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.

castles and moats

There is a project I have due tomorrow, and I have been passively avoiding it. By that I mean I am allowing myself to get caught up in other 'business' like sewing, cleaning, Pinterest, counting pennies....just about anything that will seem productive when I look back at the day. [Yes, Pinterest. I made a board of projects I want to get done by fall. It had to be done sometime!] Today I grabbed hold of a piece of advice from my therapist and gave myself the command: "Do nothing but this project for the next hour and a half." It almost worked. I mean, I know where the project is going now (I think), but in the process, I sent a rather lengthy email (related, but likely not necessary) and also took a phone call. In so doing, I was trying to practice avoidance, but they managed to clarify and give direction and shape to the project, so I can maybe mark the 'done' box. Make that the 'started' box.

What came out of the morning was an admission. Not a new one, but a repeat that has never gotten me anywhere before. Here's the thing: the project has to do with opening my heart, baring my soul, and revealing old scars and wounds that may never heal fully, and letting Christ walk with me in the pain, toward healing. Trouble is, when I feel pain, I turn away from everyone, myself included, and isolate. Not to lick my wounds, but to ignore them. My heart, I'm afraid, is a mass of grisly, ugly scars that have tried to heal over despite getting infected from lack of attention. In my brokenness, I believe that pain is meant to be hidden away, ignored, unnamed. Eventually it will go away. And then we can forget about it. My therapist and I are working on that -- albeit slowly because I can't bring myself to look as deep as I need to, even in the safety of his office. On my walk of faith, my heartpain has been touched upon, but I kid myself into thinking that God will make his own way there without my assistance. I mean, he's God, right? Can't he do anything he wants?

Today I admitted that my turning inward is an addiction to me. I try (unsuccessfully) to convince myself that it doesn't affect anyone but me, since I'm alone. I know it's not in my best interest to keep it all to myself, yet I not only avoid sharing, I actively decide not to. To borrow a phrase from therapy, it's comfortable because it's familiar, not because it fits. And when I think something might begin to hurt, I've begun looking for the solitude, except that instead of being a refreshing break from contact with whatever or whomever is causing my distress, it's become extreme, to the point of desolation.

I read this today:

We need to withdraw from time to time
from all unnecessary cares and business.

Sound advice, yes? It's St. Teresa of Avila, and when similar advice was issued a few months ago, I got frustrated (angry?) because I knew this withdrawing I do is not healthy, that it hurts my soul more than it helps. Today, as I read those words, I realized they have the opposite meaning. The key word is 'unnecessary.' For my situation, withdrawing from unnecessary cares points toward contact with others. I need to withdraw from the unnecessary -- dwelling on the hurts and pains. I need to back away from my walled castle and cross the moat to meet those who can offer themselves to me. I need to begin the work of allowing myself to be heard, showing my pain, and ultimately asking for help in nursing my wounds. When others share their pain with me, I can feel it, and I welcome their sharing. Lightening their load is something I don't need to think twice about. But I claim my load to be mine and mine alone. I cannot carry it by myself. I don't know how to share it, how to give it over. Not even to God. I ask him to take it, but I pick and choose which bits he can carry. And that's not fair to either one of us.

Now to figure out how to lower this drawbridge...

backleading....again

Today, while working on learning and getting comfortable with a tricky Foxtrot combination (though not beyond our skill level, we were repeatedly assured!), there were times when the steps, the motion, the fluidity just wasn't there. "I think that was me," I told my husband. "I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I think I'm off." Our instructor took my hand to lead me down the floor, and almost immediately told me (and everyone) that I was backleading; depending more on myself to get down the floor than on my partner. It's not a new problem or habit for me. In fact, it's rather familiar. Letting go a little made the combination flow better -- more fun and fluid for both of us.

I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.

The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.

A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.

And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.

The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.

to let go

Yesterday I came to realize that there is quite a difference between a scar and a scab. A subject came up that I never thought I would be able to talk about matter-of-factly, and there was no pain, no discomfort, no anger or frustration. What I felt was compassion, understanding. And when I realized that, it occurred to me that healing had created a scar, a slub in the fabric of my life and who I am. It will always be there, which I knew, sometimes more visible than other times, but I suddenly understood that scars can indeed make us stronger.

Shortly afterwards, I cried at another conversation, as I realized that what I was feeling was a scab being picked at and pulled on. The tears were not because of what was said (or read--it was a text conversation). Rather, they came when I admitted that I was the one picking at it, and not allowing it to heal. For so long, I have told myself that others were pushing, poking, scraping off those painful places in my heart, on my very soul. I cried because I realized that's not true. All those people I've pointed at have likely been put in my life to help me heal, not to make things worse. I've resisted. (A theme, it seems.)

Over the past few days, I've been having an interesting long-distance conversation about faith, Love, and self, and the intertwining of them in honestly living life. A couple of the questions have resonated especially with me. One was an inquiry about the past events that haunt me. I wish I knew what the events are; what it is that made me resistant and willing to hold myself back. What I do know are the effects. I was once accused of using the effects to live in the past; to pull them out as a trump card to get my way. Sadly, because of who said it, I felt compelled to believe it, despite what people who knew me more deeply told me.

So after that series of emails, a conversation over dinner, and a few text messages (all with strong, faith-filled men that I admire), I sat down and had a conversation with Jesus. Actually, I wrote Him a letter. And in writing longhand in my notebook, in the silence and through tears (my M.O.!), I found the scabs I had been picking at. They are superficial, which I guess makes them easily accessible, more rippable--harder to heal. Can I put them into words that are coherent? Not entirely. I know that when I can, I will be able to let go of them, or face them--an even better choice, in all likelihood. I have an inkling, though; I can see them, taste them in some of my tears.

"Lord, please heal me of my brokenness. From it comes fear, and I don't want to be afraid....I am afraid that I am disappointing You." In my prayer last night, I was in turn afraid, angry, embarrassed and ashamed, and in the end, what mattered most, was that I felt relieved. Because I broke the silence. Because I asked for help that I know I need. Because I realized I am not permanently broken.

I woke this morning not only willing, but excited to be me--no one but me. That was my goal today: to be completely me. It was surprisingly easy! Clearly, I am not alone in my effort. I still (will always) have questions, arguments, concerns. And I'm looking forward to it all. I have a lot to let go of, and someplace to put it. With patience, these scabs can finally heal and become scars, leaving me with compassion and understanding I've been needing to share.

the elusive three

For the past week, I've been trying to compose the short version of my life, my journey. The 3 minute version. While the challenge was at first invigorating, it has become its own difficult obstacle. I start with a short idea in my head, but somehow in the transfer to paper, my commercial becomes a feature presentation.  Funny--that does not discourage me. Persistence will pay off in the end. But I find myself trying not to wonder when and where that end could be.

During the course of this week, I have been approached by two strangers, each of whom offered me a word; one wisdom, and the other love. Their intersections with my road are stories unto themselves, but regardless of the strangers' intentions, those two words have calmed me. Directly between these two strangers, I was introduced to a third person who somehow is a bridge. More to ponder.

Early last week, a friend of mine had a presentation to do. Silly me, thinking it had been prepared in advance, asked the night before about how practicing was going. As I shook my head and mock-reprimanded against procrastination and the all-too-familiar argument that best work is born at the last minute, I saw myself. I often find myself, as I did tonight, finding odd things to do--very important things!--rather than do "homework." We now have clean railings up both sets of stairs. And the walls look better, too. All in an effort to order my thoughts. 

Despite my words avoiding paper, I am prepared, to a certain extent--it is a story of me I'm delivering, after all.  Who knows it better than I? Just One, and from there will come guidance, should I follow. I'm subtly backleading in my efforts so far. The dance will be oh, so much more delightful if I just follow the lead, since I know the steps already. The words will come. When I let go and let them.

goals and expectations

Earlier this summer, I went for the weekend to a friend's for the weekend. She was having a party, and it was pretty neat to meet so many of her similarly "uncool" friends. There was a whole lot of laughter, good food (especially peanut butter cookies!), good wine, and even party favors for some of us. I felt very at home with my friend's friends, and along with all the other good stuff, and a few stray raindrops, there was great conversation. After all these weeks, there are still a couple of comments and questions that have stuck with me.

Two people, at separate times, when talking about family life, expressed surprise at how long I've been married. In fact, I actually was asked by one man, "You've been married since 1991? To the same person? For real?" I smiled and thanked him. I didn't even bother mentioning that it was early in 1991. It occurs to me that perhaps it's interesting to note that this comment and the other ("You've really been married for over 20 years?") were presented by men. I have no idea what that might mean, but I do know that for most of my life, I've been far more comfortable and relaxed talking with men or boys.

The other question that has stuck with me, making me think more than almost anything else this summer, was asked by another dear friend of mine who was there. She asked how we managed to get our teenage boys, four of them, to go to church with us regularly. The simple answer is that we just take them; we wake them in the morning, make sure they get dressed, and load them in the car. Afterwards, we pick up doughnuts or muffins, if we go in the morning, and sometimes go out for pizza, if we go on Saturday night. The simple answer regarding being married, to the same guy, for over half my life, is similar: there's not really been a choice in the matter.

Reality, however, is not always so easy. There have been plenty of mornings that we've all wondered what the point is in getting so frustrated herding the six of us out the door to pray and find peace. And a good many times when I have not really felt like I was going to get any message out of Mass because of being stressed. And despite the fact that I do make a choice each day, at some point, that I am still, and will remain, a happily married woman, there are times when I have to think a little longer about that question before I arrive at the same conclusion. Occasionally, being happy and/or pleasant is a difficult choice; throwing in the towel would be easier. You know that feeling, when you just want to say, "Why does it matter?"

The fact is, in my mind, there isn't really a "choice." I ask myself the question without ever expecting that the answer will be no. I wake up in the morning, and we wake the boys, without ever considering that there is an option about going together as a family. The interesting thing is, frequently when the morning push is particularly trying, and I figure there will be no room for anything to enter my heart, I end up being especially touched by the music, the readings, the homily, seeing a friend.....It's possible that on those occasions, I let my guard down so that I unknowingly let myself hear more in my heart. I certainly wouldn't recommend this as a "method," but I'm grateful for the persistence. (And not just mine.) Likewise, in our marriage, the stressful, cranky, or just plain frustrating times have often turned out to be the times when we've found the most strength. By choice. My point is, marriage and parenting are not easy, or simply defined, or predictable. Marriage and parenting require having a goal, and working toward that goal, consistently and constantly.

I've been married for over half my life, and been a parent for close to half my life. In that time, we've been to Church nearly every weekend, and had dinner together nearly every day. We've been to more concerts, shows, games, meets and matches than I can count. I've also broken up or gotten into the middle of more disagreements, arguments and fights than I care to remember. The goals, though, have always been the same: to raise these boys to be good men, and to love, honor and cherish each other as husband and wife. Each day dawns new, and our lives are our own; no one else can, or should, expect the life we live. Honestly, when I think about how many years, or days, or decades we've been married, I am just as surprised as those guys early in this story. But at the same time, I am proud of our perseverance. (And, truth be told, our competitiveness!) And quite thankful for those who have been our examples.

Goals and expectations.

face, embrace, release

I stained a door today. More precisely, I stained half a door today. We bought the door (a bi-fold) a few months ago (before Easter) to replace the closet door in our bathroom. Since we brought it home, it has stood in our dining room, where I (we, and anyone else who came in the house!) could see it. I knew that if we put it out of sight, it would never get stained. Never get installed. Then swim team practice started up again, and I had nearly given up hope of ever getting it done.

Weeks ago, I had gone to get the stain and other materials needed, intending to--or rather, determined to--get the staining portion done while my husband was out of town college visiting with our son. Something got in the way--likely weather, possibly time, probably something else entirely--and here the door stood, waiting. Last week, texting with a dear friend, I finally came to the bottom of my hesitation. Her husband is the ultimate Mr. Fixit-DoItHimselfer. She told me that every family needs someone like him, and I told her, "That was my dad."

That's what it came down to: Dad would have had it done in no time, and I would have been amazed and impressed. After seeing how quickly I finished what I did today, even with the drying time between coats, I can see why he was always so modest about that kind of stuff. After I finished the second coat on the first side of the door, I found myself thinking, "Well, that was easy enough!"

Truth be told, I was hoping I wouldn't be the one staining the door. I took Mom this morning to meet up with my sister, who then took Mom up to her house for the weekend. Guy had swim team and lessons. Both of us were scheduled to be back home at nearly the same time this afternoon. The deal was, whoever got home first would work on the door. It wasn't until I pulled in the driveway that I realized that taking my lunch to go at Subway was my mistake! I had no choice but to get changed, and get started. Why it all seemed so daunting is difficult to explain; mostly because the reasons are not what most people see in me. I had read the directions again and again--at least four times in the store alone! And this was not even the first time I'd stained something. Grammy and Grampy's kitchen table and chairs had come out pretty well, but that had been about fifteen years ago. And somewhere in the intervening years, I had been reintroduced to some serious feelings of inadequacy and sadness. That's what I realized in the conversation with my friend: I needed to face those feelings once and for all.

Last summer, on a particularly bad day, I asked another friend a question about dealing with a problem. He told me to Face it, Embrace it, and Let It Go. I will never forget that. It was a real turning point for me, and has become quite a motto in almost everything I do. It'll take more than just a door to expel the demons from my past, but one small step is all it takes to begin a journey--or to continue on. In the Faith Matters group at church, we've been working through a personal retreat on Consoling the Heart of Jesus, and talking quite a bit about Mercy, and Love. I've learned that loving others is not enough; I need to face and embrace everything about myself, too; the good, the bad, and everything in between. The stuff from my adult life, I've been able to look at (fairly) clearly. It's the stuff from long ago that sometimes bubbles up, and then gets pressed back down by the parts of me that have not been ready to face them. Nothing is major, really, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm positive that at least some of it would help the boys tremendously if I could reveal it to myself enough to share with them.

Tomorrow I will finish staining the door, and hopefully by Monday night, we'll have a beautiful new door for the bathroom closet. And I will have vanquished at least one of the dark shadows in my mind.

pen and paper

Often, lately, I find myself faced with a blank sheet of paper. I know what question has led me to it, but I keep wondering what answer it holds. I found myself actively seeking the answer, pushing myself to understand its meaning, questioning my ability to understand or even recognize the answer when it comes. When I realized what I was doing, I made the decision to stop trying so hard, and to just look at the paper when it appeared in my mind's eye. Passive thinking--Pondering (which I have found to be a far more effective tool of faith for me!)--led me to the conclusion that the paper was waiting for dictation. [Which made perfect sense, as that was a reminder of the question in the first place! Why am I surprised by that? Why am I surprised by anything?]

Then I realized there is no pen.

This caused a fleeting panic, but fortunately I caught it before it ran away with my mind and heart. Then I laughed! There is no pen! Why? Because I don't need it yet. Things need to happen first, events need to unfold, hearts need to listen, and souls to speak.

None of these realizations came quickly, and yet they did. There was a late night "conversation" or two that reminded me of the importance of waiting. Not just patience, but waiting. Waiting and the relative passage of time. God's time is transcendent, while ours is relative. In my prayer life, I have been experiencing the joys of that transcendence, but--yet again!--have been having a difficult time translating it to my secular life. In actuality, I should be working on not separating the two; conditioning that will take [relative] time, patience and practice, the likes of which I have not yet seen, I'd bet! I keep telling myself that I believe that I am prepared, but I also know (now) that telling myself amounts to stalling [I'm getting to know myself, day by day] and that I should admit that I either need to jump forward, or get pushed.

With regard to the missing pen: I find peace in my mind when I write. At times, words bump and rush through my head, and I find myself frustrated that I have no time to write them down, or that I don't have access to my keyboard to let them flow out. However, at times when I have questions, I recognize the danger that I might try to make answers as I write, rather than allow them to come in their own time (in God's time, in this case). I'm guessing that has something to do with the missing pen. So many words have bustled around my brain, but instead of trying to get them onto 'paper,' I have let them run freely. Some have continued to spin and swirl, but others have made themselves known, then run through the rocks that filter my skull. What has remained is a calming beauty; an atmosphere more conducive to further pondering.

And a feeling of being beside, neither in front nor behind. I've run from myself for a long time. It's only recently that I have had faith enough in myself to lose myself in my Faith. I have work to do, and steps to take, and things come to terms with, and so very much to learn. But the learning!! There is such beauty in the learning! When I look behind me, I see such a long road I have traveled, and when I look before me, I see even more. And although I keep trying to run that road, I must remind myself that I am, in fact, taking baby steps: wonderfully slow and steady baby steps, and I have never been alone.

fingerprints

What was said: "I look at a thumbprint, and realize that no two are alike. If God can make every single thumbprint different, why would we think that he would ever stop there?"

I was floored! Such a simple idea, and so obvious, and yet so amazingly complex! There is no reason to think that any one of us is exactly like another. We, as humans, classify. Safe/Unsafe. Friendly/Unfriendly. Okay to eat/Poison. Work/Play. Love/Hate. Good/Bad. But aren't there various levels of many of these classifications? Don't we need to differentiate again and again, and determine, according to the occasion, just where something fits in our classification systems?

I remember a month or two before our boy #2 was born. I was pretty sure I had this kid thing figured out. Because the pregnancy itself had felt different, I just knew that the baby would not be the same as his brother. Boy #1 was pretty easy, as far as babies go--not the sleep-all-night-at-birth dream baby, but he did do pretty well as an infant, and as a toddler, he was fairly happy-go-lucky and even helpful. I just knew that boy #2 was going to be the opposite--whatever #1 liked, he would not; whenever #1 liked to sleep, #2 would want to be awake. I'm not even sure what "opposite" would mean, but at the time, I had some really clear ideas, and I was pretty confident about the whole thing. I had even braced myself for the inevitable difficulties of having two kids that just could not get along for long.

I had quite a surprise. In some ways, he was different--as he should be! But in other ways, they were very much alike. What I had not factored in was that they were each individuals who would let me know, in short order, who they are. I was there (am still) to guide them, not to determine them.

A similar thing happened when we decided to get a dog. It had been a few years since our beloved black standard poodle had died. When we saw black standards advertised, I told Guy that I just couldn't handle having a dog that looked so like the last one, but wouldn't have his same personality. Instead we got a poodle that was supposed to turn silver (he was born black), and never has. Yes, he shares some characteristics with his predecessor, but he also has his own personality--and quirks! I sometimes think he was meant to stay black as a lesson to me.

I've wandered far from the amazement I felt at the thumbprint statement, but not so far that I don't remember where I was. Each of us is different. Special. Unique. We should see ourselves that way. We should see others that way--the part that I tend to think is harder to do. I've just started reading Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island for the Spiritual Book Club at church. From the prologue:
"I cannot discover God in myself and myself in Him unless I have the courage to face myself exactly as I am, with all my limitations, and to accept others as they are, with all their limitations."

To face myself, and accept others. How beautiful is that? Each of us has our own whirls and swirls, some of which mean baggage and tough stuff, but most of which means beauty and knowledge; if only we decide to appreciate it. We need to remember that some of the tough stuff has led to strength because it comes from experience. My head is rattling with the memory of the notes I took on palmistry for a paper I wrote in college (my topics were never quite what anyone else would choose....) inferring that the universe of "me" is largely pre-written on my hands, with details added with experience.

I don't know.....perhaps the possibilities were written there, and revealed by my choices. I'm still quite intrigued.....

ramble a bit

Last week at a book club (Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn--a book I found fascinating, but not particularly rewarding), a discussion question was presented:

At one point, Amy quotes the advice "Fake it until you make it." Later, Nick writes, "We pretend to be in love, and we do the things we like to do when we're in love, and it feels almost like love sometimes, because we are so perfectly putting ourselves through the paces" (404).

Generally speaking, do you think this is good marriage advice? Do Nick and Amy disprove this advice?

The decision around the table was that this is never good marriage advice. I don't remember anyone even touching on the second part of the question. Although in the case of Nick and Amy, I find it to be appalling advice [*****SPOILER ALERT!!!!!***** She's a murderess and he is her depressed and self-centered husband], in general, I don't think there's anything wrong with going through the motions once in a while.

Before you get annoyed and turn the page, hear me out. Everyone gets bored. Everyone gets cranky. Everyone goes through times when they just don't feel like issuing forth any extra effort whatsoever. How many times have I (you) gone ahead and taken that fitness class, or pulled on a pair of running/walking shoes even though the mood wasn't right? I know for a fact there were many nights (and Saturday mornings!) when I taught dance that I just didn't want to leave my house, fight traffic, and deal with my class, but I did. And each one of those times, I told myself to fake it; to make it look to the people who were paying for me to be there as though I was having the time of my life. And I can say, in all honesty, almost every single time I went there to fake it, I had a better class than usual.

Making a habit of faking, or faking without knowing the reasons behind it, or faking without being unwilling to talk about it at some point is a bad idea. Living a lie is different from faking it until you make it. Nick went through the motions of loving Amy because he was literally afraid for his life. That's just stupid. Amy went through the motions because if she could make Nick love her, she would be amazing. That's just wrong (on a whole LOT of levels!!). That is NOT what I'm talking about here. Nor am I talking about lying, having an unfulfilling sex life, or suffering in silence from any offense, or abusive/toxic relationships.

What I'm talking about are those times when you realize that there's a reason you fell in love, and even though today it doesn't seem like it's there, it is, because it's still in your heart, and in the memory of your soul. Or when you realize that laziness has set in for whatever reason, and the habit is taking control. Those are the times when you have to keep in mind that a relationship is a living, breathing thing, in need of nurturing and even exercise. Those are the times when you have to dig out a smile when you don't feel like it, search the cobwebbed corners of your mind for a favorite shared memory, open yourself to possibility.

I got a CD from church about prayer in marriage. On it, Fulton Sheen talks about the inevitable "dry spells" of anything we, as humans, do for life. Sometimes they cause us to stop what no longer holds our interest, and other times we get frustrated by the seemingly sudden lack of interest. The decision is ours. If we are writers, we might call it 'writer's block,' runners, 'hitting a plateau.' As a dancer, I would take a class in another technique or from another teacher in order to jumpstart my slagging enthusiasm from time to time. In marriage, for a myriad of reasons, many people have the impression that everything should come up roses all the time, and if a dry spell hits, the magic must be gone and the marriage is over. Fulton Sheen said that those are the times when it's up to the spouse who is still flying high to carry the other through prayer and love. It was beautiful! Shortly after listening to the CD (and laughing through tears!) I saw a little ditty that I had seen before, but not paid much attention. Celebrating some huge number of years of marriage, a couple was asked their secret. The response: We never fell out of love at the same time.

We never fell out of love at the same time.

Isn't that beautiful?? Even in those dry spells--those times when he was making her crazy forgetting to _____ (fill in the blank), or when she was constantly ___________ (fill in the blank), the one still managed to love the other. To be in love with the other. It's not always easy. When we mentor engaged couples, we encourage them to keep their workbooks for those days when they need a reminder of the planning the wedding days, the getting read for a long marriage days.

Like any journey, there are times when concessions must be made. My brother says, "Don't say you don't care where we stop if you really don't want Chinese," not because he plans to stop for Chinese, but because sometimes when we think that something doesn't matter to us, we realize pretty quickly that it does, and that can ignite into an argument, or it can become an opportunity to fake it for a bit in order to ensure that love can continue on its course.

journeys begin

Shoes are my least favorite article of attire. Socks, I like, shoes, though, I wear because I have to. As soon as I walk in the door, off they go. When I learned (many years ago!) that leaving shoes at the door helps in keeping the house just a tad cleaner, I rejoiced! And immediately started training my family to leave their shoes by the door. True, they sometimes get in the way of our everyday life (we have neither a "mudroom" nor entrance hall--or even a closet!), but my happy feet enjoy freedom from the time I get home until I have to leave the confines of our humble abode. Summer is awesome, because other than work and Church, I'm all about flip-flops or naked pigs. (In the colder months, I also get to indulge my penchant for sliding on the wood floors! Never grow up!)

I try, with varying degrees of success, to keep my shoes out of the way, if not organized. However, my sneakers make up a pile of their own between the radiator and the cupboard. I have the pair I wear for running, and I few pairs I wore out running that I keep around for various reasons: rainy walks, long standing up days, just in case the running shoes blow out unexpectedly. My work and dress shoes I try to keep in the closet in our bedroom, but there are usually a pair or two stashed around the room; removed in haste, of course.

About three times over the past week or so, I've reached for a pair of shoes and come up with two different shoes. That much didn't surprise me as much as the fact that every time, it has been two right shoes. Normally when I put my running shoes on, it's in the early morning dark, so I look for the subtle variations that are visible by the streetlight shining through the window, and sometimes end up with a mixed pair at first. Two right running shoes happened twice. (All the more strange because after our run, the pair of shoes is together at the top of the pile.) The third time, I reached down to grab my shoes on the way out of our bedroom before work, got downstairs, and discovered I had two black shoes, both the right side of a pair. And they look nothing alike!

After the second time, I suspected there might be a reason, but after the third time, I began to wonder just what the message could be! This morning, I began to realize that I had an inkling. As I've certainly mentioned before, I'm not one for subtle signs (directed at me!), and have often prayed that messages thunk my over the head. The meditations in my little morning book this week, the prayer I decided to read from an app on my phone, even some little something from our retreat orientation last night have all had a theme that I didn't pick up on until lunchtime, reading the last little bit of Soeur Therese of Lisieux's story.

When I was a kid, dancing, my teacher found it odd that I was left-footed when I am right-handed. Turns to the left, kicks, lunges, all were more instinctual to the left. The right caught up, eventually. (Interestingly, my left hand did not cooperate with choreography quite as well, presenting some challenges!) I had all but forgotten. Standing backstage during a facility tour two nights ago, I suddenly had a feeling that something should be clicking. I missed the performing, or rather, the anticipation of performing, that I had done so many times. For a fleeting moment, I thought the message was to "put my best foot forward."

Still, it took me a while to realize that was only part of the lesson. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place; the meditations and prayers were about doing one's best--at work, at play. Getting dressed this morning, the quote on my mirror caught my eye: "Your work is to discover your world, and then with all your heart give yourself to it."* I marvelled that a similar sentiment was brought out last night, with regard to the Sacred Heart.

Then Soeur Therese.....What clicked really had little to do with anything in the book. Reading today, I made the connection between "right" and "just" and my shoes. Put my best foot forward; not my right foot, but my Right foot. A little reading about Grace and Mercy. A comment on the journey of faith. A journey that starts with a single step, but strives to continue with right steps. It all came together, just before I read this: "...I see clearly that you are mistaking the road, and that you will never arrive at the end of your journey. You want to climb the mountain, whereas God wishes you to descend it. He is awaiting you in the fruitful valley of humility." (The story of a soul)

To top it all off, I listened to a CD while waiting for track practice to end, and heard Fulton Sheen say that far too many people say they wish to lift up their cross and follow Jesus then say their cross is too difficult, too heavy, certainly not what God would intend. I've been there. I've been to the darkest and dreariest parts of my soul. By the Grace of God, and with the help of many along the way, I take one step at a time. I falter, I wander off the path, I still sometimes feel lost, but I try again each time.

*quote is attributed to Buddha

the to do list

There are times when I feel alone on this journey, simply by virtue of the fact that I am the one who is at home. The morning was peaceful, lovely, mild--for a couple of hours. Then all hell broke loose. (I exaggerate, but there is no phrase that I know of that means that Purgatory was invoked!)

I reminded our youngest, who was hoping for a friend to visit, that he would need to clean his room first, and reiterated (an exaggerated understatement, but parenting advice has told me that saying that I've said it a hundred times will scar them for life) that if he and his brothers, all of us, really, would just put things away when we are done with them, cleaning up would be so much simpler. (In reality, it would have a different meaning, but it would also garner fewer frustrated outbursts from me.) I remained very calm in this explanation (I've grown!!), and told him that I need to clean my own room, too. His response: "Then Padre needs to, too."

I paused.

I could have just agreed with him, but that didn't seem honest enough. Instead, I told him that the reality is, I make more of a mess of our room than his fatehr does. "Padre's better at putting his clothes away than I am." "That doesn't make sense. Then why is it that he isn't the one that's always telling us to clean up?"

There's the rub. There are so many reasons for that--some of which are so complex I am only just beginning to understand them--but the simple answer is, "He's not home as much as I am." Ironically, it matters more to him than it does to me, and the reasons for that are probably as complex. Our frustration thresholds are pretty similar, and getting higher (thankfully!) as we explore what's in our singular pasts. Yet I am the one who tends to take the mess more personally. It's not that I think the house should be spotless because the menfolk had the day off yesterday, and I did not. And it's not that I'm jealous at how they spent the day. On the contrary, I wish I had the capacity to put it out of my mind, the cleaning and tidying that needs to be done.

The trouble is, it gets in my way. I just had to arbitrate between two sons who cannot work in the same room at that same time, even though they both live in the same space. One is neater than the other in some ways, but the problem is that one is far more emotional than the other. The arguement at the beginning of the project they chose to undertake at the same time was not a surprise. The results of the ensuing temper tantrum, however, tested a new limit of my patience. Although I handled it as best I could, without having a tantrum of my own (a not-so-small victory), I found myself saddened that I had to deal with it at all. That's not entirely true--I was saddened that I had to deal with it alone.

The job is still not done. And I decided to write so I would not continue to build upon the situation in my mind. [This is, after all, my therapy. Mine, and you can take from it what you will, as long as you keep in mind that it is my mind I am cleansing.] The untidy (another understatement!) dormitory then became related to the bathroom door that has been broken for a few years now, and the replacement door that is still standing in the dining room, waiting to be stained or painted so it can be installed. To the living room that was painted even more years ago, but has not yet been finished. To the travel items from Christmas that are still on the porch......The list was growing, and I could feel my loneliness and frustration growing in proportion.

Truthfully, more would not be accomplished if he was at home this morning instead of working. That's only because there is always something, and because we enjoy each other's company, and because the priorities are always a little different when we are both home. The building of pressure to do (for want of a better phrase) is completely internal--it is pressure I put on myself. I'm learning to accept it with grace and serenity, but not as quickly as I am learning patience.

"...Although I must have Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind...." (Klara Munkres)

progress

This past week of Lent has been the most challenging for me. While the weeks prior have had their own challenges, this week was filled with additional interruptions of various sorts. When I realized I had missed a day, and was on the verge of missing a second, my first inclination was to justify by telling myself that I had done something else, made some other sacrifice that would even out my original promises. The difference this year, is that I realized how futile the justification truly is. I can rationalize all I want, but the fact is, I made the promises to God; personally and privately, to be sure, yet a vow, nonetheless. In almost the same moment that I tried to excuse myself, I was filled with the understanding that I could start again, then and there, and get back on track.

As I'd hoped, my Lenten sacrifice feels far less so, and is becoming a habit that I enjoy, and that brings some peace to my day, and my heart. I'm imperfect, and will forever struggle to keep up with my new good habit. For reasons I have yet to understand, good habits are harder to continue than bad habits. Or, put more simply, good habits are easier to break than bad habits! Goodness is quieter, less noticeable. Why is that? Goodness brings more of a sense of well-being.

Why does temptation draw us in so?

as myself

Earlier today, I was stuck. I had thoughts, ideas, wonderings, concerns, questions that wanted out, but I wasn't quite sure where to begin. I'd been spooked a bit, and agitated by that, and as a result, I felt stuck and even a bit angry about it. I started to write, but it wasn't going where I wanted it to, so I drafted it. Sometime I might revisit the words and rework them into something that feels more coherent.

In the meantime, we attended vespers, and something I heard there struck a chord closely related to what I wanted to say. The reflection was presented by a judge who did  a wonderful job of explaining how he lives his faith while hearing cases of law. In his talk, he pointed to Jesus' words in Mark's Gospel: "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Mark 12:31). Something clicked in my mind when he soon after paraphrased the Golden Rule: Love your neighbor as you would like to be loved.

Many times I've talked about the time when our son, as a toddler, got in trouble at pre-school for a minor infraction--something like poking a particular classmate. When asked why he would do that, he said, in all seriousness, that clearly the other child wanted to be poked, as he had poked others. Obviously, the other classmate was treating others as he wanted to be treated himself. If that kid pokes, he wants to be poked. It took us quite a long time to adjust this interpretation--especially since his point was spot on, though skewed!

This memory only flitted through my mind, as I thought that the two 'rules' do not equate. Loving someone as you love yourself is not the same as treating someone the way you want to be treated. That revelation added perspective to the thoughts I'd had earlier. Consider this: If I do not love myself, if I have pain, sorrow or anger in my heart, things from my life, my past, the forgotten parts of my heart and mind, how can I appreciate that someone else does not have some level of self-enmity? If I dislike myself, do not trust myself, do not love myself, how, then, will I treat others. Still, I could keep that commandment by treating others the way I see myself.

I've been there. At times, in my life, I have felt trapped, closed in, under appreciated, lonely, faithless. During those dark times, I truly believed that I was treating others as I wanted to be treated, but in reality, I was not loving them as I loved myself. Most people, I was loving far more than I loved myself. Others I was treating as I wished they'd want me to treat them. I remember actually thinking these things; actually wishing that someone would ask why I thought more of them than I thought of myself. Thankfully, I am far from that place now, but hearing the reflection tonight, I realized again that some of the people I had previously admired for having what I thought I didn't have are likely stuck in their own internal struggles.

That sounds obvious, and, yes, I have always known that what happens inside my heart is not completely unique to me. If that were the case, psychology and sociology would make no sense whatsoever. We think inside our heads, and that tends to make us think that what's in our minds is ours alone. However, when we open our hearts to share our thoughts, we realize how united we really are. That's where I am now. Yesterday, I read, "...the more ways we discover to express, share, and be loving, the more we find ourselves surrounded by the feeling of love" (Carlson and Carlson, c1999, Don't sweat the small stuff in love, p.36). Love is reflexive. Giving love is getting love, but wanting love is different. Just wanting it doesn't make it so.

Our speaker this evening pointed out that neither loving others as ourselves nor treating others as we'd like to be treated is easy. But the effort, for me, has been worthwhile. I fall short. Everyone does. But I get back up, take a deep breath, and start again, asking for help every step of the way. This post may or may not be coherent to you, as the reader; but I know just what I am saying.

because I can

"Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple."
                                                                        ~Dr. Seuss

Yesterday, the question was presented: "Why bother?" Indeed, the question was far more complicated than it looks, as there was plenty of background to go with it. The important part, to me, though, was the simplicity of the answer--which, of course, uses far more words in answer. The simplest answer would be, "You're right," followed by giving up the action.

I've learned so much, though, that tells me that if the question is "Why bother?" there must be lots to think about.

Why bother?

Well, because if I keep doing the rote, follow the forms, act out of habit, I am still getting something out of it. IF, that is, I allow myself. I myself sat, week after week, out of habit, until that little bit of faith -- that mustard seed, if you will -- found a reason to start working its way through my heart.

Yoga is a practice. In order to find the benefits of yoga, which include, but are not limited to, flexibility, mental and physical balance, and strength, one must keep at it. Keep pushing limits, keep breathing, keep learning. I never thought of all faith as involving similar practice. Like the muscle memory we need to do well in athletic contests or games, and that only comes with continuous drills and repetition, so is faith. In training at my new job, I am practicing the elements I have already learned, and I have already begun to do some of them without needing to refer to notes or call over a co-worker.

Why bother?

Because it might make a difference to me, in me.

Because it has made a difference in me. It just took a while.

Yet I totally understand that without the possibility there to begin with, the rote easily can become not only dull and boring, but also mind-numbing and unfulfilling: useless. That was the point of the question, and I know that. Ever the debater, though, I must find some other angle; especially in applying lessons to my own life and experience. It's my nature; what I was made to be. It makes people (including me) crazy sometimes, I know. But it's also how I learn, how I grow.

Why bother?

Because in the end, provided the heart and mind are open, the reward is great.

virtual vs. real

Yesterday, before I even put my glasses on, I had the most wonderful virtual visit with a couple of my dearest college friends -- one from the first go-around, and one from the second. The best part was when they were interacting on my page together. I can imagine them sitting together, drinking coffee, or eating lunch, giving me -- and each other -- a good-natured hard time, and I love it! In between, I was having a raucous virtual time with a group of people that I otherwise would have no contact with, or even knowledge of, if not for the "magic" of the internet, social media and other online communication. I love this technology, and vast array of ways it can be used for good.

At the same time, I find myself exceptionally frustrated with the use of media -- social and otherwise -- to cloud and obfuscate (thanks for the word, D-J!) what is important in life, in the world, in our real lives. We do not live in the magical, fantastical world that the internet and all its trappings create. We live in a real place, where people have been killed in the line of duty, and glossed over. Where children are truly and honestly afraid for their safety, the safety (The SAFETY -- Children!!) of their families, their homes, their country. Where every job is in jeopardy, it seems, of one sort or another. Where our peers, our own neighbors, really, are still wondering how to rebuild after a natural disaster. And yet, what are we showered with in the news? Frivolous 'scandals' that, in all likelihood, should be handled privately, behind closed doors, by the individuals involved. Except that the frivolity may just have been engineered. We may never know.

The unfortunate thing is that the virtual reality of our individual internet worlds starts to feel safer to us, because what seems to be happening in the real world looks more and more like a bad movie. Not the kind that one feels one can get up and walk out of, demanding a refund; rather, the type that falls under the category of "train wreck" or "rubbernecking." So many of us are finding ourselves wondering what could possibly happen next, and shaking our heads that it did, in fact, get worse.

Lately, too many things in my life that are dear to me have lead to discussions of breaking down to bare bones, to the very foundation, to the point of no return before anything can be salvaged. Not much is irreparable, in my opinion, but most things take a heck of a lot more work -- and energy -- to maintain than many people are willing to expend. I know this firsthand, and am willing to admit that I was quite willing to give up and watch the results of my laziness (why call it anything else?? I got complacent.) because working and giving got hard, and painful. I'm back, though, and I daresay with a vengeance. To tell you the truth, I feel more useful, more invigorated, more alive for it!

Don't let it all die. Go down fighting, or go away. Beware of propaganda (my youngest son and I have been talking about propaganda quite a bit lately! He's 12, and bringing home questions about what he's learned in school.) and its intent, which is seldom less than nefarious. Pray for answers. Act on them. Fight the good fight, and leave No One Behind.

admiration and pride

It's Veteran's Day today. Please, go find a Veteran, and say, "Thank you."

As I sat in Church this morning, gazing at the flag moved to a place of honor near the altar for the weekend, I found myself thinking about my favorite veteran. I know, and have known, a number of men and women who have served our country both in peacetime, as well as wartime. My father was a Marine, but drilled into me (pun intended) that he was not a veteran, as he had only served in peacetime. I'm not sure why, exactly, he saw it that way, when I've heard many times that anyone who has served is a veteran, but he was vehement. Perhaps his strong feelings were related to stories he may have heard from his godmother, Aunt Alice Watts, who was an Army Nurse in WWII. Perhaps there was something else, or someone else who shaped his views of his own time in the military, or maybe Grampa Henry was adamant, since he himself was a little bitter about not being able to serve in WWII because his job as a prison guard was too important stateside. Maybe it was the genuine modesty I've felt and observed from so many. I do know that whatever Dad's reasons, they were voiced strongly enough to me to have never asked again.

My favorite Veteran is someone I can't thank enough. He has done so much -- professionally, and for my family, and for me personally. I admire him: his courage, his dedication, his strength, his faith. I am grateful in ways I cannot express for his friendship, and his love. We have had discussions on any subject under the sun, and quite a few under the moon, as well. While I was in school, and he was deployed -- twice, there were days when I would IM him, asking his opinion on thoughts, questions, issues, and would fill him in on average, everyday things going on in my household. Carefully, we all chose what to include in packages to him -- a Christmas tree once, ping pong balls, tabletop toys -- with the cookies I made and wrapped carefully. Those packages were filled with anything we could find to express our love and admiration for him, and our hopes and prayers for his safety. That he knew. What he may not have known is that those packages were also filled with tears of worry for him and sadness for his family, missing him. They were filled with laughter, too, that the boys and I exploded with as we talked about the last time we were together, or what we should do when we saw him next. Once, I asked him what he missed most that day while we talked, and he said the snow. I had told him we had just gotten our first of the season. I went out that day and lay down in it to make a snow angel, just for him.

The blessing of this man has enriched my life, and I cannot thank God enough for him. He makes me mad sometimes , and there have been times when I wondered just who he thinks he is. And I'm quite sure he has the same thoughts about me sometimes. But when it comes down to the wire, he's always been there for me. His wife and my husband admire our friendship, too, and, wonderfully, it expands to include both families: we consider both to be just one, in many ways.

It is because of him that I go out of my way to thank anyone I see in uniform whenever possible. It is because of him that I cry every time I say that simple "Thank you for your service." It is because of him that I stay and listen to the response. For me, it would be much easier to just say thanks and keep moving. Most of the time, the response is very brief, possibly even rehearsed; but the look in their eyes.....that's the part that is important to me. The part that tugs at my heart and makes it overflow. The part that makes me cry every single time. Usually, afterwards, I'll send him a text, thanking him, too. It's been a while.

Today, looking at each star visible to me, each stripe on the flag, and the eagle atop the pole, wings outstretched, I thanked God once again for all who have served our country, giving of themselves -- selflessly -- and the immeasurable sacrifices they make, day after day. I lowered my head, too, at the realization, the admission, that always comes next: that I could not do it; I could never be in that uniform, and put myself on the line like they do. I admire each and every member of our Armed Forces, and I wish I could thank them all.

The best I can do today is to thank one in particular. Paul, thank you. I love you, and I admire you, and I am proud to be considered more than just your sister-in-love, to be considered your friend.

#lifeisgood

This week has been full of extra blessings. Sunday began with a sermon that made me say, "Ah, ha!" and exemplified how different perspectives can change perceptions. (We attended a beautiful wedding on Saturday evening, and the readings and sermons for both the service and Sunday's Mass were the same.) And we got to stay for a pancake breakfast, to boot! What better start to a Sunday? The afternoon took me to a swim meet -- my first in a while, as the season had changed, and the team as well. My tweet upon my arrival says it all: "That day when being at a pool for a meet is fun again. #lifeisgood #EPACrocks" and I did have a marvelous time, watching our Joseph swim, and getting to know a few parents on our new team. In fact, it was the first time I had consciously made the decision to be "Stephanie" and not "a coach's wife" to get to know swim people. When asked about the transition, I replied openly, from my own perspective. And, damn, did it feel good to be myself!! The new me. :) I read my book in between Joseph's races, texted with a couple of friends, made faces at Guy across the pool, and loved it!

Guy was on vacation this week, and there was so much sharing we were able to do; even with me going to work most of the week. He scraped and washed the porch, so later today, I will start priming while he works at the pool -- giving private lessons after practice is over. I can do nothing but smile when I think of how great this transition has been! This is the team he has been needing for so long; somewhere he can shine and collaborate, where he can teach and learn without feeling controlled and contrived. I'm so happy for him -- and I feel as though we've finally 'come home,' as far as swimming goes.

One of the highlights of the week, though, came on Wednesday evening at Church. Mom and I have been attending a video series on Catholicism while Guy and Joseph are at CCD, and I have been thoroughly enjoying it! It's not just about Catechism, or Bible study, but offers quite a historical perspective on the teachings of Jesus and His followers. That is right up my alley -- the seemingly trivial, nuts and bolts things that somehow were missed in my 8 years of Catholic school. (I honestly don't know why -- Had I understood the historical, contextual meaning of 'turning the other cheek,' for example, I may not have had so many questions all this time.) The good news, to me, is that my faith is probably much stronger and deeper than I had thought. I digress....

Despite this week being wonderful blessed, it has also been a little tumultuous (perhaps the reason I notice the blessings?), including the beginnings of inquiries regarding making harassment charges. But, Wednesday evening, one of those age old questions was asked, and the simplicity of the answer, or an answer, brought tears to my eyes. Earlier in the week, Guy and I had talked about strength and healing, and the tests and obstacles that, when encountered and overcome, make the journey that much sweeter. I told him that, strange as it sounds, there's a part of me that is thankful, after the fact. He agreed that it sounded strange, but assured me I was not crazy. Anyway, the answer offered was this (and I have heard it before, but not so succinctly, and never when I most needed to hear it): "God permits evil to provide for a greater good." I don't completely understand it, but I'm not meant to; none of us are. But there is a need to tear down that which is not structurally sound in order to rebuild and reinforce that which is good.

I'll be the first to admit that my life, my person, my confidence has been built on a veritable fault line! Plate shifting cannot begin to describe my occasional meltdowns. But just today, I was telling Guy, as we tried to avoid the ticking of the clock toward daytime, that there is a space inside where years' worth of anger was. I get scared sometimes, though "scared" is not the right word, because I'm not sure what is in its place. I'm not used to being filled with faith, hope and joy. I'm not used to being me all over the place, either. The scared that I feel is closer to the feeling of anticipating a roller coaster ride with my brother-in-love than the feeling of an open closet door at night, or entering a dark room alone. Is it strange to say that it's a scared that I like, and look forward to?

Such happiness, such joy, faith and love, are filling my heart, my days, my nights, my life, that I almost feel as though I've been living a dream after a sleepless night. A long sleepless night. Clarity. It's a beautiful thing. Thank you!!

water under the bridge

Today was one of those "I really just feel like I need to cry, but I don't even know why" kind of days. Maybe it was the little bit of frustration from work; or maybe it was hormones; or maybe it was related to the torrents of rain falling....Possibly a combination of all, along with the underlying tiredness of this weekend's trip, and the subsequent "I still miss you, and now I miss them." To be honest, it doesn't much matter, does it? When those days happen, there's the choice that has to be made: do I keep busy enough to hold it off, or do I just give in and get it out of my system? Today I chose the former, although plenty of times I've gone with the latter, only to have the same result in the end: it's gone.

Whatever it was that was getting under my skin today is gone, and I've moved forward once again. And I didn't even fritter away the time on the computer, or doing nonsense things. (That's my other "usual" thing.) I filed some papers and wrote a check that have been waiting, bagged up some old shirts we won't be wearing any more (two big garbage bags! Good riddance!), did laundry, cleared off my dresser, fixed up my resume -- some things I've been putting off, and some that I'd normally rather put off!

When I think about it, though, I realize there is an edge to today's mood that had never been there before. There once was a time when I was that girl that could walk down the street without a care in the world. Lately, I've found myself looking over my shoulder when I'm alone, and the stress of it is grating on me. Last week, I actually ran from someone in the dark. Yesterday, I spent the morning in a strange city, and in the daylight, found myself checking my surroundings -- even when, for blocks, I saw no one at all, let alone following me. Both times, a friendly word soothed and comforted me (at night, a friend; yesterday, a stranger), but it bothers me that I have the feeling at all. It's getting to me, and the worst part is, I know exactly why.

A friend of mine Pinned this the other day: "Sometimes you have to burn a few bridges to keep the crazies from following you." Precisely. And laughter and love will save the day. Always.

goin' to the chapel

When one spends 11 hours in the car on the highway, one sees many things, and some of those invariably serve as reminders of some past long forgotten. Yesterday, I had one such moment.....

Along the way, somewhere just past halfway to our destination, I spied a deserted church off the highway. It reminded me of a long ago dream of ours (mine?) to one day buy an old church and renovate it as our home. At the time, we lived in New England, where churches for sale would not have seemed all that unusual. Especially the size that would seem reasonable as a single family dwelling. We also did not yet have children, so the idea of renovating, refurbishing and remodelling did not feel overwhelmingly impossible! (Now, just trying to organize a time to purchase the paint for the balcony project--let alone pick out a color!-- takes a crazy amount of logistical madness!)

Seeing that church, though, with weeds growing up around it, and the driveway/parking lot breaking up with them, the excitement of the prospect flowered and bloomed again in my mind. For the next 50 miles or so, I mused about the little churches we had spied off the beaten track on the travels of our early days together. I remembered my sister-in-law saying that we always had the greatest creative ideas for everything. I wondered if I had ever shared that statement with my husband, and how he might have taken it.....

The loft bedroom in the choir loft; the two bedrooms off either side of what had once been the altar area; the open concept living room, dining room, fun area in the body of the church, where the main aisle and pews had been. It all came back.

And I wondered.....was it really such a far-fetched idea? I had completely forgotten about it, and the memory stirred something joyous in me. Do I see it as a calling? I don't know. Do I see it as a symbol of renewed faith? Again, I don't know. Honestly, I see it as a recollection of a dream. I see it as another rebirth of the joys of our life. Another symbol of the strong foundation we have built together paying off when the storms come. Most of all, I see it as a reminder to smile joyfully as I look both backward and forward on who I am, what we have together, and where we are headed--literally and figuratively.