Belong

I've always wanted to feel that I belong. In my family, with my friends, in my church, in my job. But there has always been a distance that I didn't know how to overcome.

In the last 2 weeks I've lost 2 people who were, in truth, tangential to my life, but I found myself belonging as part of their legacies. I went to their respective visitations and funerals, and was embraced and accepted, even though I feared being ostracized. "You didn't really know him." "You haven't been around her in years." These were my fears. What I got instead was total acceptance and appreciation from the others struggling with their own loss. And I got the opportunity to allow myself to grieve in my own way for my losses.

A sense of belonging is essential for living. We are meant to live in community -- not in a vacuum. What that community looks like is different for everyone, but the one common denominator is other people. I can't be a community of one. By definition a community is a group. To be in community is to belong.

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Life and Death

Inhale.

Saturday my friend, Robyn, died. Monday was the visitation for her, and Tuesday was her funeral. 

Wednesday was a busy day, and then Alan's cousin, Clif, died of cancer that night. We knew it was only a matter of time, but still it came quicker than expected. And on Alan's brother's birthday. Two days before Independence Day. 

Clif's brother was supposed to spend the holiday with us, but of course he's in Tuscaloosa. He was there when his brother died, which is a good thing of course. 

Our plans for the 4th have changed completely. Instead of grilling hamburgers and hot dogs, and setting off fireworks with our nephews, we will be heading to Tuscaloosa for the Saturday visitation and funeral. Still spending time with family. Just not the way we'd have chosen.

So I'm doing a lot of conscious inhaling and exhaling. That 4x4 breathing technique has come in handy this week. Breathe in to the count of 4. Hold for a count of 4. Breathe out to the count of 4. Repeat as needed.

Exhale.


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Summer Discoveries

I've lost something this summer. Usually I bounce back from my late spring/early summer blues by this time. It's just not happening this year, and frankly it's beginning to worry me. 

I said something to my daughter about it yesterday, and she reminded me not to feel obligated to explain it. It is what it is. But I can't quite shake that old feeling that if I were a good Christian I wouldn't be feeling this way. 

And that's when I stopped and made a mental list --
:: summer is rife with bad memories for me
:: dh is in grad school and working full time leaving him precious little time for relaxing with me
:: I have 2 friends who are dying of cancer -- imminently 
:: my allergies/asthma are making it practically impossible to enjoy being outside, so no swimming so far this year
:: and not to over share, but I'm going through "the change"

So this morning I'm looking at that list and making a new list. A shorter to-do list that includes some fun stuff for me and a lot more kindness for feeling tired and overheated and a bit breathless this summer. 

Instead of viewing something as lost, I think I'll focus on discovering something new about summer and me.

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Epiphanies and Release

I wake up every morning and think about the day. What's on the calendar. What needs to get done. What I want to do with this day. 

I go to the kitchen and make tea. Feed dogs and sit down at my computer. I check emails, Facebook, and the stats for this blog. It's all part of my morning routine. 

This morning's prompt is "release". A million thoughts swirl through my mind, including the annoying theme from Frozen, "Let It Go". I hate that song, and am reminded once again of how happy I am to not have small children in the house clambering for the latest from Disney.

Somewhere in that rambling, internal dialogue I have an epiphany of sorts. This wasn't my usual routine just a few years ago. Back then it went more like this -- startle awake, frantically look around the bedroom, try to remember if anyone was angry with me, try to calm the rising panic, and then berate myself for "still" struggling with the effects of childhood sexual abuse.

The epiphany was the realization that I rarely wake up assuming I'm in trouble anymore. I wake up with a clear conscious most mornings. And on the days when I don't, I can get there relatively quickly. For years I've been working on letting it go. On releasing. 

It doesn't happen over night, this release. But it is happening. I open my hand and release another part of the pain.





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Nothing But the Whole Wide World

"God wants us busy, never giving up

He wants nothing but the whole wide world for us

Nothing but the whole wide world for us

Nothing, nothing

Well there's nothing but the whole wide world for us

Nothing, nothing

Well there's nothing but the whole wide, whole wide world for us"

I hear those words and I am reminded that no matter how hard my struggle seems, God is always there for me. He wants me to succeed according to His idea of success. 

So on the days when things are difficult -- the depression seizes me, when I'm tired and unfocused, when I feel completely worthless -- He wants nothing but the whole wide world for me. And it doesn't mean I have to go out and take it by storm. No, all He asks of me is that I receive what He offers.

It doesn't solve everything. It doesn't pull me out my pre-summer funk. But it does provide comfort and hope. Things can and will be better.

He wants me to have the world, as long as I recognize that He is the world.

listen here 

(lyrics from "Nothing But the Whole Wide World"/Ghost on the Canvas by Glen Campbell)

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Close

It's the close of the week. In my world anyway. Friday has always been the end of the week for me. Perhaps it was bred into me with all those years of schooling. Or maybe it was that Saturday always felt like a preparation day for Sunday, since I was the preacher's kid.

Whatever the reason, Friday signals the end of the week, and a time to contemplate successes and failures. Has it been "good" week or a "bad" week? Did I succeed at living my life the way I wanted or did I miss the mark more often than not?

If I go all the way back to last weekend (and that's a long time ago!), I know that Saturday and Sunday were good days. Time spent with my husband in Philadelphia just enjoying ourselves. Monday was good because I spent time with my bestie, and that is always a good thing. Tuesday was stressful, but ultimately good. And Wednesday and Thursday were long, but mostly good spending more time with the hubs by being his chauffeur to an out of town business meeting.

So I'm closing out this week with wins. Which is a nice way to close the books.

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Writer

 . . . one who writes. 

At what point is it fair to call myself a writer? I know people who write for a living. I've read and studied writers. I've even taught classes about works of literature. When do I shift from journaling and blogging to being a writer?

I started this blog nearly 5 years ago. I didn't have the faintest idea of what I was doing. I knew I wanted to write about the abuse I endured, but I was unclear on my motivation. I wanted to believe it was altruistic. Something to help other people, but really I was such a mess I didn't believe I had anything to share. I needed to share. I needed to get the words out and maybe hear back from somebody telling me I was okay.

I still don't have the faintest idea what I'm doing. My blog flows along with my mood, stress, and joy. I write about where I am on any given day. What I'm cooking or baking or making. I write about PTSD and the long lasting effects of child abuse. I write about my marriage -- it's ups and downs. I write (a little) about my kids and their journeys.

Maybe, just maybe being a writer is no different than being a person or a parent or a wife. Just doing those things -- breathing, birthing and raising, loving and working -- is what makes me those things.

So I write . . . because I am a writer.

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Mighty Mom to Save the Day

When I was a kid we watched "Mighty Mouse" on TV. I always loved the idea of this adorable, tiny creature with that high pitched voice suddenly breaking out into incredible feats of strength. Most of the time he was just this ordinary, kindhearted mouse, but when the need arose he became MIGHTY MOUSE.

I think that's what moms are. We go along all day doing our mom stuff. We wash clothes and buy groceries. We cook meals and wipe counters and snotty noses. We read books (over and over and over again), and sing endless rounds of "Baby Beluga" or whatever the current favorite is.

We are ordinary, kindhearted moms. Until. Until that need arises to become MIGHTY MOM. We race to the rescue. We save the day. We scoop up hurt kids, wiping away tears and blood and hurt. We do our best to save the day or at least the moment.

My kids are grown up now (well 23 and 20), and this is what I've learned. They will never stop needing MIGHTY MOM. The scrapes and hurts are different, but I'm always going to be there to do what I can to save the day or the moment. Because that's what mom's do.

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The Joy of the Lord

Joy -- the emotion evoked by well-being, success, or good fortune or by the prospect of possessing what one desires :  delight

I'm not feeling it this morning. I read that definition and I know that joy has been in short supply in our house of late. There are no great tragedies or difficulties going on in our lives. We are just short on joy lately. 

I wonder how to bring the joy back. I look at that definition and I see "the prospect of possessing what one desires" and I think that's part of the problem. Me wanting to have (hold, control) what I want. 

It's all about me. Things rarely turn out well if my focus is that me-centered. 

But if I turn it around and remember: the joy of the Lord is your strength (Neh. 8:10) -- suddenly it's not about me anymore.

It's what God desires that will bring me joy. But first I will have to listen.

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The Madding Crowd

I used to be afraid of crowds. I was so tiny (as a child) I couldn't see anything. I feared getting lost. As I got older I learned to navigate the crowds and relax my breathing.

When all the memories flooded my psyche, that old fear was resurrected. I panicked at the thought of being in a crowded place. So many people! I might be swallowed up by them -- or worse.

I still don't like crowds very much, but most of the time the panic doesn't escalate, and that old breathing technique works. I'm still short, so I've trained myself to make eye contact. Finding eyes to connect with helps me recognize that within this mass there are individuals. Some of those people, maybe most, are good, kind people with stories to tell. Individuals who need to be heard. They, too, are lost in the crowd.

The eyes are the windows to the soul they say. Even in a crowd of hurried people, eyes are the windows to the individual.

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Choose

Every morning I get to choose.

Is today going to be a positive experience or a negative one.

I can't control what will or won't happen. How other people will treat me or respond to me. I can't control the news or the weather or the sunrise or the sunset.

What I can do is choose how I react. I can choose to remember what blessings I have. I can choose to share what I have. I can choose to love others and myself. I can choose to focus on God and not my current worries or concerns.

I don't get it right ever day. At least part of most days, I don't choose well, but I keep coming back again and choosing all over.

Today I choose to see the positive: a good night's sleep -- tea and juice and biscuits for breakfast -- a good chat with my son -- mindfulness -- plans for the day that honor others and me.

I choose to be beautiful!

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Compassionate Witnesses

They are the people who listen and react with love. 

They are the ones who cry when I share pieces of my story.

They are the ones who bolster me up when I think I've hit bottom.

They are the ones who send unexpected notes and even gifts just to let me know they believe in my value as a person.

They are the ones who tell me over and over again I am worthy.

They are the ones who stay even once they know all the horror.

They are the ones who understand I didn't "let" the bad guys do it. That it isn't a reflection of my character that terrible things were done to me.

They are the ones who continue to listen and don't ask, "How long is this going to take?"

They are the ones God has put in my path to be His hands and feet and ears and eyes, and sometimes even His mouth, whispering words of love and encouragement to me.

They are my compassionate witnesses.

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Visit

I was supposed to have tea with a dear friend today. But she's had one form or another of crud at her house for a week or more now. She thought we were good to go, but this morning 2 more are sick in her household. 

Visiting can be difficult in these times.

We have access to instant communication no matter how far apart we are. But . . . it's not the same as sitting down with someone, face to face, and really sharing a visit.

We'll reschedule, and in the mean time keep up via texting and social media. Which is an excellent thing in my world -- the world where I could become a hermit. 

Still I look forward to sitting with her in the tea shop while the the Chinese lady shows me how to do tea ceremonies, and then sitting back and catching up over a little cup of perfectly made tea to visit with my friend.

(for Susan)


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Encouragement

I can't live without them -- words of encouragement.

I need them to keep plugging along. To keep believing. To stay the course.

And they come from such a variety of people.

The woman who took my order at Panera the other day. The lady in the hallway of the office building. My son. My husband. My daughter. My best friend's husband. The ladies in my Bible class.

And it makes me wonder. Do I offer words of encouragement to others? Often enough? Do I get out of my own head and see the need in others? I hope so. It's something I'm working on, because I'm not the only one who can't live without those words.

Those words that remind me of things I already know, but need to hear, because it's just different when someone else says it out loud. And they are a gift, those words. 

6 We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; 7 if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; 8 if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully.  -- Romans 12:6-8


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See

Grumpy people. Angry people. Judgmental people. Critical people.

Sometimes I feel I am surrounded by them. I try to fix the situation that is causing those feelings. I take on responsibility for everyone else. 

And then God steps in and reminds me

I've heard it all my life. Don't worry. Worry is a sin. I don't intend to sin. I don't intend to worry.

So I stop and I pray. I pray to see with God's eyes. I pray to give it all to Him. I pray to really trust in Him.

Scared people. Sad people. Insecure people. Worried people.

Now I see.

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Reflect

I've become lazy. Reflection is difficult. It's too easy to just write something to get it done. 

Reflection on life experience is painful. Soul searching. Archaeological. I haven't been willing to dig lately. Earlier this week I began to see the need for more reflection. 

I don't want to live a shallow life, but it's easy to fall into old habits. Taking the path of least resistance. The holidays remind of why I chose to leave that path. 

Once I wrote about it. Surface people. I don't want to dance round in a ring and suppose. I want to get to the middle and know.

So I keep reflecting -- on my history, on my path, on my dreams. And by doing that, I hope to reflect the love of God to others.

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Fly

I watch the boys on the swings in the park. They are swinging in tandem, hoping to lift the swing set from it's foundations. They are college boys/men, but they look like 5 year olds to me. They are at once thrilled and worried. It's so exciting -- flying through the air, masters of their ships. But, but. Something could go wrong. What is so exhilarating one minute might be disastrous in the next.

That's life, isn't it? It's wonderful and happy and exciting one moment, and the next might be a mass of tangled bodies and hearts.

Flying through the sky and through life without a care in the world, and yet knowing it could all end in a moment. 

I watch them fly through the air (with the greatest of ease . . .) and I marvel at their abandon. Their willingness to risk is exhilarating for me, because I want to fly as well.

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Tree

Recently my husband had to make a genogram for a class he's taking. It's a detailed description of family connections including medical history. Sort of a family tree on steroids. He asked his professor if he could include my genogram as well.

The whole time he was drawing and tagging it, I kept thinking, "I am fine with this", but if I focused on it too much or he asked me for additional information my head would begin to ache and spin a little. 

I've been through this once before. I saw a therapist once who was more interested in my story than in me as a person. I recognize the value in looking at family history and patterns to help me understand and heal now, but I am so much more than my story.

So this was the first "tree" that popped into my head this morning, but I'd rather remember the circle of trees that was my special retreat as a child, because I think that's where I met Jesus.

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Truth

The truth will set you free . . . but first it will piss you off. 

My therapist told me this years ago. He was trying to help me see the importance of knowing and admitting the truth of my history while warning me it wasn't going to be pleasant.

It was good preparation. I don't know that it's really made me angry (my current therapist is thrilled if I tell her I'm angry about anything!), but it's been a long, circuitous road, this healing path.

Truth is the answer to all of my struggles. Telling myself the truth, the real, honest, gut-wrenching truth, will always make my path clearer and straighter. But it is often an unpleasant truth. About myself, about others, about episodes from my past, and current relationships. 

Jesus is truth (John 14:6). And Jesus is setting me free.

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Grace

I heard a new definition of grace yesterday -- God's generosity. 

It brings grace down to a level I can begin to work with in my own life. I want to receive and extend grace, but it sounds like such a grandiose concept. 

But instead of grandiose, maybe it's simple. Basic. Be generous with what I have. Sure God has a lot more than I do, but that doesn't mean I can't follow His example, even if it's on a much smaller scale. 

I believe I'm a generous person. It's easy to share what I have with others, even the one's I sometimes feel don't deserve it. After all, I don't deserve God's generosity. 

The flip side of the definition is how much easier it is for me to accept God's generosity rather than his grace. It's all just semantics, but grace is one of the "Bible words" that seems so big and important. Generosity is all about hospitality and sharing what I have. 

And I can work with that.


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