Rethinking Normal

"I'm sorry," she blurted out through her tears.

"Sorry... for what?" 

"I'm blubbering all over the place..." her voice trailed off. She oozed misery, ashamed of her inability to control her emotions.

Her friend stared at her in disbelief. She was living under a great deal of stress, she was in nearly constant physical pain, her husband had abandoned her and was sleeping with someone else, and one of her kids was dealing with a life-threatening illness. 

And she was supposed to "keep it together"??

~~~~~~~~

I think that many people have gotten a warped view of what "normal" is. It's not "normal" to be unaffected by the body-blows of life. If it were, we would never have been given emotions to begin with. They were given as a pressure relief valve, a way to identify when boundaries have been crossed, or when we have experienced loss or injustice. They give us a way to identify what's wrong and take the first steps toward achieving balance.

I agree that it's never a good idea to pitch a tent in the wilds of self-pity and stay there for months or years. However, when life deals us a bad hand - as it is bound to on occasion - it's okay to react. It's normal to feel those unpleasant feelings.

In fact, as hard and horrible as some of those feelings are to experience (and I must admit there were times I wished that I could shut my feelings "off"), in the final analysis, I'd rather feel them than shove them underneath, subjugate them, and have them show up (and they WILL show up) another way: ulcers, heart disease, high blood pressure ... maybe even cancer. 

Our culture seems to place a great deal of value on "having it all together." However, it's been my experience that those who seem nonplussed in the face of tragedy - with rare exceptions - are putting on a front that they think others want to see. They're living in denial, lying to others and sometimes even to themselves. They shut off not only the unpleasant emotions, but they find they are unable to feel the pleasant ones after such a long time of "clamping down."

I used to live like that - and I prided myself on it, even to the point of making such an aloof exterior seem virtuous. 

When the facades came down and I started discovering who I really was, I learned that it's okay to be human, to be vulnerable, to admit weakness, to own up to mistakes, to have emotions and express them, .... in short, to be real. Many of the experiences through which I learned ... were hard lessons, to be sure, but having lived like this for nearly four years now, I'm realizing that this life ... this unmasked, unwrapped life ... THIS is normal. 

And - even though it is sometimes risky, and sometimes I cry - it's still good. I'm more alive than I ever was behind that mask - and it's worth a few tears now and then, to be able to know happiness.

Two highly underrated words

I was chatting with a buddy earlier, and she happened to thank me for something in our relationship that meant a lot to her. "Although 'thank you' seems so trite," she said. 

What followed was a discussion that took me straight back to the late 1960s and early 70s. "Thank you," I told her, "is highly underrated." I'm a big believer in "thank you." 

It encourages.
It validates.
It helps the one who receives it AND it helps the one who says it and truly means it.

When I was a child, our family would go grocery shopping once a week in "town" - which was a small town of no more than 5,000 people. Everyone knew everyone else - or at least the family they came from. 

I loved going to town. There were two places I wanted to go every time. The first was my great-uncle's shoe repair shop, where I felt accepted and wanted every time I walked over the threshold. I'd burst in through the door and the tiny bell over the entrance would ring in glad abandon, wildly flailing back and forth on its spring-loaded tether. I would sidle past the counter and venture immediately to the back room, where Uncle John was busy behind a heavy-duty sewing machine, amid the smell of cured leather and shoe polish, and where he "held court" with the men who had accompanied their wives to town so they could do the grocery shopping. Yet (unless he was sharpening skates, which took a great deal of concentration to get the edge just right) he'd stop whatever he was doing to greet me with a warm hug and introduce me as his niece. I'd wander about the shop, watch him sew leather on the machine, re-heel shoes and boots, or just go out behind the counter and tidy a bit so I could listen to the men talk. Many times he forgot I was there, minding the store front while he and the other men joked and laughed about this or that thing. It was an atmosphere of total acceptance. 

These expressions of love and caring stay suspended on
our wall all year round. Yes, they are Christmas cards.

The other place was the grocery store. Not the store itself, mind you. Just the little glassed-in passageway inside the entrance and exit doors. 

Back then, people still got their groceries in heavy-duty brown paper bags (with no handles), before the days of automatic sliding doors. Customers would get and pay for their groceries, fill their arms as full as they could with the chock-full paper bags, and head for the door. Some of them could barely see over the top of the bag's contents, especially the older widows who lived in little apartments scattered throughout town, some in the nursing home and some not. Anyway, I stationed myself by the exit door so that when I saw them coming, I'd be able to hold the door open for them. 

I did this so that I could hear the one thing I heard in no other place on earth: "Thank you."  Not perfunctory, polite thank yous, I mean to say, but expressions of gratitude spoken from the heart. I lapped it up and soaked it into my heart like fresh, clear water to a parched throat on a hot summer's day, knowing I'd have to live on that for a week. It saved my sanity - it was something to which I looked forward and on which I looked back when all I got from everyone else was either criticism or indifference when I tried to do something nice. Criticism if I didn't do it exactly as they would have done it  ... and indifference if I did. 

As a result of those experiences, I have always believed firmly in the power of acceptance and of gratitude. These two commodities are in short supply, it seems, and yet they cost absolutely nothing. Since they cost nothing in monetary terms, many people think that they are worth nothing. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

Acceptance says, "Thank you for being you."  This is a lost art in some circles where rewards are linked to performance and where, if someone isn't talented in this or that way, he or she is made to feel like a second-class citizen. Acceptance opens the mind and quells criticism. It strengthens self-esteem and engenders confidence. It sends the message that it's okay that this person exists, that this person is special, unique, worth knowing. There is no feeling in the world quite like feeling wanted, loved, appreciated - not for what you can do for someone, but for who you ARE. 

Gratitude says, "Thank you for doing (or saying) what you did (or said)." How many of our psychologist's offices are clogged with people who never got a word of thanks from their parents, teachers, or other authority figures in their lives, who always feel like whatever they do is never "good enough?" How many spouses leave, how many children run away, how many workers reach burnout, how many pastors and church leaders leave the ministry because the people they cared most about never bothered to verbally show their appreciation?  All this heartache, all for the lack of two sincere words. It's tragic. 

It doesn't take long. It only takes a few seconds, perhaps a few minutes. 

I've seen "Thank you" actually save a life. I've known it to restore sanity to chaos, to give purpose and meaning to people, to dispel loneliness and despair, to inspire people to do even better, to encourage people that they're not alone, that who they are and what they think, say and do are important, that they've not gone unnoticed, that they make a difference to the world, even just to one person and most likely to many more (remember the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life"?), by just being there. 

Perhaps there is someone in your life who needs to hear those words. I know that there are so many in mine.

Waiting to blossom

Whether winter happens for you in December through March (and here in the Maritimes, it's more the end of April...) or June through August, the colder weather, the reduction in humidity, and especially the shorter days (and therefore less sunlight) can play havoc with people's moods and activity levels. There's a kind of pseudo-hibernation that seeps into the mind and sometimes even the body. 

Where I live, "cocooning" is very common. It's the tendency to hunker down inside the house and not go out except for necessities: groceries, gas, work, possibly church. People don't visit each other - or they have to make a special effort to do so. 

The last couple of months, I've been experiencing this kind of phenomenon more than usual. There's an almost imperceptible sense of being in suspended animation, of 'waiting' for something... sometimes not so patiently.  

About three years ago, I ordered a Hoya carnosa plant from a nursery in Georgia that specializes in those kinds of plants. They sent me three rooted cuttings and I planted them. ONE survived. It grew from a five-inch-long stem with three leaves on it to the size it is today, about four feet long from root to longest tip. 

This kind of plant has to be well established before it will bloom. So, I've been waiting and expecting it to produce bloom clusters - they fill the air with a heady fragrance that is intensified by the nectar that hangs in droplets from the center of each flower. So far ... it has not bloomed. I've seen signs that it's developing the "nibs" from which the flower clusters will eventually grow, but it's happening a lot more slowly than I'd like.

My Hoya - photo taken about three weeks ago

It is healthy; it is growing and sending out shoots, and the foliage is lovely. Yet I find myself wondering when it will blossom.

In a way, I feel like my life is like that plant right now. I know where I want to be, but it's like I'm in a state of pseudo-hibernation. I'm healthy and growing; I know I am ... but it seems the conditions are not right for flowering. 

I know that it will happen. I just don't know when. And there's a large part of me that longs for it to start happening NOW. 

What I need to understand about the plant is that it takes however long it takes ... and that in the meantime, I need to look after what's there. There may be only leaves, but maybe if I focus on keeping them healthy, Mrs. Hoya will surprise me. And the way I keep them healthy is by providing enough light, warmth, and the right amount of water and food to nourish the roots. 

The same applies to me. I just need to make it a priority to look after my growth needs, to nourish my roots (those parts of me that are hidden from view but which are crucial to my spiritual health) and to stay in the warm atmosphere of acceptance, and the light of unconditional love.

A Goodness Allergy

I have a real treat for my readers today. A guest contributor has graciously offered to allow me to use something he shared with me earlier today.

Before I hit "Copy - Paste" I should let you know a few background things that will make it easier to understand some of the things to which he refers. He is in a Twelve-Step program so he believes strongly in those Twelve Steps (as do I!) 

Since he refers to them frequently, I'm including a link to the 12 steps here. He also refers to the 3rd Step Prayer and the 7th Step Prayer, which can be found at this link to the AA prayers.

If his story touches you, please consider commenting on his submission below in the comment box provided. I believe that it's in telling our truth that we can be free ... and help to free others in the process. However, if we tell our story and nobody says, "Yeah, I can really relate," or "I really needed to hear that today," or whatever, then the good that telling our story does is swallowed up like a cup of water in the desert sand.

So, without further ado, here is his submission - or his admission, if you like. I will only preface it by saying that it is so honest and raw that it is sometimes uncomfortable for me to read, but in a way that challenges and inspires me to shed the facades and live a life of rigorous honesty - with myself, with God, and with others. 

quote


I learned a valuable lesson today:   I have a virulent “goodness” allergy:  any time anything good happens in my life,   my body, and mind and spirit will immediately try to reject it and belittle it.    There appears to be no medication for it; it must just be recognized, partially treated on the spot and ... suffered through.
 
It can be easily seen if you examine a day’s events with an analytical eye.  Yesterday, I had what I called a “bad” day. Things did not work out in the manner and degree that I was expecting, some things happened over which I had no control and felt “put upon” as a result, leading to a pity party. And my youngest daughter and I had it out over numerous perceived problems at home leading to tears, angry words and confrontation…all of which I hate. 

A few good things happened as well.  My recent cold actually improved somewhat, no new bills came into the house, nothing broke down in or outside of the house, etc.
 
But in my reaction to those things, I learned a few key things…I can’t enjoy the good things that happen because my allergy flares up and won’t allow me to enjoy them. 
 
When my allergy kicks in, I find that I can`t focus on the good that is happening but will instead key in on all the bad things that happened in the midst of the good. By the time that I've berated others about the perceived bad and cursed God for allowing all this crud in my life, the good that was there is all shriveled up and just a fraction of the size that it was. And it is so surrounded and buried by the bad that I've heaped all over it, that it looks and tastes almost as the terrible as the bad that it is inside.  It is badly tainted.
 
My allergy is backwards looking as well. Even if there is no bad in the day that I'm living, if there was any bad in the previous day or week, my allergy will smear that all over the small bit of good to make it unpalatable as well.
 
My allergy stems from a small number of factors.
 
The most important one is that I consider myself to be bad and totally undeserving of any type of good in my life.  All my life, I've been taught that I'm awful, that I can't do anything right, that I'm a total failure and that no good thing can come from scum like me. So when something good does happen, I feel that it must be a mistake, that this happened not for me or because of me, but instead because of the others that I surround myself with or the place that I just happen, by chance, to be in. That if they were gone, the good would be as well, and this generally makes me angry. This is because I know that the only reason anyone, including God, could be doing good things for me is because they wish to earn brownie points for themselves or because some of the good that falls on me will spill over to the others, for whom this good is being done for in the first place.  And that makes me feel neglected and used.
 
Second is what I call the fear factor.  I am terrified that if I make a big thing and focus too much on the good that I`m having today, that it will be removed either by a God who loves to tease and annoy me, or by someone that gave it to me in the first place that I consider a friend who will snatch it away, out of spite, anger or pettiness.  I'm terrified that if someone finds out who the real me is, not the one that I`m allowing others to see, but the real inside me, that any good that I receive will dry up and never be allowed to come back. So if I don't make a big deal out of it at first, then I won`t be as disappointed when it goes away
 
And the third is the hatred factor. I hate myself at the primal level, at a point that I'm scared that God can`t or won`t reach, at a point that I rarely tap into because it hurts so much. Almost four years into recovery, and I still cannot look at myself in the mirror to shave my ugly face in the morning. I hate how I act, my personality, my looks, my memory, my "talents", etc. And when the me that I feel is there so prevalent on the inside acts up and takes control, then any good that comes my way is lost in the terrible disgust I feel for me.
 
I feel there are steps that I can take to help this.
 

1. I must redo my Step 4. At the time that I did this step, I found that the negative feelings and mistakes and bad character traits that are so rampant in me were easy to list. But I forgot that the step also calls on me to list my good moral traits as well. I did not do this and must redo. 
2. I have to make the Seventh Step prayer a real part of my life. It tells me to turn all of me, my bad side AND my good side over to God to let Him deal with things. Again, I found it so easy to dump my "lousy me" on God but never gave Him my "good me". I guess I'll have to find it first....
3. I'll have to learn to trust God. I know in my head that God doesn't make junk, that He loves me, that He has a plan for my life in which I can help others through the thoughts in the Third Step prayer. But after four years. I still really do not believe this at the heart and feelings level. I must cry out to him to allow me to trust, to manipulate my life in the way and timing of his choosing to make the changes necessary in me to allow me to be  "shalom" - which means nothing broken; nothing lacking.
4. And finally, and for me the most fundamental, I have to somehow not try to see myself as a bad person trying to learn how to be good……but instead, because of the imputed righteousness of God, as a good person, who is just sick, trying by doing all the right things that he can and knows how to do, to get well.

end quote


What more can I add except to say that this touched me deeply.  I hope it touched you, too.

The Next Right Thing

"What went wrong?" she asked me.

I paused. "I guess the main reason it failed was that everyone who heard about this initiative felt it was a great idea, agreed that it was needed, even thought about participating, but when they realized how much work it would take to get better, and how long it would take, they just ... lost interest." 

The conversation had begun when I dropped by the community centre where for a year and a half, Codependents Anonymous had been meeting twice a month, and where, after much soul-searching and lack of attendance, we had decided to disband. I was returning the key the administrator had given me.

Our talk then ranged into a wide range of topics, sharing experiences in recovering from codependency, thought patterns we each battled in isolation, and we agreed that perhaps in a larger population base, we might find enough people who would be interested in doing whatever it took to be free from old, destructive patterns of thinking. 

Perhaps. 

How to build a ramp (or make a major lifestyle change):
Start where you are, do what you can TODAY, and
carry on from where you left off, tomorrow.

I got to thinking - after we had talked and parted company - about the tendency there is in human nature to quail when faced with a daunting task. One looks at the enormity of it all, and it's easy to get discouraged. That's part and parcel of the very kind of thinking that keeps people (like me) in dysfunction; it took a great deal of desperation for me to bite that bullet and start challenging my long-held beliefs about relationships, people, myself, God, and what I had considered important.

What I discovered after I started the process was that even though it was going to take a while, I'd start where I was: no apologies and no excuses, and then do what I could TODAY. I forced myself to NOT think about how far there was yet to go, how much there was yet to do - which was a big deal for me. Over and over I reminded myself that I was only responsible for doing the "next right thing." Of course, my definition (once I got into the process) of what was "right" started to undergo a transformation. 

I was surprised to discover that "doing the next right thing" and "being right about things" are mutually exclusive. The former is about humility and honesty; the latter is about self-aggrandizement and control. 

I learned - by making a lot of mistakes - to be kind to myself when I made mistakes or slipped back in my recovery; often I felt like I was making a step forward only to feel as though I was taking three steps backward. What was really happening was that I was blazing a new trail and making sure I knew where the path was by tamping it down, over and over again. I was practicing. I remember stopping myself when I started doing things the "old way" - even in mid-sentence - and forcing myself to do things the "new way." It felt uncomfortable at first because it was so new. I was terrified of where it might take me. I was afraid of the unknown, nervous that I wouldn't like the finished product, that I would lose more than I would gain.

Yet ... the results spoke for themselves, little by little, one day at a time. It wasn't long before my kids actually wanted to talk to me again. They weren't afraid of my reactions (or should I say, my OVER-reactions). My husband was visibly more relaxed around me. And ... I was happier. Freer. More peaceful. Even though I was still doing (with a great deal of help from above) what amounted to a total reconstruction of my attitudes and my beliefs about myself and my relationships, it wasn't like I was working in a vacuum with no hope of results until I was done. That was the beauty of it. The changes were small, sometimes frustratingly so, but they happened, and they kept happening. 

They keep happening even now. New doors, new challenges open up to me and all the while, I am learning more and more about boundaries, about self-care, about acceptance, about courage, and about really living life instead of just surviving it - even giving back once in a while. 

Dr. Bill Cosby (yes, he earned a Ph.D in Urban Education in 1977!) once said, "Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it." 

For me, that decision was key. And ... it still is.

Decompression

Part of my regimen of self-care for the past couple of years has been my Winter Plan. 

This usually involves taking about one day of vacation per month during those long, cold winter months (February seeming to be the longest) during which there are no statutory holidays at all from New Year's Day to Easter. (No, the place where I work doesn't allow that civic holiday in mid-February, and I don't cound Valentine's Day because it's a normal workday for me.) 

Today is one of those vacation days. I had requested it in late October, and had forgotten about it until about three weeks ago, when I was checking what leave I'd taken so far, and saw that request sitting there. (Bonus!) 

That's when the plan took shape. I'd not purchased a Christmas gift for my husband yet, and a suggestion from an acquaintance of mine was niggling in the back of my mind.

So, I went to expedia.com and looked into slashed prices for an overnight getaway. 

I found one. It sounded marvelous: a traditional room with a fireplace, and a free continental breakfast ... rated at four and a half stars. It was pricey even with the deal I was getting, but I figured it was well worth it... so I booked it.

Last night, around 5 pm, we arrived at the hotel, which had private off-street parking. We were greeted warmly, told where the elevator was and what complimentary beverages would be available (and when), and given our pass keys, as well as a card addressed to me (as the one who had booked the room) and some other information. 

The card itself was an engraved welcome to me by name, and wishes for a great stay. Okay, that was amazing in itself. 

Little touches like that were what we noticed most about our stay. We got a phone call in the room, fifteen minutes after checking in, just to see if everything was to our liking. When we went out for supper (around 7 because we'd had a late lunch) and returned, we saw that our blinds had been lowered and drapes shut, with Ovation mints and yet another card wishing us a great evening at the hotel waiting for us on freshly turned-down bed linens. 

We soaked in the quietness of this little nook. It was like a healing balm for the harried soul. 

We made use of the gas fireplace ... a LOT. 

The casement windows were a breeze to open and shut; we left one open a crack (since we weren't on the main floor) to provide some fresh air all night. We slept soundly and awoke refreshed, relaxed. The pace of life shifted into slow-motion; we savoured every moment. Nothing was rushed.

This morning, we enjoyed a luxurious continental breakfast in the lobby (itself so posh with leather couches, a grand fireplace, and an old upright piano in the corner). As for the food, they even had single-serving quiches as well as the usual fare, like muffins, bagels, biscuits, bread for toasting, and other surprises like four kinds of juices (served in a carafe with an ice-cylinder insert to keep them chilled, and coffee or hot water for tea. Once breakfast was over, they reset the lobby landscape, and revealed a huge Keurig machine and various kinds of K-cups for different tastes ... which we indulged, of course. 

Amazing. 

I can honestly say that I have never felt so pampered in my life, and hubby said the same. 

You know that feeling of everything being "right" in the world? the one where you just want to hug everything about that experience to yourself and make it last as long as you possibly can? The warmth of that very feeling was there from the first moment, and even after we checked out, it carried us through the rest of today as we had various errands to do. Early this afternoon, when I spoke in person to that acquaintance who'd suggested an overnight getaway, she told me that I was just glowing, that I looked so relaxed. 

It was relaxing; the whole experience was a time to decompress, to allow ourselves to be cared for, to be "made over" as the old-timers would say. 

Four years ago, I never would have considered doing such a thing. And now (although it would be nice to be able to do it more often) I'm even daring to dream about making it a regular (i.e., annual) thing.  

As miraculous as my recovery has been, this aspect of looking after myself has taken quite a while to grasp. As I've come to understand it, self-care is all about allowing good things to happen and not pushing them away just because of the lies I believed for so long: "I'm not worth it, nice people look after others first, and looking after myself is selfish." This getaway was a strong hint, not only to my husband (that he's worth that kind of spoiling ... and so much more!) but to me as well. 

I think I'm starting to get the message.

Thoughts on Fences

Over the past few months, I've done a lot of thinking about forgiveness - what it is, what it isn't, how it happens, what that looks like in practical terms.

I've done a lot of things I have needed forgiveness for - and I've needed to forgive people for many things. Some have been minor annoyances, misunderstandings, questions of boundaries of which I or the other person was unaware. Such things are usually relatively easy to forgive and to apologize for, especially if the relationship itself is fairly solid. 

It is harder - sometimes much harder - when the offenses are habitual in nature, when the relationship is either damaged or no longer salvageable, and where one (or both) of the parties refuses to admit wrongdoing. A situation like that requires a good understanding of the boundaries between forgiveness and foolishness, between magnanimity and masochism. 

A paddock fence keeps the horses inside
and safe from wandering off. It also reminds people
to stay out from underfoot...

The old adage, "Good fences make good neighbors" comes to my mind because unless everyone involved knows the boundaries, they will keep getting crossed, over and over again. A fence is a great way to protect what's on the other side from being trampled; it can also protect the person from entering a potentially dangerous situation, such as in the case of a fence around a pasture where there's a bull.

Neighbors can interact over the fence, and I've had quite a few of these interactions over our own back fence. I've also had issues with some other neighbors coming onto our property without our permission and taking things that didn't belong to them - usually young thieves who helped themselves to something we left in our unlocked vehicle.  Remembering to lock the car has kept these incidents to a minimum. Other (former) neighbors have - in the past - behaved in such a way as to hurt my kids; these infractions have not been as easy to forgive. 

However, it's the invisible fences that are the most difficult to erect ... and to detect. These are relationship boundaries - something that I never knew existed up until just a few years ago. 

There was always a lot of friction in my home growing up - and nobody really knew why, because nobody realized that there needed to be boundaries and that there are some things where you just need to put up a big "Do Not Trespass" sign. And when natural boundaries between siblings caused problems, the parents (who - quite frankly - saw their children as their property) would intervene and try to use shame as a weapon to "keep the peace." We were therefore not allowed to "fight" ... over anything. As a result, we never learned how to stick up for ourselves. We never learned how to identify when someone had crossed a boundary because those emotional and psychological boundaries were not allowed.  And we never learned how to forgive. Forgiveness meant making excuses for the other person's behavior. And apologies were never voiced - the offender merely tried to "make it up to" the person who had been hurt. There was never any admission of wrongdoing. Nobody dealt with the elephant in the room. They just made it lie down. Each of us walked on eggshells around the other, afraid to incur his or her wrath.

That's no way to live.

What I've learned in the last few years is that without permission to have boundaries, there can be no forgiveness because there is no acknowledgement that someone has done anything wrong. The phrase, "There's nothing to forgive," is not forgiveness. If there was no offense, then any forgiveness offered is meaningless. 

When I first realized, early in my recovery, that I had been wronged as a child, that my unseen boundaries had been crossed in so many ways and by so many people, and that my pain was a natural response to being hurt - this was the first step in becoming free of it. I had always blamed myself for feeling bad; it was a big deal for me to realize that the bad feelings were natural and healthy for what I had been through. I began to see that in a lot of cases, I played absolutely no part in the wrongs that had been done to me, and I had spent decades feeling guilty for being angry and fearful, for wanting to protect myself, for wanting to get away from my abusers. 

With God's help, I was able to work through each of those hurts and come to a place of healing from them and to real, true forgiveness, even to the point of feeling compassion for those who had - in their ignorance and dysfunction - hurt me in ways they could not begin to fathom. 

Eventually of course, after I'd been healed of those things, I was able to admit to myself the wrongs I had, in turn, done to others out of my own dysfunction - and to go to them, admit my wrongdoing, and apologize from my heart. I was amazed at the graciousness of those I had hurt, their willingness to forgive me. Relationships were restored. I gained more than I lost. 

Yet there was still more to do. With respect to the ones who had beaten me or abused me in other ways (verbal, emotional, or sexual), even though I had built some bridges, I needed to build some fences, too. Just because I had forgiven them didn't mean that I could go back into an abusive situation; I needed to let them know where the boundaries were. 

This is one of the most shame-producing aspects of moving on, in the life of someone who has been systematically abused and whose abusers have not and will not change their behavior. The words "FORGIVE AND FORGET" - emblazoned in shame across the psyche of the abuse survivor - are not only an impossible directive, they are also unwise in situations like that. 

Building those fences was hard work, and I made a lot of mistakes along the way. I took too much ground back - then gave in and let myself be abused again - and finally I worked out a way to come to terms with it. I gave people a chance to get used to the new me; I had changed so very much! When it became clear that this new me was unacceptable to them, when they took advantage of my forgiveness and started to abuse me (and my children) all over again  - and in most cases they did - that's when I needed to fortify the fences. That's when I had to say goodbye. 

It was sad, but there was no other way.

The bridges are still there. Forgiveness is still in effect. I no longer wish for these people to be punished for what they did, and I no longer expect them to give back what they took from me. In that sense, I am more free than I have ever been. 

Nevertheless, I need to be realistic. Just because I've forgiven doesn't mean I have to be stupid. If relationship with them harms me or my husband or my kids, then it's best if I stay away. These are natural consequences for their behavior, another thing I am learning to allow people to experience - even if it's painful for me. 

Someday, I hope and pray that they will understand and accept that it's not okay to treat people like property. Until that time, I can busy myself with trusting those who are trustworthy, and building relationships with equals instead of with those who believe themselves to be superior. 

I used to think - because I never knew any different - that people who would accept me and be in relationship with me as an equal were few and far between. 

I'm delighted to be so wrong about that. 

Baby

Around 1969 or 1970, a locally famous musician (whose name I was never told) commissioned a locally famous guitar-maker named Frankie Richard to make a new Martin-style guitar for him to use on a television show on which he would be appearing. 

It was a beauty, and Frankie put a lot of care into making it, so the sound quality was rich and full. When the man came to pick up the guitar - for which he was prepared to pay the exorbitant sum of $300 (a lot to pay for a guitar in those days and in that area), he looked it all over and noticed what he considered to be a small flaw in the wood that made up the top of the guitar (which would be facing the camera). He refused to pay the money and left Frankie's shop. 

Frankie wanted to recoup his costs for at least the wood he used and when he heard that my dad was looking for a guitar to give to his son, he slashed the price to "at cost" and sold it to his friend for fifty dollars.

Fifty dollars. 

My brother loved that guitar. He played it, wrote songs with it, took it on ministry trips to sing with me and my other brother as a trio - built all kinds of memories with it over the next seven years or so. 

He frequently left it standing by the door of my room - and when he wasn't there, I'd pick it up and play it (instead of the old Barrington my dad had said I could use to learn on because both the boys had learned on it - the one where the frets were about 1/4 inch from the strings: ouch!) I had learned to play when I was about 10 or thereabouts, and to pick when I was about 12 or 13. My style was vastly influenced by my brother's and by the music he listened to: John Denver, James Taylor. 

Sometimes he would catch me playing it and he would get upset with me - rightly so, of course - but the attraction of the instrument and how easy it was to play (compared to "mine") always brought me back to it. 

Fast forward to 1976. Our trio, which we called the Three Grains of Wheat, was scheduled to go and sing at a church in the Maritimes with the New Christian Singers on the upcoming weekend. It was a Thursday, I think. I was rushing around trying to get some chores done, and I opened my bedroom door quickly to go get something . My brother's guitar was leaning against some of my clothes I had hung on hooks that were by the door. The clothes overlapped the door jamb, and when the door opened, the clothes pulled away from the wall, and the guitar started to fall.

You know those moments that seem to happen in slow motion but all too quickly too? that was one of them. I tried to catch the instrument ... but I wasn't quick enough. 

It fell forward ... and hit the floor. Cra-wannnnnngggg! (I'll never forget that sound. It seemed to last forever.)

I gasped, horrified at what I saw happening before my eyes.

The neck of the guitar cracked at its weakest point, a jagged crack back to front at the top of the neck, tilting the head forward and making the guitar useless. 

I felt sick to my stomach. The guilt was overwhelming! I knew I had to tell my brother what had happened, and that it had been my fault because I'd been playing the guitar and I had leaned it against those clothes by the door!  

I told my dad what happened. (I'm not exactly sure why he was home, but it might have been his vacation). He was disappointed but he never said it, nor did he punish me; he could see the guilt of what I had done was punishment enough. He turned his attention to the next pressing question. His son was without a guitar and he had a commitment to play and sing ... in just days. 

In desperation he called Frankie and told him what happened (without going into details, bless him!) He asked him if he had another guitar of the same style already made. Miraculously, Frankie did... and Dad busied himself with arrangements to pay for it. He never told me how much he paid for the replacement. I'm sure it was at least a hundred dollars. 

Meanwhile, I prepared myself to face my brother when he got home from work. My face was tear-streaked and puffy; I had been crying a lot because I was so afraid of his reaction. When he got home, I took him aside and said, "I've got something I need to tell you." He saw the look on my face, the red-rimmed eyes and the puffy cheeks and knew it wasn't good. In tears and sobs, I told him what I had done and I apologized profusely for it. I told him that Dad was going to get him a new one - but that it could never replace the one I'd broken.

His face was a study, a mixture of shock, sadness, fear, and then relief mixed with ... with something else I couldn't figure out. He watched me closely as I struggled for the words to say to him, waited wordlessly for me to finish. Then quietly, he said, "I want to see it."

Feeling miserable, I took him up the stairs and showed him the guitar. He picked it up and looked carefully at the cracked wood, and stroked the loose strings. I knew he was saying goodbye to his friend.  He laid it carefully down and turned to me. This was when he was going to "let me have it." I braced myself. 

His voice was gentle. "It was an accident, Judy. I forgive you."  The tears again started to trickle down my cheeks ... but he wasn't finished. "Why don't we take the guitar to Dad and see if he can do something with it to fix it. If he can, well, I'll have a new guitar anyway - so if he can fix this one, you can have it." 

I blinked, hard, and just stared at him. 

"I'm serious. If Dad can fix it - and he probably can find a way (you know Dad; he can fix anything) - it's yours." 

I burst into tears and hugged him tight. 

He hugged me back. "I love you, Sis,"  he said in my ear.

We were almost ready to go on the weekend two days later, when Dad appeared with the guitar. Flushed with embarrassed pride, he showed it to us. He had glued the crack, held it closed in a vice while the glue dried, and bolted a metal plate in place on both sides to keep the head from slipping in case the glue didn't do the trick. My brother took it from him, ran his fingers over the strings, tuned them, (it sounded wonderful!) and handed the guitar to me. 

It has been in my possession ever since, a constant reminder of the Grace of God - and the power of true forgiveness. 

I have cradled it often in my arms - it has brought me solace and joy, started conversations and cemented friendships. I named it ... Baby.