Feeling sad, depressed and overwhelmed....
Wondering how I, a woman of God, can have such emotions... and the best part is the cussing... Whew have some of those been flying out of my mouth? Well yes Mrs. Beukers, they have...
Someone recently told me that I am not the same as when they met me. When I asked her about the changes she said that I am not so happy go lucky anymore. That I am not a ball of sunshine ready to give to everyone I meet, but rather sad and tainted and half empty. A huge sigh released from my lips as I realized that not only was that true, it was something I myself had been pondering.
Where did she go, this fun woman? How do I get her back? Its like trying to do sancranized swimming to beautiful music, but forgetting how to swim... I forgot what it is like. I have had so much loss and hardship that I am permenately disfigured from the trauma.
Yet, it is not as though I have never experienced trauma or pain or trial. My entire life as a child taught me how to be positive and happy in the midst of pain and trauma. I learned how to find something to focus on that was positive or funny and that is how I survived. Disney was my something for most of my life and still the songs and movies bring joy to my heart. Something is not right now, something is missing in me. I can not tell you what it is, but it is as if my brain patterns were somehow altered and I forgot who I was.
This RAW life I try to live is a lot harder when you are not the happy go luck person you once were. It is harder to be real and authentic and uncensored. The vulnerability does not help my cause, it weakens it, yet I am constantly encouraged to go there.
I feel as though people expect me to be a certain way and I am not meeting thier expectations, even though I am no longer the woman I once was. I am wounded and grieved and hurting. I feel exposed and abused and taken advantage of. I am nervouse and anxious and fearful. I feel angry and betrayed and lack trust.
Where did this woman come from?
I lay her stripped down to the rawest form of myself. Ugly, hateful, miserable. I am exposed! I cry to the Lord and ask him to cover me with His grace, with His mercy, so that I can hide beneath His goodness. I am tired and full of pain. I want to go back to the time where things made sense and were methodically planned out. I want to be the mom that spent hours doing nothing but playing games and puzzles and reading books. I want my kids to stop growing.
I do not know how to be a mom of a teenager. I treat them like they are still 5 and 3 and hold them as tight as I can... but the Lord is pulling my hands off of them and I have to trust Him with them. I have to believe He is who He says He is... and that is the core of it all... Is He?
Is He the God who saves, the God who delivers us and provides for us? I have all these expectations of God based on what I have read in Scripture and was recently told that I feel entitled. I had to think about that. Am I someone who feels entitled? Yes I am. I do feel entitled... I am the daughter of the King of kings afterall.... is that wrong?
I read Psalm 138 this morning and verse 8 hit me between the eyes..."The Lord will perfect that which concerns me..." That which concerns me? He will perfect or complete that which concerns me? Not what concerns him, but what concerns me... What concerns me? What things are about me or in regards to me? My family? Life, long life without disease or sickness; my kids protection and well being and dreams; my husband, being married to him until death parts us; and death, not wanting to die young, but living a long, prosperous, healthy life. He will complete those things? He will perfect those concerns? Wow...
Am I misinterpreting? Is my God sincerly concerned with fears and desires. The very things that have transfigured me? Maybe this transfiguring is a good thing. Maybe my heart was deformed and through all of this He is perfecting it by transfiguring the deformity to perfect... Maybe I just need to change my perspective.
What do you think?
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Rice Krispies
I found this as I was cleaning out my files, a blog I never posted about my little miss....
My daughter cried as I tucked her into bed this cold night. Her words were mumbled and quiet. I caught the tear in the light as it glistened and sparkled. I couldn’t help but see the beauty in her tears. My mind had not yet comprehended what the wet face reflected in her heart. She slowly said, “I am sorry, mama. I don’t want to make you upset.” I was bewildered at how my child’s tears could upset me. “What is it Pita? Why are you so sad?” Her words came out with a sigh of relief, as if she had just confessed some sin, “I miss Nana,” she said.
My mind lectured my soul for being too emotional to give her freedom to grieve. I knew she was holding it in. I knew the moment she held me hand and wiped my tears that she was going to be my caretaker through the process of losing my mom. I did not want her to be. I wanted her to grieve and cry with me, but her tender heart tended to my shattered heart. I felt, all too often, as a failure. A mother, who could not console her child, but had her child tend to her, was not a place I wanted to be. I have always been the nurturer, the caretaker, the protector and educator of my children, yet had not been able to do so in the last year. I asked her many times if she was sad about Nana, and she eloquently explained that it was not her time to be sad. She would dance for me and sing and be silly to try and make me smile. Perhaps the sadness I carried was too much for her to see. So my little Nita Pita did not grieve her Nana’s death.
“I miss making cookies with her and going fishing in her backyard. I miss making Rice Krispy Treats and gingerbread houses. I am going to miss her taking me somewhere special on my birthday.” Her words were thick and filled with conviction. She had memories of my mom that were beginning to come to the surface. “Can we make Rice Krispy treats tomorrow?” My hand touched her face and pushed the stray hair out of her face. “Yes, honey we can.” Her face lit up and she continued to describe in detail how the treats were made. Her words danced off her tongue and twirled around me, coming to life in my head. I pictured my mom in her kitchen, making these treats with her granddaughter. I saw my mom put an apron on my daughter and whisk around the granite to fetch ingredients.
Silence hung in the air and I realized my daughter had stopped talking. She too must have been in memoryland. I desired to know more, and reached into the depths. “Why now, Carah? Why are you sad now? Did something happen or trigger you be sad?” Her thoughts seemed to take her somewhere other than her room. She was silent for a while and her eyes blinked slowly. “I didn’t process it before. I just didn’t think about it, because I wanted to help you. But now I am thinking about it. I am thinking about all the things we did and all the things she is going to miss.” Tears flooded her face and sobs echoed in the room.
He words hung in the air and I thought about my Elijah playing in the State game and how she missed it. I thought about Noah overcoming his dyslexia and how she would be so proud of him. I thought about Aurora, my new niece and how she was not there for her birth. My sister posted on Facebook that she missed mom. I knew she needed her to be there and do the things she always did for her kids when they have a new grandbaby for her. I thought about my brother’s kids and how they will not get to experience the very things my daughter was crying about. This little girl was speaking in a way that was mature and methodical. Her heart had treasured specific things about her Nana and it was now bubbling over.
I prayed with her and hugged her goodnight. She couldn’t sleep and wanted to squish me. I capitalized on the time and made it “girl time.” We watched Enchanted and squished on the couch. She fell asleep on my legs and I carried her to bed. My breath was heavy and deep. Sighs weighed on my lips. My brain was tired, my heart aching. My body weary from sorrow and grief, I laid down on the soft mattress. I try to comprehend the way of my Lord. I try to learn how to live in this broken world. I do not know how to. I have no clue what to do, where to go or how to get there. I lay in my bed, my love besides me. I snuggle close to him and listen to him breath. I am thankful; thankful that he is breathing, thankful that he loves me and thankful we are still married.
I am learning how to be content, yet I want more. I want a full life with gray hair and grandkids. I want to see my kids live to be old and gray too. I want all of my kids and grandkids to be blessed. I want them to experience a life on this earth that is protected and blessed. I do not want them to have to fight the way we have fought. I do not want them to be tormented the way I am tormented. I do not want them to be afraid or worry or doubt. I hope that in the learning, I am changing the course of history in my family line. I hope that in the learning, my contentment spills over into my children and grandchildren. I hope that in the learning, I grow and the things that have cursed me, no longer have a hold on me or my family. I am learning to be content in the learning, content in the pain, content in the sorrow. I am learning to be content in the discomfort, content in the not knowing, content in the waiting. Yet, I am not fully content. I am learning to be thankful for my trials and tribulations, because I have seen the glory of God in my flesh. I have seen the blood of Jesus alive and real in my life, as healing overtakes me. I am thankful that my burden is becoming lighter and my yoke is becoming easier.
The little mounds of sticky mass melt into a blob of white. The spoon mixes the sticky mess into a mountain of what looks like snow. Little hands measure the crackling rice and it textures the white mass. Memories flood. New ones are made. The book my mom made for her grandchildren, before she died, lies open on the counter. One of the recipes she added in her book was for this treat. Carah reads the directions. Conversation steeps as we debate regular or mini M&M’s to add. Hands are slippery with butter to press the mixture into the dish. Webs of marshmallow string between hand and dish.
There on my kitchen counter sits a simple American treat. The simplicity frames our memory as it has become part of our family legacy. Lips no longer quiver with sorrow, but turn upward in sweet bliss that will satisfy both body and soul. We all enjoy the gooey bar in our hands as we sit around the fire. The grief is captured by the legacy my mom left, which will now become part of my family’s heritage.
Thankful for Rice Krispies, marshmallows and butter. Content in all I have and don’t have… Thankful this life is but a glimpse and we have eternity without the sorrow and pain and loss and fear…. Content as I bite into my gooey memory.
My daughter cried as I tucked her into bed this cold night. Her words were mumbled and quiet. I caught the tear in the light as it glistened and sparkled. I couldn’t help but see the beauty in her tears. My mind had not yet comprehended what the wet face reflected in her heart. She slowly said, “I am sorry, mama. I don’t want to make you upset.” I was bewildered at how my child’s tears could upset me. “What is it Pita? Why are you so sad?” Her words came out with a sigh of relief, as if she had just confessed some sin, “I miss Nana,” she said.
My mind lectured my soul for being too emotional to give her freedom to grieve. I knew she was holding it in. I knew the moment she held me hand and wiped my tears that she was going to be my caretaker through the process of losing my mom. I did not want her to be. I wanted her to grieve and cry with me, but her tender heart tended to my shattered heart. I felt, all too often, as a failure. A mother, who could not console her child, but had her child tend to her, was not a place I wanted to be. I have always been the nurturer, the caretaker, the protector and educator of my children, yet had not been able to do so in the last year. I asked her many times if she was sad about Nana, and she eloquently explained that it was not her time to be sad. She would dance for me and sing and be silly to try and make me smile. Perhaps the sadness I carried was too much for her to see. So my little Nita Pita did not grieve her Nana’s death.
“I miss making cookies with her and going fishing in her backyard. I miss making Rice Krispy Treats and gingerbread houses. I am going to miss her taking me somewhere special on my birthday.” Her words were thick and filled with conviction. She had memories of my mom that were beginning to come to the surface. “Can we make Rice Krispy treats tomorrow?” My hand touched her face and pushed the stray hair out of her face. “Yes, honey we can.” Her face lit up and she continued to describe in detail how the treats were made. Her words danced off her tongue and twirled around me, coming to life in my head. I pictured my mom in her kitchen, making these treats with her granddaughter. I saw my mom put an apron on my daughter and whisk around the granite to fetch ingredients.
Silence hung in the air and I realized my daughter had stopped talking. She too must have been in memoryland. I desired to know more, and reached into the depths. “Why now, Carah? Why are you sad now? Did something happen or trigger you be sad?” Her thoughts seemed to take her somewhere other than her room. She was silent for a while and her eyes blinked slowly. “I didn’t process it before. I just didn’t think about it, because I wanted to help you. But now I am thinking about it. I am thinking about all the things we did and all the things she is going to miss.” Tears flooded her face and sobs echoed in the room.
He words hung in the air and I thought about my Elijah playing in the State game and how she missed it. I thought about Noah overcoming his dyslexia and how she would be so proud of him. I thought about Aurora, my new niece and how she was not there for her birth. My sister posted on Facebook that she missed mom. I knew she needed her to be there and do the things she always did for her kids when they have a new grandbaby for her. I thought about my brother’s kids and how they will not get to experience the very things my daughter was crying about. This little girl was speaking in a way that was mature and methodical. Her heart had treasured specific things about her Nana and it was now bubbling over.
I prayed with her and hugged her goodnight. She couldn’t sleep and wanted to squish me. I capitalized on the time and made it “girl time.” We watched Enchanted and squished on the couch. She fell asleep on my legs and I carried her to bed. My breath was heavy and deep. Sighs weighed on my lips. My brain was tired, my heart aching. My body weary from sorrow and grief, I laid down on the soft mattress. I try to comprehend the way of my Lord. I try to learn how to live in this broken world. I do not know how to. I have no clue what to do, where to go or how to get there. I lay in my bed, my love besides me. I snuggle close to him and listen to him breath. I am thankful; thankful that he is breathing, thankful that he loves me and thankful we are still married.
I am learning how to be content, yet I want more. I want a full life with gray hair and grandkids. I want to see my kids live to be old and gray too. I want all of my kids and grandkids to be blessed. I want them to experience a life on this earth that is protected and blessed. I do not want them to have to fight the way we have fought. I do not want them to be tormented the way I am tormented. I do not want them to be afraid or worry or doubt. I hope that in the learning, I am changing the course of history in my family line. I hope that in the learning, my contentment spills over into my children and grandchildren. I hope that in the learning, I grow and the things that have cursed me, no longer have a hold on me or my family. I am learning to be content in the learning, content in the pain, content in the sorrow. I am learning to be content in the discomfort, content in the not knowing, content in the waiting. Yet, I am not fully content. I am learning to be thankful for my trials and tribulations, because I have seen the glory of God in my flesh. I have seen the blood of Jesus alive and real in my life, as healing overtakes me. I am thankful that my burden is becoming lighter and my yoke is becoming easier.
There on my kitchen counter sits a simple American treat. The simplicity frames our memory as it has become part of our family legacy. Lips no longer quiver with sorrow, but turn upward in sweet bliss that will satisfy both body and soul. We all enjoy the gooey bar in our hands as we sit around the fire. The grief is captured by the legacy my mom left, which will now become part of my family’s heritage.
Thankful for Rice Krispies, marshmallows and butter. Content in all I have and don’t have… Thankful this life is but a glimpse and we have eternity without the sorrow and pain and loss and fear…. Content as I bite into my gooey memory.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Christmas ponderings
The sky was full of sun on Christmas in Portland, Oregon. I woke up to the smells of coffee and sweets in the kitchen. My kids were all around the tree, waiting for grandma and grandpa to come. Auntie Sara was pattering in the kitchen and the dog, Leo was sitting patiently for present time.
My sister, Cari, woke up in the birthing center on Christmas. My new niece was born just 2 days before. My nieces Trinity and Kiara, and my nephew Skyler were home with dad, anticipating the arrival of mom. My brother-in-law made waffles and readied his kids to pick up mommy on Christmas morning. My sister brought life to my world, when death was all around. Her eyes were so full of hope when she had baby Aurora, which it spilled over into me. My little sister is my best friend, and I love her intensely.
Somewhere else in the States, my step dad was doing Christmas. Not sure where or with who. He told me that he would not be alone on Christmas, but did not tell me who he would be with or where he would be. I am assuming he spent it in Gilroy with his children and my half brother, Micah. Micah, the youngest of our blended family is torn between two families, his dad’s children and his mom’s. We were raised with Micah, but there is a definite distance between us of years, experience, belief and perception. I love him with a deep love that cannot be given or shown, as he and I are not close.
In Texas my brother, Eric, went into work. His wife and children were to spend Christmas without him. I am not sure what they did or how they compensated for daddy working. I have never met my niece or nephew and do not really know my sister-in-law. My brothers got married and had kids in the hardest time of our lives, and have not had the ability to go to Texas to see them. I see pictures and read posts on Facebook about their lives. I wish I were closer to my brother. He is just three years younger than I, but was only married 5 years ago. Most of his twenties were spent in school and the military, while I was raising 3 kids and learning how to be a mom. I love him dearly and hold him close to my heart.
My biological father has not spoken to me in almost 5 years. He has this notion that I did some harm to my brother, so he tells my aunts, and that I need to apologize to him. I am not sure why I should apologize to him for harming my brother, but my brother and I are building a relationship as married adults, who love each other and each other’s families. The last time I spoke to him was at the opening of my restaurant, when I, for the first time, told him he needed to take responsibility for the mistakes he made as a father and stop putting them on me. He told me to f**k off and walked out of the front door. I have not seen him or talked to him since. Not even when my mother died, the mother of his children was he able to humble himself and call his daughters to give us condolences. I am not sure what he does for Christmas. He has my brother and his kids to spend Christmas with, he has his step daughter that he adores to spend Christmas with, but 7 of his 9 grandchildren he does not even speak to. Christmas is my dad’s favorite time of year. Like my mom, it was the season that made them into saints, full of love and joy, they both meticulously crafted Christmas into a memory that would turn into a legacy for their children to carry on. I love my dad, and can’t understand why he does not love me in return. I cannot comprehend a man who cannot get past his issues to have a relationship with his grandchildren. It is if I lost my dad 5 years ago.
My mom is resting this Christmas. She was not making dozens and dozens of cookies for all the events she has and attends. She was not wrapping gifts or setting up her collection of nativity scenes. She was not getting her feelings hurt that her kids were all spread out and not at her house on Christmas. She was hurt that no one in her extended family invited her for Christmas at their house. She was not torn about going to her step children’s house, when her own children were not invited there. She was just resting this Christmas. Her worn body no longer had to carry the burden of guilt or shame or hurt or pain. She is resting with the One who is celebrated Christmas day. I love her and miss her.
I sat in the yellow chair at my sister-in-law’s house, this Christmas, pondering these things in my heart. I wonder how it has come to this; this place in my life where we are just floating, with no direction and no plan; trusting that somehow God is going to get us through this. I look around at my kids as they sit around the tree, oblivious of the struggles we face. Unaware of the depression their dad wakes up to every morning he does not have a job. Unaware of the battle I face every night I go to bed, unaware of the fact that we have only $9 in our unemployment account. They sit, patiently waiting for the shower of blessings that is about to cover them. I am blessed to be around family, who, have loved us through this. I am thankful that for Christmas, my mother-in-law gave us money for gas, so that we could be with them and my sister’s family.
There is an abundance of gifts under the tree. They spill out to the left and right of the tree with a circus of colors and sparkle that captures the eye. I made all of our gifts this year. I made things out of stuff we had around the house. Blocks of wood, old frames I painted, food I made, or recycled clothes made into something else. The abundance causes my husband to feel inadequate and overwhelmed. On Christmas Eve, when we watched my sister’s kids, at their house, we yelled and screamed at each other about that very thing. He spattered out how much he hates what Christmas has become and hates that he can’t buy gifts and hates that he is a 40 year old man, who has to depend on the charity of others. I yelled at him and told him that he is checking out and not engaging. I told him that it is not about him, that it is about our kids. He yelled back and told me that he is trying his best. He told me that he was suicidal and wanted to just be done with life, and now, at least he is just depressed. He kept saying, “I am trying my best. I am not even saying anything. I have not said one time this year how much I hate Christmas.” We stood in the kitchen of my sister’s house and he got teary eyed and said, “I am hurt by what was said about me by your family. I have forgiven them, but I know they think I am a lazy and worthless.” I stood quietly in the kitchen, with nothing else to say. I did not know my husband was in that state. He keeps it pretty well hidden from me, to ensure a level of stability in our home. My kids were unaware of our conversation that night. They have no indication of the level of intensity that goes on between Bill and me, in our attempt to hold our family together.
So Christmas morning, I sat in the yellow chair, processing the last year. We went from being homeless, to moving into a beautiful home just before Christmas last year. We spent Christmas alone for the first time in our lives, last year, and were blessed abundantly. My mom fought cancer; my sister got pregnant; my husband applied for lots of jobs and tried starting another business; my son went to public school and played on a winning football team; my middle son played football, coached by his dad; my daughter started to play soccer and I experienced some of the deepest healing of my life. My mom passed away, my sister gave birth to a beautiful healthy baby, my son went to a state championship game, Noah is finally learning in a way that benefits dyslexia, Carah finally has some friends that she loves and Bill and I are still married, after all the crazy we have been through.
We made it to today, Christmas. We made it! Paper started flying around the room, and I came back to the now of Christmas morning. My kids were excited about the gifts they had received and the thoughtfulness of people’s intent of how they gave. I began to open the gifts I had received and was delighted at the things that were now mine. I watched intently, as my family began to open their gifts, hoping they would like the things I made. They all seemed pleased and thankful for the time I spent making these treasures. We still had to go to my sister house and open gifts with them.
When we got to my sister’s house, a new baby sat on her lap. I felt overwhelmed at the responsibly of giving her the legacy of our mom. My sister opened the gift I had made for baby Aurora. It was a quilt. My mom always made baby quilts for each of her new grandbabies, but this baby would not receive that gift. I wanted to be sure that she experienced the same legacy that our other children had received. I was not as pretty or intricate as my mom’s quilts, but it was my best. My sister smiled at me and said she loved it. Then the other gifts were opened. My sister gave me my candlesticks, as she does every year; since she found out a tradition my dad started was not followed through on. She opened the frame I made for her with a pressed flower from my mom’s funeral and a page from the book of Proverbs, my mom’s favorite book in the Bible. The kids all opened their gifts with delight. Skyler and Trinity made their cousins a gift and Carah used her own money to buy them gifts. It was a sweet time of legacy and remembering. The kids went upstairs to play with their new things and Cari and I sat and talked. Our brother, Micah had sent an ornament for each of us, that was inscribed, “In Our Hearts Forever, Chris Schulte “Nana”, November 16th, 1952-September 11, 2011.” It was the last gift we opened, and it was the perfect way to remember her. She gave us all the legacy of Christmas trees and ornaments and cookies and family on Christmas. So when we hang the ornament on our tree, she will always be there, celebrating the legacy she gave us.
Merry Christmas
My sister, Cari, woke up in the birthing center on Christmas. My new niece was born just 2 days before. My nieces Trinity and Kiara, and my nephew Skyler were home with dad, anticipating the arrival of mom. My brother-in-law made waffles and readied his kids to pick up mommy on Christmas morning. My sister brought life to my world, when death was all around. Her eyes were so full of hope when she had baby Aurora, which it spilled over into me. My little sister is my best friend, and I love her intensely.
Somewhere else in the States, my step dad was doing Christmas. Not sure where or with who. He told me that he would not be alone on Christmas, but did not tell me who he would be with or where he would be. I am assuming he spent it in Gilroy with his children and my half brother, Micah. Micah, the youngest of our blended family is torn between two families, his dad’s children and his mom’s. We were raised with Micah, but there is a definite distance between us of years, experience, belief and perception. I love him with a deep love that cannot be given or shown, as he and I are not close.
In Texas my brother, Eric, went into work. His wife and children were to spend Christmas without him. I am not sure what they did or how they compensated for daddy working. I have never met my niece or nephew and do not really know my sister-in-law. My brothers got married and had kids in the hardest time of our lives, and have not had the ability to go to Texas to see them. I see pictures and read posts on Facebook about their lives. I wish I were closer to my brother. He is just three years younger than I, but was only married 5 years ago. Most of his twenties were spent in school and the military, while I was raising 3 kids and learning how to be a mom. I love him dearly and hold him close to my heart.
My biological father has not spoken to me in almost 5 years. He has this notion that I did some harm to my brother, so he tells my aunts, and that I need to apologize to him. I am not sure why I should apologize to him for harming my brother, but my brother and I are building a relationship as married adults, who love each other and each other’s families. The last time I spoke to him was at the opening of my restaurant, when I, for the first time, told him he needed to take responsibility for the mistakes he made as a father and stop putting them on me. He told me to f**k off and walked out of the front door. I have not seen him or talked to him since. Not even when my mother died, the mother of his children was he able to humble himself and call his daughters to give us condolences. I am not sure what he does for Christmas. He has my brother and his kids to spend Christmas with, he has his step daughter that he adores to spend Christmas with, but 7 of his 9 grandchildren he does not even speak to. Christmas is my dad’s favorite time of year. Like my mom, it was the season that made them into saints, full of love and joy, they both meticulously crafted Christmas into a memory that would turn into a legacy for their children to carry on. I love my dad, and can’t understand why he does not love me in return. I cannot comprehend a man who cannot get past his issues to have a relationship with his grandchildren. It is if I lost my dad 5 years ago.
My mom is resting this Christmas. She was not making dozens and dozens of cookies for all the events she has and attends. She was not wrapping gifts or setting up her collection of nativity scenes. She was not getting her feelings hurt that her kids were all spread out and not at her house on Christmas. She was hurt that no one in her extended family invited her for Christmas at their house. She was not torn about going to her step children’s house, when her own children were not invited there. She was just resting this Christmas. Her worn body no longer had to carry the burden of guilt or shame or hurt or pain. She is resting with the One who is celebrated Christmas day. I love her and miss her.
I sat in the yellow chair at my sister-in-law’s house, this Christmas, pondering these things in my heart. I wonder how it has come to this; this place in my life where we are just floating, with no direction and no plan; trusting that somehow God is going to get us through this. I look around at my kids as they sit around the tree, oblivious of the struggles we face. Unaware of the depression their dad wakes up to every morning he does not have a job. Unaware of the battle I face every night I go to bed, unaware of the fact that we have only $9 in our unemployment account. They sit, patiently waiting for the shower of blessings that is about to cover them. I am blessed to be around family, who, have loved us through this. I am thankful that for Christmas, my mother-in-law gave us money for gas, so that we could be with them and my sister’s family.
There is an abundance of gifts under the tree. They spill out to the left and right of the tree with a circus of colors and sparkle that captures the eye. I made all of our gifts this year. I made things out of stuff we had around the house. Blocks of wood, old frames I painted, food I made, or recycled clothes made into something else. The abundance causes my husband to feel inadequate and overwhelmed. On Christmas Eve, when we watched my sister’s kids, at their house, we yelled and screamed at each other about that very thing. He spattered out how much he hates what Christmas has become and hates that he can’t buy gifts and hates that he is a 40 year old man, who has to depend on the charity of others. I yelled at him and told him that he is checking out and not engaging. I told him that it is not about him, that it is about our kids. He yelled back and told me that he is trying his best. He told me that he was suicidal and wanted to just be done with life, and now, at least he is just depressed. He kept saying, “I am trying my best. I am not even saying anything. I have not said one time this year how much I hate Christmas.” We stood in the kitchen of my sister’s house and he got teary eyed and said, “I am hurt by what was said about me by your family. I have forgiven them, but I know they think I am a lazy and worthless.” I stood quietly in the kitchen, with nothing else to say. I did not know my husband was in that state. He keeps it pretty well hidden from me, to ensure a level of stability in our home. My kids were unaware of our conversation that night. They have no indication of the level of intensity that goes on between Bill and me, in our attempt to hold our family together.
So Christmas morning, I sat in the yellow chair, processing the last year. We went from being homeless, to moving into a beautiful home just before Christmas last year. We spent Christmas alone for the first time in our lives, last year, and were blessed abundantly. My mom fought cancer; my sister got pregnant; my husband applied for lots of jobs and tried starting another business; my son went to public school and played on a winning football team; my middle son played football, coached by his dad; my daughter started to play soccer and I experienced some of the deepest healing of my life. My mom passed away, my sister gave birth to a beautiful healthy baby, my son went to a state championship game, Noah is finally learning in a way that benefits dyslexia, Carah finally has some friends that she loves and Bill and I are still married, after all the crazy we have been through.
We made it to today, Christmas. We made it! Paper started flying around the room, and I came back to the now of Christmas morning. My kids were excited about the gifts they had received and the thoughtfulness of people’s intent of how they gave. I began to open the gifts I had received and was delighted at the things that were now mine. I watched intently, as my family began to open their gifts, hoping they would like the things I made. They all seemed pleased and thankful for the time I spent making these treasures. We still had to go to my sister house and open gifts with them.
When we got to my sister’s house, a new baby sat on her lap. I felt overwhelmed at the responsibly of giving her the legacy of our mom. My sister opened the gift I had made for baby Aurora. It was a quilt. My mom always made baby quilts for each of her new grandbabies, but this baby would not receive that gift. I wanted to be sure that she experienced the same legacy that our other children had received. I was not as pretty or intricate as my mom’s quilts, but it was my best. My sister smiled at me and said she loved it. Then the other gifts were opened. My sister gave me my candlesticks, as she does every year; since she found out a tradition my dad started was not followed through on. She opened the frame I made for her with a pressed flower from my mom’s funeral and a page from the book of Proverbs, my mom’s favorite book in the Bible. The kids all opened their gifts with delight. Skyler and Trinity made their cousins a gift and Carah used her own money to buy them gifts. It was a sweet time of legacy and remembering. The kids went upstairs to play with their new things and Cari and I sat and talked. Our brother, Micah had sent an ornament for each of us, that was inscribed, “In Our Hearts Forever, Chris Schulte “Nana”, November 16th, 1952-September 11, 2011.” It was the last gift we opened, and it was the perfect way to remember her. She gave us all the legacy of Christmas trees and ornaments and cookies and family on Christmas. So when we hang the ornament on our tree, she will always be there, celebrating the legacy she gave us.
Merry Christmas
Monday, November 28, 2011
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……
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……
Saturday, November 26, 2011
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
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
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Happy Birthday Mom
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.
 |
| 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.”
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| Mom in Yosemite during the fall. Probably one of our Thanksgiving trips. |
Sunday, November 13, 2011
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.
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.
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