to be assured that, no matter what happens, God has this. Trusting that the God of Jacob is MY fortress, my stronghold, my safety, and my ever-present salvation.  

It is not easy, this being still.  

BE STILL

But what if...

BE STILL

Yeah, I know, but...

BE STILL   

But...

Hush...

Friendship

When I was a little girl, I had very few friends, and over the years, although I've met many, many people, that still rings true. I have gained friends and lost friends, and both experiences are completely beyond my comprehension; many people whom I considered as friends turned out to not be friends at all. I don't say that to garner sympathy, but to emphasize that true friends are rare, and, as Robert Louis Stevenson said, a friend is a gift we give ourselves.  

The meaning of friendship has cheapened over the past decade, thanks largely to our addiction to social media sites like FaceBook, Twitter, and Instagram. A friend used to be someone with whom you had a close bond, not sexual, not family, but someone with whom you share a mutual attraction. Friends share secrets, jokes, a past--a true friend knows you better than you know yourself. Songs have been written about friends, a TV show made six young people famous overnight, and adages abound regarding friends.  "A friend in need is a friend indeed." (old English proverb); "Make new friends, keep the old, one is silver and the other gold." (old Girl Scout song); "What a friend we have in Jesus!" (Joseph Scriven,) "Oooh, you're making me live, you're my best friend!" (Freddie Mercury), "A sweet friendship refreshes the soul." (Proverbs 27:9), "A single soul dwelling in two bodies" (Aristotle).

Nowadays, a "friend" is just a face on a website, a name, a tally on a list.  This friend could be a relative, a co-worker, an acquaintance, a friend of one of your friends, a friend's children, or a customer. More often than not, a friend could  be someone we have not even physically met.  "Friend requests" are akin to offering someone a piece of gum.  According to FaceBook, I have 301 "friends," yet many of the people I consider close friends and actually speak to on something other than a screen are not even on FaceBook, let alone on that list.  What was once just a noun has become a verb, and created new words in the urban lexicon. Someone "friends" you to be in your social circle, and "unfriending" has become the internet equivalent of a cold shoulder, a schoolyard spat, or "talk to the hand."  Want to shun someone? Take more drastic action by "blocking" him, effectively cutting that person out of your social media circle completely. So complicated, and so meaningless--we are constantly checking our friends' statuses, looking at photos, commenting on their posts, all the while not even truly engaged in communicating with each other. Heck, many times we are with OTHER friends while we rudely keep our faces buried in our phones and tablets to "talk" to our virtual, not-present friends.  

So, why the rant today? Tired of friend requests from people I barely know, or people who would rather not even speak to me. Disgusted that I actually stooped to practically begging to be "friends" with some of my relatives, even though they haven't spoken to me for years. Shocked that I had to resort to "blocking" most of my immediate family members to prevent online harassment. Hurt that there are family members who actually equate FaceBook "friendship" with a real relationship. Embarrassed that I actually gauge my likability rating in my family by who is my friend, and who is not. Sick of the overuse of words that used to mean something:  Like. Love. Friend. Sad.  Happy. Angry. Hate. 

Most of all, I am trying to reconcile my faith, my beliefs, and my love of Christ with all of this. Not all my friends are Christians, but they are still my friends. Not all my friends are on FaceBook, and not all my FaceBook friends are really my friends.  

I wish FaceBook would just use a different word than "friend." How about "face?"  Or "person of interest," or "contact,"  or "practically meaningless virtual person?"  

Just not "friend."

Life is Short

Life is too short...we have all said it.  Too short for what, you ask? Too short to waste. Too short to squander.  Eternity is coming, and it is forever.

A friend of mine has terminal cancer.  A local man was kidnapped and murdered last week, and an 18 year old young man was killed in a drug deal gone bad.  A customer told me today her sister, the youngest of five, died unexpectedly; one of the volunteers just found out his wife has cancer.  One of the clients on my Meals on Wheels route shot himself last week, whether accidentally or intentionally no one but God will ever know.  

My youngest sister died 30 years ago at the age of 24, and my two living sisters haven't spoken to me in over a year.  And I haven't spoken to them.  One of them hasn't spoken to our 93-year old father in over 8 months.  Considering that God determined long ago how many days each of us has on this earth, and that none of us knows the number of those days, how ridiculous is that?  

Yeah, I may be immortal until God's purpose for me has been fulfilled, but since I have no idea when that will be, shouldn't I be living as if the next breath is my last?  Living for Christ?  Bringing others to Christ?  

Hard things to think about today.  

The Good Daughter

All of my life I have been vying for the title of the good daughter, the good wife, the good mother, the good ____________ (insert role here).  Achievement of these lofty titles has always been completely subjective and capricious, as prerequisites and requirements have no basis in anyone's reality other than my own. The yardstick for measuring "good" is not stable; rather, it is nebulous and mercurial, and completely dependent on my mood and state of mind at that particular moment.  If I am feeling self-righteous, and need to be vindicated, then I am "good," while if I am wallowing in the quicksand of self-pity and self-loathing, everyone else is "good" and I never will be. Regardless of where I am on the emotional spectrum, though, I can never achieve permanent goodness, or complete all the tasks and master all skills to be crowned good mother, or adored as the good daughter. There is always something: some thorn, some scab, some ugly fault or mistake, and yes, someone who is oh so much better and deserving of the title.  I could have done more, been a better person, yelled less, been more understanding, said the right thing, said nothing at all, spent more time, listened better, cooked more, smiled quicker, slept less, worked less, worked harder...the list goes on and on.  

It's exhausting, trying to achieve perfection.  

And it is impossible. Because I am not good, and no matter how hard I try, I never will be, not on my own merits. I am sinful, and selfish, and will never achieve perfection, at least not on my own. The more I struggle to achieve goodness, the more unreachable the goal becomes. Strive as I may for perfection, I can only realize frustration in it always being out of reach, with that ugly, cloudy reflection of my ego looking back at me, the wall of self blocking the finish line.  Heck, just the act of trying to be good pushes me farther away from it, because I am fooled into thinking my futile attempts at goodness (as defined by me) are worthwhile.  They are not. For goodness can no more emanate from my sinful, selfish core than clean water spring from sewage.    

Ironic that trying to be good only reinforces that I am not.

How liberating, and wonderful, and praiseworthy is that realization!

Wait a minute...what?

Yes, that's what I said. Trying to be "good" is a waste of time--only God is good, the God who created me, the God who sent his Son, also God, to redeem me, the God whose Spirit dwells within me. And I cannot be God, so therefore I cannot be good.  Only through God and His grace and His death and resurrection can I ever hope to achieve goodness, in Him. God is good. Always. In all things. Not because He does good things.  

Because He is God. God is good.  

Me? I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a woman, a child of God. Not good. Not bad.  

Just God's.

Waiting on the Lord

It's a lot easier to wait on the Lord and trust in His timing when things are going smoothly.  But let something go wrong, something so unexpected and undeserved, and my control freak nature screams to take the helm. Waiting is not my strong suit, and soaring with wings of eagles is impossible when I'm weighed down with worries.   

Wrongly accused. To be wrongly accused and not be able to refute lies and accusations has been one of the hardest tests of my faith in God's plan and His omnipotence. It's been two years since we vainly tried to intervene in my mother's caregiving, two years of emails and letters and communication with sisters who do not hear or want to hear, and a year since they undid all our efforts and lied to the court. We are caught up in their web of lies and deceitfulness, laboriously and painstakingly working through the maze of lawyers, counterclaims, discovery, and responses, and that web threatens to take up all our time, and monopolize our thoughts. Deadlines come and go, and still no answers, no solutions. We hired a lawyer, but we depend and lean on God. People ask about the status. Our children don't understand why we can't just get the court to dismiss the case. No one has heard anything from my mother or sisters, and we don't even know where they are. Yet I trust in God and His wisdom, secure in the knowledge that He knows where they are, He knows the conclusion, and He will work it all to His glory. Nonetheless while writing this, part of me wants to take control, and at times I must rein in my desire to get answers my own way. This morning was one of those days so I searched His Word for guidance on waiting.  

Lamentations 3 gives me peace, and hope that this trial is not hopeless, and I am not lost. Like the prophet in lamentations, I have vacillated between gloomy despair and the promise of His mercies. One minute I am desolate, depressed, tortured, and full of self pity, wondering why God allows injustice. But when I  turn back to Him, when I relinquish my feeble attempt to control my destiny, then (and only then), do I fully comprehend, "Who has spoken and it came to pass, unless the Lord has commanded it?"  (Lamentations 3:37)

"The LORD is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in him.   The LORD is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him."  Lamentations 3:24-25

Peace and Quiet

Finally.  

After three months of traveling, visiting family, changing time zones, and coming and going, I'm finally home. Alone. In my own bed.  On my own schedule, no flights to catch or people to meet. Passports are safely stowed away until next time. Only one language to speak, and no need for Google translate or crappy sign language communication just because I'm too lazy to become fluent in a second language. I can safely drink water from the tap and mosquitos are again simply a nuisance.  

At home, the duplos and Legos are back in their big crate in the basement, instead of threatening to exact excruciating pain to my instep if I dare to walk around barefoot. High chair and pack n play are put away upstairs, kid-friendly dishes and sippee cups and bibs and plastic spoons are on their appointed shelves. The living room and basement are no longer a play zone, an obstacle course, or a tripping hazard. No more diaper-filled wastebaskets in every room in the house, or daily loads of laundry requiring pretreatment of mysterious food stains.The refrigerator is empty of half-eaten bananas, toddler leftovers, and freshly made veggie-fruit juices, and the giant box of goldfish crackers is empty.  

My camera is back in its case on the hook by the door, and random phone charging cords aren't hanging empty from every electrical outlet in the house. There are only two pair of shoes by the front door. I can go to the bathroom without locking the door, eat an entire meal without interruption , and sit in my own chair. No more worries about dogs getting out or cats getting in. Alex can cook a meal without concern of sixteen variations of dietary restrictions or picky eaters, and I am not on high alert for coaster-less, sweaty drinks threatening to leave watermarks on the tabletops. I can watch any show I want, skip right past Daniel tiger and Dinosaur Train, and get on the Internet without being slowed down or kicked off due to power surges, no service, or too many users.  

No more urgent calls for Grandma or Nana or Pappy or Grandpa or Mom, and no more worries of little ones hurtling to their death off stairs or rock walls. No more reading the same board book 12 times nonstop, or tickling, or card games or hearing  "I'm bored" or being the jungle mom in a make believe forest. No more tears or tantrums or car seats.   

No more hugs or kisses or "you're the best Nana" proclamations, or high-pitched squeals and giggles, or shy smiles or arms reaching up to be held. The house is quiet. My life is quiet again.I look at the photos and relive the glorious, breathless, back-achy, sleep-deprived madness of the past three months.  

I'd do it all again in a heartbeat

And I can hardly wait till December when its a madhouse again.

I'll clean in January