Getting by Letting

The other day the leash attached to our puppy Bullet's harness got wound around a table leg. In trying to free him, I let go of the handle of his leash and concentrated on untangling the knot at its source. Bullet grabbed the leash handle and hung on. Of course, this way, he was stuck and couldn't be released from his predicament. 

It was like he was in one of those tubular finger puzzle traps where the harder you pull against it, the tighter the tube grabs your finger. "If only you'd let go, you'd be instantly free!" I thought. But he was fixated on 'helping' to free himself. 

Image courtesy of pasja1000 at Pixabay.com

The lesson was not lost on me. Sometimes I get into predicaments and I figure I have to free myself (since I was the one who got into the mess in the first place). 

But all I really needed to do was let go.  Let it go, as in quit obsessing, stop trying to make it better, stop trying to explain the reasons why, release the grudge, forgive, accept things, places, and people the way they are, and I'll be free. 

Not free of the leash. Not free of the relationships and linkages in my life. But free of being bound by my own efforts to free myself, to MAKE things happen. 

Free to enJOY the relationships. Free to make mistakes. Free to admit I was wrong. Free to love more unconditionally. Free to let go of the past. Free to embrace the present. Free to look forward to the future without dread. 

Let go of the handle I think I have on things. Give the handling of the handle to the Handler. Quit striving (not in the sense of trying, but in the sense of hanging on to strife). Trust that things can work themselves out WITHOUT my input. That I can be helpless without being hopeless. That I can love without trying to change the opinions or the behaviors of others. That I can respect others' right to be who they are, and expect them to respect my right to be who I am.

Can I do that?

Yes. Yes I can. 

Fighting to rest

As my daughter would say, it's been "a day." Generally she says it when it's just been one thing after the other to make stress mount and things go wrong. 

I'm already dealing with some pretty intense personal stuff, as well as trying to be a support to my daughter as she deals with the realization that she can't get any resolution for her knee because she's WAY too young for a total knee replacement, as well as a new diagnosis of fibromyalgia (from a neurologist just this week) and all the emotional roller-coaster that goes with it (the high of finally getting a diagnosis followed by the crash of the reality of an incurable illness.) 

And not to be outdone, work made us do mandatory overtime. I was just about to do three hours tonight when the boss announced today that we had to do 12 more this weekend. HAD to. Yikes. 

Some of us have lives outside of work. Just saying. 

With such a lot (and a lot more I'm not even mentioning) going on, it's hard to find that time to rest and practice self-care. Sometimes, I have to fight to get the rest I need. I have to elbow in there and carve out time for me - or ASK for time for me. It goes against every guilt trip I ever went on (whether booked by me or someone else) but it is so very necessary to take time out and do what I like to do instead of what I'm expected to do. Or what someone else needs me to do.

Photo "Massaging Shoulder As Very Stressed"
courtesy of Stuart Miles at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Those who have an addiction (as I do) to looking after everyone else ... tend to be on the bottom of their stuff-I-gotta-take-care-of list. Sometimes I don't even get to BE on the list. That's not good. My counsellor used to tell me, "You can't give away what you don't have.  Look after yourself, and you'll have something to give to people who need it." That's great advice. I even take it sometimes. 

But lately I've been having to fight to get space to just be. I've therefore had to make some really tough decisions that free me to have that time and that space to devote to the things (and the people) who matter. It's kind of scary, but I know it will be better in the long run. (Of course mandatory overtime doesn't help - but it is what it is). I find myself counting the days until I take my annual vacation  - it starts September 4. Only 8 more days to work (that is, every day for 8 days, some days more than others). And then I get to rest - until school starts again (on September 9) and I add graduate studies to the mix. Oh well - I'll take what I can get. 

In the meantime, it's not forgetting to "Just Breathe" and lots of the Serenity Prayer ... and remembering to do something nice for myself every day. Sometimes even every hour on those stressful days. 

It's a start.

More than meets the eye

For the past couple of months, we've not been able to use the left side of our double kitchen sink due to a leak in the drain. Hubby put a container under the sink to catch the drips from when someone "forgot" and used that side of the sink, but he finally got fed up ... and called a plumber. He happened to mention that the remaining drain seemed sluggish, so the guy agreed to take a look at that too, while he was here.

He arrived early this morning. A few minutes later, the offending pipe crumbled in his hands from being rusted through. A replacement pipe, wow. Things could be worse.

The problem with the other side of the sink, though - the side of the sink we were still able to use - was more involved than just using an auger to clean out the sink trap, or replacing a piece of pipe. No - it went way deeper. All of the drain pipes were up to 50% coated on the inside with the sludge of decades of use, people washing dishes, draining off the fat from meat, etc. Down the drain all that stuff would go, and .. out of sight, out of mind. 

Until now. 

Photo "Rusty Water Tap" by
franky242 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Since I was home today, I got to see (and hear) them at work. It was a rather long and involved process ... and I couldn't help but think of the parallels between our plumbing problem and the situation many of us face when we've been trying to look after everyone else's crud for so many years. We pride ourselves on our ability to deal, even tell ourselves that we're doing what's right ... and then we wonder why we're sluggish, why we're sometimes barely able to function. 

So we ask for help and we think, yeah, this is an easy fix. Until it isn't. 

We end up having to replace some stuff in our lives with other, more functional stuff. That part is fine. But it's when we start digging a little deeper that we find that there's ever so much sludge we've allowed to accumulate. Things like making allowances for other people's mistakes, covering for them, not letting them experience the consequences of their own actions, and so forth. Learning to accept that these tendencies are there is hard - but it's a necessary step in being able to be willing to open ourselves to change. And, the malady goes so deep - it's so much a part of how we define ourselves - that the only way to handle it is to ream all that goo out of our psyches where it's had a chance to congeal and harden ... which takes time. 

It's inconvenient. It's painful, even. We have to put considerable investment into it. But getting help from someone who knows how to navigate those things means that it will take less time with fewer mistakes than if we tried doing it by ourselves. That's worth the inconvenience. 

And having that stuff removed from our lives makes the pain worth while as well. It's just the process that is the hard part. So we knuckle down, pay the price, and let it happen. 

The frustrating thing about inner healing, or growth, or recovery - whatever you want to call it - is that those looking on from the sidelines can't see any of the things we go through to get from A to B. All they see (if they are perceptive enough) are the results - the new attitudes we develop, the relationships that we begin (and end), and the things we say yes (and no) to, for example. This is a journey that is more than what it appears. There is more to it than what meets the eye. There are deeper issues. There is much that is unseen and that may never be seen. 

However, when we enter the process (and truth be told, many times we might not have undertaken the process if we'd known how much was involved), and when we are open and honest with ourselves, it's almost as though the changes happen without us even being aware of most of them. We just suddenly find ourselves doing something that we never would have dreamed of doing before ... and ask ourselves where that came from!  

Yes, there's more to it than meets the eye, but on the whole, it's worth the trouble. And someday, maybe even today, we'll even be grateful that the old pipe sprang a leak in the first place.

More

For a long time now, I've likened my own recovery to a journey. I still believe that it is a journey ... only not in the way one might think.

A journey metaphor implies a beginning, a middle and an end. It's a place of departure and a destination at which one arrives triumphant. But recovery, I'm discovering, is not like that. 

It's a journey all right. But it doesn't go in a straight line. And you NEVER arrive. NEVER. 

The journey I mean is not one toward a goal that can be measured, some sort of award you can place on your wall and point to and say, "There. I did that."  Rather, it's an excursion into the self, drilling and chipping past layer upon layer of sediment: hard-packed rock built up over years and years of pain, trying to find that elusive commodity that got buried all those years ago - the true self that dares not show itself lest it be trampled. Again. 

Photo "Whole And Halved Onion" courtesy of
bplanet at the site
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Sometimes, after getting through one layer and seeing some progress, the tendency is to think that I've arrived ... to want to share that knowledge with the rest of the world ... and all that succeeds in doing is that it alienates those who care about me. And it isolates me. 

Getting past those layers (which have to be handled one at a time) is like peeling an onion. Each layer involves ripping ... pain ... and tears. Lots of tears shed.

The missing ingredient to all this - is the other entity that tries to escape detection: the person I had to become very early in my life in order to survive, the person in me that I hate. That is the monster that disguises itself as the victim, the martyr, the watchdog, the warrior, and any number of other things that SEEM to be justified. It's there just beneath the surface, seething in anger, trembling in fear, waiting for an opportunity to rise up and take over my life and regain control over others. It's the old me, the one who wraps herself in graveclothes and then puts on a mantle of respectability. 

Until it's exposed. Until someone pins it down and calls it what it is. 

Someone I care about a lot, someone who was very hurt by that monster as recently as yesterday (and for many years prior), finally decided to stand up to it. And that person exposed it for what it was, in all of the stench of decomposition that clung to it. That old me didn't like being exposed. It fought. It lashed out. It squirmed. But the new me - the one who is just barely beginning to be made known - along with the help of this loved one, realized that this whole thing was another manifestation, another mask, for that monster. And that it was something that needed to be addressed ... and NOW.  

So I had to do a few things that were very uncomfortable. 

1. I had to admit that I was wrong, that the monster existed and had hurt my loved ones. 
2. I had to root out the source of the underlying attitudes that were wrong.
3. I had to reject those attitudes and agree not to adopt them anymore.
4. I had to admit them to myself, to God and to the person I had wronged, as well as to those who were witnesses to that behavior and who were affected by it.
5. I had to ask those people to keep me honest with myself.

Before I go any further, let me first say that it is totally impossible for me to do all of that on my own. I need to be empowered to do those things; I usually find such empowerment from my reliance on and relationship with God. 

I am grateful to that loved one for pushing past the fear and confronting the monster in me. At the time, it was (shall we say) NOT pleasant. AT ALL. But it needed to be confronted.

I'm not as cock-sure as I was before; my arrogance about "recovery" was pretty off-putting to a lot of people, I'm sure. I know that this angry, fearful Thing is likely to resurface in another area; that is the major take-away from this experience. There is always going to be more. More layers, more hiding, more excavation to do. It's very humbling ... and that's likely a good sign. 

And as I go through more layers - painful as that process is - there is one more side-effect. A positive one. I get closer and closer to the real me - that one who's trapped beneath the surface. At least now I can hear her voice ... even through the bedrock.

Cowardice - or courage?

When I was a child, a couple of boys picked a fight with my older brother. He was unable to defend himself and got knocked around a bit. My father, man's man that he was, was disgusted that the younger of his two sons would not be able to defend himself. He expressed his displeasure in no uncertain terms, and compared the two brothers, saying that the elder brother could "handle himself."  

What should have followed was a conversation about when it is appropriate to fight back, instead of condemnation and misunderstanding. My brother interpreted his father's comments as an indication that the definition of a man was someone who could beat someone up. It marked him - unfortunately - for life. He spent the next few years learning how to fight ... and funneling all of his resentment against his father into becoming really good at breaking someone's face.

Years later, my two brothers and my father were present when someone tried to goad my oldest brother into an altercation. Instead of punching his lights out, the elder of the two brothers refused to be drawn into a fight, and walked away. The instigator also left. My dad turned to his younger son, and said, "Now THAT's a REAL man."  

What? Talk about mixed messages!!

It's regrettable that, because the conversation never happened in the first place, a teaching opportunity had been lost. My brother never recovered from those two experiences. He'd spent his entire youth building his life on something he thought my father valued, only to be told that it was wrong. 

The truth is that in a way, my dad may have been right in both instances - but he was definitely wrong in not trying to communicate the reasons for his reactions. 

It IS appropriate - sometimes - to fight. It is right and proper when there is something good, something worth defending. I'm not talking about defending one's pride or position. I'm talking about standing up for what is right, the way you stand up to a bully and call attention to his or her inappropriate behavior. I'm talking about telling the truth to someone - even if it hurts. I'm talking about battling injustice to give someone a chance at a better life.

But there are also times when it's better to walk away. Or to hang up the phone when someone is trying to provoke you into saying something you'll regret - only to use it against you. Will that person call you a coward?? You bet!! Is it still better to walk away in that situation? Most definitely, yes!! 

I've been thinking a lot about that kind of thing - cowardice versus courage - because of recent events in my personal life. 

I've spent a lot of years fighting to protect the rights and opportunities of someone I love. Sadly, she must have interpreted my bull-dog tenacity as a tacit message that the rules apply to everyone except to the person I was trying so hard to defend: her. Slowly, the person I once knew died, and was replaced with someone I barely recognize. Through the influence of some of her friends, over the course of the last few years, she has come to view me - and my husband - as people to take advantage of. To take from, always promising but never giving back. To manipulate into being given more. And MORE.

And I finally ended up in the unenviable position of fighting, struggling to

Photo "Woman With Sad Expression"
 courtesy of David Castillo Dominici at
 www.freedigitalphotos.net

defend myself and my husband from her abuse. And from the abuse of her friends, one in particular, who verbally attacked me and is actively trying to ruin my reputation and further undermine my relationship with her. With her full consent. 

She made her choice clear. 

Yes, I fought back. I wanted the person I used to know to return to me. I fought to keep her in my life. To protect her.

Until I couldn't take the mental anguish anymore. I had to walk away. 

A large part of me feels like that is cowardice - that I am giving up, that I have failed. 

Yet the glimmer of hope that I cling to is that in walking away, I can teach what I couldn't before - that no matter what the provocation, certain behaviors are simply not acceptable. Abuse is one of those behaviors. 

So I - in conjunction with my husband - hung up the phone, to use a metaphor, to keep from saying/doing something we'd all regret. 

If that makes me a coward, fine. I'm not so sure it does... but that's really not my (or anyone's) judgment to make. 

It's a painful process; in a very real way I am grieving - I've shed more tears in the last 56 hours than I have in the last year. But now that it's final, now that this person is no longer able to keep behaving in that same old pattern, maybe now the healing can begin. On both sides of the equation.

I sure hope so.

A Goodness Allergy

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

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

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

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

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

quote


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

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

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

end quote


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

Active Voice

One of the first things that any writing coach will tell his or her students is the difference between two different writing styles: passive voice and active voice.

Passive voice means that the object is acted upon by the subject, and the object is mentioned first.  Example: "The man was licked on the face by the dog."  Active voice means that the one doing the action is mentioned first, and then the action, and then the object.  Example: "The dog licked the man's face."  

Active voice is far more direct.  It's active: it's easy to follow who did what to whom.  Passive voice implies that the action is "happening to" the main character.  

But it's not just in writing that I've seen examples of these two voices.  I actually LIVED in the passive voice most of my life.  My whole attitude was that things "happened TO" me.  I was not actively participating in my life; I felt that I was the victim of things and forces beyond my control, pushed around from pillar to post.  Therefore, I would constantly run to this person and that person asking for understanding, help, prayer, support, encouragement, validation.  My most common statement was, "I just don't know why these things keep happening to me."  And it wouldn't matter how much support or advice I got.  I'd be off to the next person, asking for the same kind of understanding, the same kind of affirmation.  

When I got into recovery from that kind of mind-set and started taking responsibility for my own actions and expecting others to take responsibility for theirs, I noticed a slow shift in my attitude toward life.  Things "happened" less and less to me.  

Oh, to be sure, life still throws me curve balls and there are situations that do still baffle me.  But they are fewer.  Or is it that my thinking has changed? 

Perhaps, even though stuff still happens, my attitude is now more like this:  I make decisions (even the wrong ones) and I live with the consequences of those decisions. People are still mean or vindictive to me, but that doesn't have to dictate how I react; I don't have to lie down and take it like I once felt I had to do in order to be "nice."  

I can ask for what I want. That's a pretty big deal for me.  

Yes, I don't have to like it when something unexpected occurs.  Yes, I am still allowed to have feelings about it and to talk about it.  But what my recovery has taught me is that God is trustworthy.  Always.  That instead of my last resort, He has become my first go-to Person.  That I don't have to ride the coat-tails of someone else's relationship with Him in order for God to listen to me.  And that I'm worth taking up space, having my own opinion, praying for my own needs, and looking after myself rather than expecting others to take care of me.  

It's a new feeling - unfamiliar even. And it's kinda scary.  But I like it.

Forgetting it

"Do you remember when..." can be the start of something beautiful, the shared memory of a wonderful time spent together.  Or it could produce just the opposite (such as sharing where we were when a horrible atrocity happened, be it the assassination of a president, the advent of a hurricane, or the crumbling of twin towers and the loss of some three thousand lives). Or it can be the start of a pathway to resolving a long-standing feud or grudge. Or starting one.

Memory is God-given.  It is a tool to remind us of better times and to help us learn from the worst times, to use to help others who are struggling with the same issues we once faced (or still face).  It might not always be pleasant. It might even hurt.  But it's better than the alternative.

Great article on Alzheimer's safety here

When a person starts to lose his or her memory for whatever reason, it can be a frightening, even confusing and distressing thing for the person or for his or her loved ones.  Ask anyone with any kind of dementia (whether Alzheimer's or permanent brain damage from decades of alcoholism!) The reasons are immaterial. Whether someone "can't help it" or "brought this on themselves" by a lifestyle or an addiction ... matters not: once the memory starts to go, it's too late to go back and fix it, so judging serves no purpose.  Forgetting where something is: from car keys to cell phones to where you parked the car to even where a particular store is located - can cause panic and stress.  Forgetting where someone lives when you've been there dozens of times before is frustrating.  Forgetting where you were going when you're half-way there is confusing.  Sitting in a parking lot trying desperately to remember why you came to this store (or how to get home) ... is horrible.  

And it's horrible to watch someone you love going through this memory loss process.  The short-term memory goes first.  Living in denial that there's anything wrong, the sufferers often blame those around them for hiding things, keeping secrets. Or they forget small things that inconvenience others, and then berate themselves when the truth comes to light.  

As the memory loss expands, the baser fears start to come out - and show their true character, which they may have been able to conceal from some people until that point.  And then the long-term memories start to go. Gaps develop in the memory that are small at first - then whole incidents, certain types of behaviors which they deny they ever did or said.  They accuse their loved ones of lying about the past, making things up, contradicting them.  They remember incidents differently than the way they actually happened.  The result is a lot of upset for them and for those who are closest to them.  Eventually they may not even recognize the people who've known them all their lives, a tragic state of affairs.  Some even revert to a child-like state and live in that pre-traumatic era for the rest of their lives, relying on others to meet their every daily need because they are incapable of doing it themselves. 

Witnessing the permanent effects of memory loss on someone's life has made me rethink expressions like "forgive and forget" and "wish I could forget that whole year..." and "forgetting those things which are behind..." all of which refer more to an intentional forgetting - a choice (though the incidents are remembered and can't be forgotten) to not let those unpleasant events define who I am in the now, even though they are a part of my history and I can draw upon them to help someone out of a rut they might be in today.  

I've come to realize that the memories I have, the experiences I have had, can be (as they say in the recycling world) "repurposed." I'd like to think that (whether the memories I have are pleasant or painful) I have lived the life I have lived so that someone, someday, would be able to look at the beautiful things that God has done in my life in spite of the pitfalls, and say to themselves, "She has something special.  I'd like to know what it is."

That would be something to remember.
 

No way out but down

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  Beep.   The measured noise of the heart monitor almost blends into the background except for one thing - it is reassurance that he still lives.  I wonder how long even that will last, even if he survives this time, whether he'll try a fool stunt like that again.  

A medicine cart rattles by, pushed by a nurse doing the morning rounds in this open ward.  There must be about two dozen people lined up in hospital beds, side by side, with just enough room for a chair on one side and a heart monitor on the other. Some have the curtains drawn for a bit of privacy - but nobody can get away from the sterile, no-nonsense activity of this place. 

My mind goes back, unbidden, to the events of the last 24 hours.  The trip to the emergency room, the chest pains that started right in front of the registration nurse.  The blood tests, the intravenous drip to rid him of the poison he ingested. The concern on the doctors' faces as they talked to each other in hushed tones about numbers and letters that would mean nothing to anyone but them.  Occasionally I would catch a snippet I understood - like 'organ failure' for example - and my heart would jump into my throat. They weren't sure they'd transfer him to a hospital in the next province, but if it looked like there was the possibility of endocrine system shut-down, they'd not hesitate to ambulance him over. The words became a blur.  Everything felt somehow out of phase, as if I was there but I wasn't really there.  This couldn't be happening. 

I barely remember the four-hour drive to the second hospital, just that I was on edge the whole time, praying with all the love in my heart, "Please God.  Please."  It was all the prayer I could muster; the Almighty could understand the pain of fear, of panic deep in my heart.  The ambulance had gone on ahead of me and I was going separately in our vehicle with our two children, then aged 17 and 14; we had hastily had packed a few belongings and made arrangements for friends to come and house-sit with the dog.  I kept thinking that I had forgotten something.  What was it?  yet my mind was racing ahead to where I was going, not behind me to where I had been. 

My oldest sat beside me, tight-lipped, pale and fearing to speak aloud what her naturally worrying mind was screaming. "What if he dies?"  The other, full of faith (for she has always been so) simply quipped, "He's going to be fine.  I don't know why you guys are so upset."  I envied her trust in a God she barely spoke to on a regular basis ... but I knew that when she did, God listened. I allowed myself to be comforted - if only a little - by her words. Throughout the whole trip, silence hung over us like a thundercloud. We followed the directions that the doctor had given us to reach the infirmary, and found ourselves - at last - in the parking garage, able to get out and find our way into the place where only the most exhausted ones sleep.

He was vaguely aware of my presence, but unaware of anything at the same time - in and out of consciousness, not even knowing where he was - I knew that he would never remember this.  But I would always remember.  I would never be able to forget.  I stayed as late as I possibly could - the nurses promised me the doctor would see him at ten pm (after which he would call me) and then again in the morning - and I withdrew into the cold February night, leaving the number at my friend's apartment, my friend who opened her small place up to the three of us to stay the night - or however long it took.  I thought how grateful I was to have a friend like her.

And now it is the next day, although the light level inside has stayed the same and one loses all track of what time it is.  I sit by his side in a chair provided by the nurses, holding his hand, listening to the beep of the heart monitor, watching the numbers on the blood pressure monitor hover dangerously high (now I know what I forgot at home! his blood pressure medication!) listening to the noises of the other monitors, the medication carts, the code yellow announcements, and the voices of nurses nattering on about their normal lives.  All of these sounds are miniscule darts that pierce into my soul again and again.  Time seems to have slowed, or my perceptions have quickened.  

My friend is looking after the kids; she is taking them to a birthday party for her granddaughter.  I tear up again - and there have been many such episodes - at her acceptance and her love.  

The curtain parts.  It is the doctor on duty, a young man with a slim physique, black hair and blue eyes. I briefly wonder how fresh out of medical school he is.  "We were thinking about sending him home today ... but there are some concerns.  One is his blood pressure.  Is he on any medication? did he bring any with him?"  

"No-o. I mean yes, he takes medicine for his blood pressure, but I forgot to pack it."  I smile miserably. "Everything happened so fast, I - "

"Do you remember what he was on?  perhaps we can order it at our pharmacy and see those numbers come down..."

"Of course, yes, that's a good idea," I blabber, so weary yet so relieved that the end was in sight.  And I tell him what the medications are, and give him the dosage instructions.

"Very good. We'll get that probably within the hour.  Now.  One more thing."  He takes a deep breath.  "He ingested a known poison. We are treating this as a suicide attempt.  We can't allow him to go home without some sort of assurance that he will get counseling."  He saw my hesitation, the fear, the doubt in my eyes.  "We can refer him to a psychiatrist in your city if you like - or you can go to see a counselor of your own choice, but he would have to be registered."  

"Well, someone did recommend a counselor ..." I gave him the man's name. 

"Ah yes.  I am familiar with him.  Very good then.  We'll get that blood pressure medication in here and then monitor his numbers.  If they come down, we'll release him.  We took him off the drip last night around midnight.  He'll still be a bit groggy (you may have noticed he's a bit more alert today) so he shouldn't drive for the next 24 hours, just to be safe."  He looks at my face, searches my eyes in what is as close to compassion as I have seen from the bustling people in this white, antiseptic place.  "This was a close call, ma'am.  Too close.  Please get him some help."  

"You can count on it, doctor."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over six years have passed since that day.  We know so much more about what really happened then, and much of it was harder to hear than the original crisis was to experience. But it was the truth, and the truth does set free - albeit through the fire.  

He had never tried to commit suicide.  He had only told us that to hide his addiction problem.  Three years would have to pass and it seemed that every time we ended up in emergency care, things were a little worse.  The monster of addiction took more of his life, affected more and more relationships, even the ones at work, eventually took his job from him.  But those things (hard as they were) needed to happen.  They buffeted him, and pointed out to him how he was trapped in an insane pattern from which he could not escape on his own.  

That process took over three years AFTER that hospital stay was done.  And when he was finally down to his lowest ebb... (and it's hard to imagine anything lower than that experience six years ago, but that's exactly what happened) when he was at his "bottom" - he finally asked for help.  And God stepped in and ever so slowly started to transform his life.  It's not anywhere near perfect; there are still significant struggles and doubts - but the addiction problem has been removed.  

As damaged as he thinks he is ... he's back.  And I am so very grateful.   

Manners Matter

For many years Emily Post's rules of etiquette have been hailed as the final word in manners for all occasions.

But Emily never foresaw the electronic age.  Apparently, when it comes to the internet and particularly on social networking and gaming sites, anything goes.  

I learned a new term today.  It describes people who thrive on conflict, who judge and ridicule people online about the stupidest things just for the pleasure of one-upmanship or self-aggrandizement.

Trolls.  

The term is reminiscent of the creepy little creatures who used to terrorize people crossing over a bridge in fairy tales... attacking and/or making the ones crossing the bridge pay for the trip in unpleasant consequences.  To be "trolled" is to be the victim of such an attack.

Rather than go into the details, I propose a return to the good old Golden Rule on which Emily Post's book was created:  "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."  

Many people make insensitive or unkind comments because they don't have any frame of reference for understanding the mindset of the one they criticize.

Let me give a very simple example.  Okay, I'm obese and I know it; everyone who looks at me knows it.  I've had a weight problem ever since I went on the pill a couple of months before I got married.  Then when I stopped to get pregnant, the mothering hormones made it impossible for me to take the weight off without a LOT of commitment.  Often it was two steps forward, three steps back.  Eventually, exercise became quite painful for me.  Any exertion for any length of time and the extra weight pulling at me in front would cause excruciating pain in my lower back.  And the total weight would cause acute plantar fasciitis - pain in the feet which feels like someone has inserted a knife in each heel pad, and is twisting the blades with every step.

Anyway, I used to work with someone who was very tiny, petite, a nervous type who could eat like a horse and only gain two pounds over Christmas and think she had gotten "fat."  She invited me to go walking with her, thinking that it would get me more active and help me to lose weight.  Her average speed of walking was 7 miles per hour.  Mine was 4.  Going faster only made the back and foot pain hit faster.  Not to mention the shortness of breath caused by the belly fat pushing my diaphragm up into my lungs.  I had to decline.  She wanted to know why.  I had to think of a way to explain it to her without losing her friendship.  It wasn't easy because my inability to control my weight has always been a sore spot with me.

So I said something like this.  "Ever carry a big bag of potatoes?  Like 20 pounds?  Can you carry it at your normal walking pace?  And how far can you carry that bag before your back gets sore and your feet get tired?  Well, I have to carry around the equivalent of three of those potato bags with me ... all the time.  I never get to set the weight aside.  So asking me to go on a six-block walk with you might sound like a good idea to you, but for me it is not only painful, it's not healthy.  I appreciate that you are concerned for me, but I'm afraid that for my own health, I must decline."

In her case, it worked.  She was able to see things from my perspective and I not only kept her friendship, it deepened.  She came to understand that the measure of a person is not how skinny, how rich, or how social a person is, but what is inside.  She had the unique opportunity of walking in my shoes - even if in her imagination - for a little while.  Not many people have the ability to do that.  I was fortunate.

There's a chorus to a song I like that says, "Don't judge a thing 'til you know what's inside it; don't push me - I'll fight it, Never gonna give it, never gonna give it up - no... You can't take me; I'm free!" (Bryan Adams)


Yes, I know I still need to lose weight.  I also know that I need to do a lot of healing on the inside before that can happen, and when it does, the weight will look after itself.  I've come a very long way in a relatively short time.  Recovery is a life-long process and I'm just at the beginning of this journey.

I know people who have been bullied online for such menial things as their spelling, their choice in one sports team or another, their parenting choices, and even how they treat their pets.  It's wrenching.  It's cruel.  It hurts. A LOT.

So please, let's be kind: in person ... AND online.  After all, manners matter.

Christmas Spirit

Well, it finally happened.

I've been waiting for it to happen all season and even yesterday I looked inside myself ... and aside from a few emotional moments during the candlelight service - Christmas was a flop. Quite disappointing in fact.  

Nobody felt like singing after the service as we went out to see the lights.  In fact, people had toned down their displays to cope with this financial / economic crisis.  I felt cheated.  Disappointed.  Gypped.  There was definitely something missing.  My daughter tried to tell me it was because there was no snow.  She loves snow at Christmas and it's been a thorn in her side that there has not been any snow this season. 

But snow has never been all that important to me, less and less as I get older.  No, this was something different.  The spark hadn't come yet.  It usually arrives for me long before the Day hits.  

This year .... nope.  Nothing stood out.  And I couldn't drum up any enthusiasm whatsoever.

But when I got up this morning and went to the living room, the youngest and her boyfriend were up.  They'd been up all night.  And something was different in the room.  There was another present there, a huge heavy box wrapped in gold paper with a gigantic red bow on top (see the photo - it's on the left!)  I looked at my daughter.  "Is that what I think it is?"  She beamed.  "You found it?  How did you get it home without him knowing?"  


She nodded.  "Taxi."  And she grinned again.

You see, she had told me what she was going to get her dad for Christmas with her own chore money: a certain particular type of circular saw... but the store was all out of that type.  She told me her dilemma and I said to keep calling them until they had more.

As I stared at the shiny yellow box and realized all she had done to make her dad's day, that's when it happened. I caught myself grinning as I imagined her and her boyfriend  manhandling it upstairs after we went to bed last night.

And that's when it hit me.  There - that feeling of bubbly excitement, that anticipation, that special warm feeling known as the Christmas Spirit.  It's the spirit of giving, the one that takes joy in another's happiness.

Once that started, everything started to snowball.  (Pardon the winter pun.)

The Christmas carols were more special around the tree.  And best of all, it was a treat to hear my hubby reading the Christmas story from Luke 2.  Just two Christmases ago, the pain of his addiction and the uncertainty of what would happen next outweighed the pleasure of the presents and the carols.  As I listened to him read, it was so special... the feeling intensified.


We all opened gifts - one by one so that the giver could see the look on the recipient's face when he/she opened a present.  And then all the gifts were opened except one - the big gold box in the corner.  

Someone dragged and pushed the box over to my hubby; he couldn't quite believe that it was for him.  Disbelief changed to wonder as he tore off the wrapping and revealed the prize underneath, worth two months of savings by his little girl.  

I told him that it was all her idea, her money, and she even arranged for transport when he was away on errands. 

He was blown away.  It was by far the best present of the morning... the highlight of the gift-opening portion of the day.  For everyone.  And in less than an hour, he had the box open and put the saw up on his lap.  The best photo of the day!


Shortly after that ... (bonus!!)    ...  it started to snow....

This is (part of) my story

Lately I have been reminded of the simple power of telling one's story of healing, of God's miraculous power.  

A lot of people can say a lot of things regarding someone's beliefs, opinions, or thoughts, but there is very little anyone can say or do to argue with the voice of experience.  What comes to mind is the man blind from birth, healed when a man he didn't know made mud, put it on his eyes and told him to go wash in a certain pool.  He did - and came back seeing.  When the religious officials questioned him, questioned his theology, and ridiculed his opinion, he simply said, "Whether He is a sinner or not, I don't know.  All I know is that I once was blind, and now I see."

Powerful words because they tell of something that really happened.

Many people have commented on the story my husband and I have to tell.  So, since our assistant pastor came to our house in April 2010 and filmed some of our story, I am including it here.  We did the interview in fear and trembling - but we needn't have worried.  We have been accepted with open arms by people we thought would turn us away.  That's an amazing thing because - well, see for yourself.

The various communities of which we are a part have opened up their hearts and their arms to us, and we are so grateful.  

When I look back at how far we have come, I am truly amazed at God's power to transform.  I've been in recovery  -  on this road of healing  -  for about 22 months, my hubby for 20 months.  Each of us has been on a parallel road of healing in our lives.  The details are different of course, but the process is the same.  


The great thing about this is that we realize that God can use the awful, the difficult things in our lives firstly to bring us to the place where we admit we need help - and then, once we are where God wants us to be, to help others who might have the exact same problem, feelings, addiction, or struggles we did.  And not only can we give them hope that it can change, but we can tell them ... SHOW them how it can be done in the day-to-day.  

In doing so, God transforms the very thing we thought was so ugly, into something beautiful for Him.  What a miracle!

Put it in the pages

Honestly.  I wonder just what the Apostle Paul would have thought of 20th and 21st century church.

I'm sure he would have had something to tell us.  


Yes, I know we live in a different culture, I know that our government doesn't overtly persecute Christians.  I know that.  I am talking about the things we obsess about in the Western church.  What clothes to wear on the platform.  Whether to use hymn books.  What version of the Bible to use.  What style of music to worship to.  Whether or not to just tell the undiluted gospel and minister to people's souls, or to do a social gospel and only minister to their bodies (never about both).  Who is the better speaker.  What colour the carpet should be.  

Fifty years ago the questions were different.  Whether to wear a hat or not in church. What colour the hymn books should be.  Hymns versus choruses.  Whether or not to go to the movies.  Whether to use music in church at all. Whether to wear makeup or not. Two piece versus three piece suits.  What denomination is the right one.

Hmmm.  I guess the questions aren't that different.


I was recently visiting a friend's blog ( Merge the Village ) and he had put a clip on it from a keynote speaker by the name of Francis Chan.  I'm including it here - it's about seven and a half minutes long and poses the question, "Does my life fit ?" It gels something I've thought for quite a while and couldn't seem to put into the right words.  Have a look -

What if - just what if - we could live life the way the people did in the book of Acts?  I'm not talking about the culture of the ancient Middle East here.  I'm talking about living in the moment, every moment, in touch with and listening to the Spirit of God.  Wow - wouldn't that be transformational not only to us individually but to the church - and then spilling out into the world around us ?

The people in our culture are just as broken - if not more so - than the people who lived in the days of the 12 apostles and so many others who lived in this lifestyle of dependence on God, like Dorcas, Aquila, Stephen and Philip. They all had families to feed too; they had stuff to do.  The things they did that are recorded in the book of Acts are those that transcended those mundane details.

The human suffering is just as real.  And it's not just limited to the people addicted to crack or selling their bodies on street-corners.  

It's in respectable living rooms, bound up in hopeless people watching soap operas and wondering if their lives could ever matter that much to anyone.  It's in church pews, stuck in empty religious tradition and "true lies" people tell to each other to keep them at arm's length, afraid of intimacy, afraid of rejection.  People so afraid that someone will judge them that they pretend to have it all together - and inside they're dying, crying, sighing.  Wondering if this is all there is.  Wondering where God went.

The answer is not in doing more, or in railing against the way the world is going to hell in a hand-basket, or in electing more Christians to office.  The answer is heart-based.  It's in allowing God in to those dark places in us and shining His light, transforming us from the inside out.  Accepting that He loves us - forgives us - in spite of our failures.  And living in that love, being grateful enough to spend time with Him and hear His voice every day, every moment.  

That's where the adventure begins.