Month: July 2016

Trying to Focus on God

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

New beginnings come after endings. I hear all the cliches like a drum beat, keeping time, running through my mind, fighting for space with the anger and shock. This too shall pass.  Be careful what you wish for. Last night the shock cushioned us from the worst of it, allowed us to take in the loss in bits, to wonder again and again if it were real. Today, the anger is winning out. Now I am filled with such deep rage, such horror at the injustice that my breath is ragged, my hands shake.

Timing. I try to focus on God amidst this latest onslaught, see that while trauma was coming, God readied our hearts to be back within the walls and arms of his people.  He nudged our feet to follow Him back in so that they were firmly planted within the faith.  The faith that all things will bring glory to Him.  We are where we will be surrounded, cocooned, protected. But how do we start our lives again? We just keep talking about the timing.

I keep hearing the verse “Be still and know that I am God.”   No rash decisions.  No sudden movements. The exhaustion is starting to take hold, day 2 and we are weary. We are now accepting all donations of prayer.  Prayer for strength , guidance, for healing from broken hearts.  We are asking for respect and privacy. We are asking for the angels to sing songs of hope. We are going to be still and listen.

Home with My Chef

On By LisaIn The ChefLeave a comment

My Chef goes back to work tomorrow, back to 12 hour days, to numbers, budgets, staff, to guests who are happy and those who aren’t. He will return with energy that will quickly be eaten, like the rolls fresh out of the oven no guest can refuse.  We get the left overs, packed up in the box with every intention of the next day’s enjoyment. Only our next day means he starts all over again. By the time he has a day off, exhaustion supersedes any projects planned. That time is needed to recharge for the upcoming days at work again.  This is the life of a restauranteur. This is the life of family of one.

I don’t begrudge the restaurant.  I used to see it as his mistress, taking him away from us, calls at all hours, never-ending needs. After 18 years, it is more of a family member, that parent with an inheritance who demands constant attention in exchange for payment for college, braces, a new car. Everything we have, we owe to this member of our family, every single thing. The balance of power is daunting. I don’t get to complain. Yet, after a week with my Chef home, all to myself, I so envy those with more normal schedules. What would it be like if he only worked 8 hours, what if he was home for dinner every night? What if weekends were Saturday and Sunday and not Tuesday and Thursday?  I know my fantasy is just that, probably not many really only work so few hours anymore. I have friends whose husbands work out of town all week, whose husbands have more traditional jobs and still carry great stress and laptops full of work home. Maybe I am longing for a time far gone, a middle class that died, where family trumped work. Where 8 hours five days a week was enough to sustain a family and save a little too, dinner on the table at 6. Yards were mowed on Saturdays, couples met to play cards. Who can meet with us on a Tuesday night?

My Chef returns to work tomorrow.  We didn’t go anywhere for his vacation and it was bliss. I enjoyed a full helping of his time and energy. I loved early morning coffee on the porch, slow conversations, walking around the house and finding him here. I will work hard as well to be grateful for all this needy family member provides, knowing others would change places with me in an instant. I will be grateful my Chef is willing, is able to work each day.  I will remember we are blessed beyond measure.  If I am totally honest, though, I will peek at the schedule to see when his next vacation is and begin my countdown. I love my Chef.

I Stopped

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

For 20 years I lived in shame, covering a secret, hiding behind walls.  Knowing rejection would soon follow, I avoided relationships with all but a few.  Those who ventured closer, I pulled aside for the “big talk,” the one where I shared my story to make sure they had a chance to evaluate me fully before deciding to really be friends.  I have worked extra hard to show I am not the person the label portrays, I am worthy of a chance. Last fall, Pastor Pat told me to stop it. Stop asking everyone I meet to reject me. He said everyone has stuff.  “But mine’s bigger,” I said.  “No, Lisa, stop it,” was his message back.

What if, I wondered, what if i just acted like others and began with a smile instead of a rap sheet? What if I asked about them instead of worrying they were judging me? What if I stopped wondering if they knew, what they knew? Crazier still, what if I just told my story out loud, one last “big talk” and then never again. What if indeed.

My walls have crumbled, I feel scarily exposed many days, yet with each encounter I keep finding grace. Huge grace, sweet grace.  Even when I try to erect some barriers, I am surrounded by people who won’t accept them.  Once my greatest strength, now my building permit has been revoked, I cannot seem to add even one brick on top of another. People I want to know but worry won’t reciprocate seek me out.  They come with gentle eyes, they come with soft smiles, they come to me.

Pastor Pat told me there are no guarantees that I won’t be hurt again but did I want to stay hidden away just in case? How much of life was I willing to miss just in case?  Such a wise man, I am so blessed to have been in the chair opposite of him, seeking my way, letting him guide me.

We all have stuff.  We all have been hurt by those who judge us.  We all need a fresh start, sometimes each day.  My stuff is out there, the old stuff.  I am not that label, I am me, now, covered in the grace of beautiful new friends. I have finally accepted that I too am worthy. What a glorious life, out of the shadows, into the light.

Emily Sprinkles

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I got sprinkled by grace this weekend, covered in little bits of Emily glitter that covered me in joy and hope and all things good. A new friend I met from our Beginnings class, she has come to be a sweet sister in faith, a highlight when we interact.  Her ready smile, uplifting attitude never fails to shine on all around.

I met her as I was going out the doors of church, she was going in, both of us busy doing VBS stuff for the week ahead. I had just returned from picking up my mother-in-law, deciding she should come help me make baked ziti for 300 people. I was anxious to capture time in the kitchen with her, a very simple recipe, 3 pots, no distractions. Emily understood my need, rejoiced in it. She brought back into focus the point of the meal: communion with new friends.

My mother-in-law couldn’t remember what was in each pot, got confused about our process, my heart ached. Yet we tasted the sauce, we talked, we worked together again in the kitchen.  We had communion time and it was good. I don’t really know where she is in her faith walk, she attends church with us when in town but otherwise never goes. I do know that on the night we serve baked ziti to all who come to the table, I will think of her in the church kitchen, a loving heart preparing food for people she will never know just because I asked her to help me.  That is grace. I pray all who taste will feel it shine upon them. Emily will be there, sprinkling her own, just in case.  God is surely pleased.

No Sides, Every Side

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Heartbreaking week of national loss, seemingly civil war, lines drawn, I wonder how we are going to find healing? Deep sorrowful cries from African American communities across  the land cannot be ignored, but how to act? Friends who wear that blue uniform, who make choices every day I will never be faced with, how to support them? I am a conscientious objector to this war. I will not take sides, I love both too much. The battle I will fight is a different one.

This year alone, 500 people have been killed by police, 94 officers have lost their lives in the line of duty. In Britain, police killed 1 person IN THE LAST 4 YEARS.  Last year, they discarded weapons 6 times. David Remy of the Economist shared these numbers on NPR, stating “It is uniquely dangerous to be a policeman, to interact with the police” in America. He noted the population differences are 5:1, which still doesn’t account for the spike.  Ready access to guns does. America has a gun problem, not just a police problem, not just a race problem. For those on the side of “Blue Lives Matter” fight for gun control to keep your men and women out of harms way.  Those on the “Black Lives Matter” isn’t it clear you need to do the same?

The rest of us peace loving hippies can join together, a third party, to read to intercity kids, make sure they have food, mentor in the schools, do the same crafts and activities the white kids get. Karate, soccer, ballet. Children matter. Invest in the children, grow adults who have a reason to live. Employers, hire felons. Give a second chance to someone leaving prison, it may be their first chance. The incarceration rates disproportionately impact men of color: 1 in every 15 African American men and 1 in every 36 Hispanic men are incarcerated in comparison to 1 in every 106 white men. 2. According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, one in three black men can expect to go to prison in their lifetime. 

Ultimately, the news of this week is bound to be the news of next week too, maybe worse, until we decide all lives matter.  Until the violence gets close enough that we can’t ignore it.  It is that close now for me.

Blank Check

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

What is the cost of forgiveness?  A loaf of bread, a bag of coffee, a tankful of gas? The transgression, I guess is the deciding factor, the way to establish value.  Maybe a mortgage payment, maybe two.  If not monetary, than what? What does one have to pay to be forgiven when apologies, accountability, acceptance of all the sins aren’t enough?  Time?  The most exorbitant of all. I want to rush the remittance process, pay off any debt, get to the other side of owing.  I have to wait for my liability to be cleared, long after the check has.  I linger, giving time that cannot be reclaimed. I still pay, then, daily, seemingly my earlier disbursements  going towards interest, never hitting the principle. With no knowledge on the extent of my debt, I cannot determine when I will be in the clear.  Calls to my creditor go unanswered.

What is the cost of forgiving? Humility, laying down pride and picking up the phone. Apparently very expensive indeed.  Closing the books on a debt that has broken everyone involved looks only possible with the help of the One to whom we all owe the most. Accounting isn’t my strong suit, I figure in grace too much. As one who has been forgiven much, I forgive easily, quickly. I remember the lasting trauma my older brother experienced when my father died, a fight days before never reconciled. I learned my lesson early on, all the cliches held truth. Relationships hold more importance to me than any sense pride or self-righteousness. Every day, I look for a way to reach my Stella, to claim her forgiveness, accept whatever fault she needs me to, in order to move back together. I turn the prism, this way, that, trying to find a new angle of light, something I have missed. No new light shines.

I miss her with each breath. My first born child, I know her smell, I know the shape of her hands, the silk of her hair. I see her in my heart’s memories: sleeping, laughing, eating, cooking, reading, holding her nephew, playing with her cats. I see her but I can’t. I have one move left, one reserved for truly desperate times. I know the way to her house, I even have a key. Can’t I just drive, show up on her doorstep?  Would she really be able to block me in person? Wouldn’t we have a break through, talk, hear each other out? I would listen, accept, apologize for hours, whatever it takes. On days when I think I can’t last another minute, I tell friends I am ready to get in the car, make the drive. They turn the prism, ask me to look again. I hate them and love them for that. I may not get what I am seeking and quite possibly could make things very bad for her. I put the car keys back, I wait some more, pray some more, pay some more.

This debt just cannot be discharged, I can’t find a way to make payments that are accepted. I don’t want to be divorced, I don’t want to be broken up, I don’t want to stay unforgiven. I want my girl back in my life, every beat of my heart screams it. Can she hear the heart that once beat so close to her’s?  How much longer until she can meet me somewhere, anywhere, tell what to do to pay off what she believes I owe. Carrying the weight of the liability is surely a burden for her as well. I know this child is missing her mama. My heart hears her cries. I will pay anything to ease her pain. Even as a child who climbed on my lap so I could make it all better, she had to make the first move. The art of vulnerability isn’t in her portfolio.  I can’t do it for her, try as I might.  We both bear the cost in time and missed memories, the withdrawal of relationship a horrible punishment,  the high price of forgiving.

Atone, atone,atone some more. Pray and pay. Pay and Pray. Our hearts cry on.

 

I Remember

On By LisaIn The ChefLeave a comment

This is what I remember: she accepted me from the beginning, treated me like her own daughter. She came down for every surgery, nursed me, nurtured me. I remember we went to the store one time and I couldn’t walk, she drove me around in one of those wheel chair carts. She laughed and laughed as she piled things on top of me.  She knew I needed out of the house. She knew I needed a mother.

This is what I remember: she baked and cooked with joy, she has a recipe for everything. Whatever I made, she wanted the recipe. She called to tell me what she ate at her most recent sorority meeting, wondering if I had ever made it, did I want the recipe. We shared a  love of cooking, something her other “daughters” avoided. I always took the recipe, always gave her mine.

This is what I remember: bustling, always moving, a constant rush of activity. She drove herself here, an hour and a half away, regularly. She attended more events in her community in a month that I do in a year. She knew everyone in town, gave me updates on friends I would never meet. At first it drove me a bit crazy but as time passed, I found myself asking after her friends as well. Praying for this one now in the hospital, excited that one is one a family trip.

This is what I remember: plenty of times she has driven me crazy, too nosy, bossy, demanding of her son’s time. At first we struggled with some boundaries, some letting go, both of us. Eventually we figured out how to share the man we both love. I remember staying at her home after her husband died, after everyone went to bed, she came crying, sobbing and climbed into bed with us. The ultimate act of vulnerability, unable to lay alone yet, finding warmth and love with us. The night before I married her son, her house overflowing with family and friends, every bedroom and couch spoken for, I slept with her.    She lost her husband, I was gaining one, another vulnerable time. Boundaries we both grew to accept, ones others might find a bit awkward.

My mind is overcome with memories because hers is not. She doesn’t remember that my son is out of jail, worries about him all the time. She doesn’t remember what she just ordered, doesn’t even know the conversation we had 5 minutes before. She makes phone calls and then repeats them again minutes later.  She doesn’t laugh very much, she is quiet and just watches. She bustles less, she went inactive in her service sorority. She doesn’t know how to clean her pool, the one she has had for 20 years. She doesn’t cook or bake, she let me bring everything for the party. She didn’t ask for any recipes. Not one.

We are losing her, bit by bit. She still remembers all of us, but for how long? Her sons have some very hard decisions to make in the coming months, a consensus between three brothers who rarely agree. Facing her rapid dementia in their own ways, at their own paces, when their father is already gone, is a luxury I am not sure we have. I prod, I nudge, I push my husband, the first born son, to lead. I want to care for her like she has for us so many times. My vote is a silent one though, so for now I will just keep remembering. I roll around in memories, holding tight to who she was, who she has been to me. I know one day soon she may need to sleep in my bed, scared and vulnerable. There is room for her, there is always room.

Responsible 4th

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

It is going to rain today, the 4th of July. Picnics, swimming, family gatherings, kids running freely, asking a million times when the fireworks will start, all dampened by the weather. It has been chilly here, we have huddled under blankets instead of running through the sprinkler. Fewer mosquitos, but fewer fireflies as well. I wonder if God isn’t telling us to cool it with the patriotism just a bit?

I love our country, I so love that we have freedoms. My heart sings when a small group of people believe strongly in an issue, rise up, others join, change happens. I get to vote because of some of those people. I go to the church I want, my friends go where they choose, others opt not to go. Many of my friends now get to marry who they love too. Our freedoms make us the envy of other nations. Yet with freedom comes responsibility, something we strive to teach our children but as adults seem to have forgotten.

I now allow my Plum to walk 3 houses down to his friend’s, which means he has to cross a gravel road. We discuss each time his job of looking both ways, over and over, not getting distracted, how he has to do this EVERY time.  I still watch, I sit on the porch, I listen, I don’t trust yet. The price of his freedom is too high for me but I know I have to let him stretch his wings, begin to make choices.  In the beginning, when he forgot to look, I reminded him, we talked about consequences, how dangerous it is. Later, I gave a warning that the freedom would be lost. When he forgot again I sat his little butt in the chair and he didn’t get to go to his friend’s house again that day.  Tears, accusations that I don’t love him anymore, proclamations that I will never let him go again all came fast and furiously, the all or never thinking of a 5 year old ruling. As he calmed down and climbed onto my lap, he accepted that he had made a bad choice, he knew what would happen if he did it.  “But, gran, I was just so excited!” I get it, freedom is exciting. He is learning.  He looks every time now.

I think we are too far removed from those early lessons that came with some of the freedoms our nation is battling over, we need a bit of time with our butts in the chairs, remembering that freedom comes with responsibility. We can have guns but do we need assault rifles? We have free speech but do we need to spout hate? Have we forgotten that our individual way is a freedom, just like our neighbor’s? When we go to church or the mosque or the temple, our forefathers delight. The diversity of our nation is our strength, one Hitler would abhor. Taking in the poor, the tired, those seeking to share our freedoms makes us stronger, keeps our nation building on the foundation set long ago. When we forget our history, forget the warnings to look both ways before crossing, we are put ourselves in danger.

Today, this rainy 4th, I think God wants us to remember that, Yes, He blesses America, but He doesn’t stop there. He is putting our butts on the porch, slowing down our celebrations hoping we might remember what America really once stood for, how she came to be. This constitution we celebrate may not say what you think it says. A small group of people got together and changed things. Maybe our time on the porch will help us do the same.

Happy Birthday America, may today be a reminder of who we once were as a nation, who we can still be. Let the fireworks light the sky for all to see.

 

Protecting Plum

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

We put the new playset on the far edge of the of the property, perfect viewing from the kitchen window as I do the dishes or the dining room table if we are finishing up dinner and the restless 5 year old has already left. The added advantage of that placement was supposed to be that it was out of reach of the dogs with their zapping collars. I envisioned kids swinging, climbing, sliding freely, laughter filling the air. Instead I hear non-stop barking as the Golden is frustrated that he can’t get close enough to his boy.

Our Golden has chosen this child, deemed it his job in life to protect him. I am slightly insulted, a clear unsatisfactory evaluation of my efforts to date. Late to the scene, like some rescuing hero swooping in, he gives me no credit for my own acts of grandmotherly heroism. I have said no to this child. I have put him to bed at a reasonable time, I give him fruit and vegetables. I even make him brush his teeth. Really, shouldn’t I have the hero’s cape? Instead I get pushed aside by a fluffy-eared tail wagger who snarls when I push the child on the swing, elicting loud giggles. My screams are for Plum’s benefit, I promise I am not hurting the child, rather, pretending he is about to kick me as he goes up to the moon.

Mack has chosen to ignore the warning beeps in his collar, wearing down the battery, in order to get closer.  He now sits right under or in front of the swing. If our Lab comes close just to bring me a ball to throw, Mack jumps up and runs him off. He has established that Plum is his territory, the rest of us need to go through him. He is driving me crazy, Plum is in heaven, singing his “Macky” song, rewarding the relationship. I have been cast aside, relegated to fetching snacks.

A daily battle reigns in my household: I crave order and quiet, I get noise and dirt. I want time to reflect, to consider. I get 4 clothing changes a day, poop scooping, constant wiping of mud from walls and floors and light switches and windows. One turned back and I find the sink has been filled with all the soap in the bottle and the fighter guys are getting a bath, while still fighting, splashing water all over the floor. More towels to sop up this mess and he disappears to create a new one. Maybe the dog is right to question my abilities.  Many days I just feel too old for this.

Then my Plum climbs onto my lap, snuggles under my robe, craving skin to skin contact. He tells me he loves me, he chatters away. Mack can’t get between us, nothing can. These moments come less and less, my Plum swings higher and higher. Accepting that I won’t always be around to protect him is a tough concept. Remembering that God sends fluffy-eared dogs and angels to nudge me a bit out of the way, to give my boy room to soar and others a chance to watch over, gives me peace. Maybe this dog is a gift to me as well, a chance to sit for a minute, while they explore, chase, race. I am thankful for all of it, knowing time will take the little boy away, turn him into an adolescent who has no desire to snuggle and tell his gran he loves her.  The dog will surely get all of the secrets then, the chatters and hugs. I will still fetch snacks. I will have hours and hours to reflect. I wonder though if the dog will ever stop barking?

Happy Everyday

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

“Happy Anniversary” he said to me when he got up, coffee in hand, joining Plum and I on the porch. My reply got lost in the dog’s delighted greeting of their master, as though they hadn’t slept by his side all night. Plum had the keys to Chef’s new car, ready to explore and take a ride. Our day began, as usual, with our relationship, 16 years of marriage, 4 years together before that, struggling to find a moment alone.

A quick kiss, a hug, then I headed to the shower, to get ready for work, finishing payroll then off to a meeting at church. I made it home in time for my Chef to race out the door for his day at work.  Another quick kiss, a hug, amidst the dogs and boy who clamored for my attention this time.

While Chef was working, in between snacks, water and mud play, spilled milk in the refrigerator, swinging my Plum up to the moon on his new playset, building ultimate Lego blaster machines, washing dogs and the boy, I worked on my gift to Chef.  Several months ago, when we had a rough talk, he mentioned that there were no pictures of us anymore around the house. Pictures of our adventures, pictures celebrating our times together. Among all the other things I took away that day, this comment really hit me. When had I removed all those? Why? Certainly I had pictures of our Plum up, and I knew I had removed pictures of our Stella, finally just unable to see her smiling face daily and still look forward.  Somewhere along the way, I had stopped rejoicing in us, in our shared history, our relationship.  Those pictures are reminders of how far we have come, of better days, of who we are. My gift to Chef for our anniversary was fixing this, amidst the chaos of our home.

I had great plans originally, Pinterest lured me in, plastering one whole wall with photos.  It looks amazing on my boards, I have saved several images.  I contacted Janet just to check some execution issues, given my history with Pinterest. She said no. There were longer pauses, some evaluative questions, a bit of thoughtful wondering. Really she was saying, you are crazy, get rid of Pinterest, you know this will end in disaster. Her gentle prodding in another direction led to my new plan, one way better suited to my talents and household. I dream big, she keeps my feet a bit closer to the ground, yet helps me reach out. The reworked idea turned out awesome.

After much battling with iPhoto, a trip to the Mac helper guys, I was able to access old pics, so many memories. I sent pictures off to be printed, worried I wouldn’t have enough to fill the huge poster frames I had purchased. So many times together, stored away, forgotten.  I could have filled an entire wall. My Chef was so right. As I tried to pare down what to include, I relived those times, my joy meter rising amidst the third change of clothes, the muddy tracks through my kitchen.

I am usually asleep when Chef gets home, this night I willed myself to stay up, in spite of disrupted sleep the night before with Plum who needed milk and comforting and wanted to chat at midnight. I met him at the door, got my greeting in after the pups and then led him through the gallery of our happy days.  He drank in each picture, he laughed, he delighted.  It was good.

Our hard talk brought me to a new place, a trusting place of listening to my Chef, to what he needs.  On this day of our anniversary, we looked back together.  We lived out our crazy schedule together.  Fortunately we had a weekend away just a few days ago and another coming up.  This day, the actual day, didn’t need to have a special dinner out.  It was filled with our real life, in pictures and hurried kisses.  Thank you Chef for reminding me to look at where we have been, who we are together. Happy Everyday Together, here’s to so many more.