my role model

A few weeks ago, I was asked "Who is your role model? What inspires you about this person?" I was in a bit of a rough place, and feeling let down by a whole lot of people I always thought 'should' be in the position of role modeling. I was set to respond with "It depends on the day" or "I don't have one. I prefer to model myself after attributes rather than people." The truth is, what I wanted to say is that I avoid letting anyone into that position now so they cannot disappoint or hurt me. The question was part of a survey I had to do - it was not optional - and there was no reason to say anything on it that wasn't the absolute truth. But, despite the truth in what I wanted to say, I knew, deep down, that it was temporary; the way that moment in time was shining on me. Or raining on me, I suppose.

I stepped away from my computer and thought about all the people I love, and who love me; my family of the heart, and my kids.Can a role model be a regular person? How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten that the best role models are the ones that are right there, showing themselves - their true selves - in little ways. The people that had hurt me so much hadn't, really. I mean, yes, they did, but in the long run - a year, a decade, even a month down the road - the ways they had disappointed me would be long gone; the hurt healed over into a golden scar, strengthening the once broken parts of my heart. I considered who, really, was a role model to me, and how I could answer the question honestly. Truly honestly. An answer that would hold true in the future (days later, when discussing it, or a decade later, when I reflected on it), as well as the past. Was there anyone? Had I ever really let anyone be a role model? Of course. This is my response:

My dad. He could befriend anyone, in any situation. Along the way, he would find the best in people; everyone was his favorite. And he made that believable. From his example, I have learned that everyone has some gift to share, and I try to remember that, even with unpleasant interactions. His legacy to me is an admiration of the human spirit.

Today is Dad's birthday. Today marks ten years of no Happy Birthday phone calls. No left arm hugs. No coffee in pajamas all morning, until it's time to get dressed so we can have lunch and talk some more. No last glass of wine after lights out. I wish sometimes I had asked him what gift it is that he saw that I had to share. I wish sometimes that I had told him about my hurts, more about my joys, my dreams. I never asked him for real reasons on some things, like why he discouraged me from being a helicopter pilot, or going to the West Coast for college. I know the reasons he told me at the time, but I also know there was more behind it. The truth is, despite all the talking we did, and the love we shared, I didn't want him to know me that well. I was afraid, and I'm only beginning to learn what I was afraid of. The truth is, even as a little girl, I was already broken, and I really didn't want to know, or face, that he was, too, in some way. I didn't want that in common with him. The truth is, he's the reason I stayed. The reason I stayed at home, the reason I stayed in my marriage, the reason I stayed with at least a couple of jobs. I can't (yet) explain how he was, because I don't (yet) have the words. But I now know that to be truth. I love him for it. And I also wish I could talk it out with him, because it only makes so much sense, then it falls off into some realm I don't want to visit alone.

Another one of the questions on that survey was about a desert island:

If you were shipwrecked and stranded on an island without any supplies, fellow humans, etc., what do you do first? Why?
Cry, because I’ve never even considered learning how to build a fire without matches, and I know fire is the best way to protect myself from wild animals, prepare food to eat, and signal for help. Then I would pull myself together and explore. 

At the discussion afterward, we talked about sushi. In another conversation, my therapist said he knew there was something else I would do before I cried, because I am me. He said I would realize and be thankful that I am alive. And it clicked: I'm a survivor. The legacy of admiration for the human spirit is related to being a survivor. Dad taught me to survive. And from that survival, I am learning to thrive.

As I write this, the Morning Doves have returned. Dad used to whistle the Morning Dove's call, and always as a kid, because of the sound, I was convinced they were called Mourning Doves. Hearing them today is a gift from him, from Him. One year they nested in the crook of the tree right outside the window, and the boys and I watched them each day, sitting on eggs and staring at us. I like to think Dad watches over us, but I also hope that's not all he does. I miss him. I love him. And I'm grateful for all he taught me, and even the things he didn't, because they make him all the more real to me. Happy Birthday, Dad. I know you would understand.

a better place

Sometimes I forget where I am in comparison to where I was. I don't think I'm alone in that, but at those times, I do feel quite alone. There's no rhyme or reason to the "what next?" hitting me, nor is there any "usual" response I feel. Roughly two years ago, I made a list - a double list, actually - that serves as reminder of where something resembling rock bottom was, as far as Love (pseudo-love?) is concerned.

Things I'm not Allowed to Do
-post anything that can be perceived as negative on FB (or blog, or email, or talking with someone)
-Ever tell anyone that we've had a fight/argument, etc.
-use the words Always; Never; Everyone; Nobody; Every; or any other absolute
-interrupt
-complain when interrupted
-yell [or even talk loudly]
-point out when someone else is yelling, especially you
-exaggerate in any way
-get close enough to see when I'm not wearing my glasses
-ask what I am allowed to do
-have any complaints or negative feelings. Ever.
-exhibit stress in any way
-have no emotion
-have temper tantrums
-notice [your] temper tantrums
-finish any argument [that would mean admitting we're having one - duh!]
-walk away
-follow
-say that I'm wrong
-change my mind or have different opinions in different circumstances
-Grow

Things that I want to be able to do
-Be myself, even though I might have an "off" day
-Laugh
-Be sarcastic
-Be serious
-Know that someone is listening to me
-Cry
-Feel respected
-Sleep when I'm tired
-Relax - Not the sit-down-with-feet-up-doing-nothing kind - the kind where I can focus on what I'm doing and enjoy it for what it is because there aren't 400 other things that I have to remember to do/tell someone to do
-Be polite
-Feel like home is not a game/battle to be won
-be on a team; someplace where the page is the same for everyone
-Speak frankly without tantrums ensuing - mine or anyone else's 
-Go to the bathroom when I need to go to the bathroom

I keep these lists handy - with the things I wanted to be able to do face up - and although I don't look at it every day, it does manage to catch my eye from time to time and soothes me. Every one of those things I now have. More importantly, I recognize the other list for what it is: a picture of a life I am no longer subjected to, a life no one should be subjected to. And I'm able to see myself as I was, what and how much I didn't know. I had no idea of my worth, my value, even my spirit. I see articles sometimes and hear people say that we allow the bad behavior that affects us, and I no longer get angry about it. Sometimes we allow things because we don't know there is something else, something better. I didn't know, so I allowed that first list to become my life. It's when I began to learn about alternatives, options, reality (actually) that I made the lists. They were an effort to improve the situation. My life has improved exponentially - though not in the way I expected the day I sat down with a piece of notebook paper. I've discovered that sometimes the only way to have a clean slate is to get a new slate. Would I have chosen this path? Not in a million years. Would I trade it? Not for a million dollars. Do I regret that time, that period of my life? Not on your life. It helped to shape me. I am where I need to be. I am doing what I need to do. I have people I need in my life - people I need because they support and challenge me; they Love me, without any trace of pseudo-love. I am becoming who I am supposed to be - and I know, without a doubt, that I will never be completely her; I will continue to grow and change and learn and be reborn. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

motivated by purpose

I know what motivates me. This is exciting because yesterday I was stumped and asked for some thoughts on how to answer the question. Lots of great thoughts and ideas were offered, and I tucked it all in the back of my mind for pondering. My brand of pondering tends to let the thoughts alone back there to work things out a little with others, and I let them come out when they are ready. Possibly because some of those ideas challenged me - something I've been missing in my life for a while - the creative part of my mind seems to have jumped in to assist. I digress....

Today I was asked to take an assessment as part of an application process. Fairly similar to one I completed a few months ago for another company, as I answered the questions I thought about my verbal response to the results when the time comes, since I was unprepared the last time. Many of the questions lacked context that could change my answer dramatically, and I made mental notes of them, more for my own analysis later than anything else. Since I spent that 40 minutes essentially preparing for an interview question or two, the motivation question came to mind. "What does motivate me?" I asked myself as I curled up with a cup of hot chocolate. I closed my eyes and chuckled. One of my friends said yesterday that there are only two real motivators: Love and fear. When the hiring manager asked, my first thought was to say, "Well, it's not fear!" But I didn't know what it was. Then the images came to me.

Faces filled with gratitude. With understanding, new found knowledge. Delighted at having a new idea, a new skill, a new future. Some were faces of people I'd actually met, worked with, or encountered. Others were strangers from ads or marketing materials, but not models or actors; actual delighted people. Still others were faces I've not yet seen, made up in my imagination years ago or just now it's hard to say, but the answer was clear. I'm motivated by helping others, I thought, but realized there's more to it than that. All of it is wrapped up in my first memory of life goals in addition to being a mom. I then remembered details of my dream of having a job that required me to wear a hat and carry a clipboard - a cap, a hardhat, a uniform hat of some kind - and that my mother was mortified by the thought. (Which amused me as much tonight as it did back then!) But it's what I always wanted to do; that much I remembered vividly as I thought.

One Christmas while I was in high school, I read in the paper about the Arctic League and asked my dad if we could help. At the time, I was surprised at how readily he agreed (as a mom and former youth minister, I now know that if a kid asks to do something like that, you make it possible!) and on Christmas morning, we got up at some ungodly hour to drive a half hour to the warehouse and stand in a tremendous line in the cold and snow, and it was so worth it. The world was so quiet, between the hour, the darkness, the foot or so of snow everywhere, the hats, scarves, mittens and down enveloping all the volunteers. It was Christmas morning, but even more magical than usual, because we were going to be Santa. I was awed, touched, humbled. The line moved quickly, efficiently, and cheerfully, with hot chocolate handed out while we waited, maybe cookies, some friendly small talk among strangers. At the head of the line, we were given our deliveries and our map: 5 bags of treasures to deliver to areas I didn't even know existed. Dad found each address expertly, and together we would take the bag to the door, knocking quietly as we were instructed, so the sleeping children would have no idea we'd been there. I was profoundly affected that early, early morning by the faces of each person answering the door. No words were spoken, other than a whispered "Merry Christmas" and the corresponding "Thank you." But the faces. A picture may speak 1,000 words, but those faces, those eyes, they spoke ever so much more. Shortly thereafter I began looking into the Make-a-Wish Foundation and Habitat for Humanity, and even the Peace Corps. For reasons I neither remember the details of nor understood even at the time, I was discouraged from pursuing careers in such organizations.

But I held tightly to the tail end of the dream, like the end of a kite string.

It all came back to me tonight in that question: "What does motivate me." Love, yes; not fear. Good, that was cleared up. Helping people, yes; but in what context? Can sales goals motivate me, given the right argument of helping someone? Maybe - if some donation to a cause I believe in is involved, perhaps. I knew there was more brewing. What did all those faces that played like a movie in my mind have in common - in a concise, interview answer way? What did the jobs that meant the most to me have in common that I saw in those faces? And how did that relate to the jobs that I didn't like so well - what was missing in them?

And I realized the Love that motivates me is Purpose. Habitat, Wishes, Arctic League, youth ministry, Reading with the Lions, teaching dance and making choreography -- all of them gave me, or have inherent in them, a sense of purpose; a specific goal of helping people with something in particular. That's what motivates me: knowing without a doubt that the intent of the job is to help someone in some defined way, with a project flow to make it happen. I'm motivated by purpose that allows my process-oriented mind to get creative and find the map, and bring life to the journey. Because life is about the journey; the journey is the purpose, and the purpose is Love.

open doors

Many times in life we find ourselves in a place we didn't expect to be. Sometimes the surprise is quite pleasant; other times, especially painful. Unfortunately, some of us, many of us, perhaps even all of us at one point or another, see others in their places and try to imagine ourselves there, saying "I could never..." "I wouldn't want to...." "How does one survive...." The thing is, could and will, want to and have to, are so closely related they are indistinguishable in real life. Survive is a misnomer. Much relies on mindset, and support. I never would have imagined myself a single mother with no job at the age of 47, and if I had, I certainly wouldn't have considered using words like "free," "happy," "loved" to describe myself. And yet, that's where I am. My household is preparing for all possibilities, which means being open and honest with each other - something new to all of us. For the first time in my life I'm not hiding some part of my feelings, some chamber of my heart. We're sharing appropriately, which is also new (and sounds really, really odd in writing!) and so very refreshing!

Last week my therapist and I talked about the surprises that have come along, like the support of those around me - even people I didn't know 6 months ago. Some of it is luck; I happened into them, and they are who they are. But some of that luck was made, too, in that I have learned about opening up, blossoming, and the proper conditions for it. In blossoming, the surrounding beauty becomes clearer. I have an inner circle, a core group of friends who have stood by me through what I thought was insurmountable, and now share in my hopefulness, because this latest place also is only the mountain I make it. This group of friends is no longer a surprise to me, although they once were. I'm blessed by the fact that they have never been anything but real, themselves, thereby teaching me ever so gently to be me. Truly me. Being wholly me allows the surprises to be waves to ride, rather than tidal forces that overwhelm. Together, in many different ways, we look at each other and say, "That was a good one!" or "What a dud." It's marvelous.

One day, not long ago (and yet a lifetime of experience ago) I was chatting with someone about karma, and that it always does catch up. It was a painful day, and I was bumping up against less than charitable thoughts. "The trouble with karma being eventual is that then I don't get to see it in action and today I just want to know that it'll suck." We laughed, because we both knew I didn't really mean it that way, and I was then able to let the pain of the day go; to release it to God and His timing. A week or so ago while at the gym, I was struck that there may be those who wish me ill will, see my 'current situation' and think "Karma." I smiled - may have even laughed out loud - and thought, "I hope so!" Why? Because I am a sum of all I've done and experienced. I am not a difference, but I can - and have - make one, and will continue to do so. Perhaps in a different way or place, but I am not done yet. I may not be here by my own accord, but I am able to be here because I have grown, learned, loved, prayed, cried, pushed, fought, rejoiced, taught, failed, and succeeded.

Where is 'here'? In the very middle of hope. My anchor is secure - in fact, more secure now than a month ago, or a year. "Let him in the damn boat," my spiritual director told me many months ago. Pull up anchor. Let go. Be content. Know your worth (more than many sparrows). Toot your own horn. Home is where the heart is. Home. A home filled with hope. A home that is Love.

free my heart

"God could have stopped this if He'd wanted to."

These words, supposedly said in an attempt to comfort, haunted me for over a year. At first because they felt like an admonishment for having held on so long, and then being forced to let go. Later because they fed the age old question of why. Why does He allow certain things to happen. There were times when the words came at me sideways, along with another question: Then why on earth did He wait so long to make it happen? Eventually, because the result was, indeed, a far better place, I let them go, the words.

So I was surprised when they whispered at me this morning as I brushed my teeth. But today they came at me from a different place - somewhere under some memories, some great weight that had been lifted and carried away, but whose imprint will remain at least for a little while. "God could have stopped this if He'd wanted to." No, I thought, He couldn't. Rather, He wouldn't. That would have meant the loss of free will. What I understand about God's will is that it is for us, not against us. God's will in this is not what happened, or how, but the result. God's will is related to the open door in front of me, not the slammed and bolted one behind.

Yes, I do believe that God aids in opening and closing of doors - possibilities, options, opportunities - but nothing in God's will seals off something that was inherently good. Strength shows itself in compassion, in Love, in small kindnesses in difficult moments. Strength comes from God. "Feel some compassion for a weak man showing his weakness." Words that landed on me far more softly than I thought they should in the moment. The truth is, God didn't need to stop either event. But that doesn't mean He made them happen, either.

What God did do was to allow me an infinite range of options for responding. He'll allow that I choose to protect myself. He'll allow that I spend an evening getting rip-roaring drunk (safely at home). He'll allow that I dream the (once) impossible as clear, legitimate options. He'll allow that I use my voice, even in the censored state I to which I must agree. He'll allow that I have moments - days, even - when I forget that He is my consolation. He'll allow that I choose to trust this time. He'll allow that I choose to feel free. He'll even allow that freedom sometimes feels frightening. (Be not afraid does not mean that I shouldn't ever feel fear; it means that I should not take fear on as a state of being. Something I had done for a very long time.)

The future itself does not look anything but bright, shining, and inviting. The practical is, in some moments, pretty daunting. Its range is the same as the sky - from cloud cover to a raging storm. But the storm will pass. It always does. With nicks and dings and maybe total destruction, but I can face it. I am worthy of this challenge. And those words cannot haunt me any longer. God's will be done, which is in Love.

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. 

there is do

This morning I sat at the dentist and got a crown. When I arrived, I was asked if I would like Novocaine or not. Of course I wanted it, which is a fairly new thing for me. Not too terribly long ago, I had a filling replaced without any meds. After all, I had delivered three babies without any medication, right? Why would I need any for a silly tooth? And I didn't care for the feeling - or lack thereof. A month or so ago when I had the temporary crown molded and placed, I'd needed a second shot; the nerve that "sometimes is a problem," according to the dentist. In truth, since my oral surgery 15 months ago, I am uncomfortable with anything other than cleanings at the dentist. He understands - and apologizes each time, though he needn't. It has nothing to do with him, or with the oral surgeon. It just is. The nerve that is still awakening is the best explanation I can offer, and even that is something difficult to understand.

The crown was to fix a cracked molar. The surgery, to remove my wisdom teeth, tori, and an osteoma, left a nerve disturbed on the left side of my mouth. Until very recently, the feeling was such that I couldn't help but clench my teeth. It's been explained to me that is normal and expected with parethesia,or altered feeling. I remember the day I thought I might be clenching hard enough to break a tooth. It may very well have been the day this molar cracked. I remember telling myself I needed to try to relax my jaw; especially when I realized I was doing it. For a time I had medication to relax those muscles while I slept. Even still, I would occasionally remind myself to try to relax.

Someone very important to me reminds me from time to time that Yoda was right: there is no try, only do. When I need reminding, he tells me about asking people to stay where they are and try to move the clock on the mantle, and asking just what they will do to 'try'. It's in those moments that I realize just how right he is. There is no try. One cannot try to help someone, or try to be a friend. Either we help, or we do not. Either we are a friend, or we are not. Sometimes the effort is rebuffed, yes. And sometimes even when we do, we fail. But trying to do is not possible.

In my experience, those who tell me they are trying to help me are actually saying they are uncomfortable. Instead of being honest about that, they are hedging. Sometimes it saddens me, and other times it's disappointing. Occasionally, there is a realization that I've been taken advantage of, or that there has been an attempt at manipulating me. There are so many memories of things others were 'trying' to do for me, with me, to me. The reality was that what was being done was something else entirely. Even now, I know that those who 'try' are excusing themselves. Effort is something else entirely. Pardon is not required of effort; it needn't beg excuses, as trying often does. Effort is true.

I was reminded of this twice today. First in the numbness after the crown. In that numbness, the symmetry of my mouth was restored, temporarily, and I realized the importance of doing something to make something else happen. That numbness allowed me to let go of the tension on the other side of my jaw. To stop trying. It allowed me to let the release be real, sustained. As the Novocaine wore off, I discovered new sensation on the opposite side. Now, in the evening, I have a very small area where the parethesia is acute - an area at least half the size it was this morning when I awoke. It is delightful, to say the least!

The second came in an "attempt to do something nice." Do or don't do. This attempt business is confusing. I have far more respect for the person who told me they had been wanting to ask a question, but didn't quite know when or how it would be appropriate. That is far more honest, and honorable, than those who try to help, or (my favorite) don't want to upset me - another form of try. It doesn't work. Either I am upset, or I am not. Either I can answer, or I cannot. Either you are helping, or you are not. Clarity of language is important.

There is no try.

alongside of me

God knows I need time. He patiently waits with me - not across the heavens or even across the table. He stands, sits, and lays beside me; silently. He knows he needn't convince me of this because his presence is enough. His presence is enough because I am enough; he made me so. We don't talk because right now that is not what we need to get close. We both know it will not last forever. He better than I, and that is why he waits with me. Not to prove anything; rather, for understanding to process. It is well. I make mistakes in the meantime - I am a child testing my limits with the ONE who loves me without question. He is, indeed, my one. He is the gardener, the weeding is his. People often misunderstand the silence I'm holding with God. A trusted guide tells me the silence is prayer; a form I'd not previously experienced or expected. A form I'm not entirely comfortable with, yet not quite uncomfortable. Every deepened relationship allows for the silences, the times when self-reflection supersedes. He supports me through this, he smiles on me, laughs when I laugh - he laughs when I cry sometimes. He knows what I need and is allowing me the time to feel. And he graciously allows me to feel this pain, this fear, this process of healing. He knows that time alone feels like the (forced) isolation to which I've grown accustomed, easing me through those times, whether that means leading others to me, me to others, actions, activity, what may look like "more" to those who don't understand. 

no platitudes, please

"Meet them where they are" is a cardinal rule in ministry of any kind. Truthfully, I believe it is a rule in just about any relationship. For a while, I thought that might mean knowing the other's likes and dislikes, interests, hobbies, taste in music. As I grew in youth ministry, with the help and guidance of some really amazing and down to earth youth ministers, I began to realize there was more to it than that, more to meeting someone than the externals. Knowing where someone IS is only part of the equation.

I'm in the process of extricating myself from a painful and difficult relationship. Generally speaking, I have never been in a better place - for the first time in my life I have confidence in my abilities, my choices, my future. I can make decisions without second guessing every single aspect of the choices, the outcomes, the effects on others, judgement from others. I can laugh. My therapist asked me once when we were talking about holding in some painful emotion, "Would you try to contain joy?" I know him well enough that there is likely a biblical reference there, and yet my honest response to him was, "Yes, I do have to contain my joy at times." I went home sad that day, with the realization that joy and sorrow are equally important to feel, to acknowledge, to express, to share. I've come a long way since then.

There are times, often days in a row, when I am inexplicably irritable. Perfectly normal, I know, and yet in this process I find my analytical mind looking for connections to the 'stuff.' Sometimes there is one, and it's abundantly clear. Other times there probably isn't one, but I find myself determined to find one - not to blame someone else for my mood, but to better define my feelings and, more specifically, my responses to them. Somewhere in my most recent cranky days, I realized how frustrating it is to me, how much it feeds the mood, when the people I turn to offer nothing but advice. It occurred to me that I needed someone - anyone - to meet me where I am; to minister to me.

Over the days prior to "the mood" I had seen a few memes and posts related to compassion. It took longer than I'd like to admit to make the connection. Meeting someone where they are means to have compassion for them. The kind of compassion that is based on knowledge that we all are travelling the same road, each at their own pace, with obstacles and assistance that cannot be equated with another person's experience. I can't measure my suffering, or my joy, against what another person feels or experiences - that's fair to neither of us. Continuous well meaning advice begins to rankle me because it often comes from an angle that I am not yet ready to work with, or from a direction I've already gone, or - especially grating - in the form of platitudes and extensive definitions of faith and love (the two things that in all of this I have had very little trouble embracing).

A few days after a particularly trying exchange with a well meaning person in my life, I received a text apologizing for offering clear shibboleth instead of compassion. In part, she said, "..I know how platitudes and rational explanations of faith are really not helpful or consoling. It only hurts more." It was the first time I was grateful that I had spoken honestly to someone outside of my initial tight circle. For the first time, I could breathe with someone of my own faith background.

If you want to help me, if you want to walk with me, you will need to meet me where I am. You will need to be compassionate to be consoling. You will need to understand that I don't want or need reassurance that my Father loves me, and always has, and always will. I have that reassurance from Him every minute of every day. What I need from you is understanding that I am hurting sometimes, and a majority of the time, I'm not hurting. And that even if I am hurting, there are lots of other causes (which is something I, too, am working on understanding!) related to my job, my house, the state of the world, and maybe even the phases of the moon. Those who have been walking with me all along know that it's been a really long while since I've been in "a mood" - a longer span than ever in my life - so they are rejoicing that I am experiencing a new-to-me emotion. Walk with me instead of deciding what direction I should take. If my direction goes where you don't want to go, move on.

I'm good with that.

thinking it through

"You must be so proud!"

Actually, I'm proud, yes, but no more proud than I was yesterday, or the day before, or when he was 2, for that matter. My sons do what they do and are who they are because they were raised that way. They were raised with the expectation that they would become fine young men, and they are. Each and every one of them. I've always been proud of them. I've always loved them. I've always known they would be uniquely and truly them. Who else could they possibly be? 

Nor can I take credit for them taking to heart all that they were raised hearing. If I could, the dishes would always be done and the laundry put away on laundry day. In truth, I'm quite humbled when I think about the men they are becoming. The young women my two oldest are dating are beautiful, inside and out; self-assured, kind, warm -- exactly the kind of woman I would want in my sons' lives. But again, I'm not at all surprised. Their friends have always been the sort that I was happy to have around. All of the boys' friends have been solid people. I've loved them all, and still do, with all my heart. 

"You must be so proud!" The intonation is often tinged with surprise, or something like it. Proud, yes, but not at all surprised. We've been talking about this for a long time, whichever this this is. And we're probably more aware of any possible pitfalls than you can imagine, because devil's advocate is a fun game sometimes, and sarcasm is not always veiled anger -- it can also be just plain funny when used properly. 

Here's the thing, I'm recovering from long-term external definition of my emotions: someone else telling me (or trying to tell me) how and what I'm feeling. So, frankly, when you say "You must be..." my hackles get raised. Immediately. My problem, I know. And I know I don't always handle it as well as I'd like, so I've been working out how to improve the interaction. Clearly I can't tell every you all of this every time. I will tell you now, though, it lands on me as you telling me what I feel. Even when you are someone who doesn't know me well. Which is exactly who you are, because the people who do know me don't say things like that, although there are precious few of them with whom I've talked about this. They just know to express their own feelings. When you tell me how I feel, my instant reaction is a desire to say, "No, I'm actually rather nonplussed," because I'd like to see how many people know what that even means. But that is misplaced sarcasm, the sort that is veiled anger. 

"Drew, I want you to know that I am proud of you, but no more proud of you for this than I was proud of you when you were 2. Is that okay?"
"Actually, I think that makes sense coming from you. I mean, you're my mom. If someone else were to say that, it might be weird."
"Then that's what I might say: 'I've always been proud of him!'"
"Sounds good to me."

And pray for him. And for me. And for all of them. I do, every single day. 

untitled

I've avoided writing anything for a while, the biggest reason being it's often my favorite way to pray. Those who know me well know that God and I have been having a bit of a tiff. Or a standoff. He keeps reaching out to me, as He does always, while I've been trying to avoid noticing. In some important aspects of my life I've been discouraged from sharing that fact. But the fact is, the more I hide it, the stronger the resistance gets. That's not what God intends, from what I was beginning to understand. God intended for us to live in community, not in isolation. Keeping this to myself isolates me, increasing my doubt, my feelings of inadequacy, my fear. Be not afraid, He tells us in the bible 365 times (or so I'm told) - once for every day of the year.

I won't be afraid.

This afternoon I listened to some very compelling words about the importance of two parents, a strong marriage between parents, being a very determining factor in faith. There was a lot more to it than that -- a LOT -- but that's the part that stung, A few weeks ago I heard a homily along a similar line, and it hit me so hard I actually looked up bishops and saints who had single or divorced mothers. I discovered that day that St Helen is the patron Saint of divorced women. That was shortly before or after the day I had to get up and leave Mass because of a reading directing not to feel fear after I'd spent weeks coming to the understanding that 'BE not afraid' could very reasonably mean not to LIVE in fear -- feel it when it comes, acknowledge it, and let it go. I digress....

Today's words stirred a similar flight response, but not as strong, and I consciously made the decision to stay put and see where this ride would take me. To say that staying was difficult is an understatement. Sheer determination kept me there. And a need to understand. As I listened, I felt the resentment that has tried to take root tickle at the edge of my faith. I got angry, really angry, and prayed a simple "speak to me." The truth is, not talking, being isolated from my pain, frustration, confusion, anger, all of it has been wearing at my faith more than the actual events related to the end of my marriage. By allowing the direction of "don't talk about it" to be 'true' (for want of a better word) I'm left to deal on my own with not only the straightforward legal aspects, but I've also been forced to ignore how my faith might be affected. Has been eroded. Quite frankly down to nearly nothing. The fact is, I needed prayer. Still do. I needed sympathy. Still do. I needed to be able to say I was having a difficult day. I needed to be able to say that I was feeling good for the moment, but that could change with a word, a look, a tick of the clock. No one can understand what any of that means unless they've been through it, and honestly, that's the reason I was discouraged from sharing, I'd wager.

One consequence of that 'advice' is that I was made to feel unworthy of love. Irony: I knew I was worthy of love, that I am worth more than many sparrows -- to God. That stuck. I was made to feel unworthy of the love of my family in Christ -- unworthy of the love of my peers in the church I was supposed to feel most attached to, the place I teach teens doggedly that they can always turn. All the while feeling, seeing, that I was being turned away, held at arm's length, unembraceable. I'm eternally grateful to the Father who Loves me for the break in programming we've had. And also for the realization in the midst of today's words that despite the fact that I feel shut out, my home is eternal and more far reaching than one community, one building, one group. I have a home in the Universal Church, and therefore am never homeless.

This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. When I lost a baby that would have turned 22 last February, I was discouraged from talking about my grief because 'not everyone understands.' Perhaps part of any grief cannot truly be understood by others. But perhaps not enough credit is being given to the power of compassion. Because truly, in the end, it's not understanding but compassion that has healing power. Some of the most helpful people in my circle (most of whom are not Catholic) have never been through a separation and divorce, and therefore cannot truly understand the depth and breadth of the emotions (high and low). However, their compassion comforts me far more than they will ever begin to comprehend. One day I lamented that I was never offered a prayer shawl in the days that I was so lost, hurt, and broken that I wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in love and to have the physical comfort of something - anything - around my body offering warmth. That memory came to mind today, along with the stuffed lion my friends gave me to be my strength when i feel weak, and it occurred to me that he's my prayer shawl. My community is beyond where I thought its boundaries existed.

I'm still searching. But I know I am home in His arms. Always.

at the door

She stands at the door, poised to exit; her hand pressed to the wood, her torso twisted back in response to those who have last things to say. The star-studded darkness beckons her quietly, while gently those inside continue to offer all she's needed, always. And yet, it is not those closest to the door who speak and reach out, but those in the furthest corners of the room; their tender love rooting her to the spot on the threshold. Those nearby, with whom she spent the most time at the gathering are nonplussed, as if finished with her company, making her wonder if this lingering matters to them, annoys them, if they even notice she is so close to leaving, perhaps for good.

She recognizes the feeling in all its complicated layers. So long ago thinking that being disappeared would matter to no one. More recently, realizing that being replaced unceremoniously is a recurring theme in her life. Always staying in place because of the example she'd admired from childhood; wondering all this time - all her life, really - whether the promise was worth the effort. All the while knowing that it must be, and yet....

So she stands, talking,smiling, laughing over the heads of those nearest, knowing those on the edges are holding her, while torn and broken inside. Turning away would be so easy. Pushing the door open and stepping into the darkness. An argument in her very core: the darkness may be Darkness; the darkness may be the moments before sunrise and glorious Light. Her eyes fool her, as do her feelings. Her mind tells her the door may be locked from the outside; there is no return. Her heart tells her that even if that were true, those on the edges of the room would undoubtedly open if she knocked - if they can hear her, of if they can push their way past the oblivious ones nearer the door - those who are unaware of their role in this moment, despite the strength of their message.

She smiles and talks, laughing with those on the edges who, in their hearts truly know, and cry along with her; tears of sadness, hope, joy, love. Love. Love is on the edges of the room.

"The image is clear and sharp in your mind because it is the one that represents everything that has ever happened in your life." Again and again. Painfully true. She wonders about pushing through the door. About trust and faith. About steadfast Love. And friendship - true, deep, intimate friendship. And the nearness of God.

all is well

"So you're a city girl?" The question was posed playfully, and my response was equally so. Yet even as I spoke, I wondered, am I? In truth I'm no more city girl than I am country girl. What I love about cities -- rather, what I always used to love about them -- is that I am an unknown, a face in the crowd, one of many. In a city, I always thought I could lose myself; fit better inside my own head. Every city I've ever visited has its own flavor, its own style. I've found the 'country' places I've visited and lived have that, too. And if I am to be completely honest, I love them, too. I can be inside my head as much in a rural setting as an urban one. The question came up when I mentioned Philly, but jumped quickly to San Francisco, and got me thinking about lots of wheres. Where I've been. Where I've not been. Where I'd like to be.

And I remembered being asked earlier in the week if I was a vegetarian. That question I've heard before, but the group was different. I'm not, but I do typically go for the vegetable-rich choice in certain situations. The best way I can explain it is that I don't trust everyone with my meat products, although that's somewhat incomplete. It's also that I know I'm not great about eating all the veggies I should at home, so when there is a ready-made option available, I'll go for it. I know a good thing when I see it! I'm not sure why vegetarian is the first thought, but the question never surprises me anymore. It amuses me sometimes, because there was a time when I strongly considered being vegetarian. I like bacon too much to give up meat entirely.

What do the two questions have to do with each other? Is there a reason I was presented with both in one week? Of course there is, and I may not figure out what the reason is in this lifetime. In the meantime, they've had me thinking about me -- what I like and don't like, especially. I like pop music, rock, classical, country, contemporary Christian, rap.... I like music, and to be surrounded by it. I like silence, and the way it envelops me, and also the way it enhances odd noises, natural noises that music and talk might block. I like to talk and to listen. I like to be listened to. (Both of this week's questions were asked by people who listened to my responses. Really listened. It's a rarer thing than it should be.) I like to drive. I like to create, to put things in order. I like to drink wine, and whiskey, and tequila in mixed drinks. I like to drink water, without ice or lemon. I like food. I like to run, to dance, and to work out. I like to explore -- both my surroundings and my own thoughts and ideas. I like to laugh, to cry, to feel. I like to be near the water -- salt water, specifically, though I like lakes and rivers, too. I like seasons. I like the feeling of a hand in mine, an arm around my shoulders or waist, and the squeeze that acknowledges some private understanding. I like knowing deep in my heart that I'll have that one day. I like sitting on my bed at the end of the day, knowing that I have lived that day.

I'm not a city girl, although I would be very happy there. Nor am I a country girl, per se. I'm not a vegetarian, though I may choose vegetables over any other choice from time to time. I am me, through and through, and more so than even a year ago. A dear friend told me this week "You're doing so well at this life thing!" The truth is, I like this life thing. In fact, I love it. That's somewhat new to me. I actually have one these days! All is well, here in suburbia, and would be equally well in a city, in the country, with vegetables, or with bacon.

It's a matter of finding the beauty in the every day, even the mundane. Thank you for asking.

on my way

Last week in small group, we started talking about those things we always wanted to do, to learn, to try, and whether 'now' is a time to consider them again. Our small group leader talked about getting his motorcycle license a few years ago, after many, many years of thinking about it. Since I've always wanted one, too, we talked a little about the process here. Someone else in the group pointed out that I'd been painting - choosing colors, prepping, enjoying the entire process. And it gave me the courage to think about old dreams; dreams I'd thought were lost, or at the very least, relegated to the darkest corners of my memory, only to be brought out in that 'someday' time when my grandchildren are thinking about what to do with their lives, and I am there to offer the advice that would make my own children crazy.

Growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom; that's no secret. No one, and I mean no one, considered it a career option I should dedicate myself to. After a while, I tried keeping it to myself so I could explore options, at least on paper, and I found myself truly interested in a variety of fields. I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to study international law. I wanted to continue with my French and Spanish studies, and work at the UN as a translator. I wanted a job that had me traveling the world, but also gave me the opportunity to be available, always, to my children. I wanted an office with my name on the door and an assistant who would show people in, because I wanted to be able to say, "No, I don't know that person. Send him away." I wanted to be a photographer. I wanted to live out of a suitcase because the world was my home. I wanted to make things, paint things, envision things and see them come to life. I wanted to work for an organization like Make-A-Wish, Habitat for Humanity, Ronald McDonald House. I remember once, to my mother's horror, saying that my dream job would have me wearing a cap and carrying a clipboard. [at the time I was watching one of the first FedEx commercials] I wanted to be a helicopter pilot. I wanted to ride horses, to live near the water. I wanted to study psychology, and be a social worker.

Sitting in that small group, all of my dreams washed over me, gently, soothingly, and I admitted what was most on my heart. I was discouraged from all of my biggest dreams; not always directly, and not always logically, but I was a kid. And a kid bent on pleasing somebody - anybody. Unfortunately, no one had ever encouraged me to be me, to understand that I have worth, that my dreams matter. No one told me that I matter. I don't even know if anyone 'in authority' knew that I was terrified of auditioning - so much so that when I came to the realization about a year ago that an audition is very similar to a job interview, I nearly fainted. Instead, I was reminded that I "hated school" (a half-truth; I hated not being myself, and being a teenager, it was safe to blame school); UN appointments were relatively short-term; work travel and family don't mix; I wasn't taking a science; non-profits don't have paid employees; "none of these options are appropriate for an intelligent and attractive young woman like you." None of my dreams were appropriate for me.

Being a mom has been the most rewarding and challenging career choice. It's not been without its sacrifices, and I would not change any of the choices I've made. Are there things I wish had turned out differently? Some. However, the truth is, They are fine young men, amazing to watch in everything they do, and I'm honored to know them. They've taught me more than they will ever realize, and because of them, I will be able to finally, somehow, follow some of my dreams. Because of them, when I look at all the dreams I had (when I was right where they are now), I realize that my real ideal - what I shared with my small group - is somewhere in the family of project management for an organization like Habitat. I was afraid to share the realization with them, but suddenly the air was alive with ideas, suggestions, affirmations. I was surprised, and taken aback. I don't recall ever having been in so supportive a spot. These new people in my life, with whom I share rather tenuous connection, told me where where they saw the connections in my life to this newborn dream. And they made me feel loved. In the space of minutes, they had me working internationally, on a schedule that fit my entire family, as well as all the fun things I like to do: dance, sew, write, paint. In those moments, they gave me a clipboard, a cap, a passport full of stamps, and a couple of new languages. A sense of being, and gave my wildest dreams life. More than even encouraging me, they supported me. My heart and I are on our way.

always your day

Dear Dad,

More than anything, I wish I could call you and say Happy Birthday. Instead, this keyboard and the phone line in  my heart are all I have. For the past 9 days, I have been wearing my Daddy's Girl necklace, as I do during this 'novena.' Most years I have prayed your rosary every day from the day you died until your birthday. Not this year. I've thought about it, but I had other Dad things on my heart. I've really been missing your hugs, your gaze, your smile. The way you hung your coffee cup from your finger when it was empty, along with the pot, but the conversation was still full. The way you thought nothing of staying in pajamas to talk on Saturday mornings, sometimes into lunch time. I painted my bedroom last weekend, and from time to time wished you were there to help -- mostly with the less fun parts, like the edges and painting around the radiator; the parts you would have gravitated toward. I love doing that stuff you used to do. I'm looking forward to the woodworking projects I have planned in there that would have been your 'things' and that I always wished I could do with you. I still have the dollhouse. Everyone still marvels at the table. You are still here.

We never talked about boys. Your example of who you were to me is all the advice I ever got from you. Since I knew no one could ever be you, or take your place, or calm my heart the way your left arm hugs did, I never tried to find anyone like you. I wish we had. I wish I'd told you about how much that boy in high school broke my heart, again and again. I wish I'd told you how cute I thought that boy at church was, and that it turned out his locker was across the hall from mine. And that he kissed me on my birthday, and was later threatened by that boyfriend. I wish I'd introduced you to the boy in college who had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen, and to his roommates who told me their job was to chaperon and protect me, because they wanted to know that there were girls out there like me. I wish I'd shown you the letters from the boy who wrote me every week when he was at boot camp. I wish you could have told me that all those things meant something; that there were lessons about life, love, hope, myself in all of those things. I wish I'd had the nerve to tell you everything. I wanted to be your little girl forever, and you promised I would be. I wish I'd known that that meant I could share grown up thoughts with you, and still know your love mirroring God's love. I wish you'd told me. I wish I'd asked.

Some days I wish I'd paused on that afternoon 25 years ago when you said to me, "We don't have to do this. We could walk the other way." Nearly every day I've wondered if there was more you wanted to say, or if you really were saying what you thought would touch my heart most. Some days I'm angry you didn't push me; other days I am so incredibly grateful that your encouragement was gentle and constant. Some days I figure by now you'd be a cranky old man, grumbling about chores and noise and things that are out of place. But I know you would be my cranky old man -- the one I would defend to the teeth, love fiercely.

Wishes can't change a damn thing. However, dreams can. I still have dreams, Dad, and I still bounce them off of you from time to time, although sometimes I forget to put you in the loop because they involve things we'd never talked about: boys, faults, fears, and overcoming the same. I still dream of introducing you to my friends. Occasionally it's you that keeps someone at a distance -- I ask myself what you would think of someone (I remember the one and only time I ever heard you say that an acquaintance was never welcome in our home again, and I'm glad you said it, but even more relieved he wasn't my guest.) Most of the time I miss you because you liked everyone, or, more realistically, had a real talent for making everyone think you liked them. I admire that more than I ever would have told you. I always wished I could have that gift. Had I talked with you about it, you would have pointed out that I do, I simply use it the way I use it, not the way you did. Had I talked with you about so many things, they would have been clearer.

Dad, I was afraid of your insights, I think. I was afraid you'd be right, and I'd be hurt by my own lack of experience. I know now, far too late, that is a hurt that you would have soothed in the way only a daddy can: with the love that a daddy has for his Stephania. I'm sorry I didn't know to talk to you. I'm sorry I didn't ask if you wanted to know. I'm sorry I let myself hide this hurt from you. I'm grateful that telling you, even after you've been gone for nine years, feels right. There was a time when your chair seemed like the best connection I had to you, and a few of your shirts, little gifts you'd given me. Today I know that the best connection I have to you is, and will always be, in my heart, in my memories. The rest is just stuff. The gravy is all around me. In the past few months, I've been missing the gravy. Please continue to intercede for me. I need you now more than ever. Remind me again which of my friends I can find you in. And know that your hug still melts my heart, my hand in yours still lifts my spirits. No boy will ever be you to me. Instead of that being a barrier, I'll make that my goal.

I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
Happy Birthday.

Love, Stephania
xo

an interesting combination

Over the weekend, I painted my bedroom. It was a long, three day weekend -- three glorious days in a row that I didn't have to work, plus the usual Friday afternoon I have off to almost make up for my usual 6-day workweek. I used every spare moment last week to prep the room, moving furniture away from walls, moving furniture out of the room, taping cracks, filling holes. Friday into the evening I sanded. The ladder and I circled the perimeter, getting intimately close with the walls that hold stories of all kinds. I love prepping a room for painting. I was already sore when the boys and I sat down to relax a bit at dinner time. Reaching and the consistent gentle pressure for sanding affecting my shoulders, my upper back, my hands. And I was delighted.

Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.

While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.

Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.

Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.

My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.

vision of me

There are times in life when the varied pieces of experience and interest seem to be spread wide and messy, and completely unrelated. Looking at them, one wonders how they could truly be part of one creation, one whole. Without direction or diagram, focusing on only one piece at a time, trying to make sense of it on its own merit becomes habit. However, without the broader, fuller view, justice is not done to the parts cast aside and ignored, even temporarily.
There are many reasons one might sit back, take a deep breath, and shuffle things up to get a new perspective on what's already there, what may need to be added, enhanced, or really doesn't belong. Many of those reasons relate to a life change of some sort; a loss, a gain, a move, death of a loved one. In those cases, the reassessment has the danger of becoming frantic, impulsive, even compulsive.
Other reasons are more continuous; related to a legitimate desire to refine, to learn, to try to see the bigger picture. Occasions of clarity may give quick glimpses of the way A relates to Q, while leaving J, K and L a mysterious pile of unknown.
There comes a time when the romanticism of piecing things together fades away. The unfinished picture, the jumble of disjointed parts, begin to resemble nothing more than an abandoned canvas, a pile of glass shards; a half-hearted attempt at fine art. With the blessing of the right support, the relentless love of heart family, that pained vision's falsehood is revealed. Seeing truth is not necessarily less painful, but every burden shared is divided, lightened, and ultimately strengthens.
The truth of the pieces left over, scattered around, is difficult, if not impossible , to see alone, And while the help of dear friends, even professionals, is helpful, without God, what is revealed is incomplete. His vision of me is what matters most.