Decisions, Decisions

Every day I make hundreds of decisions, most of them without any thought at all. Do I press the snooze button once or twice? Coffee or Nespresso? Bra or no bra? Curl my hair or put it up? Eye makeup or not? Pick up library books today? Throughout the day, the week, and the months, I am constantly making decisions, big and small, with very little thought as to the choices I make. Sadly I make these decisions often in a vacuum, not even bothering to get input from friends and family, and worse of all, not asking God for wisdom or discernment. This habit of counting on my own knowledge and experience to make decisions has resulted in me being inordinately cocky and sure of myself when making small decisions or even more important ones. 

For most decisions my husband and I consult each other, talk about the options, research it, and then discuss it again, eventually landing on either a mutually agreed upon outcome or, at least a compromise. Moving, buying an RV, investments, when to retire, and whether or not we should get two dogs have all been on the decision plate, and whether it is our decision-making prowess or sheer dumb luck, we have made some really great choices. But what about those decisions we regret? Life choices we keep buried in our closet, skeletons of our past rattling in the dark, whispering "What were you thinking?" Sure we learn from those ill-fated choices, but why did we make those mistakes to begin with?

Pride. Simple, sinful pride, the created pretending to be the creator, the reader presuming to be the author. Basing decisions on gut feelings or out of sanctimonious self-love without even a glimpse or a nod to the One who created us. Every single decision made in that vacuum of self without even so much as a glance at God's word or introspective look into the soul to ask the Holy Spirit within me what I should do has turned out poorly, some even disastrously; my past is riddled with the remnants of these poor choices. 

But I do not always just depend on myself for decision making; I go to others, to "experts." For financial decisions, I seek out CPAs and investment advisors, and lawyers assist me with legal advice. For medical concerns, I seek out doctors and nurses and online reputable sources. Parenting? Other parents, of course, and the myriad self-proclaimed parenting experts in print and online. Ah, online, the internet, where I can google anything and get a million recommendations and answers in a fraction of a second, without any assurance of the validity of these answers. I need to pay more attention to the fact that these so-called experts, the sources of information, are also part of the creation, and not the creator; putting such a heavy responsibility on the backs and minds of mere humans or the products they have written is foolhardy.

Why this tendency to ignore the Creator when searching for answers to my problems or help in making a choice? As a Christian and a believer in all that the Nicene Creed pronounces, I of all people should turn first to God for decision-making dilemmas. Only sometimes is that my initial tendency. Case in point: I have been struggling with a health issue for over a year; nothing is working out like the medical experts said it would. Now a bigger decision looms before me, and my first impulse is to ask Dr. Google or talk to friends and neighbors, to share my woes and thereby hope to receive wise advice.  The next stop is the medical community, and I beg the doctor to tell me what to do, to reassure me all is well and I am making the right decision. How can a mere man, created by the same God, have better advice than the one who made him?

So I pray. Sure I still talk to friends and family and experts, but first I talk to God about it. He already knows the outcome, and sure the outcome may not be one I desire, but it will be far better than if I go blindly down my own road without God's footsteps beside me.

Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers. The wicked are not so but are like chaff that the wind drives away. Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous; (Psalm 1:1-6 ESV)

Waiting on God when you are in pain

Hold on tight, readers; unlike many of my writings, this one is not funny, reassuring, or even thankful. Some may even call it whiny. 

I want to believe that what I am going through has a purpose, that God has something to teach me in this trial, and that "the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us." (Romans 8:18 ESV). But (yes, there is that ubiquitously qualifying but) no matter how hard I try, how much I pray, the sheer misery and unpredictability of what I am going through physically overshadows everything else and tempts me to forget (or even not believe) God's promises.

For two years I have been dealing with gastrointestinal issues, and not the kind on the ever-present pharmaceutical commercials, the ones urging us to "ask your doctor" featuring smiling faces and active people miraculously cured of their ailment. Never mind the laundry list of side effects, damage to unborn babies,  or warnings to not take if "you are allergic to xyzfffppp." As if you'd know you have an allergy to something you have never taken before. It is not IBS, IBS-C, or IBS-D, or eczema. No, I have had a hiatal hernia for over 20 years, a bulging of my stomach through the hiatus in my diaphragm. And for the past 20-plus years the medical community dismissed it as "commonplace" and "nothing to worry about, and I bought that explanation hook, line, and sinker, because, well, they are doctors.

In the beginning, it was just discomfort, gas, and a little nausea until it progressed to acid reflux at night (waking up choking with bile and stomach contents in your mouth). I tried Tums, fennel oil, tea, you name it; the doctors finally prescribed antacids and later a fun new drug, proton pump inhibitors (PPIs). I changed my diet, worked out, and trusted the drugs to work. News flash: Nothing worked. Frustrated, I got a hold of my cousin, a GI nurse practitioner, and she smoothed the way for expedited referrals to Hickory for procedures and tests. Endoscopies (two), barium swallows (two), and a really horrible test called an esophageal manometry (I would rather give birth on I-26 than go through that again).  After eight months, they referred me to Wake Forest Hospital in Winston Salem, where in October I underwent major surgery to repair my gut and remove a rare hernia, one that had the majority of my stomach in my chest cavity; the surgeon attached my stomach to my abdominal wall and repaired the hole in my diaphragm. I was ecstatic. Well, maybe not ecstatic, but I could breathe and eat jello!

For the first week, I healed and felt significantly better, despite being on a clear liquid diet for the next three weeks; however, it was not long before the symptoms recurred: regurgitation, pain, nausea, and even vomiting. The episodes grew so frequent I began keeping a journal, even creating a new calendar on my phone. I had only just graduated to a soft (not clear liquid) diet and had to go backward! A visit to the emergency room revealed I had a "small to moderate hiatal hernia." Again. Pain in my diaphragm, nausea, and again, the inability to keep anything down besides clear liquids, crackers, soft cheese, and mashed potatoes. Thanksgiving dinner for me was mashed potatoes, pie, and creamed squash. 

So I went back to the doctor's office, had more tests, and listened to my options and the risks of each.  The hernia needs to be repaired, but when? The longer I wait the better my chances because my body can supposedly "heal," whatever that means. More surgery now could result in the removal of part of my stomach or a feeding tube; wait a month, and it could be a little bit more hopeful, but there is a risk of perforation of something critical, bleeding, or even having to abort the procedure. Meanwhile, nearly every day I struggle to eat, and that foreboding feeling of "Oh oh, here it comes!" makes me run to the bathroom. I am angry, sad, depressed, and sick to death of pudding and jello and broth; in other words, I am hungry. I cannot eat meat that isn't cut up small enough for a 6-month-old baby, raw vegetables or fruit, coconut, nuts, untoasted bread, and a zillion other food items. 

So I wait. I try to advance my diet, making incremental changes until my body rejects them, two steps forward and three steps back. I know God has a plan. I just wish he'd let me in on it. For now, I am holding on to this verse:

It is good for me that I was afflicted, that I might learn your statutes. (Psalms 119:71 ESV)

On being a stepmom

What I wish I had known before becoming a stepmom:

1. Step-parenting is not natural. It is common. But it is not natural. Establish good boundaries and get your husband on the same page. Talk often about concerns and fears and misgivings. Stepdads are cool and fun. Stepmoms are, by definition, uncool and no fun. Ask Disney.
2. Be their friend before you are their mom--your stepchild is confused and scared, and in their eyes it is your fault Daddy doesn't live with them anymore. At best your stepchild will be ambivalent about your marriage.
3. Blended families do not exist. Blending implies smoothness. It's more like a chopped salad. With nuts. If your stepchild does not live with you full time it is much harder than if they do and working out summer visitations is a logistical nightmare even FEDEX would struggle with.
4. No two families raise their children the same way, and if you are the stepmom,  your way is wrong. You cannot fix what you did not break but you will be blamed for breaking it. Your rules and values in raising your own kids will be different than those of your stepchild's mom. Funny thing? If you are easier on your stepchild you will be told you don't care about them, but if you treat them the same as your own children you are too strict and don't love them.
5. Your husband will take his child's side when you least expect it and your husband may have a closer bond with his child than with you. You will argue with him about parenting, so just take a step back and let Dad handle things with his child. 
6. Just assume it is always the stepmom's fault. You will feel guilty for not doing enough, you will be told, "You are not my mom!"; things you say will be misconstrued, you'll be resented, and your stepchild will break your heart--often. Accept it. The emotions will drain you--buckle up; find other stepmoms to talk to. And drink wine. Prozac helps too.
7. Stepmoms do all the things real moms do. Without the credit, and you can do all the mom things but still not be on the emergency contact list. No matter what you do, you will not be appreciated. 
8. You have to try harder with a stepchild than with your own child. You will not love them the same as your own children. But you are not allowed to say that out loud.
9. A mom can say she needs a break from her kids without being judged, but if a mom complains about her stepchild she will be judged. And if you give your husband time alone with his kids you will be blamed for not caring.
10. You will have no control over a lot of things in the relationship. Actually, you have no control. Period. Forgive yourself. Daily. And remember, there is no right or wrong way to stepparent.

Bottom line: Don't lose yourself or your faith in the process.

  

Veterans' Day

Tomorrow is Veteran's Day, the day all the veterans on social media post photos of themselves in uniform, and those who never served hit the like or the love button, and say "Thanks for your service," the day of mattress and car sales, and the chance for veterans to get a free meal or appetizer at Applebees or Outback. For me though, especially this year, Veterans' Day is a day I reflect back on the hundreds, possibly thousands, of servicemen, servicewomen, government civilians and contractors who I served with for over 30 years of my life. From entry in basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, to technical training at Keesler AFB in Biloxi, MS, to duty assignments in England, North Dakota, South Carolina, and Florida, to deployments and conferences and training all over the globe, the experiences and relationships are so integral to who I am it is impossible to explain to anyone who has never served in the military. The face of every single person I met is emblazoned into my memory--they were and always will be my family. The passage of time has no bearing on that relationship--I could just as easily start up a conversation as if I just saw them yesterday. 

You see, relationships in the military are not based on personality, background, religion, or politics. Even if there are people you may not agree with or even like, those things don't even figure into the equation. There just is not time for those trivialities when you have to depend on someone you do not even know to file your records correctly, to fix the airplane you may pilot, to make sure all the tools are in the right place, to ensure weapons will fire and parachutes will open, to take care of your dependents when you are away, and myriad other functions. You know the person you give a job to will follow your orders, and your boss trusts you to do the same. There is a structure of cooperation and interdependence in the military that still boggles my mind today--watch a base process 2000 personnel and all required cargo and equipment for deployment in 24 hours, and you will see what I mean. 

But the crux of being a veteran is not the job I did or the uniform I wore or the rank I achieved or the medals I earned. It is the unbreakable bond of a family of men and women who served their country with unabashed pride. For those who have never served in the military the camaraderie and closeness we share is incomprehensible. Our connection transcends distance, time, and station in life; put two veterans who have never met in the same room for five minutes, and within that short period of time they have found that connection and are talking like long lost siblings--because they are. I have lost family members, some through death and some through misunderstandings, and I have lost touch with a lot of friends and acquaintances I have made through the years who were not in the military. But those with whom I have served are always family, and I know with assurance I can always call on them if the need arises. 

And that is what makes retirement away from the military so damn hard--we can connect on some levels but never on as deep a level as with those who have served. So today I cherish those connections with my military brethren and think of them, the times we have shared, the fun we had, the hardships we endured, the difference we made in each others lives. You will always be close in my heart. 

On memories

Memories are a funny thing. We all know what a memory is, but we cannot find it, elicit one on command, or pinpoint the area of the brain where memories are formed. Metaphors abound that try to describe a memory: watercolors, clouds, wisps of smoke, lines on a leaf, a bank, file cabinets, books, a safe, writing in the sand. These metaphors attempt to corner something abstract, to capture a memory so it can be put in a jar, examined, measured, recreated, but it is all pointless. I have often wondered where our memories go when we die; do these memories just disappear like water down the drain (see there, another metaphor)? Or do they merge with God, where these memories actually began. I know, confusing, but since God created us, and knows what happened, what is happening, and what will happen, doesn't it make sense to assign the job of memory storage to him?

Regardless, the older I get, the more I wonder about memories: my own, my family's, my friends, and the world at large. Our memories are formed somewhere (we do not know where, although scientists have tried to figure that out) by not just our visual experiences, like photographs, but in a much more complex way. All our senses have a hand in creating memories--our smell, taste, touch, hearing, and sight--and how we feel at that moment. Are we happy? Sad? Worried? Afraid? Excited? At the time a memory is created are we recollecting other memories? Our environment, the weather, family relationships, our health, what is going on around us--is the TV on? Music? something cooking?--weaves tendrils into our memory bank and creates a new one. 

Memories sometimes build on each other, or draw parts from other memories. I look at a photograph of myself as a child, imagine what I was doing then, and then voila! there is a brand new memory; I  place myself into that photograph, and then create a memory of that event, even if I did not remember it happening before I saw the picture. The resulting memory is not real--it was manufactured by looking at a photograph and either someone told me about it, or I made it up; it is a false memory. For example, there is a photograph of me, probably 3 years old, sitting on the grass at my Nana's house, and my sister is sitting on my lap, laying her head on my shoulder, and my mouth is forming a little oval. In my mind, I think I remember that moment, and that I was saying "Aw she loves me." Is it an authentic memory? Who knows? But I have created that memory in my mind (somewhere) so many times it has become real.

We can repress memories of painful or shameful, embarrassing moments (but those memories are always there.) We can also manipulate our memories by our moods and make them larger than life, or practically nonexistent. Other people can twist and bend our memories by talking about how they remember it. And well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning self-described "experts" can take an innocent occurrence, or something that happened to someone else and make it our crosss to bear, or our victory. Three people involved in the exact same situation at the exact same time in the identical place will remember an event, a feeling, a situation, in three (or more!) different ways. We ascribe memories to the wrong people, the wrong time, or the wrong place, or worse yet, create our own memories as a buffer from something too painful to face. 

People recount memories to justify their own actions, reactions and feelings toward someone or something. Memories are great, because they can make us feel wonderful or they can help us not make the same mistake. But they are only memories, and these memories are only real to the person who made theme; my memories are only accurate (to a point) for me, and nothing I do or say to anyone can make them see and relive my memory the way I do. 

So yeah, memories are great, they are different for everyone, they are elusive little buggers that shift and change and hide and pinch. The most important thing about memories though? They are in the past. They are done. They are gone. And to live in the past in our memories, real, imagined, or manipulated, does the memory maker no good.

The moral of the story? Don't trust your memory. Trust God. Love him. Love others.

Form new memories.

You know you are alone when...

... you make too much conversation with the Starbucks barista 

... your spouse is more interested in channel surfing than sharing news about each others' days

... you talk to your dogs, ask them questions, and actually answer them

... your chickens seem happy to see you

... Jesus is the only one who truly understands you

... your phone doesn't ring or send you a notification except for reminders, ads, and robocalls

... you are actually glad when you get one of the above calls

... you're about to have surgery and none of your family will be there to take care of you

The most meaningful parts of my day involve other people's children, helping them learn, making sure they feel loved, giving them the time and attention my own family doesn't seem to want. 

I served my country, loved my family, took care of them when they were sad or sick or dying, celebrated with them when they were joyous, gave of myself until there was almost nothing left. No I didn't do it for anything in return, but now that I am older, and alone, and want someone to take care of me, to listen,

they are 

all

gone.

Where is my lane?

Exactly where is this lane I am supposed to stay in?

Conversations with adult children, specifically women, are laced with danger. If you say nothing or don't reply to a question fast enough, you could be construed as (1) not listening, (2) not caring or (3) thinking she is doing everything wrong.  Say something too quickly, or a short reply because texting a long reply takes too long, and you are told you are meddling, butting in, out of your lane. The past few months I feel as if I have been walking through a minefield; say the wrong thing or say anything at the wrong time or just nod and listen and BOOM. And it is not as if I am offering advice every day or telling them they don't feed their children right or they are horrible wives. I don't nag them about not calling, nor do I send 16-page letters chronicling every single offense, real or imagined, they've committed since birth, complaining how no one cares. I grew up getting letters like that from my mother, and was constantly told I wasn't good enough, and never would be; so I know from painful experience how much it hurts to feel inadequate. Nope, I love my daughters and my stepdaughter and I cherish the relationship I have (or thought I had) with them. 

I don't want to be the person they have pigeonholed me to be, the 40-something mom who was trying her best to raise competent, loving, and Godly women. That was nearly 30 years ago and I am finished raising them and just want to keep getting to know them, who they are now, what they think, what they love, and how they see me. I want to be that rare and beautiful blend of mother and friend, which is something I never had (either actually). I want them to know me, to ask me my thoughts, to understand how I feel about things like getting older, death, grandchildren, my parents, the music I like, how am I doing with my brother, or about my life in general. And I want to be able to speak the truth to them, to tell them what I see in them, or in their lives, that is good and wonderful, but also what may cause them pain and disappointment. 

And therein lies the rub, my Shakespearian friends, because my middle-age daughters take offense when I say anything that even remotely smacks of advice, even if it is not. Why? Because I am "the mom," the one who controlled them when they were little, kept them safe, disciplined them, yelled at them, and dished out consequences for their misbehaviors. I am told to mind my business, stay in my lane, to not bring that up ever again, etc., etc. Do they really think I want that role back? That I want to control their lives or discipline them or keep them safe? Do they really believe I am such a meddling busy body? Can't they see how much I love them and want to be a part of their lives? That I think they are wonderful human beings? Do they not know how much that love is worth, and how much wisdom I can offer from nearly 70 years on this planet? I would have given my right arm to have a mother who wanted to know about me, be a part of my life even after I was "all grown up." 

Maybe that's the problem--overcompensating for something I never had by trying to be that to the young women God entrusted me with. Some folks my age have almost zero contact with their grown kids, others have one or more adult children living with them, and still others just share coffee and light conversation. I want more, but these three women, two of whom I raised, seem happy with having less. And as I approach the "golden years" of my life there is so much I want to say, so much I want to share, and who better to share it with than women I love? Sure I have friends and a husband who is awesome, and acquaintances where my days take me, but it is the next generation of me that I want to share things with, so that when I am gone, there will be some part of me here who knew who I was and what I loved. 

The funny thing about this conundrum I am in? Young women my daughters' ages and younger seek out my advice and my companionship and my wisdom; they see me as a valuable resource to tap into, so why the disconnect with my own? 

Who knows, right? 

God does, I know...I think I am going to have a chat with him about this next time I talk to him.