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...