Slow leak

A few years back, our car went over an object somewhere and developed a leak in one of the tires. We were not aware of this, but one evening we drove home and parked the car. The next morning we got up and got ready to leave the house, and one of the tires was flat. Just like that.

Further investigation revealed that there was a slow leak in that tire from a sharp object. It hadn't appeared right away after the object went in, but over the course of a few hours, the air just went out of the tire. 

And fortunately, the nice folks at the garage were able to repair the leak. 

I guess I've been going through something similar in my mental health. I thought I was okay. And then I hit this bump in the road and it was rough, but I kept going and thought I could weather it. 

I was wrong. My emotions leaked out until I either felt the wrong ones for the circumstance, or I just couldn't feel anything at all.

Photo by Georgi Petrov from Pexels

It kind of dawned on me last night when I was watching a movie with my family. It was a really good movie, one I had never seen before, and I knew that I should have been moved to tears by it in a couple of places because the story was so compelling and the emotions in it were raw and passionate. 

But that's not what happened with me. It was like the depth of emotion I knew was there (or should be there) had lost its edge and felt blunt or weak. It was the equivalent of an emotional flat tire. 

Psychologists call emotions "affect" (pronounced AFF-ect). And one symptom of depression is what they call "flat affect". Nothing flickers the emotional needle. No joy, no sadness, no anger, no nothing! Life becomes one long monotone. It's flat! Motivation is gone. The silence is unending. The loneliness is real - but even that seems like just a fact and not a tragedy to be mourned. Depressed people can laugh at funny things - but there is rarely any real happiness behind it. We isolate from people because we don't feel like being around them. We don't see the point; why bother?  Everything - even eating or showering - is an effort. It's like driving on a flat tire. It's possible to get from A to B ... but everything feels skewed, the ride is bumpier ... and it hurts the tire even more. Some of us are in quite a mess before we realize (or admit) that we need help.

And there is no easy fix, no patch for the tire, no instant cure-all. Medications can help with the physical part of things, but that is only part of it. The leak has to be found before it can be repaired, and sometimes, the internal damage is too severe, and we need a whole new tire, a whole new way to look at life. And that kind of change doesn't happen overnight. It took a long time to get into this state, and it will take longer than we want to heal from it. And sometimes we need to call a professional, someone who knows how to listen and help us heal.

I wish I could give three easy steps to get rid of clinical depression. I can't. All I can try to focus on is to maintain regular routines in my life that focus on looking after myself, and look for outlets that get me outside of myself, doing things for others. And I take one day at a time. Corny as that sounds, it is helpful because when I stay in the now, it is harder for the mistakes of the past and the worries about the future to jump all over me and give me a hard time. 

I don't know how long this process will take. It will take however long it takes. But I am committed to walking through it and coming out the other side. And in the meantime, I see a professional and I take my medication, and I practice self-care. And most of all, I take the advice of a former manager I had once, and I will be gentle with myself.

The Road Not Taken

Today I found myself thinking about Robert Frost's poem, The Road Not Taken (published in 1920).  I looked it up and read it again and found myself moved once more by his description of a choice he made that had a great impact on the rest of his life.  And so it speaks to all of us at one point or another.  

I have noticed that in the last few months, I have been approaching closer and closer to those divergent paths, all the while "sorry I could not travel both and be one traveller..." (lines 2, 3) ... and I find myself wishing, as I read about Frost's experience of choosing the 'road less travelled by' ... that the same will be true of my life, that I will find that 'that has made all the difference (lines 19, 20).  

When I mentioned this to my husband, he smiled. "But you've been taking the road less travelled all of your life!" he exclaimed.  Then he started listing all of the choices I made that were firsts in my family, the community where I grew up, the various spiritual journeys of growth and healing that I have been on, and on and on the examples came.... everything from getting my Bachelor's degree in the 1980s, to child-rearing choices I made, to applying for a management position when I was still a clerk (and being in the top three candidates to be assessed - 14 years ago - a lifetime for some), ... and now this.  

Image "Arrows Choice Shows Options Alternatives
Or Choosing" courtesy of Stuart Miles at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

This - this career path I've chosen (and for which I am going for my Master's degree) - this feels somehow more ... pivotal than most of the other times. As I get closer to where the paths REALLY diverge, when I am going to have to make that decision, clear away the brush and follow that second path, I notice more and more how different the paths seem from each other, and how much more that second path is in keeping with the series of choices I've made all of my life. Like my husband told me, I've never been one to follow or to join ... and I can lead when I have to ... but this is more like walking alongside individuals on their various journeys. And getting to that place is not going to be easy. It's going to be a lot of hard work, and I don't know what lies ahead.  I have an inkling perhaps, but I don't KNOW.

It's scary.  It's really scary.  But in their own way, all of those previous decisions have been scary too.  And if I never follow through with this choice, I'll always wonder what might have happened if I had.

So as the crossroads loom closer and closer, I take the next step. And the next one.  One at a time, bit by little bit.  Yes, I know where the road will take me, but if I worry about stumbling, I will end up pacing back and forth in the middle of the road - and that will get me nowhere.

Deep breath. 

Same same

There is a [word-] sign used by the local deaf community that means "Same" - it looks like the ASL sign for the letter Y - as shown - but the hand is not raised up but facing the floor (in other words, palm side down). The hand goes back and forth horizontally a couple of times between the two items or people being compared, as if sliding back and forth on an unseen table. If the deaf person talks when he or she signs, the words that come out are "Same-same." 
The idea usually is that the thumb and pinky point toward what or who is involved in that comparison. 

That doesn't mean that differences don't exist. It just means that at some level, there is something essentially the same about those two things or people. 

Illustration "Sign Language And The
Alphabet,the Letter Y" by
taesmileland at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

And that sign can be a complete sentence when the second component is added - facial expression. Take for example the comparison between two people. I've seen my deaf friends sign "same-same" over the years with amazement, sympathy, sarcasm, boredom, delight, disgust, and a whole host of other reactions that convey tone of voice - something that (as yet) the printed word cannot do very well. 

I was thinking about this sign a couple of days ago and it came to me that no matter how same-same people think they are, there is always something that is different. And not just different, VASTLY different - just like the pinky and the thumb point in nearly opposite directions. 

And no matter how different people are, there is always something that is the same between them, just as the pinky and the thumb are part of the same hand and signifying (in their differences) that they are same-same. Basic feelings are the same regardless of gender, gender identity or socioeconomic class; the colour of the blood is identical regardless of the colour of the skin. 

I might feel uncomfortable around someone because of our differences, but looking for common ground helps me to accept that person and acknowledge his or her right to take up space. And ... (this is a more subtle but just as important a distinction) just because I might share an identity label (same workplace, same church, same family relationships for example) with someone else, it doesn't give me the right to assume that this person thinks or believes or has the same values as I do. 

Or that the person can automatically be trusted because of that one similarity. 

Or that someone of another group is automatically untrustworthy because of the differences between us. 

"Peoples is peoples," a wise man once said. (Pete from Pete's Diner in Jim Henson's "The Muppets Take Manhattan", haha). More and more, I'm coming to live my life on that simple principle. Each person is capable of both good and evil. 

My quest in recovery from the chains of my own limitations is to find the people in my life that I can trust, the ones who help me be truly me (without trying to make me exactly the same as they are in every respect), and then surround myself with them. And to discover those - while I might care about them - who are toxic to me, who try to manipulate or control me ... and to distance myself from them. To make sure that the "sameness" between my circle of friends and myself is concentrated in the things that matter most to me, and to let go of the differences that would tear me down and hinder my growth.

It's a tall order, but no other human being has the right to do it for me.

A Rainbow Day

I forget who said it, but I've heard that whenever there's a day with a bunch of sad stuff mixed in with a bunch of happy stuff, you're having a "rainbow day." Like when it's been raining really hard and it lets up a bit and the sun peeks out from behind a storm cloud ... and it makes a rainbow. 

Today is like that. 

Yesterday I had to make arrangements to help a dear friend of mine say goodbye to her beloved cat. It's a wrenching time, losing a family member you've loved for years, but we all knew it was time. And this morning I awoke and the first thought in my mind was that today was the day ... and I was sad. Sad for the kitty and also very sad for my friend. I know the pain of that kind of loss - it tears at you. 

I checked my phone to see how low the battery was - and found that there was a message waiting on my voice mail. And it was from my youngest daughter's insurance company - a call for which I'd been waiting ever since she passed away in a car crash in October 2013. The only thing remaining on the insurance that hadn't been paid was the car itself - the medical bills and so forth had to be taken care of, and they had to be satisfied that our baby wasn't under the influence of alcohol.... or they wouldn't pay. So I have been paying on the car loan and wondering when they'd make their decision.

The message was that they needed forms filled out so that they could cut a check for the car. 

So many feelings! Relief ... vindication ... even grief as that loan was the last earthly vestige of her presence here. 

But the sun started to peek through the clouds. 

Photo "Double Rainbow" courtesy of
Evgeni Dinev at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

We picked up our friend and her cat, and took them to the clinic ... it was hard, obviously, but the vet made it easier with her gentleness and compassion. My friend and I  decided to wait in the vehicle while hubby stayed with kitty during her final moments - and right around the time that the deed was being done, my friend saw it: a robin. Hopping along the grass by the driveway to the vet clinic, a brilliantly red-breasted robin was stopping every so often and listening for his breakfast. It was a symbol of new life, and (as some of the First Nations believe) of letting go of what isn't working. So apropos.

Another rainbow; another ray of hope. Soon we were back home and getting a bite to eat.

Then - at our friend's request - we paid a visit to the Humane Society shelter. There, a young little momma cat who'd just recently had her kittens taken from her was in one of the cages, up on a perch and looking out at the world - and the moment their eyes locked, there was an instant connection... Twenty minutes later there was an adoption form filled out and instructions to wait until she was able to be neutered before bringing her home.... probably in about a week. 

Rainbows, multicolored and fresh, strewed in our pathway today. Such a gift in the midst of all the sadness.

Goodbyes, hellos, doors closing, others opening. Death, life, sadness and joy all mixed in together. 

Yep. It's a rainbow day.

Life lines

The last time I talked to her, she was so amazed and pleased that I had called, so worried that something bad had happened, so relieved when I said that all was well.

Of course it wasn't ALL well, but she didn't need to know that.

She talked about her daily life - struggles with the medical profession, aches and pains, worries about family concerns and conflicts, the latest news about this person and that one. There was nothing earth-shattering; she was just sharing her normal everyday stuff. We talked for almost an hour then. In that time, she told me the same stories four or five times... and I let her. She asked the same questions of me two or three times, and I answered her each time. She really didn't remember the little details like what she did or said five minutes ago, so why would I get annoyed? 

She's perfectly sane, perfectly lucid - it's just that she forgets. She's 84 after all. 

Photo "Serpentine Pathway Stones On A
Park Lawn (concept)"
courtesy of arturo at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

And today I called her and she was surprised and pleased and worried and relieved all over again. She asked the same questions, told the same stories, and I listened. And we reminisced about good memories from years gone by. 

Sometimes, when we do that, I learn stuff I never knew before ... good stuff.

I learned a little bit about what it was like when she was a young mother and she and Dad bought a part of their landlord's house and literally sliced it off and moved it down to land they'd bought down the hill. She described how several of the neighbor men put the structure on rollers the size of huge logs and just pushed the house slowly down the road and brought the back roller up to the front and slid it underneath the house ... what an exciting adventure it all was for my older brother who was about three and a half years old at the time, over six years before I was born. 

In times like that, when she loses herself in a story I've never heard before, my own bad memories - and there were many - fade away. They don't vanish, but they go into the background. She hasn't remembered those bad times in years anyway, and would deny they even happened. I used to think it was important for other people to know the truth of those years, but somehow it doesn't seem that crucial anymore. I know what happened; that should be enough for me. And although the ripples from those things do still affect my life now, forgiveness has acknowledged them and not sought retaliation. Compassion and kindness has taken the place of anger and resentment. Mercy has triumphed over judgment. I don't take credit for that; that credit goes to a Power higher than I, a Love far greater than my own.

So I listen to her. I listen and I learn. I let her know some of the things I am doing, the realities I live with now - not enough to worry her, but enough to let her know that I have a life and responsibilities of my own, and that even in the midst of them, I still care enough to call her and listen. 

"The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places," wrote King David. (Psalm 16:6). He was talking about the paths and the boundaries that made up his life, the relationships he had, the circumstances he faced, and all that made up the substance of his life. Life lines. Not as in foretelling the future, but as in looking back on the path his life had taken and seeing how all those events and decisions had turned out. 

And being satisfied ... and content. And perhaps even surprised.

I am.

Turn It Around

My husband, my daughter and I were at a restaurant recently. It was one that has booths - since we need extra room to sit - and while we were eating, a family came in and sat down at the booth next to us. I recognized one of the people. After they'd been there for a while, they all got up and traded seats so that the person I had recognized was no longer facing me.

Par for the course, I thought. After all, I look like a mess - I didn't take much time getting ready because we were running late. I don't blame this person for not wanting to have to look at me. 

I mentioned this to my daughter after we left the restaurant. 

She's been going to therapy and her therapist has been challenging assumptions that she makes about herself and about other people who do things in her presence. 

She stared at me for a second or two, and gently rebuked me. "ORRrrrr," she said, "this person could have moved because the seat might have been uncomfortable. Or there might have been a draft under that seat and not under the other one." 

Her response kind of set me back on my heels. I did a double-take. She grinned, and said, "CBT." 

Cognitive behavioral therapy - a type of psychological retraining of the thoughts - is big on "re-framing": restating things in such a way as to challenge previously long-held beliefs about the self, and about others' reactions to the self. Such thoughts are referred to as "negative automatic thoughts." (NATs.) And she expertly re-framed my NAT about other people's perception of my appearance ... in order to help me to see other possibilities. 

Photo "Little Boy Covering His Face"
courtesy of David Castollo Dominici at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

A lot of people do what I did. More people than those who are willing to admit it, filter others' opinions of them through their own beliefs about themselves. Many of us don't really have all that great an opinion of ourselves, and this carries through to the things that we think, believe, and say to (or about) ourselves. This kind of thinking can lead to serious mental health issues.  By far the most common mental health issues are depression and anxiety.

For people who are chronically depressed or anxious (or both), common self-talk messages are: 
"it's always been this way, so it will always BE this way." 
"I'm so stupid. When will I ever get anything right??" 
"Yeah things are fine NOW, but what if _____?"
"Oh GREAT. NOW what?" 
"But if I don't agree with him/her, he/she won't be my friend."
"Nobody wants to spend time with me. I'm not worth their time." 
"Why do things like this (fill in the blank) always happen to me?"

These types of messages start way back when we're children and someone slaps a sticker on us (it doesn't matter if it's a gold star or a black mark) and we start to define ourselves by what others think about us.

Statements like the ones listed above have kept me and sometimes continue to keep me wrapped in rotting grave-clothes that others have put onto me from my past, and which I keep wrapped around me (even if they restrict my potential!) because ... well, because it's all I have ever known. The rags keep me from being exposed and vulnerable, and may well be an attempt to get other people to reassure me. But is such thinking healthy? 

No.

The trick is to turn it around, to see other possibilities, to "counter" the self-destructive talk with the kind of message that builds up, that encourages, that heals. Sometimes things happen because they just happen! Sometimes people make mistakes; it doesn't mean it is the end of the world or that I'm stupid. It just means I'm human. People can and do like me for who I am; I don't have to change who I am to fit what they expect from me. I do have value and my emotions are valid. If I wouldn't let someone "talk that way" about one of my friends, why do I think it's okay to talk about myself "that way"? 

Why would anyone?

Point taken... and thanks, sweetie. :) 

Happy Holy Days

The holidays have always been a mixed bag for our family. As with most people, the stresses of Christmas shopping, combined with the extra expense, the social and family obligations of visiting and extra cooking all combine to increase the background noise that can make everyday stressors seem more ... stressful. 

But those are normal. Every family feels those to one degree or another, depending on how much fun it is to do the social thing, and on how accomplished a baker one is. 

Last Christmas, we went through a lot of the motions as a family because - well, because the youngest member of our family was spending her first Christmas in Heaven. But at the same time, we didn't want our own personal tragedy rob us of experiences that we'd later regret not having. So - with minor adjustments - we still cooked, still baked, still put up a tree, still had presents and carols, and still attended the Christmas Eve service. We still had friends over for a Christmas meal. It was hard, and we had to make some adjustments because our grief was so very fresh - her accident was only about two months before Christmas - but we did it and we survived. 

The name of the game was survival. And because of the love of friends - and each other - we did survive. 

It's been a whole year of firsts. Wednesdays - the day of the week it was when the police came to our house - hurt for months. Easter: no egg hunt for the first time since she was two. Her first birthday after the accident - July 16. Wow, that was hard: she would have been 22. Thanksgiving was so overwhelming, just a couple of weeks before the first-year anniversary of her death. All I could hear in my head was what she'd said to me the previous Thanksgiving: "Don't give up on your Thanksgiving spirit, Mom. Look at me. I'm homeless, I'm living in my car, and I'm thankful for you, for Dad, for God, for my friends." 

But we survived. We even celebrated BOTH Thanksgivings - the first with a dear friend sharing our 'unexpected' turkey meal, and the second with just the three of us and a ham dinner with sweet and sour mustard sauce.

And now it's Christmas-time once more. And we wonder if we'll ever have "happy holidays" again. We have discussions about what traditions will make the cut this year - and which ones are just too stressful to keep doing. Some things we are keeping. Others we are letting go. 

The grief is always under the surface - potentially just as searingly painful as the first day. Most days it's completely submerged; other days - or should I say at other moments, usually when we least expect it - it leaps out at us from behind a door or in the face of someone walking down the street who looks like her or dresses like she did. Today there was a moment when I was listening to a children's choir perform and they started to sing, "Somewhere in my Memory" (we hear it every year when they air "Home Alone") and the lyrics that talk about happy faces, happy people and family being all together ... reminded me that we weren't all together, and I had to get out of there, tears streaming from my eyes. 

The thing that has made this holiday season a bit more bearable is concentrating on the "holi" part of "holiday". Concentrating on the real spirit behind the Christmas season (the Holy Days, Christmas being Christ-mass or celebration of Christ) has helped to ground us and make the decisions about what to do and not to do a little easier. It'll never be the same, that's sure, but it can still be good. 

And yes, there can still be happiness and joy in the season. It's tinged with sadness because the circle is broken, but that is a given. It's okay to be sad; it's okay to acknowledge how much we love her and miss her. But it's also okay to laugh, to enjoy life, to enjoy each other, and to share what we have. 

And that's how we have decided to spend the next couple of weeks or so.

Journey of 1,000 miles

The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, so the saying goes. 

And then there's the next one. And the next. And the next.

And a seemingly endless, terrifyingly long journey it is. Taken into the mind all at once, it seems insurmountable. 

So many things in life are like that. Grief is one thing. Pain is another. And truth be told, the entirety of LIFE is like that. One day blindly merging into the next and if taken all as one heap, overwhelming. Bewildering. Uncertain. Stressful.

Regret for the past and worry for the future fill our mental health care facilities. We can call it a lot of fancy-sounding names but the many forms of depression and anxiety boil down at their most basic form, to an inability to live in the moment. (Notice I didn't say an unwillingness. I said an inability.)
 
"Without help it is too much for us." (Alcoholics Anonymous, ch 5: "How it Works"). 

Help comes from various sources. 

• friends who care and who show it
• mental health professionals
• support groups
• 12-step groups (which primarily are NOT support groups, so they get their own designation)
• family and/or "chosen family"
• church members
• pastors and other church leaders
• and last but definitely not least, trusting in a "higher power" has the potential to help. Immensely.

Even the word "help" implies a source outside of the self, so let's not delude ourselves into thinking that we can do this (live our whole lives) in isolation.

Ahh yes. Like a two-year-old flexing his independence muscles, the self vaunts itself up and says, "Me do it myself." 

Maybe. But would I ever want to be that self-sufficient that I didn't need anyone? Would I like the kind of person I would become if I thought I didn't need others in my life? Ever?

I don't think so. 

I think I have met a few of those people who honestly think they don't need anyone else. They wouldn't think of reading someone else's blog - at least not one like this - because they feel they have it all together. (Of course there are many reasons for not reading blogs; that's just one of them. ;) ) ...  But here's the thing. While these folks ooze with a sense of their own brand of bravery ... well, I cannot recall ever wanting to be around them for too long, because it all seemed a little, you know, arrogant. Just saying. 

I do know a few people, though, in whose company I feel welcome, safe, and accepted. And every single one of them admit that they need others in their lives to be able to put one foot in front of the other. To feel centered.

To stay in today. 

Photo "Footprints On The Beach Sand" is by
foto76 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Life - and death, and deep grief (I am discovering) - teaches me that today is the day in which I live and love. Yesterday is gone, although I can still have wonderful memories to sustain me. Tomorrow is not here yet, although I can still dream of better days. But living life happens right here, right now, and while I'm doing that, I need help. And help is there. Even in the darkest of nights, all I need to do is whisper, "God?" and I know He understands. And He carries me for a while.

And there's more. 

Help from people is all around me if I know where to look; sometimes I need to ask for it, because people (contrary to my "if they love me they'll know how I feel" fallacy) can't read my mind, especially if I hide how I feel to "spare their feelings." (As if mine didn't count.) And sometimes help even comes unbidden, from places I never thought to check! This is certain: more people care about me than I had ever dreamed; I am finding that out now more than at any other time in my life. And although sometimes that care is expressed in ways I might not understand or appreciate at the time, I am learning to see past fumbled words and awkward silences and see the heart beneath. 

And it's good.

But help can only go so far, and the helpers around me only frustrated, if I insist on tormenting myself with the regrets of past that I can't change and with the dreaded events of the future that I am powerless to prevent. That is one reason why I have to remind myself to stay in today; it's the only way to not just survive, but to live. Fully. Take THIS step. Then the NEXT one. Left foot, right foot. Look up. Be grateful. Forgive. Breathe. Move on. 

Repeat. Repeat as many times as there are steps to take ... because the journey is worth it.

Letter to Arielle

Your sister and you (in 2008)
knowing that I was going to take a picture.

Good morning sweetheart.

It dawned on me last night before bed that I didn't write on your wall yesterday - for the first time since we learned of your accident ... on October 22, 2013. 

But ... I know you don't mind, because it means that I'm starting to heal. Just a little tiny bit. A friend shared with me yesterday in a way I could understand inside my heart ... that you want me and your dad and your sister(s) and everyone - ALL who love you - to comprehend that you are supremely happy and safe and at Home where you now are. Deliriously happy... beyond human understanding. And that you still want us to be happy, to look after ourselves, to look after each other, to enjoy every day of our lives. Every. Single. Day. Like you did. 

Even when things were tough.

I remember how just a few weeks ago,I texted you as you were living in your car, like I did several times a day. That week, I was SO not looking forward to Thanksgiving. It had always been a family meal, with you sitting across from me at the table and stuffing you mouth as full as you could get it, as full of as many parts of the meal as you could get in there, until your cheeks were puffed out ... that I just couldn't get into the holiday now that you were homeless, running on empty all the time, waking up freezing every morning. :(  

I told you I was seriously considering cancelling Thanksgiving. 

You wouldn't hear of it.

"Oh Mom. Don't give up your Thanksgiving spirit. I'm here and I don't have much. But I'm still thankful for what I have. You and my family and friends. So don't give up on Thanksgiving. Please." Your attitude gave me the strength to at least do a chicken up and have someone over for a meal.

And now you are gone from us.

You KNOW that I ... we ALL ... miss you. You KNOW that. You have watched us as we've been broken, shattered because of losing you from this earth. But as we are learning even more how incredibly amazing you were while you were here, we're starting to see life, and people, the way you do. That's your legacy. What a tremendous gift! I wanna thank you, princess. So. Much.

Here's what we're learning.... SO far. 

It doesn't matter whether a person is "red or yellow, purple, green, black or white or in between" as we used to parody "Jesus loves the little children of the world". (And you'd roll your eyes, teasing us.) It didn't matter to you if someone was gay or straight, male or female or something else, overweight or rake-thin or anything in between, Christian or atheist or Buddhist, wore a 3-piece suit or a thong.  You accepted people. ALL people. You loved them - you loved us all - just the way we were: warts and all. 

You hated it when people took themselves too seriously, more concerned with appearances and protocol than they were about compassion and mercy, about celebrating who somebody was. You hated hypocrisy and condemnation; you'd gotten too much of it in your short life and you knew how that felt. Thank God there is no condemnation at all where you are. 

You gave of yourself until it hurt; you seriously went without ... to the point of giving up food, clothing, toys, money ... so that others could have. Over and over I am hearing the stories now. The lives you touched. The hearts you mended. Your deeds - done in secret - are now being proclaimed loud and long.

And now it's YOUR turn to be given to. For all eternity. Although ... I am pretty sure you'd find a way to give it all back. ;)

I saw a new post on your Facebook wall this morning from one of your old crew here - Anthony - his first time on your wall since the accident. He told you that he remembered how you were there for him after he had a bad motorbike accident last year ... an accident that made him unable to walk for quite a while. How you went to see him in the hospital ... and worked so hard to get him outside of himself (and his house) after he went back home and got into physiotherapy. 

That's so typical of you. 

You inspire everybody who knew you. You inspire me.
I only hope that someday I am worthy of the lessons you are teaching me.

Love,
Mom

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.

Be there

I must check my email and each of my blogs at least three times a day. It sounds like a lot - and perhaps it is a bit excessive - but I don't want to miss anything that might be important to my readers ... or to me. 

For most of my life, I spent the majority of my time (until I got into recovery in January 2009) trying to escape. I tried to hide from my past, my feelings, my circumstances, even my children. I did that by burying myself in eating, reading, watching TV, playing games, doing crossword puzzles, even going to as many church functions as possible ... to escape the realities that made up my life. It wasn't even that my life was that horrible. It was that I wanted to get away from ... me. 

Once I started learning to make peace with my past and even to like myself, I found that I was better able to be there for the people in my life, including me. It surprised me how pervasive that tendency was - and still is to a certain extent. Now and again, I do have to remind myself what is important. And, in order of importance, here's what it means for me to "be there":

Be there for me - Self-care has become huge for me over the last 40 months (wow, has it been that long?). If I'm not looking after myself, I will have absolutely nothing in reserve to give to anyone else. I've written about this so much in the last two years or so that it's become a familiar song. Yet, I learn through repetition, and the reminder to practice self-care is something that I've needed to repeat many times to myself. Doormat-itis is deeply entrenched and it got that way through repetition. Recovery from that takes just as much repetition, if not more.

A very large part of that is making time for intimacy with God. I must admit that of all the things that are crucial to my self-care, this priority tends to get crowded out very easily. That's why I need to remind myself that this one relationship is central to every other and that if it suffers, they all suffer. 

Photo from a post called "How to be a Good Listener"

Be there for my husband and kids - This sometimes means laying aside what I would prefer to do and choosing to do what one (or more) of them like(s) to do, even in the little things. Watching Tangled instead of Star Trek. Listening to the radio (or to - gag me - Country and Western) in the vehicle rather than to my preferred kind of music. Or just listening to them ... which is (of course) far bigger a deal than what kind of movie or music we each like.

Be there for my friends - Lately, this has meant working harder at not talking so much about me, and letting them tell me what is going on with them: caring for them and not worrying so much about them not meeting my needs. I have a tendency to put on my martyr hat and try to get people to feel sorry for me. I'm learning that the less I say about me, and the more I keep the focus on them, the less trouble I get into. ;)

Be there for my clients - I was going to say "...for my employer." But you know, the reason I go to work is not for my boss, although I do try to keep her happy whenever I can. The thing that keeps me going back is the knowledge that my efforts make a difference in people's lives. I take a great deal of pleasure in that. Of course, there are things about every job that are less than ideal; that's to be expected. But overall, I feel blessed to do two things that I love doing - helping people, and writing to do that - for a living. Not everyone gets to do that.

Be there for my church - I have made a commitment to my church to be there in ministry whenever I can be. When I make a promise, I do my level best to keep it, and this is no different. It doesn't hurt that I love doing what I do, and I get to do it with people I care about. What a gift.

You may have noticed that I separated my spiritual commitment to intimacy with God and my commitment to church ministry; I have done so for a very important reason. Many people equate their service to the church with their obligation to God. I don't. The latter, for me, is about the vertical relationship; the former, about the horizontal ones.  Priority One is the relationship between God and me; I think of it as my "plumb line" - the one on which everything else hangs. Without it, there is no third dimension to my life: it's all flat, like a soft drink without the bubbles. Duty-driven. With that third dimension, it all makes sense to me. Life has context and contour, sparkle and sizzle. 

The core relationship permeates and infuses all the others; it's part of who I am, how I define myself, and enriches each of those other facets. 

One thing is sure. Living like this might be many things - not all of them pleasant - but it's never dull.

... and I in mine

The world is turning into this ginormous village where we see nearly simultaneously what's happening on the opposite side of the globe - where fewer and fewer places are unseen, unreported.  There is so much suffering in so many places by so many people groups - it's hard to know where to start when the collection plate passes, or when the folks come around canvassing for this or that cause.  

Many people think that unless they do something spectacular or give a lot of money to alleviate hunger or thirst in a third world country, or go on a missions trip to a different continent, that they are not doing what they can.  This kind of thinking is fostered in our global village.  But sometimes in trying not to miss the forest for the trees, we miss the trees for the forest.

I'm not saying that those causes - whatever they are and however noble they are - aren't worthy.  Far from it.  But I am saying that we needn't allow others to make us feel guilty if we DON'T go, if we DON'T give to this or that foreign charity across the ocean.

A friend of mine is raising money for a cause that is near and dear to her - being a cancer survivor and seeing how people spend a lot of money to be near their loved ones through such a tough time, well, she's doing what she can.  Here's her blog post on that.  That's not in a foreign country to her - it's close to home. 

There are dozens of people in my own city who don't have a home.  There are even more - including children - RIGHT HERE - who go to bed hungry.  Who wonder where the next meal is going to come from ... and when.  Who are starting over from scratch, having lost everything to alcohol, to abuse, to debt, to unemployment.  And in this city there are organizations that help such people.  The Food Bank.  "The Upper Room" Soup Kitchen.  The Salvation Army.  Open Door Ministries.  Anderson House.  Talbot House.  Lacey House.  Grandmother's  House.  And that's just within a five-mile radius.  All we need to do is open our eyes and look at our own back yard and there are so many people who need to know someone cares. And speaking of the back yard - what about the person across the fence? next door? down the street?  

I remember singing this little song in Sunday School and the words are just as profound now as they ever were.  It's based on Matthew 5:24: "Let your light so shine among men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven."  Here are some of the lyrics:

Found this photo HERE

Jesus bids us shine, with a pure, clear light
Like a little candle burning in the night.
In this world of darkness, so we must shine:
You in your small corner .... and I in mine. 

Jesus bids us shine. Shine - for all around
Many kinds of darkness in this world are found: 
Sin, and want, and sorrow - so we must shine:
You in your small corner ... and I in mine.

And this is the essence of it.  We don't have to make a big splash, or turn everything into a big production.  We just need to find our niche - that place where we can make a difference - and go ahead and do it.  Whether it's seen by the pastor, the prime minister or the pope for that matter - matters not.  Even one candle can dispel the darkness.  Even if it's been dark for a VERY long time. 

Even if we've never dared let our light shine before.  It might flicker - but at least it will light the way for someone who needs it.

Different and same

I just saw a video this morning that I must share.  It's about five and a half minutes long and it is about a young man named Ryan Pittman.

His story is so powerful that it stands alone.  A lot of people have tried to get across what everybody needs to know.  Ryan succeeded.  He has given hope and inspiration to so many people.



I know he inspired me.

Power to Choose

In the last couple of days I have been thinking about the bad rep that God gets. What I mean is that He gets blamed for a whole lot of stuff that people choose to do, whether done by the ones who say they believe in Him ... or not.  

Found through Google Images at
http://indianajones.wikia.com/wiki/False_Grail

I am a self-admitted Indiana Jones fan.  Especially the first and third movies.  There are so many images in those films that are supremely symbolic - they remind me of important lessons that often get either overlooked or pooh-poohed. There is such a thing as right and wrong. There are things that are beyond our understanding.  Actions have consequences.    And people are responsible for their own actions. 

One poignant scene is the one in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" where Donovan, the bad guy, gets dibs on choosing a cup from which to drink the water from the fountain of youth.  The knight warns both Indy and Donovan to choose wisely, for only when the water is in the Holy Grail does it bring life to the drinker. The same water in a false Grail will bring death.  With the help of an expert, he chooses a beautiful chalice which he deems "befitting the King of kings" - and drinks.  The results are not pretty (click here to see this classic clip and I hope you've turned up the volume; the video will open in a new window).  Some call this scene funny or corny.  For me, it's a reminder.


When Indy chooses the correct Grail, things are not suddenly sunshine and roses for him either.  Yes, he doesn't die - and yes, he's able to save his dad's life as well.  But his struggles are not over either.  Neither are his temptations to choose poorly.

We were created with the ability to choose, something upon which God places a great deal of value.  We could have been automatons, but what would have been the point? He wanted us to WANT Him. 

Sometimes bad stuff happens to us and there seems to be no reason for it.  Bad things - and good things, for that matter - do happen to ALL people.  But much of the bad stuff that happens to us is of our own making.  Many of us make bad choices and the consequences are ... let's say they're unpleasant. The irrevocable law of the harvest, "You reap what you sow," kicks in.  The tendency we have at those times is to question God, to question His goodness or His love, when in fact it is our own choices that have led to the outcomes and ... God is just a handy scapegoat we use to avoid taking responsibility for "choosing poorly." I've heard people do it all the time: blame God for for famines and poverty, for wars, for religious persecution. But in most cases whatever horrible thing for which folks blame God arises out of a poor choice, or a series of poor choices, made by people who have the power to choose.

That 1989 movie reminds me that choosing wisely MIGHT bring consequences I might not like.  Yet it is still preferable to choosing poorly. 

Letting Go

I don't usually give a second thought to birds in flight - until I see one that can't fly but which is supposed to be able to fly.

I remember a song I wrote when I was a teenager. I'd been to a wildlife park and had seen an eagle there. It bothered me so much to see such a magnificent bird dragging its feathers in the dust, hopping from foot to foot, looking miserable.

Anyway, the song was about an eagle who had been captured, tethered to the ground amid the dust, and made to live a lower life to satisfy the curiosity of its captors. He looks up to the skies and sees a sparrow, flitting from bush to bush outside his enclosure.

Part of the lyrics went like this:

I know that I, an eagle, was more majestic than he
But now he owns more power, simply because he is free.

Was I sixteen when I wrote that?? Wow.... But I digress.

He was powerless to free himself. But someone who had enough money to buy him, could come in at any time and loose the bonds. (When that happens with a slave, they call it redemption). Then it would be the eagle's choice whether to stay, still considering himself to be tied to the ground, or move past those fears, let go of his previous mindset, and leap into the sky.

So with us. Jesus has freed us, but many of us are still hopping around on the ground, believing in the limitations to which we've become accustomed.

There is such liberty in letting go.

We let go of our old way of thinking, of thinking that we can fix people, control them, manipulate them, rescue them. We let God rescue them - that is His job, after all. He's the One who does it best. And we just concentrate on our own spiritual journey, our own relationship with Him.

We let go of the lies we were fed all our lives, and we embrace His truth: He loves us, He accepts us just as we are, He wants the best for us (that's HIM), and He will never give up on us. He considers us worth knowing. He gave everything to make sure we had that opportunity!!

With His empowerment,

• We let go of the self-doubt those lies led us to.
• We let go of the guilt for past deeds - He died to take that away if we would just give it to Him.
• We let go of the shame we feel for being ourselves, and we begin to see ourselves as He sees us.
• We let go of the resentments we have harbored against those who have kept us in bondage. Those resentments themselves have kept us bound even more than our oppressors did.

We look only to Him, and let Him look deeply into us with an unconditional love like we've never known or ever will know. In that love-relationship, as we let go of the things that tie us to our old selves, we find the very thing we have longed for all our lives.

Joy.