Getting the Normal Back

It's happened to most of us, probably all of us. You're going through life, humming and strolling along, or maybe mumbling and just dragging your feet, everything the same, when all of the sudden, BAM! Seemingly out of nowhere, your life changes drastically, and not for the better. It's a shock, and you just stop where you are; life as you know it is defined by that moment in time, and it changes you forever. Personally, I have had many such moments in my life: JFK's assassination, my parents' divorce, personal trauma as a teenager, a former foster child's false accusations against my husband that precipitated court-martial proceedings, our child's cancer diagnosis, the events of 9/11/2001, the betrayal of family and subsequent estrangement, the death of our parents. When I look back at these events, I see a clear demarkation line of life before and life after, and there was no going back. 

Right now my daughter and her family are facing such a turning point in their lives, a turn of events that arose out of nowhere, a sucker punch nearly knocking the air out of them. Their lives completely disrupted, nothing seems certain any longer. Where they’ll be tomorrow, next week, next month, is anybody’s guess, our much anticipated visit next month has lost its joy. Molly said it best: “ever since  the talk about the visa, it’s hard to get the normal back.”

Praying for them. Yes we know the God of the universe controls every molecule, every spin of the planet, every second of our lives, and that nothing, and I mean nothing, surprises him. They also know this, and are not under any sense of delusion they can control the outcome. But God created us with emotions, and as humans we still have attachments to things on this earth, and we want to understand WHY. Praying for comfort and peace and understanding from the God of comfort, peace, and understanding.

Oh, and right after this happened, my other daughter's dog died very suddenly and unexpectedly...not the same, perhaps, but still, a HUGE disruption. 

Joy

Having joy is so much more than happiness. Happiness is fleeting, situational, fickle, and temporary. I used to search for happiness, for things and people and relationships to make me happy, and if I was not happy, I blamed it on circumstances or my past or the events of the day or whoever I was with, what side of the bed I got up on, how much I weighed, whether my hair was behaving, if I could pay all my bills on time, etc. In other words, happiness was a measure of meeting the world’s standards of success. Then I discovered Jesus, and formed an intimate relationship with Him, and I discovered how empty happiness is. I discovered joy. Joy in the midst of suffering, in the midst of pain, in the midst of loss, in the midst of, yes, betrayal. Joy during and after struggles. I was not always happy during these times, and still, believe it or not, there are many times I am not happy.  But I am joyful, FULL OF JOY, joy of the Lord, joy in my salvation, joy in knowing my future home is with Him, that I have a place with Him, that He has forgiven me, paid my debts, and gives me more grace. 

Am I always the perfect picture of a joyful Christian, focused forward on my Jesus, and not looking on my struggles? No, I am not. Sometimes I get wrapped up in that tunnel of self, and the trap of being a victim, the Eyore attitude of “woe is me, woe is me,” and I bemoan all my faults and struggles and pains and losses. Luckily though I have my husband and my friends in Christ and my church who snap me out of that, and my God who I go to daily, to remind me and to refocus me on my joy. My everlasting joy. 

Yesterday we drove to Pigeon Forge and drove through some tunnels on I-40, long tunnels, and the sign before the tunnel warns drivers to turn on headlights and remove sunglasses. Why? So they can see better in the darkness. But you are still driving in a dark tunnel closed in by concrete walls, and if it is a long tunnel you cannot even see the light at the end of it; I don’t know about you, but I hate tunnels and get claustrophobic in them and worry another car or truck is gong to hit the wall and ricochet into me, or I will never get out of the tunnel. I cannot see the end of it, the reality outside the tunnel. That is how I feel when I get trapped inside the tunnel vision of looking inward onto my hurts and struggles and pain—trapped, confused, no sense of direction. Even though I have lights on and have tried to clear my vision. 

The answer? Stay out of the tunnels. But if you do find yourself in one, and your feel yourself being sucked into that self-pity mode, smack yourself on the back of the head, open your bible, fall on your knees, and focus on Jesus. He is our everlasting joy. We are no good to others when we are wallowing in a tunnel of self-flagellation. But, when others see our joy in Christ, despite our trials, they will want all the more to find out what makes us so joyful, so they too can experience it. 

I have suffered from serious clinical depression nearly my entire life, yet I still have more joy than I can explain. Am I sad at times? Yes. Depressed? Yes. Unhappy? Yes. But, I am full of joy.

"Though the fig tree should not blossom,
nor fruit be on the vines,
the produce of the olive fail
and the fields yield no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold
and there be no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
I will take joy in the God of my salvation." Habakkuk 3:17-18

Connections

Recently I attended a funeral for my last remaining uncle, a trip entailing a 36-hour round trip flight to Cincinnati, a trip I almost did not take because I really did not "know" any of the other relatives. Uncle Rob spent most of his life traveling the world, then settled in California in the 60s; he never married or had children, and he and my dad (his brother) were too much alike to tolerate each other's company for too long--they only recently reconciled about two years before my dad died. Me? Over the years Rob and I kept in touch through letters, emails, phone calls, and random trips to visit each other; more recently, he had been a huge source of comfort to me during my dad's and stepmom's illnesses and deaths. Sadly, we had not connected since April, and recent emails and phone calls to him went unanswered. Right  before Thanksgiving, he called me but hung up after one ring; I called him back. He sounded horrible, and he said "Barbara, I think this is it;" we talked briefly, and that was it--I meant to call him back later that month, but you know, I would get busy, or it would be too early or too late, and then the first week of December came and went, and finally, when I did call, that horrible sterile recording, "I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, that number is no longer in service." A quick search on the internet confirmed my fear: Robert W. Koenig, age 94, Sonoma California, October 18, 1927-December 6, 2021. Sleuthed a bit more, and noticed there were going to be two funerals: one in California, and one Cincinnati; I called the Ohio funeral home and asked to have whoever was handling his arrangements to call me. While I was waiting, I sent a couple of messages to two relatives I found on FaceBook (by looking up their names from an old family tree Rob had given me).

A few hours afterward, I got a call from Cincinnati--it was Suzanne, a cousin I had never met, the woman who was handling the service. Rob had talked often about a Suzanne, a Jerry (her husband) and a Kathy, as well as many others, people with whom he enjoyed close connections, a link back to Cincinnati. Most of them were the grown children of his cousins (my aunts and uncles, who had long passed.) Suzanne shared with me how sick Rob had been that month or so before he died, and that she spoke to him frequently during those weeks; listening to her put to rest that nagging twinge of guilt I felt for not rushing out to see Rob after that awful phone call before Thanksgiving. Anyway, after chatting for a bit and getting past the basic social niceties, I had all the details for the funeral and the burial, and promised to get back to her to let her know either way if I was coming. Mind you, I was not even sure I wanted to go to the funeral. I had never met anyone who would be there, I would have to go by myself, it was a long way to go, airlines were having all kinds of issues with delays and cancellations and COVID quarantines, it was the post Christmas rush...I had a million excuses. In my heart, though, was this persistent ache, a sense of loss, and an overwhelming feeling of grief of reliving the death of my parents, especially my dad, who, by the way, also died at age 94, on December 6, three years earlier. So I booked my flight, hotel, and rental car for a quick 36-hour round trip. 

And oh how glad I am that I went! The funeral was beautiful, meaningful, and cathartic. Driving through the neighborhood where ghosts of my grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles seemed so tangible, and seeing the church and school I attended as a little girl, familiar street signs and landmarks, and I knew I had made the right decision. As soon as I walked into the church, Suzanne came up to me, said "you must be Barbara!," hugged me, and then introduced me to everyone else. Meeting a whole new branch of the family tree, making connections with cousins and their children, I shared in their grief and loss of someone we all knew and loved. These people I had never met went out of their way to make me feel welcome, including me in the celebration of Rob's life, even asking me to help place the pall on his coffin. Then, riding in the funeral procession to the familiar cemetery I visited every Sunday as a little girl, a flood of emotions and memories came rushing back, and I felt more connected to that spot, that area, than anywhere else. I felt I was home, that somehow, if I drove down the block to my old street, I just might catch a glimpse of Nana, or hear the kids playing Red Rover in the street, waiting for the Mister Softee truck. Powerful connections, connections I thought no longer existed were now restored. Finally, seeing my parents' gravesite, the stone that Rob and my daughter and I designed now in place, I knew I had made the right decision. 

Most of the relatives had to leave, but Suzanne and Jerry took me to lunch at a brand new restaurant in the incline district, an up and coming trendy area with a playhouse, condos, and hangouts where beautiful old buildings used to be. We shared so many memories, good and bad, and talked for so long the waitress gave up on taking our order. After lunch, they then invited me back to their house for coffee and snacks, where we talked and shared stories, making those connections. Familiar names--Joann, Celsie, Bernice, Frank, Theresa, Ginny and Ed--names I had not really spoken in ages, all of them connected to our lives. Memories of late night poker games held on weekends, rotating among each of their houses. Clarifying who was married, who had children, where everyone was living, grandkids, even pets. But mostly sharing each others' memories of the man whose life we gathered to celebrate, each of us with different, yet similar, connections. Making new connections with each other. I had been worried my memories of Rob would fade away because everyone who I knew, and who knew him, was gone; I was wrong. At the ripe old age of 66, I can still establish new connections, new roots, and form new relationships, keeping the past and those precious memories alive.

As I age and lose more loved ones, these tendrils connecting me to the important people of my life, connecting me to this fragile life here on earth, become frayed or stretched or even broken, and I’m sometimes left with a sense of loss and pain. That relationship is no longer there, and I can feel the part of me that is connected to that person leaving, like air leaking out of a hole in a balloon. I try to hold on to it, to hold that part of me close, the part of me defined by that person I just lost, but it's no use. But just when I think it is lost forever, serendipitously, God shows me new connections to replace those I thought I lost, making my life fuller and richer, and strengthening those connections to the past through our shared, but different, recollections. 

I see more trips to Cincinnati in my future 

The Chasm in Between

Alex and I have a strong desire to help others, especially those who cannot (or maybe will not) help themselves. Whatever the genesis, I can tell you what it is not. It is not a cry for attention, or an urge to look good. It is NOT virtue signaling, or pity, or feeling better than someone else. And we are not trying to singlehandedly save the universe, nor are we naive enough to believe that everyone we try to help will respond positively. The path to helping other human beings is fraught with all kinds of  danger, a veritable minefield of the worst characteristics of human nature: greed, selfishness, pride, envy, shame, and guilt, to name just a few. So missteps are not uncommon and more often than not the proffered help is not even appreciated, let alone accepted.

Through the years we have helped (or attempted to, anyway) our children, our coworkers, our friends, and our parents, our neighbors, and complete strangers. Over the past five or six years, the desire to help seemed to grow more urgent. We are  retired, our children are grown, and we have everything we need; naturally as Christians we want to share what we have and what we have learned with others. Retirement is not the death knell for life as we know it, and we offer our help aligned with God's law. When someone comes into our lives or our path and we "feel" God has placed that person there for a reason, we reflect on that and pray and discuss it with each other before making a big commitment; we have found if we just rashly jump into it without prayerful reflection and talking to each other, the end result has been less than ideal.  

But how do you help someone who doesn’t want the help? How do you help someone who doesn’t know he needs help? Or, how do you help someone who wants the help, knows he needs it, but doesn’t know how to ask or receive it or find it? That seems to be the sticking point for me, anyway, right now...maybe Alex is doing okay, but my heart hurts. And I am confused! Why does God put these people in our lives, ask us to help them, only to allow them to reject our help? Let's face it, it gets very disheartening when your help is not wanted or when your motives are misconstrued. (And I am not just referring to the fiasco with my mom 5 years ago, either.) We may have loads of life experience and education, and yes we have God on our side, but trying to figure out what to say and when to say it and when to shut up and when to press on and when to let go is a Herculean task! The tendency (actually if I am honest with myself, the very strong urge) to push my help, to control the situation, to steer the end result toward my desired conclusion, where everyone lives happily ever after and there is no more pain and suffering, that tendency is overwhelming. 

I really feel as if there is a huge, bottomless chasm between me and the person(s) I am trying to help, and I don't know how to reach them, to make them see how much they matter to me and to God, and to open their eyes to the ugliness of their sin without making them feel any worse. To reach out and take the wonderful bridge that is God's grace. I just do not have the words, and I am at a loss to help them. I guess I will have to let the Holy Spirit take this one.

On Destiny

Why does one person accept a proffered helping hand while yet another person rejects it completely? How does one person escape from an inevitable future of poverty, abuse and addiction, yet another breaks free of the cycle? Is it chance? Fate? Something I did? Something I did not do? Two young people, from the same community, same backgrounds, similar histories of abuse, neglect, and abject hopelessness, recently came into our lives, put in our path by God's divine plan. One is a young man we've known for a few months, who's sporadically helped us as a handyman and laborer, who Alex took under his wing to mentor and guide and perhaps to break the cycle of bad choices; the other is a young unmarried mom introduced to us by friends up the road when she became homeless and had no place else to turn. Both of them experienced a childhood no child should ever even know about, let alone live. Both had at least one person who cared about them, who reached out to them, but, for one reason or another, who also deserted them and gave up. Both of them were failed by an inadequate system, lost in a social services network overburdened by hundreds of lost children just like them. Both of them bounced from house to house, even ending up living in the woods or by the river because they either had no place else to go, or because the alternative was to live in homes so toxic it would destroy them. 

The young man has tried to change, but keeps getting sucked back into the only world he has ever known, believing the lies that he is hopeless, that he will never change, and that he can fix himself. He says his kids are his everything, but puts himself first. And now, after weeks of us trying to help him--going to parole meetings, posting bond, and countless talks and meals and prayer--he has vanished back into the woods, back to his comfort zone, possibly back to drugs. The young woman got a job thanks to her cousin, and has kept that job for over a month; she is currently looking for her own place. I am amazed at what a caring, loving and consistent mom she is, especially since she had no positive role model growing up. 

I can't help but compare this scenario to my own life, and, more broadly, to mankind. We are all so desperately lost, following the ways of the world and listening to the whispers of Satan since Adam and Eve capitulated to the serpent in the Garden. We make the same mistakes over and over again, and think we can fix it, that we know better, that we have all the answers. And God is always there, reaching out for us, offering His help and wisdom through His word, and many of us stubbornly refuse His help, and reject the precious gift of His Son. 

Is one person stronger or more resilient than the other? I just don't know. What I do know is that without grace I would still be lost, heading towards ruin and an eternity of suffering. Like the song, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see. By grace. God's amazing grace. 

On Afghanistan

I have been trying really, really hard to not get sucked into the secular drama that is out in the world on FaceBook, news reports, and other social media chatter; my focus needs to be on God and the image of Christ that I portray to the world, and most of the arguments and issues being debated (that is a really kind word for the vitriol I see and hear on a daily basis) are issues  that are never going to be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction--this is nothing new.The reason I try to NOT get embroiled in these debates and echo chambers is simple: they do not personally and directly affect me and my quality of life, and more importantly, they have no bearing on my salvation, so I normally stay out of the fray and refuse to enlist in the tribal mentality so prevalent in today’s society. 

But, something recently truly struck a nerve, causing me sleepless nights, not a few tears, and a sense of helplessness: the bungled withdrawal of the troops from Afghanistan, and the deafening silence that ensued when military and political leaders were questioned. No real news coverage, no investigation, no Congressional inquiry, and no publicized outcry demanding accountability—other than some videos and posts on social media channels, and those were quickly relegated to a trash basket of “disgruntled military and veterans.” Had this happened on President Trump’s watch, mainstream media, his political opponents, FaceBook, Twitter, and other social media giants would be screaming for accountability, probably even demanding impeachment of the President and resignation of senior military leaders. Not now, no—instead all channels are flooded with the Gabby Petito and Brian Laundrie saga for the past 30 days. Sure, it’s sad, but she is one of over 600,000 Americans who go missing every year; the timing of focusing nearly all news on that one story brings me pause. She went missing on August 24, and was officially reported missing by her family on August 28, the weekend all hell broke loose at the Kabul airport. Stealing a line from one of the Star Wars movies (don't ask me which one), this is a classic example of "These are not the droids you seek.” Swiftly silenced, swept under the rug, all focus shifted to a missing 22 year old and an uproar over Haitian immigrants being chased by the border patrol on horses. 

Silenced until a 17-year veteran and battalion commander, Marine Lt Col Stuart Scheller, posted a video demanding accountability from senior Marine leaders after 13 service members, 11 of them Marines, one of which Scheller knew personally, were killed in a suicide bombing outside the airport they were trying to protect. Admittedly, making the video in uniform was sure to cause an uproar in the tight-assed Marine community, and many veterans and current servicemen criticize him for that, but something tells me he knew his video and statements would carry more weight and credibility if he wore his uniform.  The video went viral, and within hours he was relieved of his command, and as of today, sits in the brig at Camp Lejeune pending an Article 32 hearing (an Article 32 hearing determines if the offense(s) warrant trial by court-martial). Lt Col Scheller has since posted two more videos in which he resigns his commission and implores senior leaders to take accountability, a sentiment echoed by the majority of military, both currently serving and veterans. 

Accountability??? For senior officers, for those in power, for military officers and senior enlisted, or any military member with connections, yeah what a joke. In the 32 years I served my country—22 years on active duty, and 10 years as a contractor—accountability was anything but fair and equitable. Wing commanders who used their position and power to have affairs with wives of their subordinates, and, when discovered, were allowed to retire as if nothing had happened. My own single airman being denied reenlistment for having an affair with a married officer, while that officer was given a slap on the wrist and allowed to continue on with his career as if nothing happened. Rampant sexual abuse from senior enlisted members and officers, lying and cheating and stealing: in short, any crime or immoral behavior you see in the civilian sector, I saw in the military. But true accountability? None. Scapegoats? Plenty of them. So upon hearing Scheller demand accountability from his chain of command, and the echoes of other service members demanding accountability from their chain of command, all the way up to the commander in chief, I sighed. I applaud him, but at the same time, I seriously doubt it will ever happen.  

 
Back to the Afghanistan debacle: how does the largest organization supporting veterans, the Veteran’s Administration, respond to this debacle? By quickly posting videos on their website, activating a crisis line for Afghanistan veterans (with the ubiquitous tag line “you are not alone,”) publishing blogs, and sending an email to every single veteran on the VA rolls. Funny that no videos or blogs or personal emails from the director were sent in the previous 20 years, but all of the sudden, now we are flooded with help and advice and resources to “help” us deal with the anger and confusion and disillusionment over the fallout of a botched withdrawal from a country we all had something to do with helping since 2001. And to that, I cry BULLSHIT! The emails, blogs, crisis lines, “thank you for your service” comments from politicians and senior officials in the military are vain attempts to atone for the worst military withdrawal in history, virtue signaling at its finest. And, the continued insistence from the commander in chief and his senior level military advisors and joint chiefs that “we stand by our decision” is a slap in the face of all who served. 

Am I saying I believe we should have stayed in Afghanistan indefinitely? No, and I’m not alone in saying we had already been there far longer than we should have been. But, to abruptly abandon the country in the infancy of learning how to protect and govern themselves, to pull the only safety net they had for two decades out from under them, was dishonorable and foolhardy, to put it mildly. The Afghan security forces and fledgling government were not even close to being ready to take back the reins of their country, a country with a multiethnic society, comprised of at least fifteen different tribes dating back thousands of years; the only uniting thread among these warring tribes being their religion: Islam. Outsiders (Alexander the Great, Iran, India, Russia, and the United States, to name a few) have tried unsuccessfully for centuries to "tame" Afghanis, a people for all intents and purposes living in the 15th century, endorsing honor killings, amputation of limbs or execution as punishment for crimes. We stormed in there, guns blazing, ostensibly to avenge the atrocities of 9/11, and 20 years later, after a great loss of life and billions of dollars, realized the futility of “converting” Afghanistan to our way of life. Withdrawal was inevitable, as it was in Vietnam; it was just a matter of determining when we could beat feet, tuck our tails, and run. 

So, how do I feel about the events  in Afghanistan? I am angry, hurt, sad, and ashamed to be an American right now—I think of the maimed soldiers, I can see the boxes marked “human remains” on my flights from Bagram to Kandahar to Kabul to Qatar. Mostly, though, what makes me lose sleep, what makes me truly ashamed of my country, is the abandonment and downright betrayal of those Afghanis who worked alongside us, who risked their lives and the lives of their families to be our interpreters and cultural liaisons in a country we did not understand. I remember the three teenage boys, barefoot and wearing bits and pieces of ill-fitting uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, letting me into the compound at night and graciously offering me a cup of chai. I see the women and girls allowed to go to school for the first time in their lives, and selling their beautiful handmade linens and wares at the weekly market. I see the children clamoring for food, for money, for pencils, for shoes, for whatever we “rich Americans” could spare.  I see a country so poor and so beautiful but entrenched in the past. Photos of Afghan civilians trying to stop huge aircraft while taxiing, some of them even desperate enough to try to hitch a ride on the plane’s landing gear (and inevitably falling to their deaths), whole families shoving their papers and passports at beleaguered American soldiers, trying to attain safe passage out of a country that was falling apart. And all I can ask is, “why?”  Was it worth it? Did those service men and women die or return home crippled mentally and physically in vain? How do we make sense of it all for them? 

We don’t. Only God can see the future, and how it will play out. But I am still angry.

Many of my friends and family have asked me “What do you think of the Afghanistan withdrawal?” and “How does it make you feel?” 

Well, now you know. 

Vent over.

On Prayer

Prayer--that honor and privilege of having a two-way communication with our Creator, a means in which man can not only talk to God, but also listen. Prayer is the means by which His supernatural grace flows to us--powerful grace, saving grace. Prayer is how we acknowledge and adore God, confess our sins, thank Him for everything, and ask for what we need. In short, prayer is talking to and listening to our heavenly Father. Thousands of books have been written about prayer--how to pray, when to pray, why to pray. There are prescribed prayers for every situation, every career field (the lawyer's prayer, the teacher's prayer). There is the serenity prayer. Prayer altars. Prayer cloths and blankets. Beads. Crystals. Mantras. There is no shortage of guidance and instructions and accouterments for prayer. All faiths have some sort of prayer built into their rituals and traditions. 

Christians are great at talking about prayer, but let's face it: few people, me included, have a robust prayer life. Sure, I pray before meals, say quick prayers of intercession, and offer to pray for people who are concerned about some trouble in their lives. Sadly, though, my prayer life is seriously wanting; more often than not, when confronted with a problem, pain, illness, frustration, or a challenge, I still yearn to be in control, to fix it myself, to seek out the answers. Recently I suffered a horrible tooth abscess, and was in excruciating pain. My first reaction? Google it, complain about it, take pills, call the ER; only AFTER all those things did I realize, or even think about, praying about it. 

Then there is the matter of intercessory prayer--friends and families confide some worry or concern to me, I tell them "I'll pray for you," but really, do I? Or is it just some automatic, knee jerk response, something I am expected (as a Christian) to say? And if I do pray for that person, how sincere am I? Do I really talk to God about it as I would talk to my earthly father or mentors or pastor about it? Oh, and yeah, do I actually listen? Or do I just rattle off some "please help (insert name) with (insert problem)," and then move on the next item on the list?

Seriously, by this point in my life I should be more practiced in this area; I mean, I have been a self-professed Christian for over 50 years, and since prayer is integral to the life of a believing Christian, one would assume I would be better at it than I am, that with any challenge, my first reaction would be to fall to my knees and pray.  

Maybe my prayers need to start with "Help me, teach me, to pray." 

The older I get, the farther along I am on this journey of sanctification, growing in grace, the more I realize (painfully) how I do not deserve His grace.