The Writer

Before my mom died, she gave me a book by Mitch Albon. I haven’t read it. I don’t spend much time reading books for pleasure. I am much too busy to do so. I have planned my life around spending free time with my kids and have been a martyr to the notion of free time for myself. When I do indulge in self satisfying activities, I scrapbook or make things for gifts or garden or redecorate my house. When I do read, it is usually the Bible or a book that has to do with my faith.


When my mom first ended up in the hospital, in June of 2011, my heart sunk. I had so many things I wanted to say to her and so many ends that were left untied. My step dad said the doctors did not want visitors and I was getting text messages from my youngest brother about her status. I live in the Central Valley, where the temperatures rise above 100 on a very consistent basis. It was Saturday and we were celebrated my son Noah’s half birthday. He was born in January and hated to have his parties then. As I was running around the house to get his party underway, it started to rain. It was an eerie feeling. The temperature was cool and it did not feel like it was supposed to. That is when I got the text from my youngest brother that my mom was in the hospital. It was as if everything in my world stopped and things were going in slow motion. I walked upstairs to my room, went into the bathroom and locked the door. I wept uncontrollably. When I was able to compose myself somewhat, I called my younger sister. She too began to sob. The eerie feeling swept over me again and I had a flashback of when my father left. I felt responsible for her then, and now with death looming over my mother, I felt responsible for her again.

My son’s party started and my husband came looking for me. I told him what had happened and he graciously walked back downstairs to be the host. I was told that my mom had one week to live. I told my sister she had to come before it was too late. She lived in Portland, Oregon and driving 14 hours to Fresno was no easy feat with 3 kids under the age of 10. She got off the phone with me and began to pack for the unknown journey that lied ahead. I walked downstairs to engage in the party, but my heart was not in it. I felt angry and sad and confused and happy all at the same time. I wanted to scream and cry and run and hide all at the same time. It was that day that I started to blog about my journey of self discovery that was inspired by my mom’s sickness. I am still writing today.

My sister left early the next day and arrived at my front door, promptly at 7pm. We stayed up late talking about things daughters talk about when their young mom is given a week to live. We talked about our wounds and hurts and unmet expectations of our mother. We talked about the divorce of our parents and how it affected us as children and into adulthood. We talked about our own motherhood and being a wife. It was sweet and tender and real.

The next day we headed to the hospital to see mom. The few days that followed were intense. Sitting in the room with her was overwhelming. She looked worn and tired. She asked my sister and I to forgive her for things she had done, knowing and unknowing. She talked to each of us separately and shared her own hurts that we had afflicted her with. My mother told me that I was a talented writer. She told me that many of the things I had written had great power and influence, but was filled with hate and anger. She told me I should write in a way that encourages and inspires, which coupled with power and influence would change people and touch their lives. That night, I blogged for the first time, in a very long time, and have continued to do so.

My mother recovered, temporarily. She was sent home to do hospice care. I was asked to be a care taker during her process of death and agreed without any idea of the path I was about to walk down. During the process, I helped her clean out closets and organize files and create grandchildren books for her 4 kids, kids. I helped her separate the things she wanted to give to certain people and things she wanted to trash and things that were to go to a thrift store. In this process, my mother gave me a book. The book I referred to earlier, by Mitch Albom, was that book. She proceeded to tell me that this author reminded her of me, and how I wrote. She encouraged me to write a book and to continue to blog. She challenged me to finish a series I had started when I was 18 years old about Crailford Court. It all seemed untimely and overwhelming. I really did not care about writing a book and finishing a series. Yet it hangs over my head, this request, to write.

So tonight, I watched a Hallmark movie called, “Have a Little Faith.” It was based on a book written by Mitch Albom. It is a true story about his own personal journey of faith, after he was touched by 2 men, a rabbi and a pastor. Inspiring does not adequately described the message of this movie/book, as it stuck many chords in my soul that hummed a beautiful harmony. But who I am to think that my story can or will do the same? Who am I to think that my journey could inspire any? It surrounds me with a debilitating fury that causes me to sit at an empty computer screen, or worse the beginning of many could be books, that only have a beginning. I feel inadequate and become stricken with fear. Fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of the unknown. Perhaps I should read one of the books my mother gave me.

So I sit on my couch in my room, ready to write, but overcome with fear. So I blog instead, which is writing, ironically. How can I manage to write pages and pages for a blog, but only one page for a book? I want to jump off this cliff of adventure. I am standing on the edge, wanting to jump, but back up for fear of death. I need to just do it. Not look down, not look up, just run and jump! So here I go… ready, set……

Thanksgiving

In a country that lives in excess and glorifies vanity, I tend to be a skeptic about charity. I am the one that usually questions a person’s motive or reason for giving and believes that it is done more for show than from the depths of a person’s heart. I have historically been a cynic about the American church and the people in it and prefer to engage in church at coffee shops, homes and parks. And so wonder at the curious ways in which people give. It is supposed to elicit a response of thankfulness, which I have given to many, in this season of my life, yet I am finding that there is much more to being thankful than the simple gesture of saying, “thanks.”


I have experienced extreme trial and tribulation the last 3 years and thought, by this point, would have an even greater depth of cynicism and skeptism. Yet, in the very deep places of my being the exact opposite has happened. In the quiet abyss of my soul, a light shined, and all the negative views and beliefs I held, began to rise to the surface of my life. With it came pain, hurt, sorrow, anger, hate and abandonment. Followed by words I said in response to those emotional wounds, that then afflicted someone else with wounds. The trials put me in a posture of receiving from others, instead of giving to others, which pushed my face straight into humility. In the face of tribulation, I have had to trust others, instead of guard my heart from others, which hurled me right into vulnerability.

So, here I am, today, with all my innards exposed and on the chopping block- venerable, humble, weak, broken, and raw. I see things through different lenses now, hear words through a different filter and feel things with a certain tenderness. My experience has opened my eyes to thankfulness. I thought I knew what it was to be thankful. I was trained to say thank you when you received something from someone else, so in a Pavlov’s bell response would be quick to say thank you at the gesture of giving. However, I never really knew what true thankfulness was.

Thankfulness is not really about saying thank you when you receive a gift. It is not even gratitude for another person’s positive gesture. Thankfulness is something much more. There is a complete other paradigm that encompasses this word, that I am just beginning to see and understand. Thankfulness is rooted in the pain, the sorrow, the wounds and the hurt. I could never see that before, because my fruit bore anger and frustration and bitterness. I had no idea that that fruit was on my tree of thankfulness, taking up space where true fruit of thanksgiving should have been. It is in the deepest parts of our being that thankfulness takes root. This is where I discovered that everyone has some level of hurt or wound or disappointment or misconception. In the places where the world tarnishes the soul, that was created to be perfect, these foul things begin to take over places in our being. I thought that being a Christian and doing the right thing would spare me from such pain, but it didn’t. I thought that by following Christ, those pains and hurts would be uprooted and I would not have to face them again; only to experience more pain and disappointed on different levels. So out came the anger and frustration and bold expression of my faith without grace. Out came my tarnished version of the love of Jesus.

I was very thankful for life and for my family. I was thankful for the people who blessed me and loved me. But I was not thankful for the pain. I was not thankful for the people who hurt me and abused me as a child and adult. I was not thankful for the financial ruin or the circumstances that followed that. And I was not thankful for the slander and injustice that I experienced. I was not thankful when we were homeless or when my mom got sick with cancer. So out came the f-bombs and the rage and the uncontrollable fury of my deepest pain. It was as if a cap had been taken off my neatly controlled well of emotions and it exploded with an intensity that I could not even get a hold of. I am thankful for those who endured me during this time.

I watched a movie about Squanto and William Bradford and the friendship the 2 men established that led to our now worldwide famous celebration, called Thanksgiving. I have seen this movie before, but it struck me this time, that these men were thankful, even in their extreme sorrow and pain. Squanto had been taken as a slave, brought to Spain and sold to friars. He was given his freedom after 2 years and sent to England to another Christian man, who told him he would send him home to America. Squanto then worked for 2 years to earn his way home. When the time came, he sailed home to America, only to find his entire village, his family, gone. The nearby tribe told him of their horrible fate, small pox had taken the entire village. Squanto was betrayed by these European people and then lost his family to their disease.

William Bradford, on the other hand, was a European. He was an orphan who was taken in by the Separatist group and learned their faith. He was amongst the group who was persecuted and threatened. He moved to Holland to escape religious persecution. He was decimated against and could not find work; he was hunted by King James’ men to be killed. He left all he knew to come to America to worship God freely. He and many of the Separatists came on the Mayflower and became known as Pilgrims. They were filled with hope and joy, believing they could now worship God freely. But when they got to America, winter was looming and half of the group died before spring came.

Both had experience pain and betrayal; sorrow and loneliness. Squanto knew of their faith, from the friars and the man in London. William Bradford knew of the Native people through stories he had heard. The Massasoit Chief, who had taken Squanto in, had to coax him to meet with these Pilgrim people, who had built their village where his village once stood. He came and told his story, William shared his story. It was there that the 2 men overcame their hurt and began to learn from one another. Squanto taught these men everything he knew about surviving on the land and William welcomed him in his home as a brother.

When fall came, there was a great bountiful harvest. To celebrate the goodness of their Lord and the friendship of Squanto and his new tribe, the Pilgrims invited the Massasoit people to share in this harvest. They called it a day of Thanksgiving.

In the deepest part of his pain, Squanto had a heart of thankfulness. William Bradford, who could have lost hope, had thankfulness. Things did not happen the way they had hoped or wished for, yet they continued to live with a heart of thankfulness. So much so, that it overflowed into a celebration that is still being celebrated 400 years later. That is the kind of thankfulness I want to have. The kind that transcends hurt and pain and conveniences, the kind that leaves a legacy for my children and grandchildren and last 400 years.

I want to be a woman, who is thankful in the deepest, darkest and painful places of my life. I want to be thankful for my trials and tribulations, knowing that, not only is God perfecting my faith, but that he is using me for a purpose I may not understand, a purpose that changes the course of history, a purpose that touches the lives of many, a purpose that glorifies God.

That is what happened with Squanto. His pain, his sorrow, his slavery became the very thing that saved the Pilgrims. He knew how to speak their language, he knew their faith, and he knew the land they lived on in America. If he had not been taken as a slave, he would have died with the rest of his family, and the Pilgrims might have all perished that next winter. WE may not know or understand the things that we experience. It may be unfair and unjust. It may be hard and debilitating. It may seem overwhelming and unbearable, but we have to be thankful for the trials, trusting that our Lord has a purpose in it. May we be like Squanto and William, who learned to be thankful in the deepest places of their hurt. They were not just thankful for the harvest, they were thankful for so much more.

So, I choose to be thankful in the pain. I choose to be thankful in the uncertainty. I choose to be thankful for the places I have been and the roads I have walked on. For in these circumstances, I know that the Lord has a greater purpose.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Birthday Mom

  

My mom's favorite picture of herself.



The sun rose this morning, as it does every morning. Giving no thought of the new lives born, the lives lost, or the celebration of days remembered. The day began with birds singing and clouds moving. My husband got up to make coffee and read. It was like every other day that has screamed by me. Today, however, I am going to make a point to savor. I am going to notice the sun rise, listen to the song the birds sing and see what shapes the clouds are making. I am going to enjoy all the wonderful expressions of the people on this earth. I am going to make cookies and decorate them with my kids. I am going to look at pictures and laugh and cry.

Today is my mom’s birthday. She would have been 59 years old. It still seems surreal to me that she is gone. I will, today, be thankful to God for her. I will remember the goofy things she did, the funny faces she used to make. I will embrace the words she said to me that brought encouragement and life. I will treasure the legacy she left for me and my siblings, and for our children, her grandchildren. I will savor the flavors she loved and let the sweet aroma of cookies and tea fill my home. I will value the journey she took to find Jesus. I will forgive her for not forgiving herself and give her grace for the times she acted out in hurt. Today, I will love my mom with everything in me.

I have flowers from her funera,l that I pressed, that sit on a shelf in my room. They are dead, but still possess the vibrant colors they had when they were alive. The pink and purple and yellow dance in the frame I have them in, even though they are not living. My mom is the same. She still possesses vibrant color in my life, as I look around my home. Everywhere I look I see her. I see her in the yellow tea chest she gave me for my 30th birthday. I see the glass and silver candelabra that she gave me on my 25th birthday. I see her in all the birthday cards she gave to me, that I have saved since I was 10 years old. I see her in the dozens of keepsake boxes I have for my life, my kid’s life and my husband’s life; as part of the legacy she instilled in her kids. I see her in the Nana blankets she made for my kids when we moved to Fresno. I see her in the baby quilts she made, and the comforter she made and the drapes she hemmed for me, for my restaurant. I see her in the books on my shelves, that she gave to me; some from my childhood, some from my adulthood. I see her in the dolls she made me, the bear she gave me when I was 6 months old, that I still have today; the cabbage patch dolls she saved; and my baby blanket she gave back to me when I was an adult. I see her in the recipe books she gave me, the apron she made for Carah and I, the cookie cutters she gave to me, and the tea cups she gave to Carah and I. I see her in pictures and jewelry and clothes that she blessed me with.

Today, I will cherish those things in my heart. I will not look at the things she didn’t do or did do that put hurt in my own heart, for those things have been healed and rest with Jesus in heaven. I will cherish all the pure motives of her heart. I will delight in all the words she wrote to me. I will listen to the music box she gave to me when I was 13 years old, that plays, “How Great Thou Art.” But mostly, I will remember that my mom has no more pain, no more tears, no more suffering. I will know in my heart that although my heart hurts and misses her, I will see her in eternity and she will be my sister and we will dance together, we will laugh, and we will be the way God intended us to be.

My mom hiked half dome when she was 50 years old. Yosemite was her most favorite place on the earth. We went twice a year when we were kids. She saw the little things of beauty in a place with such majestic wonder. When she hiked to the top, she noticed that the trees looked different, the sounds were different, and the flowers were magnificent. She always noticed the little things in life. She went to the top and accomplished a lifelong goal. I asked her if she was going to do it again, and she said that once was enough for her. She liked to be in the valley and camp and hike, watch deer, and enjoy the wild flowers and dogwoods. It occurred to me this morning, that her life reflected that. She was in the valley a lot and yet, learned to enjoy the things in the valley. She had a few mountain top experiences, I know, but she preferred to live in the valley. She learned to camp there, to enjoy the things that grew there, to love the wildlife there.



Mom loved Yosemite in the winter also.



I have spent most of my life trying to get to the top of the mountain of life. I have hated living in the valley. I wanted out, wanted up and wanted to see from the top and look down on the valley. Interestingly, my life for the last 4 years has been in the valley. We have lacked financially, spiritually, emotionally and physically. We have been hurt, falsely accused, beat down, demeaned, rejected, denied and forgotten. I had to learn to appreciate the flowers and dogwoods in my valley. I have had to learn to appreciate the food that comes from living here. I have also learned that it is not a place to live, but a place to camp, a temporary place of life that teaches us to enjoy life from a different vantage point. It is very natural and raw in the valley. Fires warm you, the smell of dirt is in the air, and the trees overhead create a canopy from the elements. I can live here now, in the valley, and enjoy life. I don’t have to have a mountain top experience. I can see brokenness as gift and not a curse. I understand the pain and value the tempering it brings to my soul. I can smell the flowers and pine and raw nature and enjoy it, instead of loathe it. I see the wild flowers that grow in the valley and delight in the colors and fragrances they bring.



Today I will remember that about my mom. I will remember that she valued the little things, and in her pain, in her journey, learned how to find beauty in it. Sometimes it was too much for her, I know, and those were the times she tried to climb up the mountain to get out. I understand that now. Today I will remember the summers we spent in the valley of Yosemite. I will remember the Thanksgivings we spent, in the valley of Yosemite. I will remember the time we spent the whole trip picking wildflowers and pressing them into our Encyclopedia. My mom kept those flowers. When I was making her memorial picture board, I saw them. Those flowers were over 25 years old, yet contained the colors and textures and uniqueness, as they did then. I believe that is what my mom was trying to instill in her children. She was trying to give us something to remember, something to value. Even in all her brokenness and hurt and shame, she was trying to teach us to smell the flowers, pick the flowers, enjoy them, and preserve them. I am learning that, even now.



May we all learn to enjoy life in the valley. May my mom’s life be a blessing to those who are broken hearted, broken and abandoned. For those of us who are on the mountain top, may we remember my mom’s life and make it a point to journey down the mountain to the valley, to see the things God has for us, only in the valley. And for those of us who have always been in the valley, may my mom’s life be an inspiration to you, that you can get out of the valley and have a mountaintop experience. One of my mom’s favorite songs was, “I’d like to stay on the mountaintop, just fellowshipping with my Lord, but I have to come down from the mountaintop to the people in the valley below, or they’ll never know that they can go to the mountain of the Lord.” 

 

Mom in Yosemite during the fall. Probably one of our Thanksgiving trips.



Not easily shaken

Many people comment on the life my husband and I live. There is a certain uncertainty of our life. An immenent discomfort in the road we walk on, for us and those who witness the experience of life we live. I have recently been commended for the way in which I walk. In the past I would have relished in such praise. However, today, in my state of complete and total brokeness, I feel it undeserved and wonder at the reason why a person would say such a thing.




It made me recalculate my steps, ponder at the words I have said, to give off such a notion of commendation.



I was crying out to the Lord tonight with so much heaviness, that I could barely comprehend the nature of what I was trying to say. Tears run down my cheeks and my eyes fog with the evidence of feeling less than.



I don't know what to do. Both Bill and I have thrown our hands up in the air and said, "We give up!" Neither of us has anything left. We do not know if we should turn right or left, go forward or backward, or just stay where we are. For fear of making the wrong turn, we sit here and wait. Waiting for something. Some sign, a phone call from one of the hundreds of jobs Bill has applied for. We are waiting for divine intervention of some sort. I sometimes feel like I am living in a fairytale land, hoping for my knight and shining armor to come and save the day. Then reality hits and He doesn't come. I am gleaning from the people around me, thankful for their generosity and compassion. Full of uncertainty and fighting hopelessness and depression, causes my body to ache. I sigh a deep sigh, as if to decompress the tension in my mind.



Yet the ground I stand on does not move. It is solid and as a result, we are not easily shaken. There are tremors all around us. Things crashing to the ground. Governments being infiltrated with coruption, churches selling out to the American way of life, families being crushed by materialism, lust and seduction... we feel the vibration of the enviroment, yet we continue to stand. And stand is all that we can do. It is all we have. When you have done all that you can... stand. (Ephesians 6) It becomes tiresome and our legs shake with exhaustion, but the Lord supernaturally sustains us, in ways that seem like a fairy tale. I wanted the happily ever after version of the story; the partic where there is no pain, just romantic bliss, instead of the reality part of the story. I know it sounds somewhat foolish and childlike, but part of me believed this was the life you got from following Jesus Christ. I am beginning to realize that happily ever after is meant only for eternity... Here, on this earth, we are just strangers, passion through, making the story full of adventure and suspense. We are in the part of the story that sucks... You know the part where Snow White runs for her life; or the part where Cinderella is servant in her own home; or the part where Sleeping Beauty is an orphan and has no understanding of her identity. That is us, now, on this earth. We are traveling in this life on our way to "Ever After." The end of the fairy tale story hapens when we leave this earth and embrace our first love, Jesus Christ. It is here that tears will no longer fall from my face.



But today, they fall, with unrelenting truth, they fall. They are, even now, as I type these words. So many emotions and questions and hurts that are left unanswered and undone. My heart is exposed... Cold water, canned food, no laundry detergent, no dishwashing detergent, no gas, no luxuries, not enough money to make it. Yet the Lord gives. He provides these little luxuries that we Americans are accustomed to and we are grateful. We can not pay rent, yet the Lord provides in ways that I did not expect or ask for. Every day I have to remind myself to take it one day at a time... to not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow has enough worries of its own. (Matthew 6:34). I cry out to my Father in heaven, sometimes without words, only tears and sorrow. I pray in a way that seems pathetic, as I try to formulate words to say that express my deepest expression and cannot do so. The tears are not just for the lack we are experiencing, there is so much more. It is for the loss of our dream. It is for the loss of our reality, as we knew it. It is for the loss of loved ones, who have moved on to eternity or moved on in this life. It is for the lack we are experiencing in our souls-the holy undoing of ourselves. It is for the loss of hope we once had. It is for the pure pain of not knowing what to do....



And so I sit, waiting, quietly anticipating a BIG thing... a miracle. And not just for me and my family.... but for so many other people who are crying out, who are broken and waiting. Who are expecting their knight in shining armor to come and rescue them from this broken world. There is an eager anticipation, that is surrounded by caution. It is my way of protecting myself from making God my genie that does what I say, when I say; yet anticipates the promises that God has for me, in faith, without waivering... it is a delicate balance, that I strive to perfect. Standing on the rock of Jesus... not looking back, not looking forward; just closing my eyes and waiting for my Savior to say, "Come this way, follow me and I will show you the way." Until then, I will stand, not easily shaken.