Peace when under fire

Peace--vertical and horizontal. So often I have thought of peace as merely peace within myself, peace with myself, peace in me. While that peace is important and essential to being open to God's grace, it is a very narrow view of the peace God can and will give us. Peace vertically--being at peace with what God does and does not do in my life, peace with His plan for my life. Peace with God. Peace in my heart, peace that assures me He is in control, that He has me in His hand and his plan is perfect.

Horizontal peace, peace with others, with our situation, with the world, can only emanate frm my heart if I am at peace with my God; if I do not trust Him to provide and lead me and clear any obstacles, I will not have peace with the world around me. If I am worried and anxious about anything in my life, I must surrender to the peace I have with my creator to experience "peace that surpasses all understanding," a peace that calms my soul and tells me God has a plan. Now does that mean I never worry? That I never get upset? Heck no! I am human, I have doubts, I foolishly think I can control my life better than the One who gave me life.  I go to His word and rely on the promises in the Bible. Many who profess to be Christians do not yet possess that peace--they continue to depend on the world for solutions.

Election results, inflation, sickness, war, natural disasters, marital strife. I see it on the news, on social media, and in person every single day. One friend is terrified of what the current administration will mean for the safety of her childen's futures. Another friend is frantic about what the immigration crisis and newly formed policies mean for her family in Houston. Still others post memes celebrating their apparent victory in the past election, lauding the newly elected president as the solution to all the country's problems, while the opposite predicts all is lost and claims half the country are evil. Friends in India have familty members in northern India affected by ethnic wars and poverty. The ongoing strife in Gaza and Israel, the war in Ukraine, human trafficking in Asia and the US, genocide in Africa, childhood cancer, global unrest, starvation--the list is endless. All of these are evidence of a broken world, a fallen human race that rejected God in the garden, and nothing will fix it until Christ returns as He promised.

Yes, I too am affected by the brokenness of our world, by unfairness and strife and sickenss. I grieve the loss of my parents, the estrangement of my siblings and stepdaughter, the mental and physical burden of caring for my brother and the apparent lack of resources. But I continue to return to that peace, that wonderful peace that washes my worries away. I am sad for those friends of mine who do not possess this precious peace becaue they choose to reject God; they worry and fret and are frightened and angry at the things in the world, and they are incredulous at my lack of concern. I pray constantly for them to receive and accept Jesus and to receive the wonderful FREE gift (I know, that is redundant...a gift is free by definiton) of God's grace.  

Peace. Breathe. Peace. Rest. Peace. Trust. 

“Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” (Psalm 46:10 ESV)

Scars

Just when I thought the wound was healed, scab was gone, with no visible scar, bam! One small comment, one random reference, and the pain comes flooding back without warning, and I am struggling to hold back the tears and to focus on the present, my breath quickens and gets more shallow, and the all-too familiar panic sets in. The speed and sinister ability to snake its way into my heart and my soul, to hijack my emotions and my thoughts, positively astounds and frightens me. It is as if I have no control over what will trigger fears and emotions, and perhaps I do not have any control over those impulses. Intellectually I KNOW why it happens. I have read and studied the wonderful mysteries of the brain: its parts, its functions, the rapidity of its processes, and the way my experiences shape my memories and affect my responses to things, responses that occur in nanoseconds before I am even aware of what is happening. But that does nothing to prepare me for how suddenly I am a quivering mess. 

Yes, that happened today...it started out as a conversation about being Christian in a fallen world, which evolved into how to evangelize to non-believers, first friends, then family. Sharing concern over the heartbreak of knowing loved ones are not believers, how they may not be able to articulate what they believe, we spoke about how we deal with the insecurity, the not-knowing, and how my only recourse sometimes is to pray, to love, to reflect Christ. Next thing I know, the conversation shifted to talking about our family, bringing up memories of family members who are no longer in our lives. Within a fraction of a second, I am sucked back into the vortex of pain and betrayal and hate and vitriol that have characterized my life over the past four years. And as we drive to lunch, my husband purposely exaggerating the curves to thrill our three granddaughters, it takes every ounce of self-control, and frantic, silent prayers for over 30 minutes, to quell the panic and anxiety that have exploded without any notice, pain so searing and hot even the giggling, gleeful screams emanating from the back seat do not snap me out of it.

Absolutely mind-boggling how fast it all happens, how helpless I am, how quickly I succumb to the fear and the panic, evidence that, though I KNOW to lean on Jesus, to give it all to him, to trust Him, I still forget. And I wonder if the scars will ever completely heal and disappear, and not be a source of unexpected, savage pain, and that I will someday finally be able to breathe and not dread that some minuscule thing--a word, a picture, a smell, a sound--will hit that scar and release the pain all over again

I am so broken and lost. Despite all my brave words, my prayers, and my brave face I wear, the only thing holding me together is God's grace. His wonderful, precious, free grace.

Cutting Ties...and this time I mean it (?)

Right now, with all the hubbub over the coronavirus, the focus is on health and cleaning and preventing sickness. What better time, then, to clean all the dirt and cobwebs out of my emotional closet?

Yeah, yeah. I realize I have talked about this before, cutting ties with people who are harmful to my emotional and spiritual well-being. But, when it comes to my family, that is, the one I was born into, I have spent my entire adult life trying to cut ties with three of them--my mom and my two living sisters. And what I have learned is that saying you are cutting ties, and actually doing it are two completely different processes; carrying it out is not easy, or even guaranteed to stick.  Especially because I am, and always have been, the scapegoat, the eager to please person, the one trying to earn their love and their approval. I have always listened to their rants, apologized for things I didn't do or say, struggled to keep the communication channels open, sent cards and letters and gifts that were never reciprocated. After every toxic episode, every hurtful event, I have second guessed everything I said and did, playing the drama over and over again in my head until I am convinced it is ME who is crazy, ME who misconstrues things, ME who is manipulative, ME who is toxic.  And when I get to that point, like I am right now, all I want to do is cry and curl up in the fetal position and go to bed and never get up again.  Of course, that is not an option, and is not even close to a healthy response. 

Everyone has their own opinion and their own ideas on how to deal with this, and the solutions are all over the spectrum, from "forgive and forget" to "tell them to *&!% off," to "pray for them" to "explain it to your sisters," to "have limited contact." None of these work. At all. Or ever will. The level of manipulation they have, and still are, creating is impossible for me to explain to a normal, rational person. Solutions others give me are rational solutions, meant for rational people, not for toxic, narcissistic people with severe personality disorders. Regardless of what I say, what I do, nothing gets through to them; it's as if I am speaking Japanese, or trying to explain the theory of relativity to a two-year old, or teach a cow how to run on two legs. And I am frustrated and sad and angry and disappointed, mostly all aimed at myself. 

Sure, I have read the Psalms and I know I am covered by God's grace, and I know all of this will end and I will spend eternity in heaven by Jesus' side. And I know He is the judge, and He has a purpose for everything, and that nothing surprises Him. However, that does not stop me feeling like a very weak Christian right now, because I cannot find peace in this situation, there is no scripture that can tell me how to deal with this, no prayer to make it all go away. And the only way I can make this bearable, make it so I can move on with my life, is by cutting ties completely. 

I have tried in the past, and have failed. And I will more than likely fail again, and get sucked into their drama and their lies again. Like forgiveness, cutting ties is a lifelong process. 

Incommunicado

No more will your sick toxic presence fill our doorway with its stench 

For you made your choice years ago, aligning yourselves with lies and hate

You abandoned truth and justice

Choosing instead to chase after a misguided sense of duty

Then you infected the hearts and minds of your children,

Your friends and family with your twisted tales and sour gossip

Pleas for reconciliation went unanswered 

All attempts to reach out abruptly ignored

So pervasive, so thorough is your hatred

Not even illness and death of our parents softened your hearts

Instead, you grew more distant, more bitter,

Planting even more seeds of mistrust and falsehood

You shunned us at their deathbeds, mocked me at their funerals

Never once reaching out, or sending a card, or to offer a hand

Too afraid to face us like adults, you slandered us behind our backs 

Sending vindictive emails to everyone in our family

And now you think you can call our home, leave messages on my phone

Asking to speak with a disabled brother you’ve neglected for decades

A 68 year old man-child who has lost his parents and his home

Who cannot understand what he’s done to deserve to be ignored

You think you can appeal to my fears

That I don’t know your tricks, your lies and how you create your own truths

Manipulating others with your fake manners and your pseudo Christianity 

Yet you call and text and say you want to talk to him

Without speaking to us

Without an explanation 

Without an offer of help

Without a thank you or acknowledgement for what we do

Every minute, of every day

We love him too much, we honor our parents’ wishes too much

To let you poison his heart and confuse his psyche

We are his guardians

We are his protectors 

We are his stability 

We are his family

And you will never hurt him or leave him again, as long as we live

We see you for what you are

Sad, jealous, damaged shrews

Who build themselves up

By tearing others down

Christians we are, yes, and to live like Christ is our goal

But even Jesus shut toxic, hard-headed people out of his presence

So adieu, farewell, and good riddance

We are not friends, we are no longer family

Leave us alone, and go on with your lives

As for me, I'm with Bob Dylan when he says, 

"I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes

And just for that one moment I could be you,

Yes I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes,

Then you’d know what a drag it is to see you"

On being a family

What is a family? Over the past sixty plus years, I’ve had my beliefs about family shaken to the very core. I used to believe family was more than just people related to me by marriage or blood, more than just the basic unit in society that social scientists define, more than just a household, or a common last name. I used to believe family was always there, always ready to support you, to stand behind you, beside you, and with you, no matter what happened. I believed a family shared more than a name or parents or a gene pool. A family would love you unconditionally in spite of you, in spite of any shortcomings or sins; a family was loving and supportive, even when no one else would, when it was not easy to do; a family “had your back.” Blood was always thicker than water. Family sticks with you, even when they disagree with you.

Sure our life hasn’t been easy—no one’s life is. We have had our ups and our downs, our successes and our failures, our agreements and our fights.  We are all so different—different values, lifestyles, beliefs, political stances, personalities.  Yet that one tie, the one thread holding us all together, was our past, our heritage, our memories, our shared joys and sorrows. That tie has been bent, tangled, nearly unraveled, and stretched, sometimes to the point of tearing in half, but it has still been there to hold us all together.  

Until now.  

Now that cord, that family tie, is no longer the tie that binds.  It has been severed, completely, cruelly, with a finality that breaks my heart. I have reached out, held out my hand and my heart, and have hoped for healing and mending of our broken family, all to no avail.  Things hoped for, but never realized—a reunion that will never come, a reconciliation that will never materialize, and a kinship that is now forever lost.  When Dad died last December, I heard the death knell of our fractured family and with the loss of Sheila, our fragile family disintegrated, broken like glass, into a thousand little pieces.  You have all effectively and thoroughly shunned me and mine. You have made it quite clear that you do not want to be associated with me. You no longer identify with me as family.  You have pushed us completely out of your lives, and you want nothing to do with me, with my children, my grandchildren—your nieces and nephews and cousins.  

If you meant to hurt me, you have. If your intention was to make me cry, again, you have succeeded. I have spent countless hours praying, reading, lamenting, and remembering, sometimes bitter and angry, but more often than not, mourning for the loss of not just people we loved—Dad, Sheila, Karen, Patrick—but the loss of a shared grief and a desire to heal together.  

But you have not destroyed me. For you have helped me realize what true family is, what it really means to stand behind and with and beside someone. I have been knocked to my knees, and it was there that I looked up and saw where my true family lies.  My faith has been the catalyst to heal, to understand why I had to be broken to be made whole. God reigns supreme in all things, and He alone knows where all this will lead, and how it will glorify Him. I now know that family is not merely a DNA connection, or made up of individuals who we are related to by name or blood.  Family is that wonderful group of people that God has placed in my life, whether through birth or marriage or by chance.  Family is there when I need them, providing support and love and help, grieving with me and rejoicing when I rejoice.  

And when I think about who will be here in October to help remember and celebrate Sheila’s life, and Dad’s legacy, I realize that every single one of those individuals are part of my family. They are family not because of a choice someone else made, but they are family because of a choice they made.  

And God blesses our family, and He will continue to watch over us.

You are welcome to join us, and celebrate, and grieve, and cry, and be, well, family.  But should you choose to stay away, know that I do not resent you, or think ill of you, or regret the past.  

You were my family once.  Perhaps you will join us again.

The Thankless Job

I didn’t ask for this job.  I did not ask to be appointed health care POA and executrix. And I knew it’d cause issues with my sisters. I just didn’t know it would be so soon.  After Sheila died they all deserted me.  They left and never even once told me what they wanted or asked if they could help.  They just criticize and find fault no matter what I do.  They manufacture slights and wag their heads over imagined wrongs.  I know they are hurting.  I hurt too.  And I hurt for them because I cannot help them at all.  I cannot give them the peace they seek.  Nothing will give them that peace. Not a car.  Not things.  Not money.  Not control.  Not remains.  Not anything.  Only God can give them that peace and they are not receptive.  They want to lash out and shoot bitter arrows at me.  They want me upset and confused and disoriented.  But my orientation is in You, Jesus.  When I forget that, when I try to find answers by looking inward, then I am blind.  But when I crumble and fall on my knees and hold my arms out to You, and look upward, that is when I find peace.  Peace that all will be ok.  That nothing matters but you.  Nothing is new under the sun.  Not my joy.  Not my worries.  Not my sorrow.  All is planned by God.  And in that I find rest.  

Unrealistic Expectations

ex·pec·ta·tion

ˌekspekˈtāSH(ə)n/

noun

plural noun: expectations

1. a strong belief that something will happen or be the case in the future.

   
   

   "reality had not lived up to expectations"

   
   

   • a belief that someone will or should achieve something.

     
     

     "students had high expectations for their future"

     
     

     
     

We all have them...ideas and expectations of what others should do, or say, whether friends, strangers, family, or even God.  A situation arises, we analyze it and react, and expect others to react likewise.   The problem with that?  Well, we are not all the same, and what we do in a situation, while it may seem right for us, may not be what someone else would do; heck, it could even be the total opposite of what WE should do.  While a normal assumption, expecting a certain behavior or reaction from someone else can only lead to disappointment at best, and fractured relationships, depression, and hopelessness at worst.  Unrealistic expectations put a heavy burden on our shoulders; they give us the false impression we have control over something we do not.    When I find myself saying, "but they should have said this!," or "why couldn't she do what a normal person would have done?", I have to smack myself upside the head and remind myself they are not me, I am not them, and most importantly, I am not God.

My mother-in-law is dying, almost two years from the date her husband of 51 years died.  My husband has to fly out suddenly to be at her side, and I have a totally dependent family member living with us--not unlike 2016.  To make it even more eerily deja-vu like, a storm is bearing down on us as I write this--although this time it is a hurricane instead of a blizzard.  As I drove Alex to the airport this afternoon, I began to fret how I am all alone, that no one is here to help, that no one wants to help, comparing this situation to the mess two years ago.  But, as Alex gently chided me, this is not the same.  We have each other, and most importantly, we have God.  I have friends I can reach out to, and our kids, and neighbors...even if my sisters are no longer part of our life.   I cannot expect "blood from a turnip," as an old saying goes--people can only give what they can give.  People fall short of our expectations; sadly, many times it is people we love and expect to be there for us, to do what we would do in the same situation.  I have to remind myself though...we ALL fall short of God's expectation.  

"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus."

Managing my expectations of myself is a full-time job, let alone trying to grapple with my expectations of others.  As long as I aspire to live up to my Creator's expectations (which I never will until I meet Him in heaven), I have my hands full and don't need to burden myself with all the shouldas, couldas, and wouldas. Like David, I must strengthen myself in the Lord my God (I Sam 30:6).

Seventy Times Seven

A letter to my sisters...

I guess I will never know if you read this, although I hope you do.  But this is something I feel compelled to write. For three years I have been struggling with forgiveness...forgiveness of self, of you, of Mom, of our childhood.  And just when I feel the forgiveness merry-go-round is stopping, and I can jump off, it starts back up again.  Some memory, or phone call, or text pops up, and the calliope starts back up.  Back in 2015 when this nightmare began, I really thought I was doing the right thing, the Biblical thing, and I thought I could handle whatever came up.  Then it was as if my entire world collapsed and turned completely upside down, and I was alone and overwhelmed.  Mom got very sick, Alex's parents had emergency after emergency, and although I reached out for help, I admit I asked for help and put conditions on that help...I felt I was right, and dammit I was going to convince both of you how right I was.  Yeah, that worked really well, didn't it.  I expected you to know exactly what was going on here, and how I needed your help, but I really did not effectively communicate how desperate the situation had become.  So, when mom had to be admitted to skilled nursing care, and I tried to explain it to you, it was a shock to you both.  For that, I am sorry, for not preparing you better for the state Mom was in, and how extremely difficult those first four months had been.  And, since I felt alone and that you both had abandoned me, I took it all on myself.  Not all my decisions were great, and yes you may have made different decisions.  Or maybe not.  Bottom line, I had to make some really scary decisions. And despite what you believe or what Mom told you, she and I discussed many of those decisions...selling her storage unit things, healthcare, hernia surgery, turning in her car, her budget...my only mistake there was not getting some of those decisions in writing.

By that time, though, Mom was skillfully manipulating all three of us to hear and believe what she wanted us to hear.  I knew she was telling you both her sob story, and filling your heads with lies, but there was nothing I could do to change that.  So, I waited for the inevitable, and the inevitable arrived.   You both came to take her away, to undo all the work I had done: qualify her for Medicaid, pay what bills I could and talk down the rest; put her in a safe place; it was all at risk, and I did what the nursing home recommended.  We all know how that went, and it was clear that battle lines had been drawn; there would be no turning back.  What transpired over the next 18 months was a nightmare of epic proportions.  I was interrogated by the county Sheriff for false criminal charges (while on my way to my father-in-law's funeral), constantly had to intercept poison pen emails and letters to local businesses, and finally, was served with a lawsuit full of lies.  Her lies were not what cut me to the core, though...it was that you both believed them.  You believed I locked her in the basement, you believed I abused her, you believed I did not take care of her and you actually believed I had her get surgery she did not need; you believed I stole from her, and you believed I made decisions without consulting her.  And then you involved our parents, and your children--my nieces and nephews--effectively cutting me off from everyone in our birth family.   I was crushed and broken--the two sisters who were my closest allies in the crazy, dysfunctional, psychotic personality that was our mother, became my enemies.  And to this day, I still do not know why.  Over a dog she kept locked in a crate?  Over some broken crap in storage?  So she could get moved around the country over the next 15 months and break her hip, have bowel obstructions, get surgery after surgery, only to finally end up dying in a nursing home?  Just like the one you moved her from here?  For that we are no longer sisters or family?  After thousands and thousands of dollars in legal fees, and countless tears and sleepless nights, I still am dumbfounded over what transpired.  

We are no closer to the truth or to each other than we were three years ago, that fateful summer when we tried to fix our mother's screwed up life.  She played us all, and she kept playing us.  And now, even though she is dead and gone, she still manipulates us from the grave.  I have come a long way in my faith, in my self-realization, in my healing of old wounds, since that time.   I have forgiven her for everything she was and everything she did to me--things you have never known of, hell, some things I had tried for decades to forget! I have come to grips with why I tried to rescue her, why I made it my mission to save her from herself--not once, not twice, but three times in six years.  And while I realize I would not be here on this earth without her, I will not lie and say she was a good mother.  She was not.  But that is another story, another letter.  This is about three daughters who were all victims, who did the best they could to rise above their heredity and their upbringing.  This is about three sisters who were never really close, because in our family the adults always played one against the other; they still do.  We never knew who the enemy really was, or who would be on our "side" so we all kept our distance from each other and dealt with our brokenness in our own fractured ways.  The things I have learned about our family are truly liberating, but the sad thing is, we are not unique.  Books have been written...books that when you read them you think the author lived in our house!

So what am I trying to say?  I am not trying to answer every accusation or question or misgiving you may have, or clear myself of all wrongdoing, or explain my motives.  Yes, I still struggle occasionally with trying to obtain validation of choices, of wanting my family to approve of me, but I am getting past that.  I accept myself, and I accept you.  I am forgiving you.  For everything. And I will continue to forgive you until the day I die. And I humbly ask for your forgiveness.  Not explanations.  Not remunerations.  Not justification.  But forgiveness, and eventually, ultimately, I pray we will have reconciliation.  Because forgiveness without reconciliation, well, it is like taking a shower without water.  

Please let's be sisters again, or at least, let's be family.

Movin' On

How do I move on? Past the guilt and pain and loss? Past the anger and sense of unfairness of it all? I quote scripture and profess trusting in Christ and His freeing redemption of my soul; I purport to rely on God’s will and his omniscience. But on days like today, it’s all a facade. It’s hopeless. I am defeated and denigrated and shamed. I thought there would be some victory, some bittersweet vindication.  There is none. Despite prayer and all the high sounding words, when I scrape it all away, I am bitter and defeated. I tried to do the “right” thing. And when I was falsely accused, I trusted man’s law to exonerate me. I expected family to rally around me, to take up my battle cry and side with me. I wanted validation and, God forgive me, I wanted vengeance. I yearned for my accusers to be defeated, proven wrong, and brought to their knees; I half-expected them to beg my forgiveness, and to reconcile.  

Yeah that didn’t happen.This is real life. People are mean spirited and myopic and, above all, self centered. We walk around in a self-constructed cocoon of our own values and desires, professing allegiance to our creator, but we only occasionally see past our comfortable surroundings to the bigger purpose that is God’s.  We (and by we I of course am including myself) claim victory in Christ Jesus and the Cross, but we balk when that cross is laid on our shoulders.  Take it off, we say.  It’s too heavy, too uncomfortable, the cost is too high. We chase after the admiration and support of others, and try to build up our own army to fight the evil and the falsehoods and the deception of the world. We desperately cock our heads to hear echoes of our own beliefs. And when there is naught but silence, we despair.  

Yes. That is where I sit right now, wallowing in the inequity, the unfairness of it all.  Asking questions that will never be answered and seeking the holy grail of acquittal that can never be found— not in this life, at least. I don’t always have it all together, and sometimes I am just so friggin human it irks me. Do I want to let it all go and trust God in his ultimate wisdom?  Sure.  Do I believe the promises of His word?  Of course! Do I know without a doubt that His grace covers all my ugliness , that His blood washes away all my sins, and that I am forever blameless in the Father’s eyes? Yes, yes and yes! Despite all those affirmations, though, times like these I seek comfort in the familiar blanket of self-pity and pain.I (gasp!) stop believing those promises for a fraction of a second. And that is when my feet are knocked out from under me and I find myself flat on my ass, head in my arms, hands balled up into fists.  

I can’t always be perfect. I don’t always reflect Christ.  

Good thing God doesn’t need me to convince anyone of his glory, or sell his magnificence.  Or promote his omnipotence.   He is God and I am not, He is the Potter and I am the clay, He alone creates, and I, as His creation, am here to constantly point toward Him and glorify Him.  

It just ain’t always that easy.  

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.

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.  

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

Welcoming Grief and Sadness

I used to think Christians had all the answers, all the luck, great health, beautiful children, perpetual happiness.  I mean, regardless of what life handed them, there they were, ready to jump into a lion's den or hang upside down on a cross or shake hands with a leper.  Christians never got sad, did they? At least not for a long period of time, because they had eternity to be happy...and they had so many friends, and of course, they have God on their side, right? All that singing and clapping and hallelujah stuff....Christians are a bunch of happy campers. And they NEVER EVER stay sad for long. Right? So, as a Christian, if I am sad, I must be doing something wrong, right?

Wrong.  

Sadness and grief. These are powerful emotions, and normal reactions to human loss. God understands that--He created us, and our jumbled bag of emotions. Jesus, fully human, yet fully God, wept when Lazarus died. I know this, my head knows this, my soul knows this, yet I was struggling with welcoming my grief. But I am getting better at it. Because hiding my grief with false smiles, with busy-ness, with depression, behind facades of "I'm fine, how are you?s" was just too damn exhausting.  

Despite previous posts, I am overwhelmed with sadness, practically every day lately. While no one has died, I have lost most of my birth family--my mother, my sisters, my sisters 'families--even though they are still living.  I have no recourse to right the wrongs, no way to confront them, no court in which I may recover what I have lost. The damage--irreparable. The grief--immeasurable, and at times, nearly unbearable. Writing helps, reading helps, keeping busy helps, and yes, praying definitely helps lessen the sadness, but in truth, I do not want to escape the sadness.  I embrace it. I welcome it. I ache for it. Because in this deep, dark pool of sadness, my faith is tested, my soul is stripped completely bare. The proverbial rug has been ripped out from under my feet, and my world as i knew it has been flipped completely upside down. Yes, I have some constants of my life; I am not Job, after all. I have my husband, my home, my children and precious grandchildren, my dad and stepmother, my in-laws.  I am loved, I have friends, I have my health. But as anyone who suffers loss, whether through death, or divorce, or separation, will tell you, sadness is not about what you have that matters--it is what you have lost.

In the depth of that heart-wrenching loss, with everything topsy-turvy, my world upside down, nothing making any sense; when at a moment's notice I may just burst into tears while drinking a cup of coffee at the local bakery, or run out and sit in my car and sob uncontrollably for two hours in the freezing cold; when I feel like sleeping and never getting up, when I get irrationally angry at my husband...I welcome the grief, the sadness, the accompanying confusion, because it truly does make me see the tenets of my faith clearer. For now I MUST lean on everything I have believed up until now, the advice and counsel I have so freely given to others in their times of need.  When the bottom has fallen out of the boat, and you don't know how to swim anymore, the only option is to fall back on that life preserver that has been floating out there all along.  

I grab it. I hang on to it.  

Today it is the only thing keeping me afloat.

Of Mustard Seeds, Mountains, and Molehills

First, I dealt with my old friend, Fear. God strengthened me, and we've dealt Fear a deadly blow. But now, several new enemies--Sadness, Blame and Regret--raise their ugly, pitiful heads. "Why did you take your mom in?," they slyly ask, and "You knew this would happen...it's all your fault," they hiss. I feel the storm hitting me, wind pushing me, rain and hail pelting my face, soaking me and chilling me to the bone, and just when I feel as if I am going to give up, exhausted, I remember I have someone behind me. To lean on. To hold me up. To keep me warm and dry. So I lean on Jesus, and I scream out against the storm, and I cry, sometimes sobbing, as I pray His name out loud. And when I am feeling very, very weak and cold, He holds me in His Hand, and comforts me with His breath, and soothes me to sleep. I am safe, in His fortress. No waves can topple me.

But then I wake up, startled, because there is a new twist, and the mountain suddenly looms larger. Maybe I need to "do" something.  I mean, someone has to "do" something, right? So I start to walk toward that mountain, I shake my fist at it, I start to run. But no matter how fast I run, it gets bigger, and bigger, and the air gets thinner, and harder to breathe, and my sides are hurting, and my feet hurt. I can't make it. The mountain is too big.  It is too far. And then I remember the mustard seed in my pocket. And I know that with just my tiny, teeny weenie little mustard seed of faith, I can make that mountain into a molehill. With Christ. For His glory. Not mine.  

Tonight my emotions are raw, bleeding, and throbbing. In my soul, and in my mind, and deep inside my heart, I know God has this latest tribulation, this manifestation of evil and sin and selfishness. But in my humanness, my heart, I ache. Oh how I ache. I am in shock, in disbelief, over what the woman who gave me life has done, the things she said in the summons we received. And I am hurt, and saddened by the betrayal of at least one, if not both sisters. I feel as if I have had a living, beating piece of me cruelly ripped out of body, and thrown in front of me, then torn to shreds as if it never mattered. That part of my life--all those memories, whether good or bad--mean nothing to them.The future memories we were to make together as old ladies?  Gone.  

Do I forgive them? Of  course. Will we ever reconcile? Only God knows. For now, I am dealing with one huge mountain of hurt. I cannot hide from, run from it, or cover it up.  It looms large and ugly and casts an ugly shadow, a jagged scar on my life. But God and I are going to whittle it down to a molehill, one spoonful at a time.  Regardless of the outcome, God will be glorified. What began as something evil, intended to hurt, will bring glory to the one true God. For I have a brilliant light, in the shape of a cross, behind me and over me, to cancel out any shadow and to heal any scar, regardless how big or dark or ugly they may be.  

Rubbing salt in the wound

Last year I tried for three months to get my two sisters to help me with my elderly mom's care--financially, emotionally, whatever way they could. They could not, would not, Sam-I-am-I-do-not-like-green-eggs-and-ham, help out in any way.  One wanted nothing to do with her (said Mom needed 24/7 nursing care), and the other said she was through caring for Mom, and would not ever involve herself with that craziness again...that whatever I decided was "fine with her."  So, we moved her here, she got sick, then sicker, etc., etc., home healthcare, then into a nursing home, hospital, geropsychiatric unit, etc., etc., guardianship hearing. Months of pleas for help (crickets), emails and texts asking for financial assistance (silence), snail mail letter updating them on her status and asking if they wanted her dog, her belongings, or if they could help in any way, shape or form. Nada, nothing, zip.  One sister would sneak out here to Brevard when she knew we were out of town, and finally conspired with the other sister to bust Mom out of the nursing home.  They filed criminal charges against me. Dropped, unfounded. Harassed me for months.  Cyber-bullied. Sent false accusations to local businesses. Convinced my parents and nieces and nephews I made it all up, that I stole Mom's money, her dog, her things, that Mom is perfectly fine, no problem at all.

But worse than that? These same siblings who repeatedly refused to help me, who told me they did not have the time, the inclination, the heart, or the desire to assume Mom's care, who left it all up to me and my husband, who brushed off their hands and did not give us one red cent or, more importantly, one shoulder to lean on for 15 months of hell, all of the sudden are sharing care of said mother. One sister actually just left for overseas this past weekend, for six weeks, and the other sister flew up TO Nashville to BRING Mom back to Florida WITH her.  The sister who actually said "I was forced to take care of her and I will never be put in that position ever again."  And, to rub salt in the wound, my parents are flying down to see my sister in December to "help her out" after she has a minor knee procedure.  And she has friends and three grown children she can fly down for free. Really? My parents?  Who not only did not come out and see me after Mom was transferred to a nursing home, they did not want to even hear me vent about all the issues i was having...even though Alex's parents were critically ill, and I was all alone, and needed someone to talk to, to lean on. They just told me "Everyone has problems" The same parents who refused to "take sides" but knew all along my sister was planning on moving my mom out of the facility? Even though I had POA? That both sisters were working against me?  

Poor little me.  (Warning:  Metaphor avalanche ahead). I have been slapped in the face. Had the scab ripped off the wound and salt poured and rubbed in it, then lemon juice poured on it for good measure. I've turned the other cheek. People tell me to let it go.  To drop it.  To move on. To be a peacemaker. How can I when I keep getting sand kicked in my face?  I just think it is safe to go back into the damn water, and then BAM!, a shark sidles up and bites a big chunk out of my self esteem, my faith, my trust in the Lord. I am not deluding myself either...I am fully aware there are folks out there who have far worse things to deal with than a couple of Benedict Arnold sisters. In fact, I go to church with several wonderful people who are dealing with situations that would knock the breath out of many of you.  

Then it hits me. "But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also."  (Matt 5:39)  I am being completely selfish, self-centered, and self-absorbed, when I should be Christ-focused, Christ-centered, and Christ-absorbed. Okay, yeah, I know, that last one is a stretch, but it's my blog, not yours. I am seeking to be understood, instead of seeking to understand. Seeking to be accepted, not seeking to accept others. Trying to get others to see my way, instead of seeing their point of view. And most importantly, I have been forgetting that all of us are created in the image of our God--not just me, not just the people I like, or the nice people, or the folks who agree with me, or vote like me, or believe the same as me. But all people. And I am commanded by He who created me to love everyone. My neighbors  My friends. My family. My enemies. Everyone.Whether they believe me or not. Whether they like me or not. Period.  

He didn't say it would be easy.

God's pathway never is.