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. 

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.

*

There's this story that's been wandering through my thoughts, but cannot escape. The story is willing to be told; I am more than willing to tell it. But parts of it will be lost in the preconceptions of certain audience members. Not all of the story - in fact, a good bit of the story - is not pretty, so sharing is likely not possible. 

Or so I thought. At times reliving parts of the story gets pretty painful. Lately, in the midst of conversations with a new friend, I'm struck by a memory long forgotten, or pushed away, and I become distracted by a view of my past through a different lens. One changed by age, experience, faith, any number of things. I hadn't any idea making a new friend could be so frightening, which is ironic because I've never been excited about meeting new people. 

Yet I've been told again and again that I have been given a gift in this story; one that I am to share. 'A gift received is to be given away.' I felt cornered; stuck between a rock and a hard place, as it were. 

Until tonight. Tonight as I drove on the highway, I felt sure that I was never going to be able to tell the story as it should be. I was almost convinced that instead I should quietly walk away. That I should politely decline any encouragement or invitation to even talk casually, and leave storytelling behind. It tore at my heart - does now as I recall - but I couldn't figure any other way. Walking into the church, I knelt and asked where next, since clearly I had been going in the wrong direction. 

The music enveloped me and I allowed myself to listen and respond. 

I'm not sure when the realization came: the story I share needn't start at the beginning. Those details are not always important, although the generalities of them might be. The journey, the results so far, the decision to continue - those are the key points. I lost myself in the Christmas decorations still adorning everything and considered motivation and commitment. Just what sticking it out means. The fact that there is One who didn't walk away when the questions or answers got hard. 

I don't quite know how to share my story yet, but I have a far clearer view of why I might. I have a voice, I have a story, they are gifts to be shared with those who need to hear them. 

And I will. I will share them. 

letting go

Thank you, Lord, for prayers answered. 

What have I learned this week? 

First, that the unknown is best handled by the One Who Knows. Clenched in my hands has been, among other things, a need to know. Where that need came from I do not know, but I do know it is a very developed habit that really gets me nowhere. 

This need to know is different from my love of learning. In learning, there is a process, a goal, actual substantive information. This need to know, however, makes less sense. What I want to know is typically something unknown. Something unknowable. In actuality, the future. A need to know the unknowable is a no win. 

This week I was told the I don't knows belong at the foot of the cross, belong in my prayers; that I can say "I don't know what to say, what will happen, what this means. I don't know what I need. I don't know even what I want, what hurts, or why. And I just need You to know that I don't know." 

When I let go, when I opened my hands and realized what was inside, what I thought I needed to know, was far out of my hands, I began to also understand that it didn't matter. It would be what it would be, regardless of what I said, did, demanded, begged for, cried over. 

I let go. A little, but I did. And in response, reassurance. 

Thank you, Lord, for prayers answered. 

almost empty

I went for a run today. I've been running quite a bit again lately. Wondering, actually, why I really took a break from it. The answers to that are myriad. Complicated. Maybe even irrelevant. My runs lately are a break. A time to refocus my mind, body, and energy so that I can clean out cobwebs in my mind. I begin my run with a prayer - a conversation with St Sebastian, the patron of athletes. I ask him to run with me, to encourage me, to push me to work harder or to rest as appropriate. I then pray my way through three miles, generally the rosary. Two rosaries, to be specific. My training tool, as it were.
The last two times I've gone out, today and Friday, my route was blocked, quite near the beginning. I had to change direction, determine the course on the go. Be satisfied - delighted, actually - by the unexpected change in plans. Friday the variation was slight, but added a quarter mile to my run. Today, I changed the route entirely when I came to the blockade.
Another unusual similarity in my treks: both days I had someone pull up and ask me directions. Simple things in both cases, the same direction, really. "Continue straight ahead and you'll be there." Very grateful faces looked back at me. Both times I gave the directions out of breath, sweating, and red-faced from running. Both times as they drove off I wondered about crossed paths.
My run today became a walk home when tight muscles and raw emotions combined to draw me to contemplation. As I let myself catch my breath, the roadblock - a bridge out on a path through the park - those asking directions, and a text I saw this morning came to mind and worked their way into my thoughts, the more conscious ones. I found myself encouraged to continue where I'm going. To trust my instincts because they are being led by Love, and to guard myself against any idea that I am either on my own, or able to make my way on my own. I am not my own light. I am, however, guided by a Light that will never fade.
There was a season when I ran from. All my running was to leave something behind. Eventually my running evolved into running to; an effort to reach or find something for which I was searching. Something that turned out to be both inside and outside of me. After I returned home, watching TV with my kids, I realized I am in this season running with. I hope I remember to continue that way, regardless of the detours.

light is darkness

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness! (Matthew 6:15)

This is the second translation of this verse I read this evening. I read the first three times without being able to begin to understand it. I decided to try reading the next verse to see if it made more sense, and in my Bible, this was the translation. Sitting in the gathering gloaming, I found it fitting to think of light and darkness. And just what this particular verse means -- to me, today.

Near as I can tell, light and darkness are at times relative. For a few months, I've been trying to determine which spirit is talking to me: the spirit of Light, or the spirit of darkness. There are questions to ask, and faith to go on, but in the end, it is still hard for me to determine which is which. Not always, but often enough.

Tonight I feel particularly battered. And for no reason related to today, or even this week. I think, really, it's a level of recovery marked by deep pain. Earlier this evening, trying to define it, all I could come up with is that feeling of knowing that used to belong to the days leading up to a breakup with my high school boyfriend. We dated for just about five years, and broke up about every six months or so. There was an awful lot to that time, and I wouldn't go back to relive it all over again, but there is something to be said for revisiting the why of at least some of it.

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!

Wondering why I got that feeling earlier is a key to a door that I previously never knew existed. I need to determine whether it should be opened, or simply passed by. My light is darkness. At least some of it. Things that I have always believed about myself are not all true. Some are not at all true. Some are indeed true, but only in certain circumstances. Some are completely true, but not necessarily great to acknowledge. But mostly, I would say that I have a good amount of darkness where a measure of light belongs. If I continue to believe in that darkness as my light, the truth of me, then I will, first of all, continue to find myself in dark places that frighten me, and consume me. The darkness -- the actual darkness -- truly is deeper, darker.

Good decisions are not always easy, and do not always look like the ones that others would choose. And all too often, judgments are made that only reinforce the dark. Every decision comes with a cost, and even the cost is not necessarily what one would think. Earlier this week, I found myself saying, "It's not worth it to say something," and was met with the response, "It's always worth it to say something." I've been thinking about that. One of my favorite songs is John Mayer's Say. "Say what you need to say....Fighting with the shadows in your head....Knowing you'd be better off instead if you could only....Say what you need to say.....It's better to say too much than never to say what you need to say." When I hear it, I know that each verse is truth. And yet, I usually find myself closer to Billy Joel's words in And So It Goes: "And still I feel I've said too much, My silence is my self defense." My darkness, my light, has for too long come with silence.

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!

The two songs come together on one stanza from each song: "But if my silence made you leave, Then that would be my worst mistake," (Joel) "Have no fear for giving in, Have no fear for giving over.....Even if your hands are shaking, And your faith is broken....Do it with a heart wide open" (Mayer). Opening a heart, my heart, requires a key. Rather, it will require many keys, none of which seem to be hanging neatly by the door, readily accessible. I am fighting with the shadows in my head, and have been for a very long time. Trouble is, I had no idea for so long, because my light has been darkness. Hope is my light; dim at times, but constant.

And that's where I am today.

scare the world

Goofing off, avoiding what I really want to do (and need to be doing) now that I feel better after a few days of being sick, I came across this. It struck me, because of how much I still sometimes fear being me. Not because I don't know who I am (which used to be the reason), but because of the reaction that typically follows.

Unfortunately, I think the "scare people" part is spot on. I scare people. I've never intended to. To be honest, I don't think they are actually afraid; I think they think they are because they don't know how else to define it. I make people uncomfortable. I'm an introvert who doesn't like to pretend. I can; I just don't like it, and I'm not very good at it. I don't like to talk about nothing, and I don't like to talk about people, and I don't like to talk about personal things (my own or others') with people I hardly know.

Bottom line: I'm a mom. I always have been, and I always will be. I have a job, but it's just a job to me, it's not a career. I suppose there's a possibility that there is plenty of time for a career for me, but in all honesty, being available for my kids -- and now my mom -- is far more important to me. When all of them got old enough to be alone for extended amounts of time, I was told that I would feel more gratified, more satisfied, happier, even, if I started working full time. Actually, the opposite is true. I feel far less appreciated, needed, capable now than I ever did as a stay at home mom. Both at home and in an office. Don't get me wrong; I like my job as much as anyone else. I just feel less connected to my family, and less able to finish anything that I start.

One day, I will be replaced at my job. It's inevitable, whether it's two months, two years, or two decades in the future. I will be replaced, and that is a good thing. Nothing can ever replace my family. More often than not, that's where I am in my thoughts when you see me; I'm with my family. Always. Or I'm praying -- that they know that I am not trying to find fulfillment somewhere else.

thank you, dear friend

My dear friend,

Watching the sun rise this morning over my sleeping husband's shoulder, I realized part of the reason words that wanted to flow would not. I often feel this gratefulness wash over me, and this desire to express it. From time to time, I have said thank you to individuals walking this earth, breathing the air I breathe; people that have laughed and cried with me, offered advice, answered questions, or asked them with me. 

On Christmas morning, I was once again overwhelmed with thankfulness, and wanted more than anything to express it. Immediately, I thought of one person, then another. Then yet one more. The list kept growing. How best to thank them for the guidance, the friendship, the prayers they have offered for and with me? How best to tell them that their example both challenges and comforts me? How best to say that without them, I may not be where I am right now, today? 

There was a song running through my head that morning, as I considered and debated composing a letter. Matt Redman's "Your Grace Finds Me" touches me often: "[Forever I'll be] / Breathing in Your grace / And I'm breathing out Your praise." Heart swelling with emotion, I could think of no way to put the words in order, and say what I really needed to say. In the end, I was left somewhat befuddled, but also knowing that when the words were right, when the emotions were right, when the time was right, they would flow, freely and easily. 

Then the sun appeared this morning, between two trees on the horizon, and I realized I was headed in the wrong direction. My dear friend, I've never written to you of thankfulness. I've written down my concerns, my hopes, even my anger and frustration. But never a letter of simple thanks. You are the one who has brought me here, with the help of others who have come to mean a great deal to me. You have taught me about myself, about my family, my faith, my world. You have been there no matter how I've behaved, reacted, resisted. The reason I was having trouble putting the words in place is that I was going to misdirect them. 

It is You I wish to thank. I thank you every day, at some point, but more often than not, the thanks are for blessings I've seen or heard; things that are fairly obvious to me. This thanks is for what is in my heart. Deep, deep in my heart. I am thankful for the place that is there for You. 

For your grace, I thank you, on the day we celebrate Christ's birth, and every day. 

Warmly,

Stephanie

you may not know

I finally managed to come up with 10.....

1. I really miss wearing contacts.

2. My glasses are always filthy -- from tears on the inside of them, and from who knows what on the outside.

3. I've never needed a passport. And that makes me a little bit sad.

4. When Dad died, I was in the middle of choreographing a dance for my grandmother. I promised at his funeral to make one for him, but never did. All of it was in me, and I still watch it in my head, sometimes.

5. I used to want a tattoo. The argument with myself over visible vs hidden got to be unwinable, so it'll likely never happen.

6. I'm still trying to figure out what else I want to be when I grow up--I'm closer, but still not there.

7. In high school, I wanted to major in International Law and Languages, and work at the UN. My guidance counselor talked me out of that, and every one of my dream jobs. My favorite class at college was Hospitality Law. Go figure!

8. Zip lines are my favorite way to fly.

9. Favorite place I have ever been is Hawaii. Arizona is a close second. St George Island, Florida, is third.

10. My only real phobia is auditioning, which is related to being talked out of dream jobs when I was 17.

heart and mind

Almost two weeks ago, I finished a book of reflection. It was a daily devotional that touched my heart deeply. On the last day, as I began the last paragraphs, I sobbed uncontrollably.  Having to wait to read until my tears subsided was both painful and relief. I was about to say I had never felt such emotion, but then I remembered that I most certainlu have--in prayer.

That bliss - that indescribably intense emotional response - is sometimes frightening. And yet the 'realness' of it is at the same time reassuring, comforting, peaceful. In those moments, time is irrelevant and space is immaterial. I'm not alone and no one is with me. I find myself deep within my own heart and nowhere at once. Every time, there have been tears, and often laughter or an uncontrollably broad smile.

I'd thought that deep state of prayerful being was only possible once in a while, but I'm thinking now there might be more to the story. I tried starting the book over. Not in an effort to recreate, but because I had learned so much through the first reading, and I know there is always more. But the pages may well have been blank: I saw nothing but black marks on a page. I gave up after three days. I miss it.

My heart of hearts knows that prayer is within me. Every day. My mind is suddenly interfering. Love will win out; Love never fails.

to flag or not

The life I lead (and love!):

"Do I know how to play flag football?"

"It's the same as regular football, but..."

"I don't know how to play regular football. You know that."

"Then, no, you do not know how to play flag football. Why? Do you want to play?"

"I keep getting invited to play. And I'm wondering if it would be a good skill to have for Life Teen."

"No, you don't really have to."

"Is it better to look like an idiot when and if the time comes?"

"I think so."

"Okay. Thanks. I love you."

"No problem. I love you, too." 

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.

wondering why

On Thursday, my husband wore a pink polo to work. Pink looks good on him--he has the right skin tone for it--and this particular polo is cut well, and flatters him. (I am not a fan of polo shirts in general , but that is another topic for another time, perhaps. This one looks good on him, and that's what matters to this story.) Whenever he wears this shirt, his eyes and smile have an extra light.

Why mention it? Because at the end of the day, he mentioned that when he wears that shirt, he gets many comments. All of them questioning his motivation. "Why are you wearing pink today?" "Feeling exceptionally secure in your masculinity today?" "Did your wife buy that for you?" And the ever popular, "Why would you want to wear that?" For the sake of clarification, and because now you may also be wondering, I rarely buy clothing for my husband. Heck, I rarely buy clothing for myself! I do not like shopping for clothes, and both of us are particularly hard to fit. I was, however, with him when he bought this particular shirt, and I believe all I had to say about the purchase was a reminder about my aforementioned dislike of polos in general. Also, if you take a look at my husband, and have a conversation with him, you will discover that not much affects his masculinity. (His name, Guy, fits him like no one else I've ever met!)

Why did he wear the pink shirt? He likes it, plain and simple. It's also comfortable, well made, and fits and suits him. It does happen to have a breast cancer ribbon embroidered on it, but that isn't even why he bought it. It was on the sale rack, and fit the criteria in the last sentence. (That was one of the comments he heard, "Well, it is for breast cancer, so I guess it's okay.") My question is, why do people feel the compulsion to comment on it in so personal a way? He's a New England sports fan in Central PA--Steelers country--and will get questions and good-natured jabs when he wears shirts and caps representing "his" teams, but none are personal, questioning his very being. Those questions are general and global, with the most personal being along the lines of "How come you like New England/Boston?" (His accent is now mostly imperceptible to most of his friends and co-workers.)

Telling me about his day, he said that it seemed that everyone had an opinion on his shirt, and the opinions were quite polarized. Everyone either loved it or hated it; no comments in between. I found myself wondering--are there any colors that a woman might wear that would cause that kind of response? Is there any other color that would elicit that kind of strong response? And why would the fact that "I would never wear that color" make it okay to judge someone else wearing it?

I have, for myself, a rule about wearing colors that are close to my skin tone. I avoid it when going out in public. No nude to tan shirts for me, or certain shades of yellow, cream, grey, and even pink, but I would never consider saying "Why on earth are you wearing that shirt that blend in with your skin and makes you look like you're not wearing anything? You must be feeling very secure in your skin tone." Nor would I say, "Why are you wearing a polo? You look like everyone else." Mostly because I recognize these aversions as my own personal quirks, not anything I feel compelled, or even able to express vocally. That said, I have offered fashion advice to our sons to avoid colors that blend into their skin, particularly on bathing suits. And I have been known to mention to my family, out of earshot of the wearer, and when the wearer is someone I do not know, that I could not wear that [shirt or dress] that blends into my skin. I don't mention anything at all about polos. They all seem to like them.

Why is pink -- or rose, salmon, shrimp, coral, or any other variation -- on a man so controversial that people, both male and female, find it necessary to point it out? "You're wearing a pink shirt." I just don't get it.

paper and pencil

I find myself looking at blank piece of paper. When I realized it, I almost laughed out loud, but had to contain myself in that moment. Instead, I laughed right out loud in my soul, expanding the very walls of my being. The laughter, and the paper, cleared some cobwebs from my mind, and pushed away some anxiety that has been lurking in the corners of my heart, constricting it and keeping me from opening the windows of my self wide to allow the gentle breezes of joy and mercy to blow freely in.

This paper may or may not be the one that haunted me as I asked for answers a few months ago. It's quite possible that it is the answer I was seeking; but it is equally possible that this is one more challenge to face, embrace, and ultimately use as a stepping stone on my journey. This paper is literal, where the other was a vision in my periphery: a frustration borne of trying a wee bit too hard to see what I should wait patiently to discover. This paper honestly paralyzed me for a moment when I saw it, lying on the table in front of me where I had dropped it. How can a piece of paper have this effect? Essay questions. Short answers. About me. About my journey, my hopes, my self.

The thought of answering them was almost a deal-breaker. For about 20 seconds. Then I recognized the anxiety--the No--that had stopped me from taking so many steps that should have been easy when taken with trust. I realized in that moment--well, after the 20 seconds, anyway--that trust is what had been missing so many times when all I needed to do was say Yes.

Tonight, I changed the question, and only just realized it. Once again, that seems to be the key. (I believe Merton said as much somewhere in No Man Is an Island!) Where I had been asking, "What is the answer?" I today asked, "Please, help me with the answers. Guide my hand in writing the words. I am just your little pencil.*" That's when I realized, when my soul laughed, when I saw smiles in front of me, and a nodding head.

I have come to a new place. And recognized it for the beauty, and for the miracle that discovery is.

*Mother Theresa described herself as "God's little pencil." I fell in love with the metaphor!

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.