first position

Yesterday I told a friend I needed my dad. It happens sometimes, though not as frequently as it once did. There are days when it's the sitting and talking together while the coffee somehow doesn't get cold despite the hours and hours in our pajamas at the breakfast table that I miss. Then there are the late nights as a young adult sitting in the kitchen counter while he sat in a chair and we debated some decision - the pros and cons and everything in between - until we couldn't remember what the dilemma was in the first place. The left arm hugs from the side with the side of my head playfully smushed to his face. "You done good, kid." 

Yesterday what I missed was the crawling onto his lap and curling up there part. I haven't actually done that since I was about 10, but he had a way of making the comfort of it all come back when I needed it most. For the third time in three years, my heart is being broken. I would say that all were circumstances mostly outside my control, but the fact is only one started beyond me. The other two are very closely related, and as a result I chose as I did. It's the realization of the similarities that hurts the most. 

I don't know how much Dad really could help, but he always had that safe place for me, snuggled up against his chest. 

Anyway, last night one of my sons and I were chatting, and I heard in him that same comfort. It wasn't until afterward, when we told each other good night, that I realized. And later I tucked myself into bed knowing that Dad had been there, too. Not in any supernatural way, but in the way he taught me by example to teach my kids. And not just my own kids - all the kids I've ever worked with. 

Being genuine. 

Last week I was twice asked about dancing (just about a week apart, actually). The first asked if I miss teaching; something I've been thinking about quite a bit lately. The second asked about lessons, but in such a way that I felt a gentle reassurance that I really should be taking lessons. I'm well aware dance is a passion for me; something that makes me tick. In those moments I know Dad was urging me to take steps across the floor - risk others seeing me should I stumble and land on the floor in some awkward akimbo position. Is forgotten that was the fear, that's what causes the nerves. I'd grown so accustomed to not taking the chances. Not because they would make me look bad, but because it made someone else uncomfortable. 

Dad never once made me feel like my choices, my steps, my movements, my dance would reflect on him. And yet the joy he showed at seeing me be felt like a spotlight; a warm and cozy place in the sun. 

My son said to me, "You are good at this, and anyone who acknowledges that deserves some help." You, my son, are a good man. Your grampa would likely have put it something like that. Thank you, Lord, for putting them both in my life. 

out the door

It happened again on Sunday. "You look great! How's your husband?" Since blank stare is not polite, nor turning and walking away wordless, my response is always short and to the point. "He left a year ago." Generally with a heartfelt smile that goes along with the corresponding thought, "remember you said I look great?" Usually the next statement is along the lines of a "sorry" statement, to which I awkwardly reply, "Don't be. I'm great!" Awkward to them, not me. I am doing great. I have days, but not because I'm sad or devastated. I have days because everyone does.

In the past year, I have laughed more, cried more, sung more, and learned to try new things. Like pool. And tubing. Motorcycling and power tools. I've gotten rid of things that get in the way; both tangible and nebulous, physical and mental. 

For quite a while I've known that the best tool for healing is sharing. Unfortunately, for longer I'd been conditioned that "there are just some things we don't talk about." It was days before I told any friends I didn't see every single day, and even longer until I told anyone important to me. I'm forever grateful for the friends who immediately rallied around me; who still check up on me and will take my calls at the oddest times. There are those who figured it out because I just couldn't make the words; so convinced there is irredeemable shame in the end of any relationship was I. 

I'm breaking free from that notion of shame. Over and over I am advised to speak out. To share my story not only because I need to know I'm not alone, but also because others need to know they are not alone. A couple of hours before that exchange at church on Sunday, I was talking with two lovely women I know. They had been talking when I approached. I had no idea they knew each other, or how, and I hadn't seen either of them in a while. As we chatted about my divorce proceedings this far, one said to the other, "You are [divorced], too? I had no idea!" I admire both of them; they've each helped me - especially in the beginning of the process. Yet they didn't know they could be support for each other. 

My takeaway from Sunday was twofold. I've grown - nearly a year ago, at a very similar event, I answered the exact same way, and hoped I'd shocked anyone who heard. (I did.) Sunday I hoped it was just fact and landed softly. The second is this: people should be allowed - no, encouraged - to share their own stories, where they need support, prayers, healing. Those who are sick are encouraged. There's the prayer chain, meal groups, home visits and care, people who call near strangers to clean or drive for appointments or kids' events. I had friends to rally around me, but every one of them I told at the beginning I was convinced would walk in the other direction, away from me. For the first few weeks, I died a little every time I called or texted any of them. 

We don't handle abandonment well. I've gotten stronger and wiser through it, not to mention happier and more comfortable in my own skin. Sweeping the eggshells out the door helps tremendously in that regard. I am blessed. Truly blessed. 

passion and purpose

In the two weeks since I was told I have no passion for my work, I've been told spontaneously that I have clear passion for what I do, why I do it, who I do it for. Mostly by strangers - three of them, to be specific. Twice by parishioners - parishioners I don't often talk to. And none of them were people who could have known what I was told in that meeting. In each person's voice I heard the Voice I'd been urged to listen for. The still, small one. The one that overrides the lies. The one I was advised to hear when two people are telling me the same thing in different places. That is the true comfort when comfort is most needed.

Interestingly, it's not in level of passion for my work that I need any comfort. Once upon a time, through a good bit of spiritual seeking, I was drawn to the conclusion that the way my life, my heart, my spirit, even my memories and emotions were compartmentalized is not right, real, true. Integration is hard work. Painful work. But I am a determined woman, and I worked hard to integrate my interior and exterior lives. There's only so much progress one can make alone, and only so much more with an untrained, unprofessional adviser.

I remember the visit when my therapist asked, "So, do you think [A] and [B] are annoyed they agreed you should talk to me yet? Because if they aren't, they probably will be soon." I was growing, changing, integrating. And now is the time.

My passion is me. Understated, but strong. Willing, supportive. I was asked recently how long I'd been involved in youth ministry. Officially, three years. As a paid youth minister, 6 weeks. But when I think about it, I realize it's been almost half my life. In a religious environment? No. In truth, I didn't really even think about it. When I danced and taught dance, I actively mentored the teens I was in class with, befriending them, being myself, and being willing to listen to them, offering another perspective, based on experience, perspective, and, yes, faith. Working in the library, I took an idea the football coach tossed out, developed and ran with it. My passion even then was quiet, but clear as I arranged for Junior and Senior football players to read in elementary classrooms. Driving them back and forth, we'd talk about the game that night, the kids in the classrooms, tests, teachers, and classes in the high school. Those two seasons, I watched those boys grow in a way I hadn't expected. I helped them choose books, and wrote them passes for study halls. Each and every one of them finished the season with an assurance from me that I would happily be a reference for them at any time in their future. Every conversation with them, every picture I took of their time in classrooms, was shaped again by my experience, perspective, and faith.

Funny thing is, I never saw any of it as anything beyond me being me; me being someone who loves them as they are, and because they are. The kids I met through dance are now adults; some with children of their own. I get to see where they are through the 'magic' that is Facebook, and miss them all the time. Fewer of the football players are Facebook friends, but I do see their mothers there from time to time, and my heart swells when I hear updates on any of them. The teens I've worked with more recently are as imprinted on my heart as any of the others.

The truth is, I was never hired for my passion. I was hired for a purpose: To lead teens closer to Christ. Love and truth are what are necessary for that. Those I have; those I show. These past two weeks when I've been told my passion is clear, I wonder a little what is meant. My friends assure me, and give specific examples. Frankly, I expect that - I appreciate their support more than I can say. It's the others who touch me especially deeply - the card that came in the mail from states away, telling me how contagious my energy is; the card in my mail slot at work that encouraged me to stay the course, no matter what; the priest who told my on the phone and in person that what youth ministry needed most was the kind of enthusiasm and passion I bring to it; the sister who told me my dedication and strength inspired her. I was hired for a purpose; for my organizational skills. And in there somewhere, I found passion.

Ironically, in the same place I began my work at integration, I've been required to compartmentalize. I can't anymore. At least not to the extent I'm being asked to; it's not real, true, natural. Actually, compartmentalizing is a great way to kill passion, dedication, faith. When I was told I had no passion, I wasn't hurt by it [two friends - both men - told me they would have been devastated by a comment like that] or even surprised, considering the source. I was, however, disappointed at the attempt to control my emotions, and at the same time pleased that I recognized it as such. Something we've been working on in therapy: recognizing the actions that tended once to trigger my reaction to shrivel and shrink. I'm not the willing victim I once was. I have miles to go before all this is behind me, but I am on the road to healing, and moving at more than a snail's pace now.

to be me

The things I do, I do because I need to. They've been on my dream list a very long time. Occasionally I'm asked if it's my bucket list I'm pulling from, and I have to say that's not the case. There is a distinct difference between things I might want to do before I die, and things I've always wanted to learn, do, or try. 

Yesterday I got my motorcycle license. A couple of weeks ago, the ride coach asked me why I decided now to go for it. Taken aback a little, all I could tell him was that I know some great people who ride, my uncle has one, and I just always knew from the time I was little that I wanted to ride. As of five weeks ago, I'd never even straddled a motorcycle. Last week I was a passenger for the first time. 

That's only part of the story. I've been held back from so many things I've wanted to do, and the external barriers are still wreaking havoc on my heart from time to time, but I'm moving forward. Seeing openings and taking them; accepting the challenge to Be Me. 

So I ballroom dance without a partner for class because I love it.  I got a tattoo because I've wanted one since my kids were born. I learned to ride and will get a bike once I'm done paying major lawyer bills. I've painted my bedroom in colors I like, for the first time in my life, believe it or not. I have two country stations programmed in my car, and not because it came that way! I go to the gym on my schedule - and I allow myself flexibility with that schedule. 

That's the beginning. I want to learn to kayak - like actually know what I'm doing. I went with a friend a couple of times a few summers ago, and she moved away. She's now back, and I hope that next summer we can pick up where we left off. But if that doesn't fit for both of us, I have the tools to find a way. I have always loved the water. I've never spent enough time with it - I've been held back. I've always wanted to travel, and I'm finally able to allow myself, to stand up for the time necessary to see places and people. 

Bucket list? No. Things that are naturally me that have been suppressed. To a certain extent, I let them be. I allowed small bits of me to be chipped away. I listened and believed that in my heart were childish, unattainable desires, and that they should stay there; not to be shared. Thankfully, they never disappeared completely. Gramma Katie's insistence that I promise never to grow old protected them, I'm sure of it. 

I will be who I am intended to be. Adventurer. Dreamer. Lover. Leader. Follower. Spirited. Learner. Stephanie.