Author: Lisa

Married for 17 years with 2 adult children, helping to parent our 6 year old grandson. Home is filled with the chaos that comes with Legos, mud and two very large dogs. Our world is centered around our Plum, the child who brings great joy and teaches us about grace.

Wine and Murder

On By LisaIn Travel1 Comment

I consider myself a pretty sophisticated traveler by now.  I have left the continent, have gone to 3rd world countries.  I have been to Hawaii 3 times and around the US more times than I can count.  Thus this trip with my sister-in-law and her sister was, as far as the actual travel portion, no big deal for me.  Except I made it one.  In my own defense, I wasn’t feeling well and the last task of sorting out my purse which should have happened the night before we left was left until the rush of the departure morning.  I grabbed my pertinent identification and the all critical dairy pills and left the house.  It wasn’t until we were standing in line ready to hand our boarding passes to the TSA  man that I noticed I had grabbed my expired drivers license.  To answer the question that keeps coming up, they mail the new ones to you so you don’t have to turn the old in anymore.  The gentleman, such a nice man, sent me on through without a word.  After much discussion about getting the other one fed-exed to our hotel in NYC, I googled it and saw that I could fly with an expired ID because your identity doesn’t expire, only your ability to drive with that license.  We had a great week.

Early morning trip to LaGuardia, too empty for the TSA to sweep me through.  Brussels attack had raised security.  My ID was flagged immediately.  Fortunately I had several other forms of identification and knew from reading what my rights were.  They didn’t care. I was pulled to the side and told to wait until someone was free to deal with a troublemaker like me.  At least that is what I heard.  I waited at least 20 minutes.  I couldn’t complain since it was clearly my fault.  Did I mention that you can fly on an expired if it is less than a year old?  Mine was up in January.  Double hit.

Finally someone came to address my situation, look me over and determine I needed extra screening.  They sent me ahead of everyone else through the X-ray machine and found the lighter I had in my pocket.  Don’t judge, yes I may have started smoking again.  No I didn’t check my pockets at any time during that 20 minute wait.  Yes I did say bad words to my self.  Out of the machine, lighter out of pocket try again.  They are getting pretty over me by now.

My carryons ride through the belt scanner and I reach for them on the other side only to be  immediately chastised.  Nope, not done with you yet missy.  The agent reminded me they had my boarding pass.  Then came 20 more minutes of wait.  All the other well-documented travelers went by and I was in the way, like the bad kid in school made to stand by the teacher’s desk.  Finally they had done enough checking me that they could do the second pat down and swipe my bags with the bomb tape. I had a huge sweater on so I offered to take that off, trying to be helpful and accommodating, showing I had nothing to hide.  As I was pulling it over my head, I remembered I had put on that silly shirt I ordered years ago off the internet.  Just a joke.  So silly.  Please God let me on the plane.

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I did make it home.

Flags of Friendship

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

Spending 4 days in New York City where my white skin, my mid-western accent was not common place did little to sway me to positions of Mr. Trump or any other GOP candidates.  The true diversity of cultures as we toured the Statue of Liberty on the Staten Island ferry was not lost on me.  Listening to so many different languages whispered as we slowly walked to exhibit after exhibit through the 9/11 memorial showed me the respect others have for our country, even if right now that respect is not reciprocated.  I kept remembering how this great city led the nation in embracing our neighbors after the tragedy that hit us all on that day, how we rejected fear.  Yet Mr. Trump calls for a nation of haters and cowards, forgetting our better selves.  This is not who we are, who I met in NYC.  As Brussels was attacked at the beginning of our trip, security was tightened but generosity and hospitality remained.  I watched as strangers tapped distracted tourists, telling them they dropped a boarding pass, their metro cared had fallen, their credit card was sticking out of their pocket. I am ashamed to say that I experience more racism and judgment here in the Midwest than I did in this large city,which used to be known for rudeness and a certain lack of concern for strangers.

As I looked at the flags fluttering in the wind, as the skaters took advantage of the last days of the Rockefeller rink, I couldn’t help but consider that Trump Plaza was only blocks away.  This man wants to put a wall up and yet millions of people come to this city daily to experience the culture, eat the food, celebrate Lady Liberty.  How in God’s name can this man be succeeding in his message?  Just as when I went to Epcot and spoke with folks from Europe who were clearly appalled, I don’t have the answer.  I just know I don’t ever want to visit a museum showing flags that used to fly with such pride.

Broken and Free

On By LisaIn ArrowLeave a comment

Something broke in me that night.  A full day of listening to my son spew the conflicts that have separated us from our daughter, watching in horror as it all began again.  As I measured every word, tried desperately to explain, sought peace, I came to realize this is an evil I cannot defeat.

I rose the next morning, a sleepless night allowing thoughts to settle and shift, pieces to fit, I discovered I was done.  I was broken.  My desire to save my relationships with my children had cost me twenty years of hard time, paying repeatedly a debt that new collectors came for.  With the brokenness came the realization that I can never satisfy the ones who have to have more of me, never give them the answer they want.  They insist I agree that I am a monster, I must accept and proclaim their truth.

I broke that night and what left was hope.  While it should have left me more depressed, the weight of it had held me down for a year.  My sanity, health and relationship with my husband all threatened, hopelessness ruled for a year.  Every conversation started with pain and plans to fix the estrangement.  Lost in thoughts and memories, I missed the moments in front of me.  Without hope, I found I was not hopeless.  I was free.

The demons exorcised, I began in earnest.  I drove out of town, I stopped giving extra to my son, I looked around my home and saw the neglect.  Closets emptied, bathrooms cleaned, sheets changed.  Totes full of my daughter’s memories moved recklessly into trash bags and sent to her father’s home.  Pictures taken down from the walls, the demons not just leaving me but my home.

It has been almost a week, each day I wake and wonder if the energy that spurred this activity was a manic rush that has worn itself out, only to find I am truly revived.  Until that day and long evening, I would have welcomed her back with arms full of grace, not expecting an apology, ready to begin again.  With hope went all that grace, replaced by accountability to those who seek it from me for wrongs that have nothing to do with them, wrongs I have paid in measures they will never accept or understand with hard hearts.  Now should she ever return, she will need to build her section of the bridge as well.  Mine burnt in the exorcism. And it feels freeing.

Happy Birthday

On By LisaIn StellaLeave a comment

November 10,2015.  Another milestone coming, seemingly going.  A huge one.  Officially one year since I have laid eyes on my girl.  We went to Nebraska to watch her get married on her birthday, not knowing he was truly taking her way.  The cold war had begun in September, we had no idea the enemy we were facing.  Every move towards reconciliation was undercut, the charming exterior hiding an unforgiving narcissistic soul.  My daughter caught in the web, believing her new reality and questioning everything she has ever known and trusted.  Cutting off all who question her, all who have loved her long for one who says he loves her now.  One year.

My son asked me last night, “how long? how long will you just sit here like this?  It is hurting Chef, hurting Plum, hurting me.”  I tried to argue that I was, am fine.  He gave evidence: going out in public in pajamas, smoking, not eating.  I could only say I am trying.  but am I?  I have stopped living, I have only been waiting.  Autopilot.  I have forgotten that others can see me when she doesn’t chose to.

The weight of this day approaching sent me to bed, buried under blankets for hours.  I considered driving there, taking the last of her belongings and dropping them on her porch, driving home.  A pilgrimage.  Initially I promised I wasn’t going to stay to see her but then knew I had no strength left.  I was already parked down the street, watching waiting.  I saw her pull up, get her baby out of the car seat.  I didn’t see me sit quietly and watch.  I saw her scan the street and then my primal yell, running, begging, crying.  Reaching for my daughter, aching to touch my granddaughter.  It wouldn’t go well.  My last bit of self-control was used to ask my husband to take this option off of the table.

I then planned to hide for the day, go away and mourn alone.  Somewhere, anywhere.  I didn’t want to take care of anyone, just wallow.  For one day.  But haven’t I done that for a year now?

Instead, I decided today we celebrate the birth of my daughter, her 27th.  We are going to have food she likes and tell stories about her, actually bring up her name in this home.  We will rejoice in who she has been to us, if not who she is.  She is still breathing and so am I.  There’s still hope.  My present to her, to my family, is to start being present again.  No more pajamas in public.  I have to find a way to laugh.  Otherwise there will be nothing left when she does return.  And she will.

Happy birthday Stella.  Mom is making beignets for breakfast.

Coats

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

The catalogs come, the flyers in the paper, the ads with great bargains and ideas for holiday shopping.  My list this year is filled with legos and flannel shirts and men’s socks. Arrow’s needs are so great it is too easy to find things for him.  Plum still wants every toy in the ads but no dolls, nothing pink or frilly.  Chef is always the hardest, most particular.  Same things every year, few surprises.  For the first time in 27 years, I won’t be buying anything for my daughter, the girl who has now decided she doesn’t want her mother.  I won’t be sending packages to her daughter either, not knowing if she gets them or they are discarded.  Money is too precious.  Last year I sent the special nail polish for babies that Stella wanted, put that in the stockings we sent.  I never saw little toes with pink or purple nails.  I didn’t even get the stockings back, which match our collection.  I persevered for a while, sending books and toys for my granddaughter but finally gave in to Stella’s desire to be left alone.

The ads with little girls in warm winter coats call to me, beg me to carry on the tradition begun with my grandmother.  She always purchased our winter coats, knowing what a help this would be to my parents as they struggled financially.  My mother continued on when my kids were little, the help coming at just the right time.  She was able to buy the heavier, warmer coats that were out of our budget, not caring that the kids would grow out of them each season.  I bought warm clothes for my granddaughter for her first two seasons, to carry her through, but it is time again for a coat.   Too many times I have selected the coat, carried it throughout the store, made it all the way to the checkout, only to stop.  Defeated, I put it aside and rush from the store, into my car with the tears threatening to alarm holiday shoppers.

I found several adorable outfits in one store that I couldn’t resist.  I took my time putting together leggings with tops and little poncho covers, found ways to mix and match to help a mama get the most out of the outfits.  Satisfied, I purchased the lot, not making eye contact or responding to the clerk’s attempts at small talk.  When the charge came across Chef’s alert, he called and I had to confess that I just wanted so desperately to pretend that I have a granddaughter, that I get to shop for her as well.  Back to the store I went, no eye contact, more tears.

I haven’t bought any Tom’s for Stella, none of the sweaters she would love, no boots, no socks, no chocolate covered cherries or make up for her stocking.  I haven’t stashed away the special avon dew kiss lip gloss she likes for the winter.  The boxes of beignet mix stay on the shelves.  Bath and Body works will get none of my money, there will be no cherry blossom lotion sent this year.

Skype tells me I last used it Dec 25, 2014 at 12:37 am.  An application I once praised as straight from God, one that kept me connected to my sweet girl so far away, now is taking up memory on my mac. If only I had recorded those sessions, to visit with her again and again.  If shopping and visiting on line are indications of relationship health, we are dead.  Can anything resurrect us?  I have lived in this town for 20 years, avoiding roads and areas that hold horror.  Now I find myself averting my eyes when toddling chubby cheeked girls with fuzzy brown hair are giggling with their mamas, the desire to rush in overwhelming.  I avoid foods that remind me of Stella, no longer able to find an appetite at all.  I search out willowy blonds on campus and then hate that I am still seeking where I know nothing will be found.  More and more to avoid, until it is easier to stay in bed.

The story of the prodigal son happened, right?  Our son came back and we have celebrated him, fatted calf and all.  But the obedient child chose to leave, not sticking around to finish out the parable.  Maybe she was the prodigal all along.  Clearly I missed something.  I am sure of one thing, I would welcome her back with open arms and Tom’s and dew kiss and sweaters and boots.  And me.

God is in the Details

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

God is in the details.  Whoever said this, first?  I’m sure it is a paraphrase of scripture, but really, such a clear reminder usually comes in my chaos.  When I most need a clear reminder.  When I need it to bounce around in my head, my heart, settle into my soul, if only I stop moving long enough to listen.  But my God knows sitting still is a great challenge for me so He lets the message rumble in my frantic body.  “Be still and Know that I am God”,  another favorite.  So I sit for about 5 minutes and meditate and then see that one cup in the sink, the one branch hanging lower than the rest.  And I begin moving again.

Yet both messages have gently soaked into me, encouraging me.  Each tree I trim, each load of laundry I wash, I realize we have been preparing for this step for a very long time.  God was in these details, so very many details, that it becomes a waterfall of support, washing away anxiety.  In the past, we rested on fear and allowed her mental illness to dictate the steps we would take.  What we didn’t know is that for almost 4 years, we were building a support system, a very public record.  God knew though.  He knew that one day we would just get tired, one day we would say, “Enough”.  And He knew that all of our practice in setting limits, having boundaries, and creating a safe place was to prepare us.  As I reflect on each hard thing of the past several years and I see what is ahead, I realize how God is going to use that.  Testifying in court already, all the pictures, all the meetings, things we just didn’t want to do.  Traveling around the world, seeing real need and poverty has reminded me of the made-up dramas here.  Of the ways we hurt each other because we have time and food and clothing. We don’t have to use our last bit of energy to bring water to our shack.  God has given me perspective.  When I think this fight will kill me, this ache and worry will be the end of me, when before I would have laid down, now I rise up and am ready to stop the nonsense once and for all.  We have a choice to live like this or to live like that.  Others aren’t so  blessed and how God must shake His head at us when we just don’t get it.  So now I chose to purposefully live our life and provide a life for our whole family, that is rich in love, safety and consistency.  The seeds have already been sown.  Time to begin the harvest.

Ultimately, we cannot make someone be who we want them to be.  God knows I just can’t be still, but I have learned to listen and Know that He is in all those details.  All the steps are coming together for a really tough next few months.  And then…well, I am trusting that to God as well.

Killing Fields

On By LisaIn Stella, TravelLeave a comment

Almost 24 hours after walking the sacred grounds of the Killing Fields, the tears won’t stop.  Finally they are flowing freely, enough distance, a country away, has allowed my heart to unclench.  My soul to scream. I will never be the same and I shouldn’t be.

Our tuk tuk driver delivered us first to the prison, the former school, where atrocities replaced laughter. Stark concrete walls, razor wire, instruments of torture.  Guilt as we tour, should we be looking?  But we must, so we can tell.  No one is listening to the Cambodian people still.  40 years later and only 1 war tribunal conviction.  Current leader has Khmer Rouge affiliations.  How is this happening?

We move on to the Killing Fields.  Stella wept over breakfast.  She didn’t want to go but wouldn’t let herself off the hook.  How can you go to the country, indulge in their cheap souvenirs and not see their pain?  But would they feel resentful at her tears?  It wasn’t her family?  We decided it is all of our family, we must cry over these losses.  The people who were lost deserve our tears.  No one will judge.  A pure heart, my daughter, to not want to offend a desperate people with her tears.  We were soon to discover we would give more than that.

The ride to the fields took us through the worst of our travels to date: trash collection areas, recycling sorting, roadside shacks with sewage flowing under.   Dust and dirt covered us, gritty sand in our eyes, hair. The smell…gone was the appetizing mysterious scents of cooking.  And then we were there, just right in the midst of it all was this holy ground.

What happened there, I can barely put into words.  I hesitate over the keys.  I am no stranger to evil.  Evil committed by many to many amazes me.  scares me.  no terrifies me.  there is a huge tree, a big beautiful tree much like my grandson would love to climb and pull the bark off of and use his toy chainsaw on.  this is the tree on which the Khmer Rouge, in front of the moms, bashed the babies heads in. the pit for the moms and babies was right in front of it.  today it is decorated with thousands of bracelets from those who have come to mourn.

Bones and teeth still emerge from the ground, especially after the rainy season.  Every person in Cambodia has a family member who died in this genocide.  It is that recent.  We come to discover truth, they come to find their grandmother.

We left Cambodia and flew to Thailand, many bus transfers and finally got to our hotel late.  All day we talked of the shower we would take.  But we didn’t.  24 hours later, gritty with the dust of Phnom Phen, I can just begin to open my soul to cleansing.

Unloading my Pack

On By LisaIn Stella, TravelLeave a comment

Brought my sadness to south east Asia, packed tightly in my new hikers backpack. Ready to be unloaded, released at a temple, in quiet meditation on a beach at sunrise, after too much laughter with my daughter. Instead I find Thailand has its own sorrow, so deep so pervasive, there is just no room for mine. Grief rides the rickety bus. Hopeless shuffles the feet of even the youngest. Heat slows everyone, there is no escaping the reality of destroyed buildings, lost generations. Rubble and rubbish at the foot of signs for new smartphones.
Riding the night bus overflowing with mattey haired hipsters whose clothes are more authentic than the locals we stop to pick up, I watch as the mopeds swarm us, lead us like pilot fish to the whale. Or is it a shark? During the ride I’m not sure which belly I’m in and can’t sleep the narco-induced slumber of these kids. So I carry the anxiety for my bus mates while the rest jolt and toss and shift but still they sleep. Odors joining, mixing with no concern for boundaries or states rights. Germany Canada Finland France USA.  There are no superpowers, just dust and yesterday’s dirt or maybe the day before and a bit of mosquito spray with incense. I’ve lost track of how many days I’ve worn which clothes, having already shed some at the last two hostels to lighten the pack. With each repacking I evaluate what is critical to carry further into the trip. The sorrow has begun to weigh too much but now in Cambodia I see they too will mock my grief. Only a generation long? Just one year of sadness? How can I give them my tears when they continue to mine bones in the killing fields. No, I came to the wrong continent. A plump middle aged white woman taking artsy pictures of their homeless cats and broken buildings, their old women selling the same pots of noodles her mother and hers before made, this woman has such audacity to dump more sorrow on the broken backs, barely beating spirits. It is truly the rich who seek purpose. The rest seek survival

Which State is Grace?

On By LisaIn Faith, MomLeave a comment

We were told we could celebrate the last communion with my mother if we were in a state of grace and then they defined it by their very catholic terms.  We weren’t in the club, didn’t know the handshake but they sure encouraged us to get to know Jesus, all while singing “One Bread, One Body, One Lord of All.”  The hypocrisy infuriated me even though I had chosen to leave the pope and his followers’ years ago.

Grace?  I can’t imagine being deeper in a state of grace.  We spent 2 days in neuro critical care and 3 days in hospice, cloaked in nursing care that felt more like mission work.  The men and women who bathed, moved, dosed my mother never left the room without asking what they could do for each one of us.  They talked to my mom, they talked to us.  They all knew our names. They hugged us and gave us room to cry and laugh.  They did not ask questions about how many times we had visited in the last year and if we had told her we were sorry.

Friends far and near used social networking sites and texts to send hugs, sweet messages, offers of help at home.  Dogs were fed, beds arranged, schedules were changed.

Grandkids that couldn’t come and shouldn’t come were kept at bay, memories intact.  Thousands of miles in travel and not one incident.

As we finally gathered to lay her to rest, the only judgment, the least act of grace came from the church.  Gone was the comfort, gone was the inclusiveness of sharing our loss among the many to bear the load.  We were divided along their lines, so many of us found lacking.

We asked for a catholic mass because that is what mom would have wanted.  But she would have hated how we all felt, so left out.  “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith–and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God–.” (Ephesians 2:8)  Guess I have a different bible than Fr. Ted.  What I do know is that we experienced both mercy and grace throughout this week, in the people God sent to care for us.  We knew Jesus because He was there bathing my mother, He was there meticulously arranging her pillows and her nightgown, He was there with cookies and magazines, with cupcakes and guidance when I didn’t know how to get back.  He was there telling my husband to get back to the hospital after I had sent him home.  He was there telling my brother’s best friend this is the time to visit.

We confessed our sins to mom and to each other.  We sought forgiveness for long ago wrongs, let tears wash away the dirt of secrets and hurts. We nurtured each other, we retold stories for adult perspective.  We offered peace, we gave our gifts.   I can’t imagine a more graceful ending.

You can keep your wafers, we communed with God all week.

Radical Breathing

On By LisaIn Faith, Mom, The Chef5 Comments

He was seriously starting to piss me off. I said I was fine, I said it was too cold, I said I didn’t want to go. So Scott put on his swim vest and joined the others in the snorkeling pool, periodically rising to say ”it’s so pretty, c’mon out” but my feet were rooted to the sand, my ass to the rock and my mind to the hospital room with my mother. I could hear the respirator breathe for her. I could hear the moistness of the tubing and the machine clicking the numbers. And then he would pop up again and ask me to look at the size of this stingray. But I could only see the size of her hands as they swelled, could only hear that breathing.

Then he really got obnoxious and asked “please.” For God’s sake, we are adults and rarely have to use those kinds of tactics on each other. “Please join me, please go get a wetsuit. Please .“ I nodded yes, but my mind was screaming “don’t you know I can’t breathe with that, I will die, I will drown, I will never wake up?” but I went to the wetsuit hut, stomping as much as I could in sand. Then I wandered slowly back, knowing he would have forgotten me, long gone with the group and the fish. I could sit back on my rock, safely breathing.

But he looked up and then left the water to zip up my suit. He took my hand and led me to the water. He stayed with me while I got acustomed to the temp. He arranged my goggles and attached my snorkel. He said we were ready. Just go under. Just dip your face under. I started to and realized with panic that I couldn’t breathe. I forgot how, I wasn’t even under the water, I couldn’t catch my breath, I needed out. And he stopped me.

“Just Breathe normally.”

What? Completely radical instructions. I was looking for the way to stay alive, to keep from getting water in the goggles, in the tube, in my lungs. I was looking how to not do whatever would make those machines start. I looked into his eyes, followed his steps, and breathed normally. And it worked. And I didn’t die and I didn’t hear machines. I saw fish.

I still sputtered a couple of times and I did hyperventalate when I forgot how to breathe normally…. Then I got back on track. And I swam with fish today, 3 weeks after my mother died. I thought of her all day. I thought of how I hated that she stopped living long before machines did her breathing. And I am so deeply grateful for a husband who refused to let me do the same thing.