Category: Arrow

stories of addiction, relapse, recovery

My Own Rosary

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

I have a tattoo. It adorns my wrist, a charm bracelet that never dangles or is removed because it clashes with my outfit. I have to be honest to say that I chose to walk into the tattoo parlor not in my twenties or during a bachelorette party but when I was 50, fully aware of the life choice I was making. Because this marking falls on my wrist and onto my hand, if I am not wearing mittens, it shows. Exactly what I wanted. I get asked about it all the time, compliments from young people and musings about the point of it from those closer to my age. What I tell people is this: it is kinda like my own rosary beads. I grew up in the Catholic church, we were taught to pray a specific prayer for each bead on the necklace. This charm bracelet is my prayer minder, my constant companion, my own list of joys and concerns.

One charm is of a knife, fork and spoon set, it signifies my husband. It takes the place of honor closest to my heart, where my pulse can be felt. Another charm is an arrow, the symbol for my son, who has always been protective and has a choice of which direction his life will go. The elephant charm is an ode to the trip I took with my daughter, a fiercely independent and loyal child. Next comes the tiara for my grandaughter, my little princess and then the globe, for my grandson, my whole world. Finally, a tree, to show my family, friends and faith. They keep my rooted and reaching for more. With two more grandchildren on the way and a bonus granddaughter here, I have been considering additional charms. My bracelet, just as my heart, holds the capacity for more.

My tattoo is not a piece of artwork, it isn’t the most intricate and holds no colors. Yet for me, the beauty of each glance at my wrist, each reminder to lift someone up in prayer, is that I know my church family is joining me. I can look at the arrow and see years of prayer, faithful friends and strangers alike who have lifted this child and now man up through many life struggles. I am reminded I am not alone. I glance at the elephant and I see friends who know my daughter, really know her. People who prayed for our safety throughout our South East Asia backpacking trip and celebrated her successes as a young woman traveling  on her own, who have wrapped her in love and prayer when she was pregnant with our princess who now receives her own prayers from the same long-distance friends and family, those she has yet to meet. I pray for my daughter and granddaughter but know I am not alone in those prayers.  The globe, these same people have been praying for this child almost from the moment of conception. He is one of our church’s own, a boy so wrapped in the love of God and the faithful acts of His people, I know I am never alone as I lift him up to God.

As I look at the tree, my family and friends, I am reminded to be thankful, to not just ask but to praise God for His blessings of those who are joined with us, chained with our little family into the larger family of God. Those branches give us shelter, encourage us to climb higher. We stay rooted in His Word by their example and know we are bound together. Maybe a simple cross necklace provides this comfort for others, I needed my own rosary, specific beads to define my prayers. A Catholic ritual brought into our Methodist traditions. Joys and concerns shared not just on Sundays but with every glance at my wrist.

I have a tattoo that reminds me I am never alone in my worries, fears, joys and celebrations. May you be filled with such a reminder every moment as well, may you know that even in the darkness when trees seem to obstruct the light, you are rooted in the family of God. May you find comfort in knowing your joys and concerns are shared by all those encircled by the faith.

My Own Story

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella3 Comments

When I was maybe in 8 or 9 my cousin gave me a diary for Christmas. My own secret place to write my thoughts and feelings, someplace to record the inner me. Probably most little girls had diaries, with tiny golden locks which gave a false sense of security. I loved that diary, my first book. I snuck into my closet to jot down the most important secrets an adolescent girl could have, does this boy like me or does that one, do I like him or the other one. I thought my writings were safe within that little book, behind the little lock. I had two brothers though, one 4 years older who thought it would be hilarious to violate that privacy and make his own entries into my writing. The pages were filled with pictures (he never was a writer) of stick figures and clouds of farts.  I never wrote in the diary again. My sacred place was ruined.

My father was furious, the boys were in serious trouble. Of course he must have been terrified at what I had written and what they might have read. A secret keeper writing things down? Very dangerous stuff. I didn’t write about the real secrets, my inner most quandaries, the deepest hurts. Surface worries only, dipping my toe in, maybe, testing whether it was safe to tell all. It wasn’t. I didn’t. Not for a very long time. How differently would my life have turned out had I actually written about the abuse in our home and handed my writings to a trusted teacher? But I was shut down, before any truth came out.

My blog is somewhat like my new diary, a place to share my story and my perspective. I have published my deepest feelings, shared shameful events, celebrated soaring joys. My story though is not just my own because I am connected, I am joined even if the bonds are broken through divorce and estrangement. As much as I would like to have some relationships forever terminated, never to hear from an ex-spouse or his wife again, I am forced to confront that once joined, we are never truly released from those bonds. As much as I would love to write about the beautiful reconciliation of all the brokenness in our family, that is not this story, at least not yet. So, while they each have their perspective and side and truths, I have mine and my feelings and thoughts and search for meaning through it all. The difference between my diary and this blog though is that it is faith based, I am searching and seeking with my adult eyes and a mature soul to find healing in the hurts, to share what is broken in me and my connections to my children, the sins of my past to find the redemption that comes with grace.

I am searching for a way home, a way to that place where connections feel good instead of threatening. Where words written are seen as a victory that one woman who was silenced for over 50 years found her voice. I am seeking those who understand imperfections and dings and dents. Just as my father was terrified of what I might write, how much trouble he could get in if I told the truth of his sexual abuse, there are those who wish I would be silent again. Violating my sacred space every much as my brothers did long ago, texts with threats, emails with demands, it all boils down to fear. Fear of truth, fear of getting into trouble, just like my father. Had he not been doing anything wrong, it wouldn’t have mattered. A little girl’s diary could be just that, her story. A woman’s blog can be just that, her story.

I write a great deal about addiction. Anyone who has attended even one family session at a rehab center knows that it is a family disease. The addict is not the only one in need of healing. All those around who enable, deny, support, rescue the user are reenforcing the disease. When I write about my experiences with my son, it is from the place of a mother who has spent the last decade dealing with his use and relapses, supporting him through thousands of dollars in inpatient and intensive outpatient services and attending every session available to us. We joined in his recovery. We were invested in the healing portion of the family disease. We supported him through his legal issues. When I write about addiction, it is with the eyes and heart of a mother who has traveled that very broken road and no longer accepts lies or excuses, won’t be part of any addiction family unit that includes continued use. This is my perspective. Addicts all have their own.

I write a great deal about the brokenness of my relationship with my daughter. A young woman who married and began an estrangement like it was a wedding gift she just opened, the present her new husband gave her. A matching set, like the one he has with his own mother, if you will.  Brokenness in relationships takes more than one act though, it takes a series of wrongs, escalated to the point of no return. Forgiveness can’t seem to find a way into this relationship, I write about my aches. As much as she may wish to have our association forever destroyed, that web is connected from multiple sides. Estrangement is like that, one edge may be severed, the other still hangs on. This is my perspective, surely she has her own.

I write a great deal about the sexual abuse that occurred in my childhood, the damage that led me to try to save other children. I write about failing, about taking my damaged psyche and soul into a setting where more trauma happened. Sharing such intimate details, risky and freeing at the same time. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I just keep getting up, starting over. My mistakes are pretty public, no chance to hide from them. My life diary has been read by many, interpreted, analyzed, gleaned for salacious nuggets to spread. When the book is already opened, it no longer matters though. My past is part of me but not the whole me, not the now me. That is the beauty of redemption, the glory of grace.

I write a great deal about looking for the light in dark times. This is a dark time. I am looking for the hope that comes from the One who understands that even when we try to break those connections, He is always there. I am seeking the grace that comes from the One who knows my sins and still forgives me. I am seeking the Light that shines on my value and worth as a child of God, my wholeness in Him, sharing the warmth that comes when secrets no longer have power and diaries don’t need locks.

This is my story, my search for meaning. The resurrection of my voice, the renewal of my writing, a window into my faith and the slow process of healing. May you find your own story as freeing, as filled with hope and redemption. May you follow the path God sets out for you, with Him guiding your motives, may you find renewal of your soul in leaning into the light, escaping the darkness of anger, fear, hate, bitterness.  Thanks for reading and supporting the opening of my life, may grace follow you today.
Renewal

No Trespassing

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

A truth-teller has a critical role in the family, the historian of events, the keeper of stories. Reminding others of the progression of actions which led up to the big celebration or catastrophe is a big job, but of equal importance is the role of the listener. Without the ones who hear, the truth wanders out and about, wasted maybe, wisps of smoke floating away. Truth-tellers depend on listeners to accept their offerings, to soak in the stories and become their own truth-tellers. What happens when listeners are robbed of the chance to hear? What becomes of the village when raided by false story tellers who spread lies like wild fires, burning not only bridges but charring all the inhabitants? What turns listeners away from the truth, what encourages them to follow a false prophet? Discounting hard evidence to believe a lie takes effort, requires a conscious turning. But why? I learned long ago to ask what is to be gained to find my answers to any set of behaviors.

If I am an addict and I need you to believe that my use is behind me, I can follow the charted course of those who live that life. I can practice honesty, humility, follow the tried and true steps of atoning and staying abstinent. What I cannot do is use a different substance and call myself clean, I cannot behave as if I am owed everything while giving nothing. Typical using behaviors that aren’t ignored by truth-tellers. But what if I want you to believe my version of the truth? What will it cost? Do I have to accept the lies you also tell? Stories of happiness that hide dangerous secrets, stories of bliss that cover mental illness? The lies that bind that village will ultimately burn it down, pillaged by the very distrust inherent in the creation. The Bible talks about building houses that way:

24 “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. 26 And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand.27 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.” Matthew 7:24-27

I built my house on truth and it is costly. I was never promised an easy life, surely haven’t experienced it. Yet I know my little village is safe from marauders who seek to destroy it. No longer enslaved by shame, no longer at the mercy of false story tellers, I shout my truth and count on the listeners to hear. Or not. Because it is always a choice. We each get to build our house, invite in who we want. This is my house. My story.  Pillagers are not welcome here. My home is protected, my heart is safe from those who would ransack,  those who would spread shame, crashing into my home, uninvited invading intruding What’s that other verse?

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:32

Ah, yes, that one. The one that sheds light in the darkness, that restores the broken, that destroys the power of evil. Grace abounds in my village of brokenness, where light finds the truth and we are free. Glory be to God.

 Pillage

Family Fusion

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef7 Comments

The room was too tiny for all of us, squished together in the apartment living room and kitchen combination. Toys and gifts littered the floor, boxes of new cologne sets and bath products lined the steps up to the bedrooms. The countertops held vegetable trays and dips, desserts and bits of Legos, snowman napkins and plastic silverware. The kind of disaster that normally sends me into evacuation mode. A cluttering of all things holiday complete with grandparents, two uncles, the favorite grandchild, the Mama and the step-father. The assortment of people couldn’t have been more odd, as if they each were dressed for Independence Day or Halloween. But it was Christmas as a very blended family and it worked. A holiday with those who put aside bloodlines and chose each other.

Seven years ago my son was deep into his drug use, his girlfriend was riding along with him. They were never together sober. When they discovered she was pregnant, she moved in with us, we really didn’t know her but she had no other options. Thus began a long and often tortuous relationship with Mama. We have loved, battled, rescued, stepped away and jumped back in so many times that others question our sanity. It took a serious court proceeding over Plum’s custody for her to determine she was all in with her son, she has never looked back. What should have broken us completely was actually the ultimate glue, the deepest honesty brought us all together. No longer being careful to not hurt feelings or being afraid of the consequences, we had to act and tell the truth. She was forced to hear it and choose. She is a wonderful Mama to her son now, we are grandparents along side her. The process of letting go of our Plum, little by little and supporting her as his mother has been healthy for all of us, she leans on us more, rather than him doing the leaning.  Today she will deliver her second child, my bonus grandchild (thanks LuAnn for the terminology!), a child not in any way blood related and yet still somehow we will be gran and gramps. This is blending, we are choosing to stay in.

Mama married a young man who has taken in not only her but her child, my Plum. Plum celebrated the union, asked if he could then call him “Dad.” While my heart broke just a little, I knew this man would not abandon Plum, he would be present daily to play games and nightly to see him off to bed. He would make sure money was in the lunch account, that rough play on the floor occurred. He would make fart jokes and tell Plum to respect his mother. We have embraced this young man, he comes to our house and reaches right into the candy bowl, walks freely upstairs to Plum’s room to play Lego. They join us for dinner, he texts me with questions about the pregnancy. He is my bonus son. More than that, his parents have taken in my Plum, they treat him as one of their own grandchildren.  Special nights out, amazing gifts, time to play, complete grandma duties. I love that they love him. They have chosen to blend, to combine and accept the wholeness of who to love with all of their love. I was honored to help plan the wedding with Plum’s new grandma, to coordinate decorations and food, the glueing of the new us. We found there was space for all of us to be, an expansion of family, no bloodlines needed. Fully blending.

This child needs all the love that can be poured into him. His father has checked out, his aunt disappeared. His paternal grandfather is just as he was with his own children, absent.   Yet a new family has assembled who will worry less about roles and bloodlines and past hurts to create new memories, to allow room for all who want to love on Plum and  celebrate this new baby. So we found space in the tiny apartment for all of us to sit and eat and play and chatter, a regular holiday scene with unusual players. We have labored hard to get to this point, the ability to rejoice without worry, nurture without scorekeeping, clean up without judgment. We found harmony.

While my heart was saddened that Arrow could not choose to see his son yesterday, not even on a special day, I knew it was for the best. Plum didn’t seem to notice his absence, even sadder still. Addiction does that to families, teaches you not to count on the one using. Without sobriety, my son is unable to see truth, accept humility, be the man I know he can be. The monster is raging within him, taken over again. Soon he will have a second child, just a matter of months, God only knows if he will be able to care for that one, create a family. Just as we could never have predicted the blending that has resulted in the beautiful holiday we just celebrated and the wonderful everyday we live out now with Mama, we have no idea what 2017 holds. I pray that next year more of our bloodline is present in whatever space we all occupy, more combining of love and trust and noise to round out our family scene. Maybe Arrow will be swept up in another grouping, a different merging of those who are unanchored and now finding connection. If so, I pray they share as much joy as we did last night.

Addiction has ravaged our family, caused my Arrow to retreat again from his son. The ugly truth is also the blessed honesty, Plum doesn’t notice. He is surrounded by a mixture of people who embrace him, his normal is somewhat crazy maybe to anyone who would ask to chart the family tree. Just as in a tiny stable so long ago, crowded and messy and noisy, we all came together to be with this child on Christmas. Those who missed it may still be traveling, searching for the star to guide their way. May they all find it, may it lead them to the Christ child who will surely lead them home, back to the tiny places that hold what is most dear.
Retreat

Fishing

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef3 Comments

The Holy Trinity, the three wise men, faith hope and love, important trios that underscore my life. Bad news also comes in 3’s, celebrity deaths see to happen in 3’s, the Stooges numbered the same. Like a triangle that closes all the gaps, maybe one side longer but still all is contained within, I notice threes. When only two bits of news arrive, I grow anxious for the next hit. Even understanding disagreements which include not two sides, but yours, mine and the truth, I see threes. There is a symmetry in this number, welcome or not, throughout my life. I know that really I just stop counting at three, start over, but this is my own construct, my reality. So when I got some upsetting information two weeks ago, I new more was coming. I was right. Two more nuggets hit that have rocked my sanity, wormed into my world and just keep ricocheting with no safe place to land.

I have searched for evidence of my daughter online, blocked from her on Facebook and phone calls. I seek out any possible user names on reddit and twitter, looking for boards on Pinterest, trying out Instagram. A desperate fishing expedition that yields nothing, she is determined to hide. A skilled hacker could surely find her, just as a real fisherman knows the right bait, the best waters. But I am not trying to lure her home, that is beyond my current dreams, more like a tracker, who can sense where she is hiding, where she has been, where she is going. She doesn’t want to be found, I cannot get to her. Still, we maintain a connection that has not been severed despite all efforts. I knew, before I was told, her news. A mother knows. I told myself it was fine, I was okay, I already knew. Yet I am left with more emptiness that actually feels so much like horrible pain I might need a trip to the ER.

I also learned information that rocked my perceptions about my entire life, changed what I know to be true and shifted anger and frustration all around again. News that woke up old hurts and anger with absolutely no outlet, no resolution to be had. I remember one vacation as a child when my older brother was fishing off of a pier in Florida and somehow caught an eel. It snaked up the line and was coming towards him, he was screaming. This bad news is like that, I just want to scream and run and get away. Someone quickly cut the line, sent the eel back into the water. I can’t snip this line and send the monster back. I can’t figure out how to be free of this squirming ugly sliminess coursing through my soul.

Finally, I learned recently that bridges are sometimes rebuilt because pain just cannot be borne alone.  Fear like planks laid down one after another, reaching out towards the other side where hope and support will meet. The very act of joining means we carry some of that pain, hold up some of the worry and share our hope and faith. We built a bridge and now I have news that is scary and painful and out of my control. Like the time I caught a catfish, glorious on the hook but whiskers that pierced when touched, I got near and now I bleed from the encounter.

The three’s in my life are bringing worry and pain and fear. I thought I was managing this latest batch but have to admit I am floundering. I am twitching, I am teary, I am that fish on the bottom of the boat, gasping for breath. I have been caught, I need release. First step is recognizing the problem, then remembering that first trio, the Holy Trinity. Back to my ultimate 3. More healing than the ER, more accurate than hiring a hacker, the transcendent bridge builder. I cannot manage these new hurts alone, they are too big and too scary and bring more than I can bear alone. Father, Son, Holy Spirit, the 3 I am seeking today.
Fishing

Begin at the Beginning

On By LisaIn Arrow, FaithLeave a comment

Al Anon meetings were my after-school activities as a child, the place we went as a family to see friends, race around the old couches, drink soda from the can and eat cookies while the adults talked. Each of my siblings and I had scouts or sports but none lasted with the dedication of Al Anon, none involved full family participation. We were a family that knew alcoholism, we excelled in drinking and enabling and secret fights and covering up. I learned early the language of “elephant in the room” and “just for today.” I remember holding sweaty hands with other kids who attended, playtime drawn to a close as we rejoined our parents or grandparents and formed a circle to recite the Serenity Prayer. Knowing those words were important, help some special meaning to everyone in the room, I learned them early, I spoke with determination. Only later as I became a parent of an addict myself have I come to discover the true power and puzzle in these words.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. 

Twenty-seven words, my own mission statement. While friends tell of a favorite hymn, wistful eyes recalling Sundays at church singing with the whole family filling the pew, I have this prayer. Like a lullaby sung to send me off to slumber, this is my song. I have signs and plaques around my house in case I ever forget, I guess.  Still, the meaning escapes me, I can’t live it out on a daily basis. How can something so fixed into my DNA still be such a conundrum?

In moments of great distress, I recall these words easier than my own name, clarity and truth abound. I see what I can change, I find courage, I gain wisdom. Having the crises that come with an addicted child, opportunities are unfortunately frequent to establish what is his to fix, what is mine. Knowing I cannot make my child not want to use drugs anymore than he can make me okay with it means we just have some boundaries to work out, some accepting to do.  Walking away from your kid when they are begging to go home, promising to never use again, leaving the rehab, listening to that locked door click, this is the stuff of courage. Figuring out when the problem is his and when I am able to help and that help is really helpful and not saving him from his own stuff, that is wisdom. I have grown skilled at applying this prayer to this limited situation. But what about the other 99% of my life? What about when the crisis is over?  Why didn’t we recite the prayer over dinner or talk about it when we weren’t in that meeting hall? Like holiday lights that shine brightly only one season a year, these words glow when in use but then collect dust in my soul attic, packed away until needed.

What if I began each morning pouring my coffee and praying for serenity, for courage, for wisdom? Would I struggle less, would I understand more? Maybe the words make no sense because I am stuck in my own wisdom, determined to solve my puzzles first. Bottom up rather than top down, who starts a puzzle that way? Using what works with all the sudoku, all the crosswords, I can’t choose the last clue, the middle. Begin at the beginning, serenity.

Conundrum

Accepting Invitations

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, StellaLeave a comment

The old adage that the only certainties of life are death and taxes missed the another one we cannot deny, we all have a mother. Just as we may fight death or be well prepared for the end of life, hate our tax codes or welcome the loopholes, we may adore our mothers or conversely have horror stories to fill social media and hours of chats over wine. Yet we cannot deny that we all came into this world carrying the blood, the nourishment, the cells of one woman. What happens after the moment when we take our first breath and each one after, may create complications, still the truth remains. Without her, we are nothing, we literally aren’t.

I have dug into my relationship with my now deceased mother for most of my adult life, searching for the buried treasure, trying desperately to discover the mom I wanted, needed. Therapy, distance, boundaries, ultimately acceptance of who she was slowed the hunt, kept me present with her while she was here. I still wonder, I still search, I still wish.  Forgiveness changes the urgency though, twisting my random musing into the realm of what I would do with lottery winnings or how would I change if I moved to a 3rd world country, ideas I know are fantasy that require no emotional investment. I have mostly, probably as much as humanly possible, forgiven my mother for being the mom she was and not the mom I needed. I have learned to be grateful that she taught me to be the mom I am. So I miss her sometimes. I am no longer sure if I miss the real mom or my dream one but still odd moments of wistfulness appear, a desire to share some news, a bit of hurt or a wonderful joy. The dream rarely goes any further than that, I don’t play out the conversation. Yet at almost 53 years old, I can admit I want my mom in times of trouble. Death, taxes and mom.

I sat in the dining room of the apartment my Arrow shares with his fiancé this weekend, they invited Chef and I to lunch. A banquet of frozen pizza and delightful salad, prepared on their turf, at their table, their rules. The setting required that we acknowledge they are adults. We weren’t asked to leave our shoes at the door but it was unspoken that our parenting needed to stay there. We could be mom and dad if we accept them as closer to equals.  We agreed to the invitation for lunch as well as the other the invitations, the ones to build some bridges using new and old bits and pieces, to allow them to construct their side how ever they choose and meet in the middle. My Arrow has some little life changes, some big life events, some random musings he wanted to tell his mom. He decided that after distance and establishing boundaries that he would try again. We brought gifts of bread and grace, the opportunity for a fresh start.  Because everyone needs a mom, whether their own or a surrogate, they just need mom. I knew it was only a matter of time with him, that he would be back. I knew the ticking, the tocking would not last so long I would want to rebuild the whole bridge, compromise everything just to have that relationship back. I know my child, he knows his mom. Death, taxes and mom.

I accepted another invitation, the opportunity to bake cookies with an adult mother-daughter duo. Knowing the photographer for all of the amazing shots that show up on this blog would be there was an added bonus. The expectation was not that I really bake, more just that I could do as I needed, write in the other room, rest, find sanctuary. The mere act of issuing this invitation is mind blowing to me, sharing something that personal, opening your childhood up to another, offering your parents to one who is now orphaned, sharing your moments of new memories with another, this is holy stuff. Janet is like this with me. I still haven’t figured out what I have done to deserve her friendship, how I can possibly reciprocate. But she isn’t keeping score either. I didn’t write there, I tried a couple of times but felt drawn instead to be present, to be among them. If only I could go into all social situations with my laptop, I would be accepting invitations daily. Hiding behind the keyboard, observing, that is my safe place. Yet I felt pulled away, pulled into the kitchen, leaving the couch and blanket and cozy escape to enter into that kitchen. The thing is, these people have no reason to include me, they have no reason to trust me, they could have been more careful with me, more wary. Yet they exuded grace, real honest to God grace filled that home as surely as the sweet vanilla sugar goodness of the yeast cookies baking when we arrived. I listened, I watched, I devoured the interactions between them all even as I participated. At the table over a simple lunch of homemade soup that we brought from Janet’s home and cornbread quickly whipped up, the blessing softly beautifully lifted up by her father, we dined together. I lifted them up silently, joy too deep to express as we warmed our bodies with soup and my soul with this little stolen time of mom and dad, family. Shared recipes, a determined search for the one that reminds me of my own mother, dedicated time wandering through photo choices and fixing sizes to ensure they show up correctly, I absorbed. I ate cookies that from the moment they touched my lips created a memory I knew was a forever one. I experienced hours that will be in my “cherished moments” memory box always. Like that extra sprinkle of sugar that sends the cookies from good to great, I was given the gift of approval, the gift of affirmation in a quiet talk with Janet’s father after we settled the artwork questions. He spoke words to me that every child longs to hear from their father. His soft voice carried weight, sent me to tears, could he know how holy that moment was? Emmanuel, God with us, in that office, around that desk. Because they had invited God into the day as well, I wasn’t the only guest in the home.

I realized that they asked absolutely nothing of me, I brought nothing, I gave nothing while there. Maybe the first time ever, I went empty handed, open handed. I stopped being busy and giving and distracted, I allowed them to fill me. I cannot imagine a greater example of what God wants from me, what He longs to offer me. This taste was enticing, a complete surrender to the day, to open my soul and heart completely to the One who truly has grace like vanilla sugar cookies for me, all year long. To arrive broken enough that I accept sanctuary, no longer hiding along the edges, seeking warmth from a blanket instead of His glory. I didn’t have to build a bridge or establish boundaries, I just had to say yes and all of this was open to me. Death, Taxes, mom.  And dad.  Most certainly God.

As I consider the fullness of the day, I am struct by the need to consider how I extend invitations. When I welcome others into my home, do I offer grace and sanctuary? When I welcome others into relationship with me, is the same true? I think the secret may be to ask God first and then fill out the rest of the guest list. Holiness will follow, it will fill the air with cookies baking and no one will worry about death and taxes. Relationship established from conception with our mother, lived out with our Father. No need to search further.

 

 

 

 

 

Ever Moving Shifting Tilting

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

I have known my story forever, aware of the pieces and how they fit. I have categories and labels, every memory neatly organized. Like a puzzle with a thousand pieces, I sit back and look at the completed picture, admire how neatly everything fits, how well I managed to create something of beauty out of all the little random bits. Unlike the boxed puzzles though, I am not done, I keep finding more pieces, some that I would rather cast back, some that enhance the scene. Adjusting, scooting, shaving, rearranging, I am forced to make room. I gaze again. Get comfortable with the new arrangement, determine what it all means. Own my new story. Like the snow gently falling outside, more pieces swirl, my story changes again. My puzzle is ever growing, some days too large to manage. I want to be that person I was, back when I looked like, well, before addiction, before estrangement, before unemployment. But that means no Plum, can’t I keep those pieces?

Constantly allowing more into my story, owning truthful pieces with sharp edges that slice  as well as the sweet cottony sections that glitter with joy means my story isn’t done. I don’t get to sit back and admire. I am not that flat 1,000 piece boxed set that creates a scene to be admired, maybe glued in place and hung on the wall, maybe dismantled and put back in the box. Still that puzzle always go back together in the same way. Look for the edge pieces, find the corners, fill in the center. My story has no outer edges, I can’t find the corners. New information causes a complete readjustment, a tree is no longer brown and green, the sky isn’t filled with clouds. This is what it is to be a kaleidoscope, a shifting puzzle that changes with every movement. Finding that one glorious combination, it is next to impossible to share the view with any one else without a nudge or a slight tilt changing what they see. And just like that, they move the device towards the light and create more color combinations, find their own glorious stories. Who can resist a chance to find rainbows and joy in moving crystals? My story is secondary, only I know what all those pieces meant.

My story will keep changing, I get to tell and own my parts until my last breath. After, the telling will be handed off to those who choose which pieces are important, how they fit together, what it means, how it looks. Will they remember the section over here where we shared love and laughs, filled with light and or only the scenes that hold menacing clouds and monsters and caves?  This is the stuff of legacies, this is the stuff we can’t control. For now, I adjust my puzzle pieces, I make room for more of my story. I embrace the monsters and offer them cookies. I wait for more pieces to arrive, I tilt my kaleidoscope.

 

Still, The Light Shines In

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

I broke a glass in the dishwater. Drain plugged, steaming water filling the sink, soap bubbling up, dishes added and left to soak while I drank coffee and fed beasts. I returned to discover shards of glass hidden amongst the suds, one long stem of a wine glass no longer viable. Knowing danger was waiting, understanding other, safer choices were possible, I slide my hands into the water. The secret rush of wondering whether I would get cut. Would I beat the odds, could I find all the pieces and still get the dishes done? A ridiculous game to play for one who avoids risk. A really stupid choice for one with no health insurance. Yet I wanted to win over the brokenness. Just this little battle, a private struggle at the sink, a wine glass, some soap and me.

I am an expert on broken things. I have little sensation in my fingers so I often drop whatever I am holding, I usually keep lids on my cups. I have the same issue with my feet so I trip and stumble as if just learning to walk, especially after a long day. I break stuff. It is no longer remarkable around our home, we use plastic mostly. I don’t bother with glue, usually I create a mess beyond repair. More than that though, I am broken inside. I know my broken soul, my broken heart. These fractures are not meant to be mended either. The words of the great Leonard Cohen express it best, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” My brokenness allows for grace, opens me up for growth. But fractures hurt. Each snapping of a relationship, a connection severed, carries shock-grief-aching-howling-wondering why-rush-to-fix time. I can embrace my broken soul, I give that to God. My heart, though, not so readily. I still howl, I still ache. I resent the cracks, I don’t see the stitched together portions as beauty, I want wholeness. Gifting love to another comes without their promises to handle with care, their assurances not to trip or stumble. Giving without strings, keeping that thread to close our own wounds, unconditional love, agape. This is how we break inside.

Like the glass in my dishwater, many broken things will never go back together, their purpose in my life complete. Facing that reality is easy with a wine glass, unthinkable with a marriage, a career, a child. How do we go on, do we howl forever, do we mourn continually, do we sit in the broken shards, naming and counting our cuts, watching our life drain away? The greater risk is to get a new glass, a fresh start, some Neosporin and a bandaid. Each step moving us away from the pain, maybe edging us to newness, to light. I didn’t get cut when I reached into the water. I walked away whole this time.  I have more glasses, I have a healing broken heart. I have new relationships and other wounds still fresh, maybe never to be fully restored. Still, the light shines in. Just as a prism reflects one light into a rainbow, God uses my broken heart, brighter more colorful lights reaching His other broken hearts, a beacon of welcome, a guide to find our way home. With Him as my Healer, my glue, the One to stitch me back up, I howl and cry more softly, I ease toward a new day.

 

Which Gilmore Girl Am I?

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

I finally completed my Gilmore Girls marathon. Not the new editions, the 7 seasons I watched as they came out, rewatched with my Stella. Like millions of others out there, this was our show, our story. I wasn’t sure I could handle sitting alone on the couch, clicking next over and over, if this was masochism, picking at a wound that never heals. Yet something pulled me to the series. Maybe I was searching for answers on how to bridge the gap, maybe I wanted to capture a sense of Stella, whatever the cost. I discovered truths I wasn’t expecting, I gained perspective. Our show, our story provided plenty of warnings, I missed them all.

I was always Lorelia, Stella was Rory. It was clear. We were buddies, we hung out, we enjoyed each other. We were the envy of other mother-daughter relationships in our circle. We were so tight we often excluded others unintentionally, we just had too much history, too many inside jokes. Thoughts from my mind were processed into hers and the response delivered, light speed. We didn’t slow down for anyone else nor did we think we needed to. Chef was our Luke, he made us food, was grumpy. We forgot he wasn’t playing a role, he wasn’t a character. He didn’t appreciate being second fiddle role to his step-daughter. Meal time was rough, Arrow and Chef were often frustrated because we monopolized the conversation. It was our bit. Endearing around the table at Luke’s or Emily’s but not so much for real people who want to be in the show as well, active and not sitting in the audience. We missed that, we were too absorbed with ourselves. Still, I was Lorelia and she was Rory.

I noticed this run through just how enmeshed they were, how Rory was a late-bloomer in many of the normal teenage separation rites. I noticed how Lorelia interfered, got friendly with boyfriends, decided she needed a relationship with them as well. I noticed just how manipulative yet desperate Emily was, I saw her with understanding eyes this time. I got that the inability of Lorelia to seal the deal with a suitor, her relationship with her father cast a long shadow. What I saw differently the most though was the big fight, when the break between Rory and Lorelia took place. I remember being so angry that Lorelia was not going after her, was not doing everything she could to fix the rift. This round, I heard her say she trusted her daughter, she would find her way back. (Easier for her, she knew she was safe in the pool house and the break only lasted 2 months) I watched as she ached and avoided and tried to bring new things into her life to fill the gaping hole left by her daughter. She gets a dog, she remodels her home, she gets engaged. She is rash and determined and still unable to watch shows or go places because everything is connected to Rory. Easier for Rory, she left, she is on new ground. I knew Lorelia’s pain.

I watched Rory struggle too, all the times she wanted to call her mom and share the tiny moments of her day. She didn’t break down in one crash, instead she eased back, she had pride. I knew, just knew with a certainty that defies understanding, that my Stella has felt the exact same way, reaching for her phone before realizing she has chosen not to share anymore. It was hard to watch the reunification, yet like an archeologist dusting gently for clues, I hit next, I watched. When Rory was ready, she came back. That is what I came for, she came back. I wanted more. I wanted a secret recipe for the breadcrumbs to create a trail, to lure her home. I wanted to see something maybe I had forgotten. It wasn’t there.

What hit me the hardest though is that I think my Stella no longer sees me as Lorelia. She has become convinced I am Emily, that her life has been full of manipulations and tricks, that she has to move far away to escape “that world.” I may be Emily, I have followed her path of sending lots of things through the mail, not useless antiques but bits of her keepsakes left in the attic, drawings from Plum, letters, cards, pictures. It worked for Emily, not for me. I realized Emily was always trying to draw her daughter back, wanted to heal their fractured relationship but was too broken herself to make the changes needed to keep her. I hurt for Emily. I hurt for them all.

Finally I watched the revival episodes and ugh has been written about them. Many are disappointed, they wanted story lines resolved. I am really good with the series. All the women of the Gilmore family have found each other, have found a way back into relationship that is healthier and less enmeshed. Patterns are repeating, yes, but many have been broken. After all thats the best we can ask of any of us.

I completed my marathon, I survived the desperate yearning to laugh with my daughter. I found that I am stronger and healing and while still waiting, I too am filling my life up to cover the gaping wound. I know my own Rory will return one day, this isn’t Stars Hollow but it will always be home. Coffee is always available, mom and Chef are here. One day she will call, text, appear. I pray I remember my lines, that all she hears is grace. I pray I remember she is an adult and not a character on a show, not a child returning home from camp. I pray I can give her the space she needs. Mostly I pray I get the chance.