killing me softly

I want so much to write. There is so much bouncing around my heart, my mind, my soul, screaming to be heard. And yet silence flows from my lips, from my fingers.

It is fear, trepidation, concern for truly worldly things that keeps the words locked up. Are not some worldly things legitimate concerns? Job concerns. They are the weightiest. So many of my heart family, the people who know my deepest heart, those who hold my hand, even from afar, have expressed clearly how much they worry that speaking truth would frighten me so. 

It's my kids. The ones in my home and the ones in my heart. My love for them keeps my lips sealed. I've already been separated forcibly from many of them. In that, I have started dying slowly. 

A conundrum: what example do I set by not speaking out? What good am I to them if I speak and subsequently lose contact? The attack, the battle, is both spiritual and psychological. And forceful. I wait for the right thing to be done , something to be done. Anything. Hell, I would be relieved to find the most awful, backward thing was done, if only something. I say that, and yet, in the supposed name of "help" I'm already dying. 

Crime dramas are my favorite. Have been since my sister first introduced me to Quincy while I was in junior high. In them, sometimes, a victim is stabbed or impaled and the object must remain in place that a slow bleed not become fatal as quickly. This object has entered my life, my soul, in an area resembling the belly - soft tissue, unprotected. The space reserved for the most tender of touches. And with each day, each hour of inaction, a few drops of lifeblood fall forever away. In the place I should feel most safe, the object in place is slowly turned, day by day, inch by inch. 

I've resolved to believe the answer to my plea "help me understand" is silence. Sustained and complete. Nothing will be done and I will be expected to go on about my days and nights behaving as though I am not leaving a trail of blood in my wake. My best guess: the supposition is that I have lived like this before, and eventually the wound heals, even if the dagger is not removed. That I've done it before, so I will again. What's forgotten is that I am not the same woman. 

I am not the same woman. I've learned that House was right - everyone lies. I've learned that the dagger never becomes invisible. Never disappears. It just becomes yet another subject of secretive conversations involving all but the one whose blood was shed. The one who most needs to be involved. The one who most needs to share. 

Ultimately, I will not be hushed to silence. I will not be pushed aside. "No one puts Baby in a corner." My voice will find its timbre, and the words will hit their mark. Rest assured, you will know that I've been opened up. That my heart, mind, and soul are aligned, and that the speaking is not only full of conviction, but with compassion for those like me. Don't try to tell me I don't have a reason to be angry, hurt, afraid, guarded. "Be not afraid" cannot mean "protect yourself not." We are given all we need - to use, not to lock away inside ourselves. 

The power over me belongs to One who has always loved me. Who knew me before I wake. Who gave me words and a means to use them. Who asked me to dance, and has always been and forever will be, my Partner. He listens to me. And asks me to speak. 

Last week, speaking to a priest I respect, I was told, "It is not enough to speak to the Father only in the silence of your heart. Even Christ cried out to his Father in words that hurt 'Why have you abandoned me?' He knew that those words would carry. He knew the people around would hear them. He knew they were shocking. Yet he cried them out, loudly. 'Thy will.' We must cry out, speak out loud in prayer, and in life. And remember that it is, in the end, His will we must follow." Say What You Need to Say - one of my favorite songs. 

Not everyone wants to hear what I have to say - especially the 'good' things: you mean something to me; I like to be around you; I'm glad you're in my life. Virtually no one wants to hear the harder things, offering the excuse "I don't want to upset you." Although I suppose it is intended to be gentle, it lands on me like a slap, and I bleed that much more. I recognize that for what it truly is: "I don't want to be upset. Your pain is something I don't know how to handle, process, hear." While I want to be compassionate then, I become preoccupied with direct pressure on the bleed. 

I hate that there are flashbacks. I hate that you don't care. I hate most that you would like to pretend they don't exist, because it makes your life, your job, easier. I hate even more that I keep hoping this time you will step up. That you will see that it's not for me that I wish it, but for a generation. I will not benefit personally from action. I will still bleed. 

Forever I will likely bleed.  

alongside of me

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

no platitudes, please

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm good with that.

thinking it through

"You must be so proud!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

untitled

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

I won't be afraid.

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

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

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

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

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

all for him

Sew It Seams by Stephanie was born out of an idea and a desire. It was intended as a way to help offset my car payment, but really for some extra dollars once in a while. This morning I realized it should be for another purpose......

My son, Drew, is going off to seminary in the fall, to be educated and trained as a priest of the Diocese of Harrisburg. Nothing about this next chapter of the story of him surprises me. Since the moment of his birth he has been teaching me about life, coping, love, faith, admiration - everything that is truly important. As a third child, he was trundled off in many directions, often exactly at nap time. He had no trouble adapting these constant changes to his routine, more than any of his brothers ever did. As a toddler, he would occupy himself playing with Lego's and building the most interesting sculptures that were as delicate and fragile as they were intricate. He was the only one who could move or handle them; at anyone else's touch they would crumble. In preschool he developed an amazing eye and ability for drawing and painting, taking classes and winning awards through all his school years. In high school, he made the very difficult decision to drop art as a class to make room for some other subjects, but never gave up his sketchbook or pencils, winning an award at the Classics Festival with a painting he did for Latin. He prays. I never prayed in high school. (I spent my time at mass looking for boys my age because there weren't many!) His sense of humor and quirky taste shines through all he does, including his discussions and questions about bible stories, homilies, Life Nights, Edge lessons. His strength of character has helped me through the past year as much as the support from my therapist, spiritual director, friends in the know. I'm proud to know him, and humbled beyond words that God entrusted him to me, of all people. He wanted to be a farmer growing up, and at the beginning of this discernment would occasionally talk about living on a farm with an art studio school and a chapel. My mother sent Drew a card recently reminding him of this dream, saying that he will now be a farmer helping to raise animals with much less fur. [she put it differently, but I'm working from memory, and emotion.]

Last week, when Drew got his letter of acceptance from St Charles, a friend asked if I would now begin hosting spaghetti dinners to help fund his education. That's the moment it all became more real. Child support for Drew ends next week when he graduates from high school. Since February when I filled out the paperwork to terminate it, I've wondered what I might do to make up that difference, especially when he goes off to Philadelphia. This morning as I weeded, I discovered I'd been praying without realizing it when it occurred to me that Sew It Seams is really for Drew.

So many people have encouraged this endeavor in small to big ways. Shawna agreed to work on my marketing and has taken beautiful pictures of the items, even coming up with the name of the page. Ed encouraged my creative side by consistently telling me I have talent, and that I should capitalize on it. Jonathan, Henry, and Ellie shared the page almost the moment it went live. Heather keeps visiting and liking items. Elise tells me I can do anything - and that she loves that if I don't know how, I'm still willing to give it a go. And I remember the times my Dad complimented things I'd made, and especially the time he saw a monogram - SDT - and said, "Who is that?" When I made a set of bags for Ellie's graduation, Drew and Henry were my sounding board, and the first to really encourage the idea that finally came to be: showing my stuff to strangers.

And then today's prayer. Everything that is sold through Sew It Seams will go to Drew. Everything that hits the PayPal account (stephsewstoo@gmail.com) will be used for his time at seminary, from extra daily expenses to his suit and tie, cassock, surplice, transportation and tolls. In addition to the items in the album and on the page, I can do custom work, although prices may vary a bit. All the current items were made from savaged, extra, or otherwise 'found' textiles. Everything is one of a kind. And I do other stuff, too, not just sewing. In short, I sew, paint, create, and want to do it all to help my son.

If you would rather make a tax-deductible donation to help the Diocese of Harrisburg defray the cost of supporting all clergy in the diocese, you can donate here. While this will not go to Drew exclusively, it will help him directly in conjunction with his classmates and others. Questions about priestly formation and other vocations can be directed to the Office of Vocations.

Please pass this on and forward. This is a huge leap of faith for me. [more on that in another post] I have never been one to ask for help, and neither is Drew. His willingness to give of himself to the world is again humbling me, impressing me, an example to me. And, yes, there will undoubtedly be some spaghetti dinners and other events in the coming years. Along with lots of requests for prayer!

at the door

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

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

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

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

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