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.

Guarding my Heart

Difficult people are not new--although the modern world would have you believe they are.  Nowadays we call them "toxic" people, and a simple Google search will unveil dozens of grocery lists on how to identify a toxic person, what to do with a toxic person, how to cut toxic people out of your life, dealing with toxic people biblically, and even a recipe for a "toxic person detox."  How do I reconcile God's command to love one another, including, no, especially, those who do not love us back, with my desire to punch someone in the throat?  How do I balance the seemingly dichotomous commands of "love thy neighbor" with "light has no fellowship with dark?"  

This is something I struggle with, and I know I am not alone when I say I have some super difficult people in my life--some days more than others.  How their toxicity affects me seems to be relative to four areas:  the frequency of interaction, my relationship with that person, the state of my heart, and of course, the state of my soul.  The rude customer at my volunteer job, the guy flipping me off because I actually stopped at the red light, estranged family members unwilling to let go of the past, anyone exhibiting passive aggressive behavior, and even folks I "meet" online--difficult, toxic people are everywhere. And while it may seem convenient to lump people into two categories--safe/unsafe, clean/toxic, easy/difficult--it is far more realistic to, gulp!, admit we are ALL difficult at one time or another, because we are all sinful, selfish, prideful beings.   There are not two camps of "toxic" vs "non-toxic" humans.  Sadly, we are all more than capable and too well-versed in being difficult to each other...the impatient "WHAT?!" hollered at our kids when they repeat our name for the fifth time, the eye roll at our parents when they dare to give us advice, the silent treatment we give our spouses when they don't respond exactly how we expected or wanted, the curt "Fine!" we mutter instead of actually discussing hurt feelings.  And, when we experience difficult people, and suffer as a result of our exposure to them, we don't always learn from those encounters...we close up, fight back, and try to handle it ourselves, instead of creating healthy boundaries, praying for those who intend to harm us, and giving it over to God. In other words, we take actions and react instead of responding as Jesus would have us respond.  And no, I do not mean to always turn the other cheek and become a doormat or a punching bag; even Jesus was silent, or even went away, when confronted with difficult human beings.  

Setting boundaries, praying, humility, communion with the father...the best advice I have found to date takes into account all these options: aptly titled "A Father's Wise Instruction," Proverbs 4.  In it, we are urged to guard our hearts, and to avoid the path of the wicked, and reminded that what is in our hearts, flows out of our hearts and touches those around us.  We are not responsible for how others treat us, but we are responsible for how we respond to them.  We don't "sink to their level," or fight fire with fire, or get into a war of words on Facebook.  We are to reflect the gospel, the good news, in all that we do, even in times of attack and hurt.  

Do I always take this advice?  Uh, nope...not even close.  Recently someone tried to poison my heart with hate and accusations and lies.  Two years ago, no, even a year ago, I would have been immersed in self-pity, hate, and would have let the actions of one selfish person strip me of my joy.   And while I did just that for about 8 hours (my old self--old habits die hard), I have put off old relationships, relationships that are hurtful and toxic. Now, I rest in the Comforter, taking solace in this process of sanctification, and ever grateful for His Grace...his boundless, beautiful grace.    I seek the Lord, and His Word, and take comfort in the knowledge that (a) the Lord hates these actions even more than I hate them (Proverbs 6:16-19), and (b) He has made me a new creation, one that will not yoke herself together with unbelievers (2 Corinthians 16:14).   

My prayer:  Restore in me the joy that comes from being Your child, the love You have for me unending, and the peace that comes from knowing you are God. Help me to remain calm, joyous, and peaceful. Guard my heart from responding negatively to those who would hurt me.  And guard my lips from reacting wrongly and thereby hurting others.  

Let your eyes look directly forward, 

and your gaze be straight before you. 

Ponder the path of your feet, 

then all your ways will be sure.  

Do not swerve to the right or to the left; 

turn your foot from evil.  

(Proverbs 4:25-27)

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

Disconnected

As impossible as it may seem in today's over-connected world, I often feel completely disconnected. Sure, I have a smart phone with wifi and a great data plan, bluetooth and GPS in my car, and a smart TV that not only has channels of shows to watch, it is connected to wifi and can stream Netflix, Amazon Prime, Spotify, and countless other applications.  My husband and I each have our own laptop, also connected to wifi, and I have a Fitbit to track my exercise and my husband has a GPS-capable watch.   I use FaceTime and Facebook, What's App, and Instagram, Skype and messenger, sometimes simultaneously, and often on two different devices (like right now I am typing on my laptop while my phone charges no more than 10 feet away...just in case, ya know).  I video-chat with my children and grandchildren on an almost daily basis, and texting has become my preferred method of nonessential communication.  

Now, before one of you points out what an oxymoron it is to blog about being disconnected, since being connected to the web is essential to blogging, let me throw out this little disclaimer:  I really love being connected.  I embrace technology and truly believe all these gadgets and gizmos and apps have purpose, and usually a good purpose.  My problem doesn't lie in accepting technology; my problem lies with being so oversaturated with technology I sometimes forget how to relate without it.  Especially when it comes to staying connected to God, connected enough to hear His voice, to feel His presence, and to understand and accept His plan for me.  

I am not talking about setting aside x number of minutes to read the Bible (although that is important), nor am I prescribing a set amount of time at specific frequencies to pray (yes, prayer is good, too).  Most definitely I am not saying technology disconnects us from God.  Nope.  It is the human part of staying connected that requires tweaking.  (Great....I just used a techy word...tweaking).   Sadly, there are days when I must remind myself to pray before checking my Facebook status, and to open the Bible and ask for the Holy Spirit to teach me before I open my laptop.  When I am driving, I have to consciously, methodically refrain from turning on the radio or making a phone call as soon as I get in the car.  And I am pretty sure I would eat less (or eat better) if I left my phone off the table, or at home when we go out to eat.  Wait...am I saying I should just drive in the car?  Or eat and actually talk to people I am with?  Gosh, just concentrating on writing this little post takes great composure, as every 30-60 seconds a little window on the top right pops up telling me I have a new message or email or Facebook like, Instagram comment, or calendar reminder.  

Yes, at times I even rationalize my technology addiction, vainly trying to convince myself how I can be connected to God while reading Facebook memes, or that I really don't spend all that much time on my phone.  Maybe I am the odd one out here...maybe most of y'all have figured out how to allot the perfect amount of time to our Creator, and to each other, while still using and appreciating the gift of technology. Perhaps you could share that formula with me, and help me figure out how to pray unceasingly, and to keep God foremost in my heart and mind and soul.  

Being connected is great.  Having a really great data plan is awesome.  Poor connections suck.  But being connected to God is eternal.  

So is being disconnected.

On Mercy and Fairness

Setting a Christian example.  Turn the other cheek.  Establish good boundaries.  Love each other.  Do unto others.  Stand up for what you believe.  The struggle is real, people.  Trying to filter through the seemingly conflicting messages.  Add to that human expectations, no, human tendencies, no, MY tendency, for wanting life to bend to my desires.  The unquenchable thirst for fairness in this life threatens at times to consume me; I hold up situations, circumstances, and the actions and thoughts of others up to some nebulous yardstick of fairness, and cry out "NOT FAIR!" or smugly smile and say, "See? I was right!"  Consumed with the selfish need to prove my point, to get what I "deserve," for life to be fair, for others to see where I am coming from, I stop in my tracks, shamefaced.  Fairness?  Do I truly want fairness in this life?  Do I really want what I deserve?  Am I so blinded by the quest for fairness that I have left mercy in a cloud of dust behind me?

I stop dead in my tracks, stricken by the incongruence of fairness over mercy.  Were God to dispense fairness, to give me what I deserve, I would be crushed, condemned, hopeless.  Nothing I do or say or feel can cover my sins.  I would fall before His throne, before the throne of judgment, and He would banish me from His presence.  I would get what I deserve.  I would get what is fair.  But, no...instead of fairness, He bestows His wonderful, life-saving mercy.  The judgment seat is transformed into the mercy seat.  I will stand before him with all my sins, my ugliness, my selfishness, covered with the blood of His perfect son.  Jesus advocates for us to to the Father; he suffered, died, was buried, and rose from the dead to forestall a judgment of "fairness."  Yes, Jesus took my punishment for me. 

For the mercy I am shown every day, the mercies I will receive at the end of my days, isn't it only right that I exhibit mercy in response to petty offenses and perceived unfairness?  Proving my point at the expense of mercy and love and forgiveness is a slap in God's face.  

Lord, help me show a fraction of the mercy to others that You have shown me, as a measure of my gratitude to You.