Category: Arrow

stories of addiction, relapse, recovery

Prison Visit

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, The Chef4 Comments

The leader of our United Methodist Women’s group put out a request on our Facebook page, I wasn’t really a member but it caught my eye. A woman from another church had contacted our group to see if anyone was available to drive a mother to Indy to catch a bus that would then drive her to see her son in prison. The Indianapolis Methodist church provides this amazing ministry, the families just have to get there, something out of reach for this local mom. I said I was available before even looking at my calendar. What began almost 3 months ago is now finally coming to fruition today. Many scheduled trips have been rearranged, phone calls and texts at the last minute are common. Today we will drive all the way to the prison, I pray the visit will actually happen. There are never any guarantees.

When I first contacted the mom, she was beyond grateful and the plan was set. Then she realized after her son called her that she may not have her paperwork in order. The visit was postponed. I offered to take her the entire way once it was completed. She thought maybe the next week would be fine. We set a new date. I didn’t realize at the time just how new she was to the correctional system. I could have intervened sooner. I have become an expert. Next week turned into the next and the next until I finally asked the right questions and discovered she didn’t have all the information she needed. She was preparing a mailing to the prison including her drivers license and social security card. Oh dear Lord, the desperation of a mom to see her child. Halting that mailing, I printed off from the prison website the requirements, the addresses, the contact info, the forms. It includes how to dress, another hurdle we have jumped many times. I have lost track of the purchases of a new sweatshirt or scrub pants at the local dollar store in order to fit their dress code, which seems to be interpreted at the whim of whoever is checking in visitors. Still, after she had the correct information in hand, her application to visit was approved and now we are scheduled to go.

What those who have never participated in this venture don’t understand and God bless you all who haven’t, is that the communication with your child is costly. You wait for their calls which are expensive, then you give them the information that you are coming on this day. If something changes, you have no way to alert them, they count those minutes until they see you. The disappointment is magnified, the high of a visit can carry an inmate for long after you leave. Waiting, waiting for them to call your name, to say your people have come, the best feeling ever. What your family doesn’t know is that you have to suffer intense indignities just to see them, strip searches both before and after. If the visit occurs during a scheduled count time for the prison, you are made to leave your family in the hard plastic chairs and stand against the wall with the other inmates, searching for somewhere to look as they all try either to send you supportive glances, telling you they know you are more than this or averting their eyes, knowing your shame. The humiliation of all the inmates has cast a shadow over the room, distorted the visit. That brief hour you got to pretend you were a brother, a son, a father only, was destroyed by the harsh bark of the C.O.: COUNT TIME! Still, you will endure it all, to have time with your people.

You will endure the fact that you cannot touch any money, they must walk to the vending machines and purchase gas station quality hamburgers and rubbery pizza slices and bags of chips and then push you to eat it all while also asking you a million questions that you cannot bear to answer, you only want to hear them speak. You have waited so long to see them and then you realize you live in different worlds where eye contact is dangerous and you don’t share anything personal. They hug you as soon as you enter the room and your mom wants to keep hugging you but that elicits another bark, NO TOUCHING. What you most notice is the smell, the way they smell of fresh and clean and outside. You keep sniffing. They think you are sick and you are, an illness borne of captivity. You can’t explain anything to them, they ask if you are friends with any of the other men around you, you ask them not to talk about those people. Lines are drawn behind the door that you have to cross through again in an hour. You eat the chips and drink as much mountain dew as you can but not too much because if you have to pee that means you will be accompanied into the bathroom with a guard while your family watches. You endure all this humiliation to see them. They pretend not to notice and chatter about life outside. This is a visit and it saves your sanity. If it doesn’t happen, if it is canceled, you have nothing to hold you together.

See, I have been the visited and the visitor. Today I will drive a mom to see her son and I will not chatter and I will not ask questions. I will wait and know that though she arrives on time she may be denied without first buying a new sweatshirt, she may wait for an hour before he is released to come see her. I will take a good book and I will pray fervently that she is able to connect with him on whatever level they both need. I will drive her home and plan for the next month. Because going to visit your child in prison is just about the most awful experience ever and one that many of us look forward to. My thoughts are bogged down in all the visits I made, all the hopes for a future with my son after his release, the pictures I sent, the calls I accepted, the chips I bought. I regret none of it. We survived his incarceration. We learned there are no guarantees of the next visit, no promises that even though everything seems in order, we will be permitted a future. We know life is just hard sometimes, most times and mercy and grace and second chances are all we have to offer each other.

Today I am driving a mom to visit her son in prison. I can celebrate that she is finally taking the next step in the process, pray that when we get to the grounds she will get to see him. Will you join me in prayer for this family, for all  the families of those incarcerated? The scars remain long after the gates open. The shame and humiliation are not shed when we put our own clothes back on. The long road to recovery is twisted, perilous. The only way to navigate it is with friends new and old and from afar shining the light of God on us, leading us home. Can you spare a little light today for someone searching for their way? We could really use your prayers.

Rude Pants

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

I am horrified and dismayed to report that my sweet little Plum woke this morning in a rather foul mood. Actually he woke me up and then things turned foul. It was too early, not by much but I have been too tired lately for our extra early rises, I needed that 15 minutes more. I said go back to bed, he said I was a rude pants. I said go back to bed, he went downstairs and turned on the tv. Now I was facing a choice, a really terrible choice where I lost no matter what. I could stay in my very warm bed and try to go back to sleep for a few minutes and know that I had given in to a 6 year old. Or, I could get up and send him right back up to his bedroom thereby getting the beasts roused and my blood pressure roused and him further roused. If you are guessing I stayed in bed to avoid being more than a rude pants gran, well, you know my heart’s desire. But I got up. Thus you should know I am the rudest pants of them all. The very angry child went back to his room and the beasts and I made coffee.

See we have a rule in our home, the best boy ever cannot get up until 6 am. He has a digital clock in his room to let him know if it is time yet to wake the grandparents. Because he is such an early riser, this has saved us from 4:30 starts to our day on many occasions. This has allowed him to exercise some control over his morning, to understand the boundaries and not be in a position to ask without all the information at his disposal. So waking me too early was an out of bounds request and had to be addressed. An attempt to push the clock rule just a bit. With summer coming, I knew I had to tighten up. With it being Sunday and his return to Mama, I knew I had to be sure he was well rested and anyway I could nap later. All this made my choice of getting up to be the enforcer easier, to be crowned the rudest pants of all somewhat palatable.

Later, as we discussed the need for rules, like was it okay for his 3 year old cousin to race across the street yesterday even though I was shouting her name and telling her to stop (the other children watched in horror having already internalized that rule) or like if cars don’t choose to stop at red lights or drive on their side, he understood people have made those regulations to keep us safe. We talked about bigger statues like no killing and being kind, who’s rules are those? Those are God’s he knew. But still, guidelines that keep him in bed when he wants to get up, hard to take. I get it. Accountability is for the other people. All the other people who are not me. We addressed that idea as well. Dear Lord, this is a large mug of coffee day, a bit more sugar added, if we have to hit on all this before 6:30 am.

As a parent with some truly complicated relationships with her children, I analyze and inspect every choice I make with Plum. I look at how I raised my two and am determined to not make any of the same mistakes and to keep doing what I think I did right with them. One child graduated from college, taught in a foreign country, seemed to be such an independent thinking young woman. The other has chosen a different path, took a detour through years of drug use and the ensuing addiction facilities before a stint in jails and prisons slowed him down. He now is out, has completed secondary education and is gainfully employed. He is, I believe, helping to support the new family he is creating although he has not yet caught up to supporting the child he left behind. Still they both began their lives wrapped in love and books and songs and full knowledge that I meant what I said and followed through. I did the hard stuff, but not enough hard stuff. I tried to save them from too much. I intervened too often. I didn’t let them learn to be accountable. Until it was too late and I wondered why they didn’t just know.  Why did they feel so entitled? They aren’t alone, regardless of their unique situations. An entire generation has lost it’s footing, feels completely justified in breaking away when they don’t like what they hear, don’t like the rules, don’t like being told to go back to bed or to work or to the table to talk. More than rude pants, those of us who try to enforce some rules or boundaries are labeled toxic.  I like rude pants better.

As I have scoured the internet for information regarding estrangement, I am flabbergasted at the plethora of memes and Pinterest quote pages devoted to each person’s right to cut off those who just don’t make us feel good. There are days I spend so lost in all that I did wrong that I can’t imagine any other result than to be cut out of my daughter’s life. I replay the conversations and the conflicts that arose when she became involved with her now husband, issues we never had before. It is easy to say it is all his fault but maybe she always felt that way and just didn’t have an escape route. Then I wake up to a new day and remember all that I did right, I replay how deeply we laughed and how long we talked and know she escaped to another continent and we were still good. But still, it isn’t his fault. It is ultimately her choice, she is accountable and that breaks me further. What I am sure of is this, I didn’t teach either of them to discard me. I didn’t teach them to find no value in me, I didn’t teach them that people have no worth and that we throw them away if they don’t make us feel good all the time. This I am sure of. Sometimes people hold us accountable, we have rules to follow. It rarely feels good to be the enforcer, if you are a mercy kind of person or one who just wants to stay in your warm bed. It likewise doesn’t feel good to be reminded of the rules, regardless of our age. Reminded of family norms and customs and fitting a new spouse into those, making room for different ways, that is a place rife for conflict and misunderstanding. It may require much time at the table talking. Accountability for all.  A review of the rules, an adjustment of some, relaxing of others. Family meetings, we used to have those, where we hashed out issues and practiced conflict resolution. I know we modeled that. I think she has forgotten.

Most of my research shows adult children who describe choosing estrangement from “toxic” parents who were abusive, who suffered serious psychological disorders, who held them back from their dreams and stunted their growth. I am either so blind or lack any insight at all but I just can’t find myself in these descriptors. I search for nuggets of truths, because she hasn’t told me. I look for our story because I only know my half. I can only be accountable for what I know and it is missing the pertinent pieces. I beg God daily for a chance to hear my wrongs and atone. How can I ever do better, how can I possibly not mess up with Plum if I just don’t know? He is angry with me, I am quite honestly not all that pleased with him when he wakes me too early and starts our day with a battle. But I hold him accountable and I require that he discuss the problem with me. I allow him to be mad at me but not disrespectful. I am the rudest of all the rude pants but I am trying to be a better parent. We sing, we read books, we laugh deeply and we have long talks. Please please God let this story end differently. Show me how to live it out so that my heart is not thrown away just when it all gets so good, when all the hard stuff is done.

Just in case, I teach Plum about mercy and forgiveness also. I am sure I taught Stella and Arrow about this as well, but I work extra hard on these lessons. We practice second chances and fresh starts, we give out apologies and we learn to accept them. We allow anger and frustration and real feelings to roam throughout our home and then we figure out how to bring joy back in to the mix. Some days I miss Stella so much that I don’t even want to get out of bed, I resent the fact that anyone else does. Why are we even starting another day? Maybe that is why I didn’t want to rise this morning, maybe that is why I am a rude pants today. Still, I rise, in the great horrible words of Maya Angelou. Because maybe today will be the day. If not, I am accountable to another child and a merciful God who gave me a fresh start. I am accountable for this air that fills my lungs, that I not waste it moaning in agony but singing praises in church. I am accountable for these eyes, that I not fill them only with tears of agony but with utter gladness that the lilacs are beginning to bloom. Today I have a second chance, I rise up, drink my coffee and know this is the day.  The day the rudest pants of all will rejoice and be glad in it anyway.

Why God?

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

The first question tiny humans ask is “why” beginning at about age 3 with a vengeance. Even when the real question is how or what or who, they ask why. Parenting websites are full of advice on ways to handle the incessant questioning, I remembering conquering this stage with some redirection and answering the question I thought my children were actually asking. Still, isn’t it interesting that the question we ask first is the one we continue to ask of our God most throughout our lives?  We rarely get the answer we want, yet we keep asking.

Why, God, did the fridge go out just as we were stating to get our bills caught up? Why Why why did our loved ones have to die so soon, before we were ready to let them go? Why do our children take that first drink, that first hit off of a pipe? Why won’t our kids answer our emails, texts, accept our apologies? Why is there such anger, hatred, divisiveness in our world? Why did my husband have his job taken away just after we bought a car, when we finally were starting to see some financial security? The questions go on and on, I am sure you have many of your own. In times of great pain and hardship and worry, the questions come faster and louder. Our faith holds us up as we shout our queries to the heavens. Why, God?

Anne Lamott says the opposite of faith is not doubt, it is certainty. Asking why doesn’t mean we have little faith, it means we are human. It means we just don’t understand what we are to do next, how we are to cope. Like the 3 year old, our real question may be how. How do I go on? How do I survive this disaster and not fall into a pit of despair? Maybe the question is what. What is expected of me as a Christian in the face of this unthinkable pain? What am I to do when people are mean and I want take a time-out from Jesus walking and just punch them or lash out or tell the truth about them while they are sharing my secrets? Maybe the real ask is when. When is enough enough, when will my sorrow have reached the breaking point? When will real change come and I no longer have to be fearful? I wonder sometimes if the question isn’t who. Who are you God. During our most hurt and afraid times, we seek out the face of the One we need, like the child who wants mom even when mom just sent her to time-out. We want to see God, want comfort when we feel alone and scared and worried that we are in this messed up world making big choices all by ourselves. Ultimately, the question is can God handle our questioning? I think He welcomes them.

I remember when my kids first started asking their “whys.”  When Plum’s began I was more than ready. The curiously about their world, the readiness to explore and discover meant we were about to have many conversations. It meant I was going to be challenged to be present, to give them my outmost attention. My words were going to count with them, I had a chance to make an impact, right then.  Until the day we stopped talking, both of my children still came to me to help explain their worlds. Plum asks me questions everyday. I relish my role as information guru. Just last night mama called with a question as she and Plum were reading a book about space and Plum wonder where Heaven was in relation to outer space. Mama wanted to get the words right, thought maybe they better call in some back up. On speaker phone, I asked questions myself. “Plum, where is God?” Heaven.  “Where else?”  Everywhere.  “Who made the sun, the stars, the moon, outer space?”  God.  Okay Gran, I get it, Heaven is where God is and heaven is everywhere. Goodbye. He quickly hung up, satisfied with his own answer, settling the query himself.

I know that teaching our children to ask the real questions and learn to find the answers for themselves is one of the most rewarding parts of parenting. Is it any less so for God? Maybe He gets a little weary of our asking in times of trouble, “Why me, God?”, when there are so many who are hurting more deeply.  But like a patient parent, He shows up to listen and guides us to the answers. Not always the ones we want, maybe a little redirection is in order, but still, we get the answer we need. So as I rise each morning and ask God how much longer, I find something else to do while I wait. I find a woman who needs help filling out the paperwork to go visit her son her prison and then needs a ride to get there. I find that a friend recently diagnosed with cancer, a friend who has graced my door with meals so many times over the years, could use the efforts of my cooking ability today. I mumble how much longer and then I get busy writing up a newsletter article or agreeing to be an usher. God redirects my whining and moaning into worthwhile activity and I forget that I was asking a question. I remember that the world is also hurting and I have something to help heal a small piece of it.  I figure out where God is and then I go see some of HIs people.

Why God? Why do You keep loving us when we make such a mess of things? Why do You stay so faithful when we stray? Why do You show such forgiveness when we just don’t?  Really those are the why questions that matter. The only answer is grace.  Let us all practice answering with extra grace whatever is asked of us. Those annoying angry bitter hurtful questions may just be hiding a real ask for comfort and grace. Can’t we offer that light today? Maybe figuring out where God is and showing up there, that will bring us all closer to the answers.

 

Rediscovering Fruit

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

Our countertop is littered with fruit when Plum is here. Fresh strawberries are his favorite so along with the bowl of apples, they are a constant.  Most often juicy oranges and just getting ripe bananas are added as Chef stops at the store on his way home when he knows Plum is waiting, selecting also purple grapes and a couple of kiwi. We have way too much fruit when Plum is here, his stays are shorter but our fruit purchasing hasn’t caught up to that. Chef doesn’t eat it, I stopped years ago when money was tight and I was saving all the fruit for the kids. I noticed recently that I only eat it on vacation or when we are dining out, when it is presented as an option someone else is offering. Even though I have lush fruit on my counter, I don’t indulge. I look at it longingly but something within me stops my hand from reaching for grapes, doesn’t allow a clementine to grace my plate, I rarely taste an apple unless finishing one Plum has left behind. In truth I love fruit as much as he does. This sacrifice is no longer necessary and may really be cutting me off from essential goodness. Last night on my way home I bought fruit for me. I felt wicked, naughty, self-indulgent. It tasted so delightful.

As moms we sacrifice much for our children, we begin the act of parenting by giving way to our very own personhood, allowing chemistry and biology to alter us. We feel ill, we are stretched from the inside out, we wobble, we become the carrier of another. It is almost a given that we get lost in the process, that everything we do becomes centered on the life we are growing. Once the baby is shed from us, the long process of losing them to the world begins, our womb and personhood take many months and maybe years to recover. Still we are charged with nurturing the new life, fully dependent on us to become a real person, so we focus on them. Our bodies, our persons never fully regain equal standing. We are a role much more than a woman. Thus, the fruit goes to the kids when money is tight and I have to learn again to eat it. I have to grasp after all these years that something so basic as the gifts of the harvests are meant for me as well.

I watch Plum eat his strawberries, his eyes shine. Juice from the clementines streaks down his arms. He is joyous. We soak up his joy like the napkin collecting the sticky sweetness on his chin, aware he is getting this goodness. Last night I bought both of those, for me, knowing Plum wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. Surely there will be plenty left when he returns, but I tasted the gorgeous strawberries, felt the sunshine of the seasonal light my soul. I added a sweet ripe banana, the soft slices the perfect accompaniment to my dinner. I knew the exuberance of eating well, the richness of the earth. Aren’t these the very symbols Paul uses to describe what the Holy Spirit offers us? I have to wonder how cutting myself off from the real fruits has allowed me to wall my soul from the gifts the Spirit brings? Certainly those gifts are the byproduct of trusting so deeply in God’s plan, allowing Him to be the gardener in my life. What if bad jobs are weeds being pulled, what if unhealthy relationships are plucked away like bad seeds? What if long seasons of quiet are preparing my soul soil for a great planting, a rich harvest to come?  Knowing God is in charge of the gardening, that my Fruits come from not too much self-sacrifice any more than over-indulgence, I am beginning to wonder where I might notice more goodness, more gentleness, more peace, more faithfulness. I am a joy and love noticer, but not so much with forbearance and maybe I have some self-control work to do. Like strolling through the fruit section of the store and only finding apples, I have been availing myself of too little fruit.

With each bite of the clementine I will have for breakfast, I am asking God to show my His fruits and where I might find more peace. I am going to add an apple in to my lunch, another quest for goodness. Dare I have more strawberries as an afternoon snack? I may have swung too far the other way but my oh my, years of sacrifice have lead me to this: once I taste the fruits of the Spirit, I really want more.

22-23 But what happens when we live God’s way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely.  Galatians 5:22-23 Message 

22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Galatians 5:22-23 NIV

The Great Fence Man

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

I am counting days, marking off my mental calendar, until the fence man appears. The invisible line that protects our beasts is no longer enough for both of them. Our Lab, my beast, respects the boundary. He hears the warning chirp emitted from his collar as he nears the edges and he retreats to safety. He doesn’t cross. The Golden, Chef’s rotten horrible spoiled bully who refuses to share any bones, he has discovered that a bit of a shock is worth the adventure of touring the neighbor’s yard. He runs freely across and mocks my poor beast. He chases my cats who used to be able to cross the invisible line and feel safe. He just has no concern for the established boundaries and now we have to put up a fence, a real fence, a big jail around our yard to keep everyone in and safe and I can’t wait for the fence man to get here. We could have gotten one of those outdoor kennel set-ups, much less expensive. Yet the boundaries on those for our big beasts would have been cruel. They have long legs built for running, they have instincts to explore, they want to bring balls back for us to throw again. Well, my beast does, Chef’s Golden prefers to collect them all in his mouth because he doesn’t share and is horrible. Still, boundaries too close leave none of us satisfied.

These beasts remind me that we all make decisions to either stay within the lines or push free and that consequences are sure to follow. Not that everyone is facing jail time for breaking out, but I can’t decide which of my beasts is the true lesson. I really want it to be mine, who runs to the door to alert me that his sibling has once again chosen a path that could lead to trouble for all. He is a rule follower for sure. I want the lesson to be about following God’s plans for us and respecting the boundaries, even ones that are harder to see like the ones our loved ones set out for us. But then I see our Golden running so freely with a smile on his face, which is true for Goldens most of the time anyway so I have to take that in to account, but still, he just looks so happy. Unencumbered by the restrictions placed on him, new rocks and trees to smell, exciting new places to pee, what joy! Accepting that a bit of pain may be necessary to find our true spirit, is that the lesson God holds our for me here? Where is the fence man? If only I had more time to consider this all without jumping up and down every few minutes to check on beasts.

I really wonder if maybe my actual lesson isn’t the anticipation of freedom that I imagine at the surrendering of theirs. That hasn’t been lost on me. Much like the times I have used a child’s time-out to actually go to the bathroom alone and I always feel freer when Plum is finally asleep in bed, I am a mother hen who only feels truly able to do as I please when I know exactly where all my baby chicks are. Knowing that I can no longer just let the beasts outside without supervision means I have no rest, no down time until they are safely back in. With the nice weather coming, they don’t want to be in. In out, up down, we are in constant motion that leaves us all tired but not spent. No one is satisfied with the current arrangement, I call them back in too soon for their wandering spirits, I keep them closer to try to manage any runaways. They fuss to go out when a squirrel braves the porch, taunts from the other side of the door. They need to run and play. I need space from them. We need a fence. Did I mention I can’t wait for the fence man to appear? Balancing their need to run and explore the world and my desire to keep them safe is a constant struggle. But deeper than that, I realize my heart is never fully at rest until I know my other baby chicks are safe as well.

I have been fenced in or out, depending on perspective. Without knowledge that they are running freely, exploring the world within the bounds of God’s fences, I just worry. I fret and call for them in my dreams. If only I knew they were respecting boundaries, were establishing safe ones for themselves, couldn’t I just rest? I am anticipating some pushback from our beasts when they realize the front yard is no longer accessible to them. I imagine sitting up there in peace with coffee and my laptop in the early mornings while they roam the back yard in search of squirrels and sticks. More likely they will bark and demand that I join them. My fence may not bring all that I hope, it will surely require a different kind of mowing and weed whacking and the front door will need more attention so we don’t have escapees. As I spoke with the fence man, we talked about where to put the gates. Ah, yes gates. We have to have access beyond the back door, other ways to access the jail, the safety zone. I wonder if my Stella has considered putting in a gate. Not an all access opening, one that could still have a lock, but an way into her fenced off heart. An invitation to see that she runs freely, that she is secure. If only I knew that Arrow was respecting the safety of his fences, my God wouldn’t I rest? I don’t need to run freely about their yards, sniff their rocks, only peer over the fence sometimes to catch of a glimpse of their smiling faces as they explore their worlds still sheltered from harm.

When the fence is erected, I will plant flowers along the edges, much more flowers around the front yard that won’t get trampled by beasts. Knowing my landscaping is inaccessible from large paws that seek to dig and trample and hide bones and make mud piles, I can garden in peace. My fence can be decorated with joy colors to show it is only for safety, not to keep others out but to ensure that those who need to run can do so without worry of passing cars. Maybe my children have decorated their hearts as well, new joys that sprout up without the worry that I will trample it all with my mothering and busting through the invisible fences. I pray that one day the Great Fence Man will appear to them and show them the wonder of gates. Until then, we are learning more and more about our own need for safe boundaries and the call to run freely. We are learning to balance both as we await the fence man. We are remembering that sometimes we erect a fence that is just too small, we need God’s help in expanding our boundaries to include room to move more safely, we need some help installing those gates. I also know that lessons are sometimes muddled when all I want is some peace and quiet. Soon, soon the fence man will appear.

“Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.”― Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Knock Knock

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

I think transitioning from mother to mother-in-law to grandmother is an overlooked challenge for women. The process of planning a wedding or showers should warn us that we are moving into new territory yet the busyness of it all keeps us from realizing that our role is changing. Really changing. Sure we hear the jokes but think they only apply to others. Then we find ourselves the fodder for comedians, aching wrong turns and missteps that leave us wondering what happened and how did my child change overnight into this other? We used to talk, we used to be close, what happened!! Then a baby comes along and mostly all is forgiven because now they have given us this, a fresh start. Only, wait, what the hell, now we don’t even get that? They want to keep that one too? We scratch our heads and wonder when it will be our turn to love and cradle and cuddle, knowing this babe is just the thing to fill up the whole our child left. Any memories of struggling to establish our own family under the watchful gaze of our own mother-in-law with her fingers itching ever closer to our brand new babe are lost in the flush of the placenta, the smell of baby wipes and the sight of little toes.

Ay ya ya, is it any wonder newly weds and mother-in-laws struggle so?  No one tells us how to do it, how to breathe through the contractions of the new little family, to trust that a new birth of bigger more openness with happen. Like a pregnant mama at 36 weeks, we want it now. We grow tired of waiting. We are ready to push. We hear everyone tell us that resting right now, at this critical point is what is most important. Rest now, because soon you will be called into action. Allow that family to grow and your chance will come. Oh waiting is horrible. Transitions just really suck. We forget that our choices now during the transition set the stage for how the birth of the new family will be experienced by all.

The knock on our Wednesday evening small group classroom signaled more than just an interruption to our group. It was more than just a notice to let me know my Plum wasn’t feeling well enough to last the evening with his friends. It was a warning that life was going to get rough for several days, that more interruptions were coming, that my schedule and timeline were not my own. One moment we were adults talking around a table, knock knock, suddenly I was in full grandma mode where I would remain for the foreseeable (with no sleep and the inability to see much further than this mug of coffee) future.

Plum has croup, not fun with little lungs that grasp for breath sometimes anyway. Oral steroids and nebulizer treatments are helping to open his constricted airways. Neither help close his little eyes to get rest. I want rest. I had planned much rest after making the Wednesday meal for the larger group. I scheduled much rest as we came to the end of this study and my other one that just finished. I was going to do one slow victory lap around my kitchen with a glass of wine and then collapse contentedly on the couch until I was ready to leisurely climb the stairs to collapse in bed for hours and hours and then rise slowly for coffee and more resting in a comfy chair. I love the studies and work at church but my body was making it clear it was time for rest. I could taste it, I was seeing it. Then I heard the knock, knock. I knew in my gut that knock was for me and that my fantasy rejuvenation time was going to be just that, all fantasy.  My head turned in slow motion, letting go of my fantasy to return to reality requires much effort to release those plans: a push of the years in mama mode, the pull of the sickly cough of my best boy.  Slow motion propelled into high gear as something took over, the knowledge that grandmas step up to the job when needed. Wine, rest and comfy chair collapses will wait.

Mama took Plum to the doctor who advised limited access to my Sweetness, if possible.  Yes, it is possible. Knock knock Plum returned and I waved goodbye to mama and Sweetness for the day, the evening, the foreseeable future which looked like forever when Plum was hyped up on steroids and did not want to nap the day away. As I was pulled back out of sleepy mode I remembered many many years ago while in grad school when our family came down with the flu. All of us, both children even.  The real horrible flu. So my mother-in-law at the time, God rest her soul, came to nurse us all. That time is hazy, a feverish sweaty tear-stained memory mush. What has remained after all these years is the selflessness of that grandma who drove an hour to come sleep on a couch, to wipe brows and mope vomit, to make soup and do laundry, days and days of nursing a baby and a toddler and two grown adults now rendered helpless and worse than children.  Surely she had plans before that phone call, ring ring, created an interruption that challenged her physically and mentally and was not in any way a fun visit with her grandchildren. She stepped up and delivered. She is one of my grandma role models, one of the women I pattern myself after. There when needed, not intrusive when not. She mastered the transition.

Chef’s mom has served us in such way, I have been blessed in mother-in-law selection. Grandma J has starred in many blog posts for her selfless appearances at every one of my surgeries and the nursing afterward, she shows up for all the kids events and never misses the chance to send a card with $5. Much has happened behind the scenes with her as Chef and I grew into our marriage, establishing our family and our boundaries and making room for us all. Still she shows up and doesn’t judge the state of my refrigerator or flower bed s and always asks for a recipe. She just genuinely allows for my dignity as I make sure she has time with her son alone also. The transition wasn’t always smooth but worth the effort as we built trust and found space for our new family dynamics. She is one of my favorite people, a valued resource who is welcomed into my home and has claimed my heart. Creating all these different kinds of family places is challenging but matters most when someone interrupts our daily life and asks that we show up. She always answers the knock with a yes. Together we mastered the transition.

As a child I remember when my mother’s mom was dying. I didn’t know it then that was what was happening, I just knew my brothers and I were pulled out of bed during the night and taken across town to my dad’s mom. She opened the door as we were being carried up to it and she said no.Knock knock, no. She would not have her plans interrupted. She would not have her home in disarray. In the midst of this trauma, my mother had to find alternative care for her 3 children. I am sure she never forgave her mother-in-law. That night we met an extended aunt in the town I now call home. I have warm feelings for her, I never really bonded with my paternal grandmother. This woman was never a grandma to me, the antithesis of who I wanted to be when I grew into my own role as mother-in-law and gran. She didn’t understand how to transition, she wanted her son to stay her son and the rest of us to fall in line with her plans. Disaster.

It matters not how often you see someone but what you do when that knock happens. When the call comes in and the need is there. Do you show up as a grandma? Can you set aside your plans for wine and victory dances and comfy chairs? One day I pray the knock is from my daughter, I will always say yes. I won’t ask to hold the baby, I won’t reach for the toddler. I don’t do either with mama now. I have mastered the transition after many hard pushes and pulls, I know my role as mother-in-law. Show up when asked, stay out of the way when not. Put a bit of food in the fridge and send a card with $5. Back away slowly. Of course I long to hold the baby, who doesn’t really? I have huge gaping wholes in my heart about the size of new grandchildren who are 10 hours away, a daughter who is emotionally a million miles away. Still, I wait for the invitation and pray that when the knock happens, I can summon the strength to let go of my own needs and accept the request to be present for hers. That is how we master the transition.

Knock knock. Who will answer? Just as God shows up always, I pray we find a way to be present for those who need us and not show up as needy ourselves. Being a servant is really the best descriptor of a gran’s role that I can find, not the lady of the manor. That job already taken. Cookies. Cookies help too. Even daughter-in-laws like cookies. Come to think of it, my mother-in-law always brings cookies. Of course that is mostly because my husband tells his mother that hers are better than mine, but that is a completely different post. Show up, let God work out the details of when we are supposed to get our rest and our wine and know when to back out. Always say yes to the knock. Easy-peasy.  Oh and that hole, where our child used to be, God has plans for that. Can you hear Him knocking?

 

 

 

 

 

Ta Da!

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

Gran, where’s purple blankie? Honey, have you seen my briefcase?  Nanny, I can’t find my______.  Lisa, do you know where I set my ______ down? Like the chorus to our family song, these questions ring out with such frequency I almost don’t hear them anymore. I just begin looking, I go retrieve the missing item. Like our beasts who can sniff out a tennis ball behind the couch or under a cabinet, I just know where lost things are. No need to pray to the saint of missing items around here, it never gets that serious. Ta Da, here you go!  I am the hero for a few fleeting seconds, family member reunited with item, all is well. Of course, that means these people never really are responsible for their stuff, not with a built-in finder at the ready. I previously thought this was a superpower that made me special to them, I have come to realize that it kept them from being able to search on their own, a skill they would need throughout their lives.

Being a mom to my children was more important to me than just about anything, like breathing or eating. I overdid it on many aspects and hindsight allows me to see my mistakes, attempts to swing so far away from my own childhood that I created other problems. I left my kids with deficits that now are glaring, now haunt me. In my efforts to protect them and make their lives happier, to make up for earlier trauma, I forgot to let them struggle just a bit. I forgot that they needed to learn to find stuff on their own. It feels great to be so needed in the rush of everyone’s lives, when buses are coming or carpools are waiting and I could hold up the desired book bag or sweater, but that meant they didn’t learn to look for what they wanted, they didn’t learn to miss what was gone. I thought they had enough struggle early on, I wanted to save them from anymore. Oh, Hindsight, you wicked devil. It felt so wonderful to be needed in the moment, now I am missing and they don’t know how to search for me. They can’t find their way home and back to truth and into forgiveness. I think maybe they just gave up and got replacement moms, relationships that were easier and immediate and Ta Da required little of them.

I left my children without the skills needed to stick with the search, to uncover truth like pillows on the couch, to compromise as if bending to hunt below the bed. They give up too easily, forget the fun of the hunt. I remember one birthday party when we held a scavenger hunt during Stella’s sleepover, all the girls fanned out around the neighborhood. What was expected to be an hour game quickly turned into a bust when one household went through the list and gave that pair everything on it. The girls returned triumphant, unaware that they had really lost and destroyed the game. Robbed of the opportunity to ask many times for help, one stop gave everything. The goal was not really winning, the journey was the fun part. The neighbor thought they were helping I am sure, just as I always thought I was. Kids need to learn to search and find and ask and look.

Sometimes when we search for one thing, we find a different treasure all together. I began writing to seek my own voice and have found a place where many feel heard. Each holiday season as I prepare to decorate I come across something in a closet that I forgot was stashed away, the blessing of a short memory, maybe. Still, treasures lurk waiting to be found. Exploring is the journey, finding riches in my soul I didn’t expect, finding connections to God I would have missed if I chose not to go looking.  Oh how I wish I had taught the kids to seek. I can’t undo the damage with my children who are now adults. I pray they someday will learn to ferret out truth, they will become eager to seek forgiveness and dole it out like the grand prize. Ta Da! We found you, Mom!  Until then, I can change my role as “Super-Finder” with Plum. He loves to explore already, it won’t take as much to help him learn to seek out what he wants most. Not so sure it will work with Chef, he is already grown. And I AM really good at finding things.

One day I pray I will find my daughter again. Ta Da! I pray my son will find his way, Ta Da! I know that God, the Great Finder of all us lost souls, has prepared the way. The best hunt ever, the most glorious find ever, a journey that will ultimately only happen with Him as the guide. So I keep looking to Him, knowing the struggle is teaching me much. There is no one place to find all that I need to get reunited with my lost children, I have tried all of my super-powers to make it so. The time is not right to find them. They have to find me. When they just can’t do without me anymore. Like Plum and his purple blankie, often he goes to find her on his own, he can’t wait until I finish my task. When their need is that great, they will look back towards home. I will be here. Just where they left me. Ta Da!

May you find what you are seeking today, may your heart be filled with joy and just enough curiosity to seek out what God is nudging you to look for. Treasures await, my friend.

My Mother Is Yellow

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella3 Comments

When asked her favorite color my mother would have told you it was blue. Still, I think of yellow when I remember my mom, years spent peering up at the counter as she mixed and measured cakes using her yellow pyrex bowl. When she pulled this bowl out of the cabinet I knew delicious things were in my future. I could consider the electric skillet as a symbol of my mother, she did a lot frying for our family. But the yellow bowl, that was the good stuff. That was when mom was making cookies and cakes and the extras, before boxes made the process easier, faster. The yellow bowl meant dessert, meant mom was going to hand out one electric beater and the emptied bowl to each of her three children to lick, the pre-dessert to children who hovered about her legs and watched and probably whined as she spent even more time in the kitchen after working outside our home and making meals all week. Yellow is my mom to me, the times she nurtured us with sweet delights beyond just feeding us.

I always knew that when she died, the bowl would be my inheritance. One day though before she left us, I discovered it in my brother’s cabinet. I had never told her what the bowl represented, I am not sure I knew it back then.  She had already given it to him, she no longer needed such a big item as her baking days were mostly behind her. She bought her cakes and pies and treats at the store or more accurately, her husband did. Each trip to my brother’s house saw me trying to sneak the bowl away, his watchful eyes ensured I was never successful. A trip through some antique shops allowed the purchase of not one but two of these bowls, a back-up, just in case. Not the same, not the years of mom scraping the sides and standing over it, but still, my cabinet stores my own yellow bowl, a legacy of cakes and cookies. (I have teased my brother that I have swapped out my store purchase with his bowl, that now he has the antique find and I have mom’s. Can you tell I am a bit hung up on this piece of kitchenware?) My Kitchen-Aid makes mixing those items much faster but I still choose my yellow bowl. I use it for more than baking, it holds soups and spaghetti and most any dinner item. I love my yellow bowl, it connects me to the good parts of my mom.

I remember potato salad from that bowl, the best kind of potato salad, the bowl was always  completely full. I still prefer mine at room temperature, like it was just prepared, like I am eating it right out of mom’s bowl, unable to wait for it all to chill in the refrigerator. The bowl meant it was going to taste good and it did. The one caveat is that every year at Christmas she made a braunschweiger ball that I detested. I was called in to help with the process and abhorred sticking my hands in to the icy mess of cold processed meat and freezing ketchup. I have yet to taste this atrocity. Mom wasn’t perfect with her bowl, I have forgiven this misstep.

My brother is the cook in his household, I cook for anyone who sits still long enough. Mom taught us this is how you show love. Don’t tell my brother but I am secretly glad that we both, the only living family left, have a bowl. We have a piece of the good from our childhood. We shared mixer beaters dripping with batter resting on the edge of a yellow bowl, we fought over that bowl and the chance to run little fingers along the smooth surface to catch the batter she purposely left for us.  The times mom was just a mom.

Before she died,  I was seeking a particular recipe from her. I never got it. She was going to look through all of her cookbooks and call me back. I inherited her books but still can’t find the one that I wanted. Seems fitting, I will always want just a bit more from her. Still, most of my calls to her began with the ask for a recipe, she would rattle it off, I better have something to write on ready. She gave ingredients and steps mixed together, I often had to number and edit or if I was familiar with the steps, I left that part out, just getting quantities. Most of the calls with her ended with a scrap of paper, an envelope that was close by now covered in my horrible handwriting as I flew to keep up. These are the recipes I pulled the most, these are stained and rumpled and well loved. These will be my legacy one day when my children consider what color I am. My favorite color is teal but maybe they will remember me as yellow, like a bowl that I pulled out to make them delightful treats. We don’t get to control how the next generation remembers us, but we can invite them to the table while we are still here. My door is open. Are you hungry? I am happy to whip up something to eat, let me grab my yellow bowl.

Good Breaking

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella4 Comments

Apple pie, layers of crusts surrounding cinnamon sugar coated slices softened in juices, cut into wedges and served up, so delectable, an irresistible gift. The baker offers up pieces of themselves, labor and love melting with flour, the tiniest bit of salt. She watches as those with the plates of pie carve into her heart’s gift, fork slicing through the crusty wall, reaching the luscious fruit, she watches as the first taste of her love is taken. Waiting waiting anticipating the moment when taste buds accept her love, know her gift is of herself, that moment when eyes shine and a smile begins, a sigh escapes, the fork returns for another bite. Her soul rejoices, she broke herself into pieces that found new resting places as others accept her slivers of love.

There is a breaking that happens when good is coming, like the sun pushing up over the horizon to interrupt the darkness or the tight shell of an egg releasing the promise of breakfast. Good breaking surrounds me, the rip of paper as my grandson prepares more artwork, the grind of coffee beans wafting me awake.  Finding, noticing the good breaks is challenging when the biggest break is my heart, splintering slivering shattering silently into fragments unrecognizable and irrepable. I watch from a distance as the pieces shred away, captivated by the beauty as light catches memory slices and reflects hopes and dreams. Paralyzed rooted maybe unwilling to stop the destruction anymore I just gaze at the growing heart heap and watch my life loves destroy what I gave them. I don’t think this is good breaking, my pieces seem too shattered and scattered ever be restored. I gave my soul pieces, they rest within others now, aching to be rejoined.

That gorgeous apple pie left out on the counter, left unattended, forgotten, will grow moldy, will sink into the plate, become a heap of mush, the extravagant gift wasted. Apples cut and left to rot are not good breaking. My pieces are too fractured to collect, scattered by the winds of harsh words and shriveled by unforgiving neglect. I watch, wonder if I will ever be whole again, if we will ever celebrate the good breaks of rising suns and the crash into language of a first word, the busting into mobility of a first step. I imagine a place where my heart pieces are reconnected, bigger, more light through the cracks, room for more more ever more still. Those are good breaks. Today I wonder about  growing moldy, slinking down into the juices of despair as I see more pieces of my heart flake off, out of reach.  Then I remember those slivers are not meant to ever come back to me, an egg shell cracked is not to be restored. The glory comes in what is created after the destruction, after the crisp apple loses it peel and the sun pushes us into a new day. More light comes into my broken heart where all of those slivers and slices were carved out. If I am left with only crumbles, I have given the me God said to offer up.

There is good breaking, where more light sneaks through walls into our souls with forgiveness, casting out shadows of shame, slicing up room for new hope and creation. I pray that you can find those broken pieces and see the beauty that came from gifting your love to others. I pray that you can find that grace comes in severing your hold on those gifted pieces. They are no longer ours, any more than the baker would ask for that piece of pie back. Let our hearts be broken and slivers offered, let us rejoice in the light of our crumblings.  This is good breaking.

 

What Will the Church Say?

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith5 Comments

Raw, naked, vulnerable, I sat in the room and listened until I couldn’t anymore. We were discussing Michelle Alexander’s distressing, alarming, so true “The New Jim Crow”, specifically the chapter about what it means to carry the label of felon. Her work deals directly with African-Americans and the War on Drugs yet it is true for anyone caught up in the system. I know, I have a felony conviction from 23 years ago that will never leave me. The formal punishment phase is long over, yet everyday I am reminded that I am less than. I sat in this room at church with these so devoted friends who want to know more, who are asking questions and digging into hard material and I was ready to vomit my shame at their feet. They thought they were talking about abstract others and they were talking about me. Jobs lost, police stops, extra questioning, shame shame shame that never goes away.

Only 2 chapters left in the book, 2 sessions left in the study, is is too late to drop out? I knew it would be hard, I thought it would be so for different reasons. I too am naive. The very thing that makes me want to avoid the group is probably the reason I need to go back, I have been dealing with this brokenness quite openly for almost a year now, March 1st is my blogging anniversary. Dredging up my shame, all the hurtful memories of times I have been pushed back down, is that prep to look at how far I have come? Or really just a bad choice to revisit the past that is not my today and I should go out for a nice walk instead? The words from Steve Wien’s podcast with his wife came back to me this morning, “Be gentle with yourself.”   How to be honest and share those wounds in a way that doesn’t overtake the group, turn it into a session about me while acknowledging  that these events are  hurtful and these assumptions are hurtful and those others are actually sitting right next to you at church? How to take care of me looks more like not stuffing this really hard class back down into the pit with all the other hard times, waiting for the great big eruption in therapy with St. Peter at the gate.

So I will remember. I will tell about the time I found my son almost dead, in his bedroom as I was leaving for church. We called the ambulance, he was taken to the hospital, his stomach pumped. The police came, they ran our names as standard procedure and found my felony. I was separated from my son’s bedside and questioned about whether or not maybe I was hurting him and that was why he had tried to take his life. He was questioned too, to make sure he was safe from me. I wasn’t allowed back with him until he said I wasn’t hurting him. Shame in the midst of trauma and terror and then the doctors no longer looking me in the eye as they gave updates. I was not his mother, the one who found her almost dead son who had overdosed, I was a felon.

I will remember the time I got fired after working for 2 years as a manger at a local thrift store because I chose not to check the box, leaving it blank, not yes or no. I wanted them to ask me so I could tell my story. They skipped it. The hiring manager using a red pen signed off on my application when she hired me and apparently checked the no box, also with her red pen. A stranger complained that I worked there so the owner pulled my application, felt I had lied and fired me. He apologized profusely, said he loved my work, just didn’t have a choice. I was a felon.

I will remember the times, over and over that I did tell my story, did get hired for positions that were all below my skill set and then worked my way up into management level spots, never knowing which day that I walked in would be the one. The one that HR would be waiting there to tell me an anonymous complaint had arrived and while they loved me and had never had a more dedicated employee, they just couldn’t keep me on. Use them as a reference, they love what I brought, but I had to leave immediately. I was a felon, they knew from the beginning, but now some stranger knew as well.

I will remember a local addictions half-way house that loved all the volunteer work I did and asked me to sit on their board, until they found that I had a felony in my past. I was politely and discreetly told I just couldn’t volunteer there. A place that offers hope and second chances shut me out.

I will remember the parents who would not let their children play with mine, the parents at our church who would not let their children come to birthday parities even in public places. Because I am a felon. Shame heaped on me that spilled onto my children.

We punish people with prison sentences, with costly parole and probation fees and time and appointments and then we continue civil and societal punishments to keep them out there, away from the good people in here. A leper colony with oozing sores of criminality, clear violators of our morality. Still, I have found redemption and hope in the cross. I have found friends who care less about where I have been and more about where I am going. I have people who know my story and love me anyway. I have a God who keeps pushing me to get out there, who tells me my shame is the work of evil and He wants me to feel His mercy. The world doesn’t like mercy too much. God wants me to talk about grace so much I dream about it. Amazing grace, we sing those words all the time but do we really offer it to those who most need it?

I was asked in the group if I have ever felt shame for telling my story at church. The wonderful beautiful woman who asked this is one of my secret mentors. She was referring to all the times I have asked for prayers about Arrow. I didn’t know how to answer, I stumbled over my words. No, the church has been incredibly supportive through our journey with our son and his time in prison. Would they respond the same if I were to tell them about me?  My offense is not for drugs, I am a felon. I will always be a felon. Grace tells me I am so much more. Will the church tell me the same thing?