An Ode to Messiness

Clutter.  Getting lost.  Conflicting schedules.  Uncertainty.  Risk.  Maybe.  Possibly.  These are words that make me nervous, afraid, vulnerable, and more than a little bit anxious.  I like things in their place, everything tied up in a neat little package, all the i's dotted and the t's crossed, all the ducks in a row, with no stone left unturned.  I am the kind of person who finds happiness in lists, ecstasy in color-coded schedules, and who celebrates when that last bit of toothpaste is gone and I can finally throw out the used up tube and open a new one.  When we go on vacation, I plan it months in advance, and I buy trip insurance just in case something happens.   In my perfect (albeit imaginary) world, there are no loose ends.  Everything is planned out, there is a rhyme AND a reason for it all, and just because I don't understand it all right now does not mean there is chaos.  I am not in control, and I know that, I am okay with that--I think.  But the human part of me wants to know how it all ends!   Mind you, I am not saying I want to fix everything, or that I can even fix anything.  I just want to know my place in it all.  And know that my efforts are not being wasted.  

Thus is my quandary in not knowing if people I love are destined for heaven, part of the family of Christ.  And I do not say this or think this out of some misplaced sense of superiority or know-it-all-ness.  Far from it!  I know how lost  and sinful and undeserving of God's grace I am, regardless of what I say or do or think.  But I also know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am chosen, selected, saved, adopted, redeemed, and set aside as His--as Christ's.  I will have the glorious privilege of worshipping him for eternity.  And BECAUSE I know this with such assurance, I of course want everyone I love to share it with me.  Not because I want to be right, or to prove a point.  But because it is so freaking amazing and wonderful to know I am His.  So, I share His love, and let Him mold me and make me into something He can use in His purpose, but I still want to peek behind the curtain and see how it all turns out, you know, like buy some trip insurance so I know everyone I love will be there with me.  

That didn't seem like that big of a problem when I was 7, or 20, or even 40.  Everything would work out, I figured.  Or I would just cynically shrug my shoulders and focus on my own immediate need for sanctification.  But the older I get, the more I grow in His grace and His truths, the more desperate I become to make a difference.  To reach out a hand, throw out a life preserver, toss them a rope.  The double edged sword of experience and aging is that as my earthly life goes on, the less time I realize I have to make a difference.  And the more people who enter my life, the more people I love and cannot even bear to think of not sharing in this joy.  

Trusting God with my path, with my life, is one thing.  

Trusting Him with the paths of the ones I love is something far more complicated.

Lord give me the eyes to see the world as You see it, and the faith to lean on You and trust only You.  Without judging.  Without expectations.  Hoping only in You.

Feeling my age

Our daughter and two oldest grandchildren, Raina (10), and Darrin (9), came for a short visit and had our undivided attention. On the first day we hung around the house, made the mandatory Dolly's Dairy Bar trip, and stayed up watching movies. Second day, had a nice late breakfast, and went up into Pisgah National Forest for a nice hike along the Pink Beds Loop...a loop I thought was 2.3 miles; yeah, it turned out to be a little over 5 miles.  On no lunch.  But hey, we had fun, ate some great BBQ at Hawg Wild, and were excited about the next day.  On Monday, we all went back up into the forest and had a great time playing in the water at Coon Creek Recreation Area--lots of water and rocks and kids jumping off boulders into deep, 55 degree (translation:  butt-freezing, chest numbing, cold) water.  My brother David took a lot of coaxing, and finally he relented when little Darrin went and grabbed his hand and walked him through the shallow creek.  Went home and ate a great dinner by Chef Alex, aka "Pappy," and enjoyed playing chess, eating ice cream cake, and falling asleep to an Indiana Jones movie.  And David talked about how much fun he had.  We woke up the next morning, and while Alex is making waffles for the kids and omelettes for me and Nicole, I hear,  "What's the plan for today?"  Hmmm...

"Let's go tubing!"  they said.

"It will be fun!" they said.

So, after breakfast and dishes were done, and dogs were walked, with David safely at his life skills program, we all donned bathing suits and headed down to the Davidson River tube rental shack.  Outside temperature was over 80 degrees, and we were all raring to go!  Our first red flag--the normally bustling tube shack was full of tubes--and there were no customers there.   Next, they no longer did shuttle service up to the putting in point, thereby necessitating a trip back home to get another vehicle to to ferry tubes and people upstream, then leave another vehicle at the debarkation point.    We ignored both.  We were totally on board for this adventure.  Weather was good, we already knew the water was ice cold, and we were used to Davidson River's kind, shallow current, and figured the worst thing we would experience would be getting stuck and having to walk through a real shallow or slow moving area.  I had my Chacos on, the kids were ready, Alex had on his long sleeve shirt, and Nicole had her keys tied to her flip flops.  What could go wrong?  (Side note:  Over the last three weeks, our county has received nearly 20 inches of rain, and most of the rivers and creeks were at flood stage.) The previous day I had noted the water was a lot deeper than normal, and the current was a bit strong, but seriously?  How hard could it be to ride in a lazy river tube down our shallow little Davidson River?  

This is how we pictured tubing...

And this is what it felt like about halfway down the river...

We got to the embarkation area--two sets of steps, one on either side of a small footbridge--and started to go into the water.  Old folks were fishing on both sides, and scowled as our noisy crew of five made its way into the water. One old lady even demanded we "not splash at all, or make any noise, because I'm tryin' to catch some fish over here and I was here first."  I tried to deal with that passive aggressiveness while maneuvering a double tube into ice-cold water with a 10-year old girl sitting in it--we managed to make light of it, and shoved off into water, with high hopes of having a relaxing, refreshing ride down the Davidson River.  My first indication of a problem?  I could not stay in a holding pattern and wait for the other two tubes to catch up.  I was already past the bridge before Alex even got into his tube.  Within three minutes, I was floating backwards, towards the bank (and a large grove of trees), and seriously wondering if this was a good idea.  A minute later, as Raina and I ricocheted from one bank to the other, I was regretting my decision to not be wearing a helmet, and I was genuinely concerned for my granddaughter's safety.  For her sake, I stayed calm, nonchalant, and did the best I could to paddle us with my hands.  When a big spider fell on her from an overhanging branch, I quickly brushed it off before she saw it, and we finally began to settle in to the fun (albeit freezing fun) of tubing down the river.  Nicole and Darrin caught up eventually, and Darrin tied our two tubes together.  With a knot.  That proved to be both ill-conceived and a lifesaver...

With Alex still about 2 minutes behind us, the four of us were hurtling downstream, picking up speed, backwards and sideways, still tied together.  Darrin was laughing, Raina was hyperventilating, and Nicole and I were just trying to avoid trees.  Alex was hollering something unintelligible at us that we could not understand over the sound of the water (and the kids laughter/screams), and I was just wondering how we would know when, where, and how we would know when to get out.  We finally figured out Alex was telling us to prepare to portage "right after the bridge," and even though Nicole insisted our exit point was farther down, we believed him when he said, "Okay, here, get out here, start heading to shore, and if you can, get out of the tube and just walk over to the steps."  Silly me.  I listened to him.  Got out of the tube, in the middle of the river, the deepest and fastest part, and promptly (unceremoniously) fell on my ass.  Tried as I might, I could not stand up.  The current was so fast my butt was getting dragged along the rocks as I frantically held on to the tube.  Alex kept hollering to stand up, Nicole was out of her tube and holding on to both tubes with all her might, all the while telling Darrin, under no circumstances, should he let go of her flip flops (and car key).  Raina is sitting in the tube with a panicked look on her face, amazed that her nana is losing it.  And I could do nothing.  Except panic myself.  

Well, the story ends happily...Alex came over and got me to the shore, then went back and got the kids, then Nicole.  I somewhat reluctantly walked out part way to grab a tube.  And we happily (and unanimously) decided we were done with tubing for the day.  And promptly went bowling. 

And while "nana almost drowning" was the best and worst thing for both kids that day, and my butt and legs are bruised and painful, this visit, and especially the tubing adventure, has burned indelible memories for us all.  

Let me tell you...it is very humbling when you realize you are finally too old, or too out of shape, or both, to bounce out of a tube midstream and swim ashore.  Even more humbling when your youngest daughter remained cool and calm and composed while you panicked.   But then, at that moment, when you realize your children are grown and capable, you know you did a great job.  

Feeling my age, yes, but feeling oh so proud and fulfilled.  

Mourning the Lost

About a month ago, my phone rang. Not an unusual occurrence in and of itself, but the caller was unusual—it was my sister.  The same sister who lied to the courts, who filed false police reports.  The same sister who was the driving force behind a painful (and expensive) frivolous and entirely fabricated civil lawsuit.  Needless to say, I let it go to voicemail.  Couldn’t even bring myself to listen to it.  Alex listened to it—supposedly my mother was in renal failure.  Ok.  What’s new?  I figured it was just a ploy for attention.  

Then, two weeks ago, I get a text.  Informing me mom died.  Yes. A text.  No voicemail.  No card.  No info on services.  Just a text. A sterile, four word line, “mom passed last night”.  When I spoke to my dad that weekend, I mentioned the little kernel of news, trying to feel him out, to ascertain if he’d heard anything.  Nope.  He was shocked.  I thought, well, maybe another cruel hoax.  Then a week later, another text, this time to both me and Alex.  Same message.   I mean, seriously? She has not called, texted, emailed, written, or sent smoke signals in two years.  No news of of any kind, no word of hospitalizations, address, surgeries, state of mind.  Then, boom—a texted death announcement.  I didn’t know what to think.  Or believe.  I heard nothing else from anyone.  Called the nursing home.  Nothing. Checked FaceBook.  Googled for funeral home announcements and obituaries in the general vicinity of her last known address.  Again, I drew a blank.   

WTF?!?

Now what?   How did I feel?  How should I feel? Was I sad the woman who gave birth to me was dead?  Did I hurt for the ones who said they cared for her?   Was I irritated that less than 30 days prior we’d settled our lawsuit?  Was I angry about the thousands of dollars it had cost ?  

I thought I’d forgiven them all.  I thought I was beyond being hurt anymore.  I thought, foolishly, I was over it, safe, immune, in my little cocoon, my mountain home.  Then this.  Another slap in the face, another reminder of the depth of the dysfunction of our family.    Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water.  (Don’t worry.  No shark metaphors). 

The enormity of it all, the sheer finality of the death of my mother, the societal expectations of how I should feel at the revelation of this news—it hit me like a ton of bricks.  And keeps hitting me like some crazed game of out-of-control Tetris.   How do I mourn the loss of a relationship I never had?   If you’ve followed this journey with me at all, you already know my life was anything but normal.  This isn’t about that though; it’s not a cry for sympathy.   I’m just trying to figure out how I’m supposed to feel.  To react.  To move on.  I want to scream at my sisters, to ask them Why?   To make them say they were wrong and to beg my forgiveness.  

After nearly three years of no real communication.  A text.  

I realize I haven’t forgiven them.  I haven’t moved on.  Yeah I’ve learned a lot about me and I’m growing, I’ve healed some of the hurts, and many of the scars are fading.  But some still have scabs, and bleed when the scab is bumped.  

Human forgiveness, unlike divine redemption, is not a one time, over and done event. It’s a process.  A process of healing.  And bleeding.  And scarring.  

And healing.   

Lots and lots of healing