Do not pass go

I had an experience on Wednesday of last week (October 17, 2018) and it has taken me quite some time to be able to put that experience - and my feelings about it - into words.

Those of you who know me well, know that for the last few years I have been working toward becoming a counsellor. In the last year, I struggled to find a practicum site in my own province and found nothing that was available, which would accept my university's requirement to have me videotaped while I was in session with a client (so my distance-education professors could see me in action). I ended up looking in a neighbouring province and found a placement there. I therefore moved to that city and leased an apartment, essentially doubling my monthly expenses (and more) with my salary reduced by half so I had sufficient time to spend on my clinical hours.  The practicum, I told people, would last for 8 months, followed by my part-time employment with the agency for another year at least. The plan was set - I was living alone for the first time in my life, and managing. But I was quite homesick, and it took a lot of energy to just function.

Without going into the gory details, of which there are many, the placement didn't work out for quite a number of reasons, and I was "let go" (read: raked over the coals and told to leave and not come back) a little over a week ago. The ordeal took about four and a half hours from start to finish; it was very traumatic and hurtful, and struck to the very core of who I am. I had thought that things were improving after a rough start, so this development blindsided me and left me in shock for days. 

Photo "Sad Woman Sitting Alone In Room" courtesy of
FrameAngel at www.freedigitalphotos.net

I have been pinging around in the stages of grief ever since that day. At the moment, I am bouncing between anger and depression. I know that it will pass, eventually, but going through it is no picnic. The whole experience made me realize that I have never fully addressed my traumatic childhood and its ripple effects in my current life (hypersensitivity, insecurity, fear, suspicion, etc.) If the experience highlighted anything for me, it was that until I can put these issues to rest, I will not be able to fully be present for any future clients I might have. Any hope of resuming my graduate program rests, therefore, on my own mental health, which at the moment is quite frail.

I have spoken with my doctor to ask him to refer me to a psychologist, which he has done. Fortunately, my health care insurance company will pay for 80% of the cost of any sessions I have (up to a certain ceiling amount) - and knowing the depth of my issues, I foresee needing long-term therapy to delve into some of these very difficult traumas from my past as well as their fall-out in my daily life. 

In a major way, I feel like I've gotten a "Go To Jail" card in the Monopoly game of my life (Go Directly To Jail - do not pass Go, do not collect $200). I cannot proceed until I receive my "Get Out Of Jail" card. Until then, I will keep rolling the dice while others progress on their own paths.

I have had a lot of reactions to what happened, some healthy, some not so much. In a sense, I am somewhat grateful that this surfaced before I screwed up with a client or something. 

In another sense, I want the ground to open up and swallow me. Shame is my constant companion. Grief (from losing my future career, quite possibly) crashes over me and I sometimes cannot even breathe, it is so intense. The circumstances of my loss fill my nightmares, attack my character, condemn me for my naivete. Basically, I am keenly aware that I mortgaged my future and locked myself into a planned early retirement to do this, only to fail. True that my supervisor was the worst possible fit for my personality, but that takes none of the pain away.

Everything is an effort, and there is much to do. I have been trying to extricate myself from the life I have built away from my home - putting my apartment on the market again (hopefully sooner than later), cancelling my flight to Alberta that I booked for school, cancelling an order for furniture for my home office, etc. - and coming to terms with having to go back home in disgrace.

One of my close friends in the grad program asked me to tell her what she could do to support me. While her question is a valid (and sweet) one, I honestly don't know what to tell her. I cannot say when (or if) I will resume my graduate program. I told my professor it would be next September; I hope so, but I cannot be sure of that. This experience has shaken me to my roots. It has demolished the core of who I am and made me question everything I thought I was. It is by far the worst thing I have ever had to endure, and that includes losing my daughter five years ago. For that admission, I feel guilty as well, but I have also learned that trauma is cumulative ... which means that the more unresolved trauma you have, the worse it affects you every. single. time. 

I know that a lot of people will judge me for my failure, and for my reaction to it. They will judge me for my choices. They will judge me for my feelings. But I also know that those people do not know what it is like to be me, because they have never lived my life. What I need most from the people who are in my life is understanding, and support, and empathy. I need them to build me up, not kick me when I'm down. I had enough of that - in the last little while - to last six lifetimes. 

I tell you this, my readers, so that if I talk about my journey, whatever form that takes, you will recognize that this is just one more layer of Getting Unwrapped. This is one more (painful as it is) phase in my growing process. And hopefully, someone somewhere will find my raw musings to be helpful. 

I have also learned, over the years, that most people don't want to hear about tough stuff unless someone has already gone through the tough parts and came through to the other side, and can inspire them. I'll be rigorously honest. Right now, I cannot do that. Right now, my spirit is bleeding, and tender, and disfigured. Right now, I am not fit company to be around because I am super-sensitive to what people say ... and especially to what they think about me. I am not able to "bounce back" from this kind of devastation without help. I cannot put on a happy face when everything I am is pulverized, when everything I have built my self-perception on is in question. 

What I can be is genuine. What I can be is open and willing to do what is necessary to rid myself of the things in me that hurt others. What I can be is what I am: broken. In my brokenness, in my vulnerability, I have asked for help from those who are trained to help. I do not expect my friends and family to "fix" me ... but I hope that they will be gracious and understand that I am doing what I can to heal. 

Good fences make good neighbours

Over the last couple of months, ever since someone tromped all over one of my personal boundaries, I've been doing a lot of thinking about boundaries or personal limits, what they are, why they're important, how to recognize them if and when they exist, and how to respect them. I've even thought a little about when it is okay to cross those boundaries, and when it is NEVER okay to do so. 

Until I was in my forties, I didn't even know that personal boundaries existed, because when I was growing up, they didn't. When I started realizing that I had a right to take up space, that others had boundaries that I was not allowed to cross and that the same applied to me, I started realizing how many times throughout my life that people had barged onto my private property, even in the name of "caring," and proceeded to wrestle my rights to the ground. 

For example, I kept a diary when I was a teen. In it, I poured out my hopes, wishes and dreams, ideas I had, no matter how outlandish. I explored the depth of the feelings I was feeling, confided my deepest thoughts, and I found that in doing so, there was an outlet, a way for me to work through a very confusing and intense period in my life. 

One day, my mother found it. 
She read it.
She was horrified by the subject matter and the intensity.

She made me burn it. Not just it, but all of them that had gone before.

I sat in front of the furnace and wept in grief and intense anger and hatred as I burned - page after page - was forced to destroy what to me represented my soul: literally months and years of a journey I could have looked back on in my twenties and thirties ... and laughed about. 

That was a boundary that should never have been crossed. 
My mom thought she was being a good mom, protecting me, raising me "right." But she violated my privacy, judged me, and her punishment was way over the top.

It took me decades to forgive her. And yes, that was something that needed to be forgiven because IT WAS WRONG, and it hurt me terribly, even though she never apologized. 

Photo "White Fence" courtesy of scottchan at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

When I had children of my own, I made mistakes with them too. I remember freaking out when I saw some things that one or the other of the kids was doing ... and then I remembered my old diary. And it made me stop and rethink. And yes, when I'd jumped over a fence onto their territory, I apologized ... eventually.

I remember that while they were still small and there were going to be people coming over to the house for a visit, people with children their age or thereabouts ... I would tell them to go through their things in advance and set aside those "special" toys that they didn't want to share, and we'd put them in a separate room that was off-limits until the guests went home. That way, they didn't have to feel forced to share ALL of their toys. It modeled for them that there are boundaries, that boundaries are a good thing to have, and that they had a right to their own privacy. That was HUGE. 

And it was one thing (among many) which helped me to build their trust over the years so that later, when I discovered something that I thought was horrible, I was able to listen and find out the "why" instead of freaking out and shutting forever conduits of communication that I wanted to stay open. I don't need to share exactly what those things were, because that's their stuff, not mine. But that communication stayed open, and at the end of the day, I'd rather that than secrets and lies.

So here's what I've learned about fences and about being a good neighbour.

• People have the right to have their own opinions. It is not my job to put them down for their beliefs and lifestyles.
• "Talking down" to someone is never okay. That includes both tone and body position. If someone is seated, sit. If they are shorter than you are, position yourself to be on the same level as they are, at the same eye level. 
• Nobody is any better than anyone else, regardless of age, gender, economical status, social standing, race, or belief. We are all in this together.
• Nobody has the right to tell anyone else what to do. Not even if asked. Giving advice is never a good idea. And downright giving orders (for whatever reason, even "caring,") makes people want to do the exact opposite of what you tell them. And they will never trust anyone who manipulates and controls them.
• People have the right to feel what they feel. Feelings are not wrong and need never be treated as such, regardless of age or gender. Babies to seniors, male to female and everything in between, feelings are feelings and they are valid and real to whoever feels them. 
• Kindness and acceptance go a lot further than condemnation and self-righteousness.

Good boundaries really do make good neighbours, good parents, good friends, and good spouses. The virtue of respect is one that - if cultivated in one's own heart and mind - can make this world a much better place. And, like all virtues, it is developed and nourished from the inside out.

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.

And counting...

Well, it's finally here. 

Three hundred and sixty-four days ago, on the evening of the day we found out about her passing, we had no clue that we'd have made it this far. "The day the police came" is now family code for the day our lives turned upside down with the sudden death of our little girl at the tender age of 21 years. 

I've written so much about her here on this blog that no doubt you feel that you know her; that was my intent. To know her is to be changed by her. She was - and is - a force of nature. Learning her story is transformational. Telling it reminds me of the things she taught me just by being herself and going to the mat for people. 

The past year has been one I've spent counting. Counting the days at first ... six days since she passed. Ten. Twelve. (Every Wednesday was agony. The sleep wouldn't come until after 1 a.m. most nights.) Then I counted the weeks - two, three, four, five, six... thirteen - interspersed with months... each one seemed to drag by until it was over and then I would look back and say, "I can't believe it's been four months." Or six. Or eight. 

A trusted friend, one I've known now for 13 years, told me at the beginning of this process that the time would come when I'd stop counting the weeks, stop noticing it was Wednesday. 

I didn't believe him. 

But he was mostly right. Time has a way of ticking away and the tyranny of the urgent sometimes becomes a bit of a comfort; busy-ness can sometimes get one's mind off things and give it a bit of a break from the harsh realities of loss. 

But it doesn't diminish its intensity. 

What has healed me most has been the love and loving expressions of support and friendship that I've experienced - at first in a flood back last fall, and more lately in odd comments that this one or that one will make - comments that remind me that people haven't forgotten. They haven't forgotten me, my family, and best of all, they haven't forgotten her. 

This is the counting that - for the most part - I have taken to doing now. I count the expressions of love, the kind deeds (like the apple someone brought me today because she heard that I liked one once in a while and because she knew it was a tough day), the emails and Facebook chats, the posts on her wall and on mine - the snowflakes left on her stone today from three special people ... and the list goes on, and on, and on. 

These are the things I count now. Time does march on ... but love brings music and gratitude and peace. I count friends ... friends who sincerely care and who show it, as she did. I count remembrances of her. I count friends of hers who loved her dearly and who now - for reasons I can't quite explain - love me too. I count songs that she loved or that remind me of her personality or her beauty or her feisty in-your-face defense of her friends - or her ability to make others laugh... sometimes just by bursting out laughing long and loud and strong ... for no reason at all. And her laugh was so contagious. So very contagious. Even when I was angry at her, I couldn't help laughing with her.

Days like today are very hard. I won't deny it. But as love goes on and on, I am not counting the days ... but the signs of life that I see springing up where she has walked. The changed lives, the transformed attitudes, the seeds of hope and faith and love she planted that are now bearing fruit: these are the things that I count. 

Because THEY count.



Oh!  PS: This was actually one video that Arielle texted to me, but my cell phone broke it into two videos. It was created around the first of September 2013, about six weeks before she passed away. I've been waiting for the right time to share it with my readers. This seemed like a good time.  I apologize for any poor picture quality.

Part 1:

aaaand part 2. 

Motherhood, Monsterhood, and Mercy

I get a little testy this time of year. Mother's Day isn't a happy day for me.

Those of you who know me well know that my upbringing was one of those things that on the surface, looked really good ... unless you lived inside the four walls of my home. Motherhood sometimes looked like washing my face and hands when I was sick, making our favorite meals on our birthdays, singing together in the car, and many other meaningful memories. 

But motherhood so easily morphed into monsterhood. And I never knew when I might push that switch that made mother into monster. Because I knew, as sure as I knew my own name, that it must be my fault. Because she told me it was while she was beating me. And then she'd show me the bruises on her hands and blame me for hurting her with my misbehaviour. It was sick and twisted and yet, I thought everyone went through this. So I never bothered questioning it. And I deluded myself into thinking I had it pretty good.

Drawing "Sketch Of Woman Crying" courtesy of
luigi diamanti at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

For quite a few years, once I actually admitted to myself that it all happened (denial can be an idyllic place sometimes) I was very angry. I firmly believed that Mother's Day was a farce, a cruel joke played on those who had monsters for mothers. And quite frankly, for years I robbed my children of the joy of honouring me as their mother because ... because I couldn't honour mine. That part of me was too hurt, too wounded. I got to the place where I WANTED to forgive her. But I couldn't. It just wasn't in me. 

I thought (because I was raised to think this) that forgiveness was sweeping it all under the rug, saying, "Oh that's all right." That it was making excuses, like what happened wasn't really all that bad. And I couldn't bring myself to believe that it wasn't "all that bad." Because it WAS. Nobody would believe me - and many people still don't - but living life in a war zone on constant air-raid status and never knowing when a physical ambush was going to happen, or when an emotional atom bomb was going to drop ... is considered a "type A stressor" - one of the chief elements in the development of  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). And yes, I do have some symptoms of that illness.

And then, 5 years ago, I got into therapy. That was the beginning. Through the course of the next several months, I learned what forgiveness was, what it wasn't, and how to do it. (Mind you, DOING it took some time and in some areas, it's still going on!) I learned that forgiveness is a process. That it is okay to say something is wrong even after you forgive the act, because forgiveness is meaningless unless the act it forgives was wrong in the first place! I learned that it is okay to not put yourself in a position to be hurt by that person in that way again ... because forgiveness does not require the person being forgiven to change or even to be sorry!! The hardest forgiveness to grant is when the person doesn't change, will never change, and calls you a liar for suggesting he or she even did something wrong. And other people believe that person because ... because they don't want to believe that he or she could do something that heinous. It would change the way they think about that person, and they aren't willing to "go there." So instead, they judge you.

Mercy, according to a popular definition, is not treating someone the nasty way they deserve to be treated, but rather, being kind to that person. 

Mercy is the end result of forgiveness. Notice I said the END result. The beginning - for humans - isn't quite so pretty. And neither is the middle. Nobody wants to talk about those parts because they're messy. There are a lot of unresolved emotions and unpleasant feelings. But they are necessary feelings. Everyone wants to hear about the end result, the kindness you are able to show to someone who has made it their life's work to screw you up, all the time believing she was "raising you right." It's hard to be in the middle of dealing with that and tell someone you are going through a "forgiveness process" and having that person look at you like you have three heads. "Just forgive her," is the unspoken attitude. "Just make the decision and do it." But - like I said - the decision is only the first step. The feelings are still there and they need to be validated, experienced (not suppressed), processed, and then let go. The whole process is long and laborious - yes, hard work.

But it is possible. And it takes time.

Last year, as Mother's Day dawned, I pretty much "shut down." I isolated: I holed up at home and didn't go out all day. It was a horrible feeling, watching others (on Facebook) lauding their mothers and knowing that I never could ... not in that way ... and I was thoroughly miserable. My kids and my husband figuratively tiptoed around and barely even dared mentioning to me that it was Mother's Day. I'd gotten to forgiveness, but ... I hadn't gotten to a place of mercy. I wasn't trying to make her pay me back anymore. But I wasn't actively being kind either.

And then ... my youngest daughter died about five months after that. Perspectives changed; a LOT of perspectives changed. Miracles happened - in relationships, mostly. And I got to do a lot of thinking about that next step: mercy. I'd been so stuck on proving that there was monsterhood ... that I didn't realize that the way back to celebrating motherhood again was through mercy. 

So this year, I'm planning a little trip to visit an old woman who has forgotten most of what she put me through, and who feels justified in all of it. And I'll take a little gift for her to remember her (now deceased) mother and her grandmother by: a little corsage of two white carnations to wear in their honour (a tradition where I grew up) to Sunday morning church on the second Sunday of May. 

And oh yes. I'm also having a corsage made for me - with a white carnation and a red one - the first to honour my grandmother and the second ... my mother.

It's a start.

Back to the basics

In the last few months I've been noticing some increasingly alarming things happening in my thought life, in my attitudes and in my physical health.

However, I didn't notice the thought life or the attitudes until my physical symptoms started to show up in a big way.  Incredible fatigue, crushing depression, a dread of being with people, especially people at work or church, headaches, joint aches, knots in my stomach when I thought of certain places or people, even my hair and nails drying out.  

It started about six months ago or so, after I was unjustly treated by someone at work. It was a difficult experience.  I felt attacked; I felt bullied. And I eventually confronted the person and we talked it through - and I thought it was resolved.  

About two months ago, though, there were some changes at work that put one more step into the process of what I do.  That step involved the involvement of this same individual. It wasn't long before the same thing started happening that happened last time, only more intensely. It was then that I realized that I hadn't been imagining the personal nature of the attack from the last time; it was real.  And with that realization, it dawned on me that it would keep on happening, over and over with no end in sight. Now, I'm not naïve enough to believe that everyone will like me all the time. However, I do have the right to expect to be treated like a professional.  This is not how I am being treated by this person. Whether real or perceived, this not-being-in-a-safe-place ... can be a cause of a mental illness known as "Adjustment Disorder."

So more and more I started to dread going to work. My confidence in my own abilities was suffering. I felt like I had to compromise my own values to conform to what this person wanted from me.  This I was not prepared to do - yet that old me was still there, wanting to be approved of, needing to not make anybody mad.  

Sick days, even planned holidays became refuges from the mounting stress. On weekends and days off, I'd nap at least two hours during that day, too tired to think or move.  Everything was an effort. My productivity went down at work and at home.  Way down.  I couldn't concentrate on what I was doing.  My memory started to lapse; I'd forget why I was on my way to a particular spot and have to go back to my seat to try to recall what I was thinking before I stood up. And I was so tired all the time.  At work I would catch myself staring into space, in that zoned-out pre-sleep state just before nodding off. It scared me.

One day last week, while researching hypothyroidism (symptoms, causes, treatment) for my work, I read about the most common symptoms and discovered with a start that I had most of them.  So I booked a trip to the doctor, and had my blood tested.  The results came back "normal" today.  Warned by a co-worker that this might not tell the whole story, I decided to pursue this avenue until I was sure I could rule out the possibility of a lower-threshold version of the same thing.  At the same time, I booked an appointment to talk to my counselor and see if there might be something else that is the matter.  

This evening, while visiting a good friend, I was reminded to not give up and also to remember to look after myself first, even if I have to hound my doctor to stay on the case, and even if it means another blood test (yuck) to check for a higher percentage of white blood cells (which would indicate the possibility of leukocytic thyroiditis - which happens when the white blood cells attack the thyroid gland and cause it to slow down the production of thyroxin, a hormone that regulates growth and metabolism).  

Just the basics of self-care - it felt like such a long time since I had done what I needed to do to look after me.  What a tremendous gift.

And this is where I sit now, even as I have dozed off for the fifth time tonight, in gratitude for the reminder that yes, I am worth looking after and that it had better be sooner than later.  A call to my doctor to discuss the test results might prove fruitful especially if he agrees to send me a copy of them.  Whether it turns out to be hypothyroidism or not, I have a difficult conversation I need to prepare myself for - with much prayer - so that I can further reduce my stress and be able to get the rest and peace that I need.  

And I will keep reminding myself of a few important but very basic things which are all too easy to forget when fighting an uphill battle: 
This too shall pass.  
Let Go and Let God.  
And First Things First.

Buying Christmas

If I've heard it once this season I have heard it a dozen times. 

"Are you all ready for Christmas?"  

Hm.  I have to fight the temptation to say, "Do you really want to know? because if you do, I've got half an hour..."  

I like Christmas.  Christmas DAY that is.  All the stuff that leads up to it, I could do without. Shopping for people who don't really need anything, to get insincere thank yous - trying to figure out what I want and communicate that to the people who want to know so that they don't give me something I will never use.  And the food!  cookies, chocolates, short-breads, donuts, crunchy munchies - and for some reason a marked increase in the caffeine intake.  (Maybe it's the shorter days.)  Not to mention all the "fixings" associated with Christmas dinner.  And the stress!!!!!

I have to wonder what all the hooplah is about anyway.  

I'm sure that St. Nicholas would spin in his grave if he knew what had become of his generous idea of giving to those who could never afford to pay him back.  I'm so sick of the commercialism leading up to midnight on December 24 ... that for years I have been tempted to do something drastic.  Like get something for someone who can't possibly afford to pay me back, INSTEAD of get yet another toy or article of clothing for people who could well do without it.  I know one person who, every year, went into debt for the next 11 months to "buy Christmas" - as he called it - for his wife and kids.  What a crippling legacy to leave his family!  The only thing that produced was a brood of children who thought it was their right to be inundated with gifts - sort of like the Whos in Whoville before the Grinch set them straight. 

We've made Christmas about glitz and glitter, sparkle and shine.  We've made it about getting and grabbing, rather than giving and grace.  

And the giving we do is more likely to be about guilt than generosity.  

I think there needs to be a paradigm shift in how folks think about Christmas.  Yes, it is the time of year we remember the greatest gift ever given.  But not because we - by any stretch of the imagination - deserved it.  This was a free gift made available to us, a gift which cost the Creator everything He had.  He made it available to pitiful people who had no hope of ever giving Him anything that would cost that much - He KNEW we could never even come close to being able to reciprocate.  Though we were morally, spiritually and in every other way bankrupt, He gave His best and most precious gift - Himself - with the full foreknowledge that He would be rejected.  

Why?  Not for tinsel and tinkling bells.  Not for snow and Christmas carols.  

It was solely for Relationship that He gave it all, spent it all.  Relationship with us. And this is the miracle of Christmas - not the peripheral stuff like angels singing and ho ho ho and presents under the tree.  Relationship.  Love.  Hope.  Rest.  Peace. A Savior was born for one reason and one reason only: to die as a ransom for people who couldn't possibly pay their own debt of shame and guilt, to give hope to the hopeless, grace to the fallen, mercy to the condemned.

We can't buy that. No one can.  But HE DID.

Thanks - for everyday things

Before I get going on my gratitude list today, I just realized that I have been posting on facebook and Google Plus (LOVE Google + and wish more people would switch!) that I'm doing "day three of ten" and so forth, when the original challenge was to do two weeks, not ten days.

My bad!

So, this is Day Five of Fourteen.  Just so you know. 

Someone reminded me today just how much I take for granted - the little things that wouldn't matter to me because I "don't have that problem" or just wouldn't think about it because it's so much a part of my life - so I started thinking about these things and decided to be grateful for them (or their absence, as the case may be). 

A place to live.  How many homeless people are out there and I don't thank God for my own shelter? I am so thankful for a warm, dry, safe place to call home.  I love to listen to the sound of the rain outside, knowing I don't have to be out in it. The sounds of laughter and singing come from a place of fulness, of security, of safety. 

Pure and running hot and cold water.  Wow.  I remember my mother telling me that she used to have to go to the neighbour's well-house with a couple of buckets to get enough water to do the cooking and the washing with.  Then she'd have to heat the water on the stove to put in the sink to wash dishes or clothes.  Sometimes she'd have to make several trips. I can't imagine having to do that! And there are still millions of people every day who have no pure water to drink - what water there is comes from polluted sources, with nasty things like e. coli in it.  How fortunate I am to live in a place where those basic necessities are not a problem for most!

Indoor plumbing.  I actually remember having to use a chamber-pot when I was  a lot younger than I am now.  My earliest memory - I would have been around five - is of my mom carrying the pot down the stairs and to the outhouse, complaining that people let it get too full. I remember how hard Dad worked to put in the bathroom that she still uses at night.  What a gift it was to not have to go to the outhouse anymore.  Or empty dirty water from washing dishes out onto a patch of ground beyond the vegetable garden. What a gift it still is!  Even going without a bathroom for a few days (like during the aftermath of Hurricane Juan) was enough to drive our family to distraction!  How grateful I am for this simple, everyday luxury.

Health.  I'm healthy - more or less.  More THAN less.  Some friends of mine are going through some really tough waters in the health aspect of their lives.  Whether a terminal illness or chronic pain, being unhealthy is NO FUN.  The few bouts I've had with poor health convince me that good health is a gift, not to be taken for granted.  Yet often I do.  Or I complain about frittering little things that don't matter compared to the good things (like my health) with which I've been blessed.  

Health Care.  Yes, the health care system in Canada leaves a lot to be desired. Wait times are abysmal, and the proprietary attitude of some doctors is unbearable to more than just the nurses who work with them.  However - there are children who live on a mountaintop in Haïti who don't have access to medical care at all - unless a missionary team comes in and donates it.  Mothers and children in El Salvador have nobody to turn to if they become sick or there are complications with a pregnancy.  At least in Canada, even if one has to wait eight hours to see a doctor, one is available. And the money to pay that doctor - though it comes from our taxes - does not come out of our pockets at the most stressful moments of our lives.  It's a matter of perspective.   We truly are blessed.

Source (through Google Images):
http://www.dreamstime.com/free-images
/stock-image-adorable-girl-turning-off-
the-light-switch-image16375861

Electricity.  Flip a switch; the light comes on.  Push a button; a stove preheats to 350º F.  Without electricity, we would be in the dark for the majority of the year.  Fire hazards would abound from people lighting candles to keep from stumbling into things..... just like it was for centuries before man learned how to harness this amazing tool.  Electricity powers all our gadgets - on which we have come to rely: refrigerators, stoves, microwaves, televisions, the electrical components (batteries) of cars, even some phones.  Not to mention computers.  Life would be so much different without it.  We get a taste of it when the power goes out - and we are so grateful when it comes back on.  Yet when it works, we hardly think of it.  Wow.

Technology.  Computers, cell phones, the Internet, e-readers, iPods, iPads, even older technologies like cars, radio waves and - of course - the invention that has transformed our world more than anything since the invention of the light bulb:  Television.  Instantaneous transmissions by satellite so we can see things happen in our world in real time.  It's all so incredibly amazing - we can get information, or surround ourselves with music, or be in touch with anyone in the world, in just a few moments.  What would our great grandparents have thought of all of this when they were young people?  To them, the most amazing thing was the motor-car and the airplane.  To us, these things are common-place.  It seems that our ability to create new technologies and improve on old ones is limited only by our imaginations. I just hope we use our powers for good (wink). 

A job.  Especially since my husband retired, I have been more and more grateful for a steady source of income, even as difficult as it is sometimes to make ends meet.  If it were not for my job, we would not have some of the things we enjoy today - a mortgage-free house, and the ability to pay the monthly bills and put food on the table.  So many need to reach out to wonderful places like the Food Banks or the soup kitchens (here it's called "The Upper Room.")  But for the grace of God, there go I.  

Government services.  Everything from garbage pickup to job-search assistance programs, to public schools, to transportation / highways, to police.  We complain a lot about the quality of some of these services, but if they didn't exist - we'd be buried in trash, and only the most wealthy could be educated. We'd never be able to get around from place to place as easily as we do now.  Crime would abound and nobody would be safe - ever.  

Community services.  These would include churches, other charities, drop-in centres, crisis centres, 12-step groups and self-help groups.  So many resources exist in our western society to help just about any high-risk group or to provide support for those who need it when we need it most.  They provide a rallying-point for people to come to, for help and information.  And they provide an outlet for people who want to help someone else.  

And the list goes on ... and on ... and on.  I've only just scratched the surface.

Taking Care

The last part of the equation to which I referred yesterday (relationships with God, myself, and others) is the "others" part.  

I spent a lot of time in my life looking after other people to my own detriment.  I didn't know what healthy relationships looked like because I never had any to compare with ... and I certainly didn't have a relationship with myself...that would be so selfish ... right?  

Wrong.  

What I discovered is that it is out of abundance, out of a fulness within, that I could then turn and help other people - knowing where to stop and let them bear the consequences of their own actions - without ending up resenting them for robbing time away from me.  It was not without a great deal of trial and error - mostly error - that I came to understand this.  Burnout happens very quickly when the tank is dry.

I found this photo in a great article on burnout:
http://www.stewardshipoflife.org/2010/11/
burnout-a-cry-sis-of-the-spirit/

Everyone needs their tank filled.  It works best when it's filled continually: when the tap is left on! 

Sadly, though, society and even the church tends to focus on the opposite.  We want the end result of helping others but we forget that in order to help someone, we first have to be healthy and loved.  In a consistent atmosphere of being drained, put-upon, and under-appreciated, many people are giving up, walking away from things - or people - they once held dear.  We give too much too soon.  We are encouraged to get out there and DO without realizing or being told that in order to DO we first have to BE - to know who we are and to be comfortable in our own skin, to be able to trust that others will come to their own place of health and wholeness - usually without our help.  

I like what St. Francis of Assisi said - "Preach the gospel at all times.  If necessary, use words."  He meant that living abundantly precedes everything else - the natural outflow of such a life is an attractive example in case someone wants to emulate it!  I can't count the number of times that I've been able to help people in the last year or so after first having my own emotional and relational tank filled.  

If it is true that "hurting people hurt people,"  it is also true that "cared-for people care for people."

Tone of Voice

A few weeks ago something happened which hasn't happened in quite a while.  (It used to happen all the time.)  I was talking about something that really bothered me, some sort of behavior that someone else was in the habit of doing - or not doing - I forget now what it was.  I was trying to be nice about it; I thought I was being kind.  

From the bemused looks on my family members' faces I could tell something was up.  "WhAT?" I finally demanded.  One of them pointed across the room behind me.  The dog had tucked her tail between her legs and scurried into her kennel, keeping her head as low as possible.  As if she had done something wrong.  

She'd done nothing wrong.  She knew I was frustrated and she didn't want me to think that she had anything to do with it.  She had read my tone of voice and was afraid of me.  She was going to go someplace safe until the storm had passed!  

Her reaction stopped me in my tracks ... and I was able to detach from the situation that was causing me grief, to find some perspective.  But the experience itself stayed with me - the realization that my dog was afraid to be near me when I was annoyed about something.  

Dogs aren't the only ones who don't like to be around angry or frustrated people.  Most folks just shut down or refuse to respond to someone who is obviously ticked off - whether the one speaking is aware of it or not.  The words themselves might even be meant to heal or to encourage - but the tone is another matter.  The tone of voice says, "You people are stupid."  

Such ranters walk away from the encounter where people have been politely (or uncomfortably) non-responsive and they say to themselves, "Why don't these people get it?"  And they conclude that the people to whom they were speaking must not understand or not care.  It isn't that at all.  The delivery is accusatory, the cadence of speech is driving, and all that is missing is the face being a foot away from the other person's face, and the index finger thumping onto the other person's chest.  Talk about an invasion of someone else's boundaries.

I recognize it because I used to do it ... a LOT.  Not so much anymore.  

By the way, when my dog was in her kennel hiding from me, she refused to come out until I got down to her level and spoke in a different, more relaxed way... and when she was convinced it was safe, she came out and was her usual silly doggie self.

It all comes down to tone of voice (i.e., attitude).  

When I candidly talk about my own struggles to grow up from the stunted person I was not all that long ago, and the struggles I have to live this one-day-at-a-time, rigorously honest lifestyle, when I am aware that without God I am helpless, when I am filled with compassion for people who (like me) are journeying through life, each at his or her own pace and place... that is when the people I might want to help will actually listen to what I have to say.  I've found that accusing, condemning, and ranting (even though I occasionally still do those things) just aren't worth the extra time and effort it takes afterward to convince someone I'm safe to be with.  It's so much better to come down off my pedestal and be myself - just another traveler - and realize that maybe I just might be able to learn from someone else.

This can't be happening...

I was reading something today about the topic of denial.  The author likened denial to a blanket or a cloak of protection that we use in harmful or abusive situations; this covering protects us, shields us from the intensity of emotion that is too difficult to handle at the time.  As we are in a more accepting and loving atmosphere, however, we can shed this protective layer.  Yet, the writer said that denial is a tool which can be used to protect ourselves once more when we are in a similar situation - where there is the threat of harm or of abuse.  The more we are in a warm and accepting atmosphere, the less we will need our security blanket of denial and will be able to face our own pain as we are able, and finally heal.


I had never thought of it in those terms before.  But it makes sense!

The comparison of denial to a blanket or cloak of protection made me think of a long-forgotten story, one I learned in school when we did a section on Aesop's fables.  

The sun and the wind were having a dispute over which of them was stronger.  Along came a traveler on the road, and the sun said, "I see a way to determine the answer to our dispute.  Whichever of us can cause this traveler to remove his cloak is the stronger.  You start."  And the wind blew his hardest, but the more he did, the tighter the traveler pulled his cloak around him.  Finally the sun came out from behind a cloud and took his turn.  He shone in all his brilliance and warmth and the traveler was soon too hot to continue, so he willingly removed his cloak and carried it.  The moral of the story (and there is always a moral with Aesop) is that gentleness and kind persuasion win where force and bluster fail.  

Source of the drawing:
http://www.nfb.ca/film/north_wind_and_sun_fable_by_aesop

This has proven true in my life, not only as a recipient of force and bluster (and occasionally of gentleness and kindness) but as a giver as well.  And many have been the times that I have pulled the cloak of denial around me to protect me from the harsh winds of someone's judgment, rudeness, or abuse - verbal or otherwise.  Of course denial has a down-side as well: it not only numbs us to the unpleasant feelings from which it protects us but also keeps us from being able to experience the pleasant ones.  Only in a warm atmosphere of total acceptance can we feel comfortable enough to let go of our protective covering and open ourselves to deep internal healing.  In my case, the affirmation I received - that although my experiences were not normal, my reaction to them was - freed me enough on the inside to begin to face some of those experiences from which I had been hiding all my life.  

I find it encouraging that I'm not expected to entirely dispense with that defense mechanism of denial, and I have made a mental note to myself that if I see someone who is in denial, my best response is not to rip their protection from them in an attempt to "make them face reality" ... but rather, to accept and love them as they are, to be a safe place for them, so that they will come to the point on their own where they don't need their cloak anymore.  

It might take more time ... but the healing that results will be deeper and longer-lasting.

Open Up

A friend of mine posted on his facebook wall a video he took of a rare sight: a nest of baby robins.  They felt the vibration of him coming closer - and it activated their "feed me" stance - mouths wide open, bobbing back and forth.  Their eyes weren't even open.  Less than a minute long, the video reminded me of something I had forgotten - not even thought about in a long time.  

Source:   http://www.telegraph.co.uk/earth/earthpicturegalleries/
5213909/Animal-pictures-of-the-week-24-April-2009.html?image=6

"Open your mouth wide, and I will fill it."  (Psalm 81:10)

It's the mental picture of opening up to the source of love, grace, mercy and wisdom in expectation that those needs will be satisfied - that whatever I need will be provided when I need it, if I open myself to the provider of all of those things. And more.  It's a picture of complete trust.  Of vulnerability.  Of hunger.  Of longing.  Of desperation.

The robins instinctively open their mouths in the direction of where the food will come from.  It's just like human babies: when you stroke their cheek, they open their mouths wide and turn their heads in that direction - the "rooting reflex."  It's natural ... they are looking to be fed.  It's extremely linked to survival.  

So with the world of the spirit.  God responds to desperation, to desire, to honesty and trust, to spiritual hunger.  He is the source of fulfillment to those desires that sometimes we can't even name - we just know that we want "more." He put that there within us.  We can fill it with a whole lot of things that will not satisfy in the end, and leave us feeling empty and used. When we finally get to the point of desperation, the invitation is still there.  All we need to do is open up who we are to Him.

Starfish

Last evening I was with someone who is just beginning a journey of learning to let go of the need to fix and rescue people.  This person asked me, "How can you tell the difference between generosity and unhealthy caretaking?"

Good question.

I think the difference is in where the 'generosity' comes from.  If it is done to make me feel better, or to fix something in someone else so that my life will be easier - then it might not be as generous as I think.  Instead, it might be downright selfish.  Or it might come from a place where I feel that I have to do something for someone else in order to be accepted, approved of, and/or liked by that person.  If it - instead - comes from a place of fulness, of health, of wholeness ... then it is true generosity because it is directed wholly toward the other person and comes from love and compassion.  It got me to thinking about the parable of the Starfish, which you can find at this link:  http://www.twilight-storm.com/musings/starfish.html 

I've used this parable in several contexts (including that of my job). And with respect to my family, I can imagine myself - as little as 3 years ago - being totally frustrated and discouraged by a beach full of these things and the knowledge that it is impossible to save them all.  This was because my focus was me - and not in a good way.  I felt like I should be able to do the daunting task ahead of me (whether saving starfish or rescuing my kids or my husband or my friends from the evils of [fill in the blank]) just because I could see the danger and knew enough to warn them.

But after going through a healing process on the inside - which, by the way, was very slow, very hard and very draining, but worth it - I'm finding that I realize that I can't protect my loved ones from all the ills in life - that this is not my job and belongs on broader shoulders than mine .... God's.  But I can go down to the beach in conversation with God, in gratitude, and trust that whichever starfish/person He leads me to, that's the one I am to crouch down beside.  And that when I approach this individual (or he/she approaches me) I can trust that God is in charge of the encounter, He's the one who is working, and I can relax and enjoy the process of being part of what He has in store for that person.   

Safe Haven

I must have been about 7 or 8.  My parents went every November to a neighboring city to do their Christmas shopping.  We went to stores several times bigger than the ones in our small town.

We'd gone to one of the biggest stores in this large neighboring town.  Suddenly, I looked up from whatever it was I was looking at, and found myself surrounded by people - none of whom I knew.  My parents were nowhere to be seen.  They had assumed I was with them and moved on to another area of the store.  All I could see was a sea of elbows, purses, and winter coats bustling around.


I was small for my age - but up until that point in my life I had never felt so tiny, so alone, so vulnerable.  My chest hurt, as if it were being squeezed by giant hands.  My breath came in small gasps.  I felt a lump in my throat ... it was getting larger.  Tears stung my eyes as I struggled to see someone - anyone - I knew.  There wasn't anyone.  A vague sense of nausea nagged at me. My mouth was dry - I'd been breathing through it.  My pace quickened.  I began frantically going up and down the aisles, calling out for first one parent, then another.  The purses and coats became a blur as I went from fear to panic.


It seemed like forever to me before I spotted them halfway up the wide staircase and ran over to them, breathless. 

Sometimes even as an adult I have felt the cold fingers of panic creep around my neck. Usually it's the very same reason - fear of losing someone, of being abandoned and alone.  In fact, I lived my life ruled by fear and there were times that it paralyzed me.  

What I didn't realize was that my fear made me overreact and push people away from me.  I took it upon myself to look after them and to make sure that nothing ever happened to them.  But, as Dorie says in Finding Nemo,  "Well, that's kind of dumb.  If you never let anything happen to him then nothing would ever happen to him.  Not much fun for poor Harpo."  I protected them from things I thought would hurt them, even the consequences of their own actions - and I went entirely too far.  When they were 18 and 15, they wanted nothing to do with me, took my caretaking for granted (or resented it) and only tolerated me.  I had never felt so alone, not even when I was in that department store.  And I had only myself to blame.

My epiphany came when I admitted that I was powerless to change them, powerless to fix them, and that they had the right to be who they were without my direction.  In short, I learned to let go.  And when I started to actually release my grip, I found that not only did my own panic level go down, but my loved ones started to relax around me and enjoy my company more.  My relationships with them started to transform. I knew that this was something that I was empowered to do and not something I had the strength to do on my own - for I had tried for many years to change, and couldn't.  All the credit for this miracle goes to God.  Peace and gratitude began to dawn in my life.

And one day I looked around me and discovered that I wasn't alone anymore. My kids enjoyed being around me.  I meant it when I smiled - when I laughed.  I had entered a safe place - a haven where I no longer felt as though I or anyone I loved was under attack or in danger of abandonment.  

I must admit it felt rather strange after all those years of bondage to fear.  But the longer I live in that safe haven, the more at home I feel there.

Awkward!

Okay - this is a rant.  Just sayin'.

I was just reading a fellow-blogger's post at "Daughter of Abba" and it really made me think.  She was talking about how she loves God but hates church.  I'm glad someone was honest enough to say how many of us church-goers feel.

My hat goes off to her.  (Among other things) she calls church members, pastors, and other people in leadership on:
 - favoritism
- hypocrisy
- elitism / cliques
- judgmental attitudes
- guilt trips
- exclusion

And she's right.  Church people are notorious for all of those things and more.  It's why the world looks at things like whassisname's prediction about the Rapture taking place on May 21, 2011 and (when that prediction failed) the world still going to end on October 21, 2011 ... and they laugh their heads off.  I don't blame them.  I would too, if it weren't so tragic.  Okay - so I laughed - for a while. 


The truth is, I always feel so awkward at church, and frankly, I've been embarrassed to admit to the people I work with that I go at all.  

I love God, and yet His people drive me nuts! ... majoring on minors, going off on this tangent or that one (okay, so I do that too), boycotting this or that, protesting something else, and all the while judging those who don't line up with their perfect version of how life should be lived.  (I think everyone knows how I feel about that word "should.")  Most of the time I feel like the rest of the cookie dough that gets tossed aside after someone cuts out the cookies.  I don't fit, and sometimes I feel discarded.  Judged.  Minimized.

I hate it when church people / leaders try to "legislate" friendliness, "dictate" love, "order" people to pray for each other - when these things naturally would flow out of intimate relationship with God.  I abhor the mistaken idea that WE have to do something first, before God will do His work.  Great way to take the credit and pat ourselves on the back for twisting His arm, manipulating Him. How ludicrous is that?  Friggit - God already took the initiative on everything by starting the ball rolling with Jesus - and He gets the glory for everything because even the faith and the strength to do what He wants comes from Him. He said He was the vine and we were the branches. So I don't move until and unless He says so.  Period.  It wastes far less energy that way... and if it means that others judge me for not doing enough - fine.  I live my life for an Audience of One.

Thank you, Daughter of Abba.  Thank you for your honesty.  

Wit's End

It's something experienced by a lot of people.  Usually people in helping professions (doctors, nurses, psychologists, social workers, even those who carry caseloads of disability claims - like those at Workers Compensation or other similar organizations) suffer from it the most.

Psychologists call it 'compassion fatigue' or 'secondary post traumatic stress syndrome.' Oversimplified, it's 'caring too much.'  But realistically, it's impossible to be a caring and loving human being and to NOT be affected with the suffering of other human beings when faced with it on a regular basis.  

So people deal with it in several ways.  One way is to cut off the emotion and relegate that to the back burner, or underground.  This may result in physical illnesses such as ulcers, stomach problems, hypertension. Or clinical depression arising from the feeling that they have done all they can, and it's not enough.

Another way is to wrestle with it.  Anger and frustration ensue - and a whole host of other types of physical problems result: stress-related problems such as diverticulitis, irritable bowel syndrome, back pain, heart trouble, headaches, and even (some believe) fibromyalgia and other chronic pain syndromes.

Still others - fewer and farther between - are honest about the nature of the trauma to which they are exposed. These people acknowledge that there is a toll to be paid when others suffer, and they look for ways to be built up, cared for internally, so that they can have something to give those who are in desperate need of help.

It's not wrong to care.  It's not wrong to be angry about suffering.  But it's also not wrong to know when it's time to step back and gain some perspective.

In the course of my job, for example, I read about a lot of traumatic events, in the words of the individual who has experienced them.  Sometimes, the images those words evoke make it necessary for me to stop once in a while and process things.  And I need to remind myself that unless I am okay with me, I can't be there for those who are looking for my help because I will have nothing left of myself to give.  I must remember to give out of a full spirit and not an empty one.

That's why my rejuvenation times are so important to me.  I have learned that if I don't look after myself and take care of my spirit, I will experience compassion fatigue and be of no use to myself, my husband and family, or my employer.  Maintaining a conscious contact with God, through various means as they present themselves, allows me to keep within my own skin and not try to live anyone else's life for him or her.  It doesn't make me less compassionate; it makes me more capable of empathy when that is warranted.  

It sounds hokey but getting adequate sleep, a balanced diet, and time to call my own really does help keep me from my wit's end. 

Please Note

Rules for throwing knives

1. Don't.  Please.

2. If you must, first practice a LONG time (i.e., for many years) with non-living targets and make sure you miss them EVERY time.

3. Keep in mind that the idea is to MISS the person in the middle.

4. Keep knife-throwing confined to the circus.  Don't do it at work or school, and especially not at home or church ... with physical OR verbal knives.

5. Before you start, allow your intended target see you practice before deciding whether to volunteer, and ALWAYS get such informed consent (see rule number 4).  The legal ramifications could be life-long.  Or in certain instances, life-short. 

Motes and Beams

It's one of my favorite scenes from the Visual Bible's Gospel of Matthew (starring Bruce Marchiano as Jesus).  It's the sermon on the mount and Jesus is teaching, "Why do you gaze at the speck in your brother's eye, when (and here He leans over and picks up a long pole and puts it beside His eye ... everywhere He turns, he swings the pole back and forth as the audience chuckles) there is a plank in your own eye?  Hypocrite - first remove the plank from your own eye and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye!"  His audience immediately got the point.  

I was remembering this scene this morning as I contemplated how a Christian could confront another (if such a thing is possible) about something in his or her life WITHOUT the latter accusing the former of being judgmental.  A very ticklish situation.  One I've come to realize - in my recovery - that I can't navigate.

Nor do I need to try.  I know that it can be frustrating to see another - especially another believer - jump up  and down on his or her self-destruct button.  If anything is said it needs to be in love and with a lot of what is known as "I-messaging."  But I have learned this: the person needs to be ready to receive that kind of rebuke, or it will do as much good as running hot water into a sink to wash dishes ... with no stopper in the drain.  A lot of wasted effort for nothing, in other words.  People will do what they want because they've already convinced themselves that it's good for them, that it's not that bad - and people resist change.  ALL people in their natural state ... resist change.  An agent of change is going to automatically incur the wrath of the one he or she is trying to change.  

It took me a long time to understand that I was powerless over other people and that in trying to change or fix them, I was really taking on the role that must be played by only one person; that person is God.  Since He is faultless, only He can reach into the  heart of someone and not condemn them but restore them to wholeness.  Nothing I can say or do can effect that kind of change in someone.  Only He can.  It's His thing.

As I meditated this morning on the mote and the beam (an analogy for a defect of character in someone's life) - I'm reminded that having something - large or small - in your eye is a PAINFUL thing.  And having it removed is even MORE painful!  There has to be a lot of trust - and hopefully anesthetic - involved.  And there is one thing common to every single removal of something from the eye.

Tears.

When God removes a defect of character from me, it is never painless.  There are lots of tears involved.  But the tears are necessary to wash all the residual crud out, and to help in the  healing process.  And there's another reason the tears are necessary.  They are so that I can see clearly again.  The pain literally blinds me - and when I let Him do His work in me, I can see clearly.  If someone else suffers from that same thing, I know what it feels like, I know how important it is to have removed, and I know who to go to in order to have the job done right.  The One who taught about motes and beams.  Getting the beam out of my own life also helps me not to judge another who has a speck in his;  it motivates me to act and speak in compassion and love.  That goes a very long way toward healing both in me and in the life of someone else on whom I have that kind of compassion - the same compassion and tenderness I would hope that another would give to me - the kind that Jesus showed to me.

There's an old Gaither song that comes to me right now ... and I thought that I would share its lyrics with you because they so powerfully illustrates this process of healing.

He washed my eyes with tears that I might see
The broken heart I had was good for me;
He tore it all apart and looked inside -
He found it full of fear and foolish pride.
He swept away the things that made me blind
And then I saw the clouds were silver lined;
And now I understand 'twas best for me
He washed my eyes with tears that I might see.

He washed my eyes with tears that I might see
The glory of Himself revealed to me;
I did not know that He had wounded hands - 
I saw the blood He spilt upon the sands.
I saw the marks of shame and wept and cried;
He was my substitute!  for me He died;
And now I'm glad He came so tenderly
And washed my eyes with tears that I might see.