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.