Through Hurt

Through this journey of you and I hurting each other (if I may borrow your words), I have learned that my sins are much greater than I ever knew or imagined.  I have learned that I am far more hurtful than I would like to believe.  I have learned that my brokenness is even uglier than I pictured.  I have learned that even my strengths are oh-so-weak.  I have also learned that God's grace is boundless, His love is limitless, and my need for that grace and love places me right at the centre of it over and over again.  I have learned about forgiveness and the complexity of relationships.  I am learning to shift my focus and lift my eyes above me and above you.

I pray that we will both find the source of our worth in the One who made us and not in anyone else - be it for good or for bad.  

There is the rowdy chaos of nine little boys as a backdrop to every bite and conversation.  This doesn't help my ability to slow my heart rate and be joyful.  But even still, in my heart of hearts, I know it is not as superficial as that.

I am sad that things have changed in so many directions and I find myself not fitting in.  An invisible stranger in my own family.  The couch feels like it is swallowing me as the conversation pushes me down farther and farther.

On one side there is she whom I cannot talk to because the pain and risk of pain is too great.  On another there is she whom I love but desperately don't want to put more in the middle than she already is.  Across the room there is another, who I really hardly know and when I want to start a conversation I am always talked over.  And there is one more, who sometimes seems to be everywhere, and I just can't be quite selfless enough to be interested in the advance of car technology and the population of Mars.

And there I am.  Alone and silent.  A far cry from what it used to be.  Have I changed or have they?  How do I not fit in to this family that shares my blood, my sense of humour,  and my memories?

Sinister

Papa,
My times of refreshing come from Your presence and I can smell the fragrance of Your goodness this morning.  It rustles through the branches that frame the sky outside my window.  It echoes into the depths where my selfishness tries to subtly drown it out.  This crack, Lord, sheds some light on what is down below the surface.  Because it is much easier to keep the surface neat and clean, prim and proper, than it is to keep the cavernous depths free of cobwebs and nasty growths.  Too often and too easily I happily forget that.  I am not what I want to be.  Please forgive me.  What is revealed today is more sinister than I would care to admit.  Yet I don't want to cover it back up.  Grow Your grace in me, in those deeply ugly places.

Would you Wish Away Autism?

I have a friend with severe autism. We've been friends for 14 years (she is now 23). I have learned so much from Lindsay. She has opened my eyes to truths I would never otherwise have seen, broadened my understanding of the world around me, challenged my perceptions, exposed my assumptions, and deepened my capacity for love and friendship. The reflection and changes Lindsay has inspired in my heart manifested themselves in many ways, one of which has been a passion for working with people who have autism. Many of these other people have also influenced my understanding of autism, but none as profoundly as Lindsay.

Lindsay's cognitive skills compare to a neurotypical 5-year-old and her verbal skills compare to a neurotypical 3-year-old.  One of her perseverations is a fixation on Barney (the purple dinosaur). I recall an episode that included a young girl with a disability - I think she may have been hearing impaired. The storyline centered on this girl's struggle to fit in with the rest of the kids. Lindsay's reaction was shocking and saddening as she covered herself up with a blanket and just listened to the dialogue and cried and cried. She rewound and replayed sections over and over as she rocked beneath the blanket sobbing. She wouldn't talk to me or allow me to comfort her.

Lindsay does not have the emotional, cognitive, or verbal skills to talk about that experience, but it seemed very obvious to me that she resonated with that feeling of not fitting in, of not being like everybody else. Whether that means she has tried to wish her autism away or would try if she understood enough to try, I don't know. But there have certainly been times when autism caused her great great sorrow.

As someone who does not have autism, I know what it is like to be neurotypical and I can see what struggles someone who is not neurotypical has that I do not have. As someone who does not have autism, I do not know what that is like or whether you might look at my life and be saddened at the struggles I have that you do not. The idealist in me would like to say that the joys and struggles of each of our lives balance each other out. And I have seen plenty of joy in the lives of those with autism around me. But the moments I have seen kids with severe autism (especially those who are nonverbal) look trapped behind their own eyes against their will? Those moments make me wonder.

Have I and many others benefitted in our worldview, experience, and life because Lindsay has autism? Heck yes, we have. Would I wish autism away or cure it? When I see Lindsay sobbing alone under the blanket, heck yes, I would.

Boldly (John 7:26)

I knock on her door with my elbow as my hands are full of baby paraphernalia.  Her grandson is coming to visit for a few days and she is so excited.  But as she gets off the couch to help me bring in the toys to borrow, I see her posture and with only a fraction of a second of hesitation she is crying in my arms.  Tears uncontrollable, words unintelligible, pain undeniable, questions unanswerable, decisions unavoidable, life unbearable.

And Your incongruent truth marches into my line of vision as my eyes take in Your word.  He speaks boldly it says, claiming what I cannot see.  On my front steps, the flow of tears more like a trickle now, the story comes out in fragments overlapping.  She cries out in desperation, and I can't help but wonder along with her, why don't You answer?  Why don't You show her the way?  Why don't You heal or solve problems or give solutions?

He speaks boldly, it says in the left-hand column and I underline the words in orange.

She wants so badly for You to speak audibly.  To speak knowingly and helpfully to their needs.  To speak comfortingly and personally to her crushed spirit.

I want it too.

But You speak boldly.  You speak truths that don't look true from here.  That don't feel true right now.  And my first instinct is to doubt, or make excuses, or pray caveats to let You off the hook.

But You speak boldly and eliminate the option of playing it safe.  So the risk is high, yet all of my soul wants to try.

You speak boldly and I will choose to believe You are who You say You are, even in circumstances that beg to differ.  You speak boldly and I will praise You for who You say You are, trusting that one day here or There.

You speak boldly.  May my words reflect that.

Sweet Words (Psalm 119:103)

Had the ringing phone made my heart beat faster in anger or had looking at the caller ID made my mood plummet, I might have been ready for what was coming.  But it didn't and I wasn't.  Her words were accusatory and cutting.  Their affect entirely out of place and out of the blue.  My guard went up as quickly as my self-confidence went down.  The giver of deflating words left a wake of simmering anger, discarded hope, and stolen assurance.

But how sweet are Your words.  How gentle and tender and loving and pure and sweet.  Your words speak life to my soul and joy to my heart.  Revive me again.  Bring me up again from the place the world has carelessly tossed me.  Fill my mind with the songs of rejoicing You sing over me.  That I may delight in You, remain in You, behold You, know You, adore You.  And find me in You, Giver of Sweet Words.

Low (Psalm 116:6)

To Him who Saves me when I am Low,
I need You, oh I need You.  So many times I put on my blinders and put up my guard.  Within these walls I determine moods and spirits.  So many times I create good out of mediocre.  Silly out of frustrating.  Even growth out of difficulty.  But when the walls don't hold.  When the problems of those more stubborn, more lost, more entrenched seep in.  When the tumultuous relationships with those less joyful, less malleable, less likeable saturate my soul.  In those whens, my shoulders drop and my heart sags lows beneath the weight.  Anger and frustration shoot up like weeds in the fertile soil of gossip and self-righteousness.  I am burdened and I am low.
I need You, oh I need You.  God who saves me when I am low.  God who lifts me up.  God who has upheld me from birth.
Here I am, claiming Your praise from down low.

Not Quite Wanted

They like me, right?  I think they do.  No, they DO.  I know they do.  And yet...  And yet I can't quite shake the feeling of not quite being wanted.  Like it doesn't really matter if I can come or not.  Like they are being nice for remembering to invite the married mother-of-three in the first place.  I know they cannot mean it like that.  I know they cannot understand or be expected to understand the desire to spend time with my family, the difficulty of a spontaneous weekend away, the financial strain of 5 people living on one salary, the pressure of making sure my kids don't mess with their fun, the guilt of leaving them with my husband too long or too often.  And I don't know that I really want to be included and invited to everything so that I just end up having to say no and end up feeling guilty and disappointed.  I don't even know what I want - except to not feel like an afterthought.  I want to feel wanted.

Quicksand

I'm just sad that you're hurting.  I'm sad that you're sinking and tired and can't envision trying to slog your way out of the quicksand.  I'm offering you my hand over and over and all you do is lift yours to wave.  I used to think of you and smile, but now your name makes my heart feel so burdened.  I love you and I want so much more for you than this.  I'm just so sad that you are hurting.  In my dreams I am the quicksand-gobbling monster that takes all this away.  But in my prayers I am on my knees begging God to show Himself to you and to let this be the thing that cracks you open wider for Him.

For All (Luke 2:10)

For the hurtful one who deserted me, letting our friendship slide like it didn't mean to him what it did to me.
For the draining one who is needy and self-centered and takes so much more than he gives.
For the uncomfortable one who is socially awkward and unaware and leaves me shaking my head.
For the defensive one is over-sensitive and difficult to talk to and makes me wonder where I went wrong.

For the unattainable one whose house is spotless and seasonly decorated and magazine-perfect.
For the intimidating one whose children are well-dressed and well-behaved and well-rounded.
For the gifted one who succeeds at whatever he does and excels wherever he tries.
For the gentle one who can navigate conversations and relationships with ease and grace.
For the self-controlled one who doesn't yell or lose her temper and whose demeanor exudes patience.

For all the people that raise my blood pressure and lower my hopes for mankind.  For all the people who inspire and intimidate me with their got-it-together-ness.  The good news that is cause for great joy is for all the people.  The saving grace of Jesus is for all people.  The intimacy I crave and enjoy with God is for all the people.  The love, joy, peace, strength, and wisdom I rely on daily is for all the people.

None of us is more worthy than the others.  None of us is less worthy than the others.

Not Doing Anything

I know you said you're 'not doing anything', but when I look at you that is not what I see.  Maybe you didn't imagine yourself here, but I see you stepping up to the challenge.  Maybe days feel repetitive and boring, but I see you choosing to smile and engage with your son.  Maybe you feel impatient, but I see you gently redirecting his energy.  Maybe you feel lonely, but I see you taking courageous steps to connect.  Maybe you are scared, but I see your overflowing gratitude that he is healthy.  Maybe you cry at times, but I hear the joy in your voice as you describe his accomplishments.  Maybe you are uncertain of the future, but I see that you are sure of your love for him.

Your son is blessed to have a mama who is deliberately growing as she raises him.  You may not feel like you are doing anything, but you are being his everything and that is exactly what he needs.

Disillusioned

My favourite thing about you has always been your genuine interest in other people and ability to be enthusiastic in sharing their joys.  As a kid, I loved seeing you spend hours crocheting three baby blankets for each of your nieces' babies.  When I was a teenager, I realized that the way you could rejoice when someone shared their good news with you on the phone, was not a universal personality trait.  When we were finally able to tell you that we were going to have our first baby, I am sure you were every bit as thrilled as I was.

I longed to have that ability too - to be selflessly and authentically supportive of someone else's joys and triumphs.  I have always tried to see the many ways that I am like you, searching for that gift in myself.

A few years later, my observations seem to be shedding such a different light.  I see cynicism and skepticism and my childhood image of you darkens around the edges.  I see relationship rifts and a strip of perfection is peeled off of the ideal version of you I have known.  I see self-righteousness and believing the worst of others.  As my tears fall, I reach for one of those baby blankets, finger the crocheted edges and dream of the time when what I used to know of you was all I knew of you.

You are still who I once knew, but you are also more.  And I am learning to love the you I know now.

Why Do Church?

Maybe it's because it's so long and so tiring.  Three hours is a long time to keep the kids walking not running, in sight, safe, occupied, focussed, decently behaved, fed, bathroomed, and generally pleasant in a public setting.  Also, it's a long time to be close to a bunch of people I like and would enjoy talking to, but always feel multi-distracted.

Maybe it's because the exhaustion and multi-tasking has been going on for so long.  I feel like I remember when it was enjoyable, relaxing, and energizing.  It was both socially and spiritually satisfying.  But that was a very long five years ago.  And the end of this stage doesn't seem to be in sight.

Maybe it's because I'm not involved enough to see the good stuff that is happening.  I remember when I used to know more of what was going on and why it was going on.  But it just isn't practical to do more in this season.

Maybe it's because it feels bigger.  It's grown and I don't know the people or the programs or the leadership.  I don't know what decisions are being made or why they need to be made in the first place.

Maybe I've been there too long.  Thirty-one years is a long time in the same place.  At some point does it stop being faithfulness and start being laziness?

I don't actually know what it is, exactly, but I'm starting to wonder if I belong at our church.  It scares me a bit to even think those words, because it has been so long and it is all I know and I do so love the community I have there.

But even on the good days, when the kids are contained and happy, when I get to chat with someone, and when I hear the majority of a sermon, I'm still not fully convinced.

And there is the conundrum that if I shy away from involvement I feel like the whole church experience does not have a lot of value.  Yet if I get involved, I so often feel disheartened.  Years of being turned down for music ideas.  Processes that move so slowly.  Repetition and predicability and so little vision or passion or excitement or change.  My spontaneity and my personality don't fit in.  Maybe I just wasn't made for church.  I don't want to bail, but I need to be reminded of why I am doing this.  Instead it just feels like another disappointment is on the horizon.

Give me grace, Lord Jesus, for my brothers and sisters.

Room for Baggage

You can't talk to him that way!  It's just not fair.  Not from your spot on the corner of the couch.  Not half-reclined with your arm across your chest.  Yes, he is emotional and full of outbursts.  Many of them are uncalled for and most are unnecessary.  Yes, he is rowdy and full of energy.  Much of it is explosive and all of it is exhausting.  Yes, his arms flail and his legs kick and his voice booms out of control.  Some if it is age and stage.  Some of it is personality.  Some of it is circumstances.  Some of it is choice.  Some of it baffles him as much as it does us.

But it doesn't even matter why he does it, what's going on inside, whether there was a legitimate trigger, or how you are feeling at that particular moment.  If you snap at him, your reaction is the same as his: you aren't controlling your emotions or acting in a polite and acceptable way either.  Sure, yours is less disruptive, less prolonged, less of a full-body experience.  But it's just an adult version of the same thing: uncontrolled and improperly expressed emotions.

And you know what else?  If you're not down there on the floor interacting, you don't have the right to react.  You can get annoyed and it can tick you off that it's noisy, rude, or otherwise unacceptable behaviour.  Totally.  It irritates me too.  But you're not giving him an idea of what to pretend.  You're not inviting him to join you in an activity.  You're not racing cars or constructing towers or setting up farms or playing super heros.  Unless you are right there with him, engaged and redirecting as you go, you don't have the right to bark at him.

Please stop.  Please show him the love you say you have for him.  It won't be too much longer before he feels the disconnect that I see.

Project E

You are not as gruff as you seem.  Your tough and apathetic exterior is a facade.  But I can see how that is easier to show the world than exposing them to your life of single-handedly supporting a family of five on a marginal salary.  Your burden of being the spiritual head of the household.  Your baggage of the mental illness that plagues your home.  Your heart heavy with loneliness as the husband who was supposed to be your partner in all things feels like he is another one you have to care for.

I am glad that you found our group.  I have been bitter before, at how your poison of negativity can drag us down.  But this time I will love you for you, challenge you carefully, and see if we can't both grow a little.  

The Weight of Knowing

The weight of knowing is heavy on me right now.  

I have been asking, prodding, worrying, wondering, praying, pondering, pushing, speculating, and crossing off my mental list all the things that aren't wrong.  So I am very glad that she told me some of what is going on.  It feels like I can stop running on the same hamster-wheel in my mind.  I finally have some answers and a picture of what/why/how this is a difficult time for her.  

So now I start running the hamster-wheel in the other direction and realize that I have just replaced one endless cycle with another.  I know, but there is nothing I can do.  And hence I can just continue to worry for other reasons.  How will she deal with that issue?  What can she possibly do about this other one?  Who can she go to?  Is there anyone that can help?  What does she need?  How can she figure out what she needs?  What can I do to show her that I care?  

This loop feels as hopeless as the last.  

But I am thankful that she ended my last one.  Thankful that she was willing to talk.  I know it's hard.  And now I know why.  

You can trust me with that information.  You can trust that I will treat it gently, with the respect and tender compassion it deserves.  It will find a home somewhere in my heart and God will water it and maybe one day I will see what ideas grow.  Maybe one of them can be an encouragement to you.

Love Hurts

I remember when loving you was the most natural part of my day.  Back when we carpooled everywhere, or house-sat together, or shared classes at university.  You were almost everywhere I went and it was so easy to get along.  I knew what you were up to and how you were doing.  Because it was natural.

Right now, loving you hurts so much.  I'm worried about you and I don't know what to do.  I'm frustrated and concerned and annoyed and I don't get it.  I just wish I knew what was wrong.  I just wish I knew how to help.

A Little Older

We're a little older now.  Perhaps a little wiser.

Getting-people-to-like-us, hiding-our-irregularities, and trying-to-fit-in are, while not entirely things of the past, lower on the priority list than they have been in the past.  My zit or my belly or my snort-laugh or my judgmental tendencies... well, they aren't my pride and joy or anything.  But I'm not so embarrassed if you know about them as I would have been 15 years ago.  Or even 5 years ago.

Not all of us are reaching this point at the same rate.  Some are still self-conscious about it all, are insecure, and are seeking validation left and right.

But some of us are okay with ourselves.  Or we're getting there.  We've seen the photos celebrating mom-bodies and have internalized some of that truth.  We've watched new ad campaigns and initiatives telling us that we are all beautiful, each and every one.  Some of it is sinking in.  We've seen our flaws and learned that they are kinda here to stay, so we give them a name, try to keep them in check, and address their roots instead of denying their existence.

When I meet another one of us, I smile and relax a little more.  It's refreshing isn't it?  You are you and you are okay with that.  I am me and I am okay with that.  And the conversation can breathe easy.  The air between us is light and refreshing.  Things are face value and we can truly appreciate each other.  Friendships are low maintenance, rifts easily mended.

Being real is so comfortable when you are comfortable with the real you.

Leviticus 19 inspired

At the crossroads of "do not bear a grudge" and "rebuke your neighbour frankly" and "do not hate" and "love your neighbour" there must be room for lovingly confronting someone who has wronged me in hopes of reconciliation and a better relationship moving forward.  

Right?

Take 1

Dear _____,

Damn it!!  Why don't you ever answer me?  Why don't you even try?  Do I have to do everything?  This sucks as bad as it did when you did it to me the first time.

Take 2

Dear _____,

Why don't you ever make any effort ?  I'm bending over backwards here to make sure you are not offended or upset or hurt or belittled.  Plus I'm proactively reaching out in multiple ways.  I want this relationship to work.  I'm initiating by phone, by invites, by offers, by cards, by gifts, by emails - anything so we have something to talk about.  But you never reciprocate.  And I don't even know you anymore, because you never try.  Do you even see what I'm doing?  Do you care?  It feels pretty shitty to be trying and be shut down.  Now I remember why I pulled away in the first place.  It hurts, this thing you're doing.  Or not doing.  It hurts and I'm angry that I let you keep doing it to me.

Take 3

Dear _____,

As I pray for you and work on my attitude, tone, and words when we are together, I am noticing that I am repeatedly coming up against a hurdle.  I know you mentioned in an email that you have assumed that I did not like you.  While that has not been the case, I realize that I began pulling back from you years ago and as I now work towards repairing our relationship, I am experiencing the same hurts that caused me to distance myself in the first place.  In order for us to move forward, I feel I would need to talk to you about this.  If that is something you are willing to do, maybe we could go for a walk one evening once the kids are in bed.  

The Valley

It isn't quite what I thought, this being-a-mother thing.  The early days of generous visitor after enthusiastic visitor did not foreshadow days of monotony and loneliness.  Idyllic childhood dreams of being a mommy didn't include this level of sacrifice and loss.

I love it, I do.  And I love them, the ones who have made me Mom.

I love them so much that while it makes me sad to be losing a friend, I watch her drift away and do nothing.  How can I explain it to her, when I don't understand it myself?  I feel selfish for clinging to my Time like a hoarder, but I don't know that I can let go.  And so I watch her across the valley called My Kids and know that shouting is in vain.  I holler anyway, even knowing it won't bring us any closer.  Perhaps, at least, we won't turn our backs if we are still shouting now and again.  Facing each other is better than the alternative.  How did we get here?

I am mourning what we had.  Even when we are together, I feel the valley.  Your life is so so different from mine.  What do I share?  What do I say, that doesn't draw attention to the fact that we don't have anything in common?

I don't know how to navigate the grief.  I don't know if I'm supposed to let you go and move on.  Or fight for us?  How much is fighting for us going to cost me?  Is it worth it?  Will it even work?

Remember me?  We used to blare our songs.  Have inside jokes.  Compare about travel adventures.  Trade books.  Watch movies.  Dream.  Look at photos.  Giggle.  Fill weekends.  Call.  Talk.

Do you remember?
Do you miss it too?