Category: Faith

How Much is Our Share?

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, StellaLeave a comment

I buckled his seat belt, I kissed his check then the sweet spot on the back of his neck and told him I love him. He said he loves me too while distractedly drawing on his new pad of paper with a green gel pen, I was not his focus. Onto the other side of the car to kiss Sweetness goodbye, usually I do this first, he gets the last kiss but today was just out of order, I didn’t give it a second thought as I walked away from the car. Almost there, I heard Mama’s call, “Come Back, Plum is crying!” He was sobbing, wailing, so quickly things had turned. Rushing back I found a very jealous child, one who no longer remembered our “goodbye exchange,” who no longer remembered all the times I told him he is my favorite, including earlier that morning, a child who thought this new baby had taken his place in my heart. His heart was the color of the gel pen, his eyes could only see green.

More kisses, tender listening to all of his fears, a reminder that he will always be my favorite best big boy. Like the cracker crumbs from snacks eaten while he rides, my words and affection mostly all fell on the seat around him, mostly never reaching inside of him for nourishment, to fill his hunger. The damage was done.  Too tired, too emotional to hear what I tried to explain to him, that God makes our hearts expand when we add in more people to our lives, we don’t have to share limited space, he could only accept more kisses and strike out in his hurt.  He is sure that this new baby sister has taken what was his for 6 years and he is wondering what is left. As adults we can smile knowingly, shaking our heads and assure each other that he will grow out of this phase, but I wonder. I wonder if any of us ever really do. Maybe we grow to understand that our siblings are not our enemies, but do we ever fully grasp that the same equation that allows the hearts of our parents to expand is the same for our God?

The meat of it all is the jealousy, the insecurity that we feel when we think someone has more than us, has a better pathway in than us, got the last kiss, that is what troubles us and causes the flailing about, the striking out, the competition for attention. Yet if we were sure that our kiss even if it was the one that came about way before the door closed was meant just for us, held all of the love and joy and power of our God, would it really matter what anyone else received?  If we rested in the glory of the sunrise and knew that was our God telling us we are His favorite, wouldn’t that be enough? Would we have the need to fight over blocks and Lego and new cars and territory if we understood that we can sit secure in the expansive love of our Father, we do not have to compete?

We teach children to share by modeling sharing: here honey, I have an apple that I am cutting into 4 pieces, one for you, one of me, one for you, one for me. That is a wonderful exercise but only works when we begin with the willingness to share the apple. What if we begin with a piece of chocolate cake? Umm… maybe you should get your own, right, this looks really tasty and I actually would like to have it all. Maybe I can be generous enough to give a taste but there will be no splitting this delicacy into 4 pieces. So modeling sharing works in controlled circumstances but do we actually model it without such exaggerated awareness? Most mom’s are bad at this, we don’t share. We give the kids the whole apple, the last apple.  I remember one conversation with Arrow when he hit his late tweens, early teens and began to see me as more than a mom. He asked if I really like only the toast edges that he and his sister left behind, if I truly prefer just the burnt pieces of popcorn. Of course I didn’t always want those, what I came to prefer when my children came along is that they have the best pieces and parts and choices and I would always accept the scraps, if there were any. Thus I missed that opportunity to model sharing with me, that I was worthy of a piece of the apple as well. A mother who will sacrifice all for her children is easily sacrificed, I have learned. I taught them I was less than them. They have graduate degrees in this philosophy now. But I digress.

Do our rights as Christians mean we have to protect our turf? Are we obligated to ensure that the pews never get too full, that we always get the last kiss and don’t allow someone who is not in our family to join in and displace us? This fear of others is our insecurity about whether or not God can love us all, that His love is so big and can get bigger to include more and more and we will not feel less. Maybe Mom didn’t provide for us, Dad never said the actual words, we didn’t feel that love in our homes of origin, we just keep grabbing onto more and more than is our share, trying to make up the lack, taking extra portions and never getting full. We can’t get filled when we feed off of other’s portions, we spread hurt. Insecure adults who say no you can’t worship here, you can’t live here, you can’t go to school here, I need this space.

In truth, God’s orchard is limitless, He never runs out of apple slices. If we understand the idea of an expanding heart rather than a dividing one, oh the rest, the peace! No longer competing, rather we savor the kiss we got and notice not the one that came before us to our neighbor or the one that came after to our new baby sister or the LGBTQ teenager who is loving differently than us.  Love everywhere, big bigger expansive. Soon our apples look like too much for us to eat alone, we notice the juice is sweeter when we see it running down the chin of a hungry child. So what does it take to become so secure in our Father’s love, to trust completely in His expansive heart that our insecurity vanishes? I think the key is to no longer look back to what was, to not spend time in what we want for the future. This moment, this apple, right now. We have a choice to know and to seek out whether we are enough, we have enough, right now. Absolutely in this very moment, was this kiss meant for me? Staying with that one, hearing God whisper that I am His favorite, this can fill me up, millions of granules of sand pouring into all the cracks and broken places, filling me with God’s wholeness.

Becoming whole in God’s love is the ultimate healing of the broken love we inflict on each other, erases the worry about toast edges teaching the wrong lessons and who to kiss goodbye last. Knowing we are going to mess up and hurt each other and others are going to miss that we wanted an apple slice also, we have to turn to the only source of complete love. Poof, just for a moment, calm restored. The next moment is coming though, what will we do with that? Can we allow room for others, can we accept the second to last kiss? I pray we stay right is this place, where the apples are sweet and juicy and God is serving us all. Getting there and staying there are hard work, certainly not any more difficult than battling over who can pray with us. Let’s just share our apples, friends, and our pews and our hearts.  Let the only green we see be that of the orchard. And of course, gel pens. Green gel pens are our favorites.

Empty Tomb No More

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella1 Comment

Recently I wrote about Being Stuck at the Empty Tomb, New Perspective hopelessly out of reach. Rarely have I gotten what I asked for so quickly. Maybe it was my utter devastation, my complete lack of direction. Maybe I was just empty enough to listen finally, to hear the whisper of the Holy Spirit tell me to open my Bible to the book of Romans. I did and what I found was perspective, the exact thing I was seeking. I don’t have easy answers but I have a new outlook, sometimes that is all it takes to start the day anew, to find the energy for a shower , to make lunch, to go smell the flowers.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” How many times have I heard that haunting call of Jesus at the cross, always considering the agony of Jesus dying to humanity, the burden of our meanness and judgments and horrible behavior requiring that he suffer the worst that we may experience the best? I haven’t ever stopped to imagine what God must have felt, to be separated from His Son in that moment. Yes, He knew the outcome, He knew how long it would last, but He also knew that in the deepest darkest moment when His child needed Him, He could only remain close but not fix it all, make it better, stop the destruction. I am horrified to realize that my sinfulness caused God to be separated, even for an instant, from His Son.  I also realize that God fully understands the agony of an estranged parent. He gets that pain of one left alone while sin runs rampant and destroys the family. He knows the only way to restoration and redemption is to be rejoined with Him. All this time while I thought I was suffering alone, begging God to return these children to me, He was saying, “Lisa, I want them to come home to me as well.”

I was drawn to the book of Romans today and as scripture so often does, the words jumped off the screen to me, they were alive.  I read the first chapter and was shocked to see that this new estrangement epidemic was not so new after all. Paul wrote about it: “They keep inventing new ways of wrecking lives. They ditch their parents when they get in the way.” Romans 1:30 I have wondered how my Stella could reconcile such a hard heart with what is preached in church each Sunday, I know my Arrow has stepped far away from his Christian faith. Before either of them can be returned to me, they must return to God. After all, they were His first. His agony must be horrific, to see His children so far away from knowing Him, believing and trusting in Him. In my weakest moments, I thought God had left me in this misery, I missed that we were suffering together.

My new perspective changes nothing in my relationship with my children, or lack of one. What has altered though is my closeness with God. No longer battling with Him, feeling lost in questions about why spring can come again but not my daughter, I understand now that the flowers bloom and the birds chirp as we together look for hope that they too will see those and hear those and remember that He is the creator of all. As my daughter shows the buds of new life to her daughter, surely she is explaining about the God who delivers anew our second chances and forgives us. As my son prepares to welcome into the world his daughter, can there ever be a more spiritual moment than that? Surely they are facing opportunities to find Him again and then they can find me. Perspective, I see you.

I know now that my prayers are not that God might hear me, that He might see my pain and my worry and that He might bring about the change NOW!!! How many times have I moaned that I cannot go on? How many times have I called out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He has been with me all along, the separation only in my mind. No longer helpless or powerless, I am united with a mighty God who can bring these children home, home to Him. Restoration to the greater family of Christ, then to ours. Together then we will smell flowers and feed birds and laugh and go to church and praise a God who loves us enough to give us the hope of spring days during dark winter moments. Now I join with God to pray that they grab hold of the faith of their youth, that they turn back to Him.

My new perspective, not from a bottle or the store but waiting for me in scripture all along. Psalm 62 reminds me: 5Yes, my soul, find rest in God; my hope comes from him. 6Truly he is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

Do you see the lilacs bursting on the bushes, the breeze bringing the sweetness of spring into every open window, filling our homes with soul lifting hope? Can you hear the songbirds, as they busily seek twigs and strings, preparing to build nests and lay eggs and carry on with life, fulfilling their purpose? We won’t be shaken today friends, if we stay steadfast in our unity in the Creator of all. My new perspective is quite an old one, sometimes I misplace it in the dark. Blessedly, God shines some light and doesn’t let me get too lost. I trust He will do the same for those I love.

Stuck at the Empty Tomb

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella1 Comment

I wish I could go to the store and buy a bottle of perspective as easily as a jug of milk. I desperately need it and just can’t find it anywhere. I can purchase anything on Amazon, I can download a book in seconds. Everything seems readily available, at my fingertips before I have fully felt the wanting, yet I cannot get my perspective back. I am lost in a mess of remembering and wishing, usually cured by a spate of travel to mountains or valleys or beaches or to places where others are really hurting and my wounds look less like gaping oozing death-at-my-doorstep slashes and holes and more like pinpricks that itch or irritate but oh look at the view kind of sores. Good Lord, I need some perspective.

I’ve noticed an emptiness, a wandering sort of wanting, that leaves me lost in my head lately. Conversations swirl around me, I forget that I was reading or the show I selected is still playing, I am somewhere else. When I reach for the thoughts that seem to have captivated me so, I can’t quite grasp anything, sliding through gliding away. Daydreaming, unfocused, words float out and away, images hover, this is the edge of the abyss. I know, I have visited here after every hurtful text from my son, after every holiday my daughter is silent. My losses are real, the wounds won’t heal and each month seems to bring another damn holiday to highlight who is missing and what I am without. Some are easier for me, a slow pull to the edge that allows me time to fight back before I ever get close. Others, just too powerful and I am leaning over the cliff before I have pulled in enough breath to last me. I get woozy, I grow weak, I lay down and rest and forget I am supposed to get back up. I wander about in my mind. Sure, memories of joys and laughters and platters of food can threaten my mental health, but I forget I can choose not to breathe my slow breaths at that altar. I can take in lungfuls of goodness and new joys and the aroma of a smaller platter of brunch as well. The only way back is through, maybe, but sometimes it is just to turn around. Turn right around, open my eyes and see what is in my lap. That maybe is my bottle of perspective, awaiting me.

Yes every year, every month brings more opportunities to feel the ache but also the same can be said for chances to notice what is not hurting. Do we ever notice our elbow except when we have banged it on the wall and it throbs? The same can be said for all the things that go right, do they get our attention or only when they break, leak, chip? How many mornings have I gazed out of my office window at the bare bushes, longing for spring, wishing for the lilacs to bloom. Yet here they are, gloriously scenting my entire yard and I  stare past them into the darkness. Feeding the birds throughout winter was an obligation, now they are flying eagerly about, singing chirping calling and I hear them only from the distance I have created. Patio furniture is in place again, I sit on the couch inside. This is misery chosen. Perspective cannot be found on the couch in the dark curtains drawn to block out spring flowers.

I recognize this pattern, when I breathe deeply enough to regain consciousness and I remember I can still survive. There, another deep breathe, up we go. Step away from the edge, let’s rejoin our life. My self talk awakens me, again I must remember the path back, breathing isn’t enough.  The darkness that threatens to overtake, I must seek out the Light. Then I remember the way: gratitude. Yes, I ache for the losses in my soul. Today is the new morning, the day to awaken from my self-imposed joy sleep by breathing in lilac air with a nod to the birds building nests of blue string Plum and I littered throughout the trees. I am seeking out my blessings, the only way back into the light. Perspective doesn’t come easily when I am not packing my suitcase, when no mountain top reminds me of my smallness and God’s bigness. Wildflowers surely are blooming on the Colorado countryside but they are also sprouting in my own backyard. Noticing, seeing, hearing, I cannot leave all this behind in search of the God who visits far off places, forgetting He is here, right here with me in my sorrow.  He knows I am just stuck on the emptiness of the tomb, missing the hope and the promise, mourning still still I am just not done mourning.

Songbirds call to me, the breeze brings my favorite scent from the bushes around my yard. God I think understands though that I cannot buy perspective and I am cannot rush through this pain. I sit at tomb weeping and longing, slow deep breaths until I remember that I can get up again. And then I will. With my new perspective.

 

Double Teamed

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella1 Comment

There are days when in spite of all of my best efforts, my hearts shows the cracks anyway. Those days when the tears come a bit too freely, when the texts that I usually write and delete get sent instead, when I try one more time. There are days when I get lost in remembering and hoping and wishing and wondering, I forget to stay where I am, I go back to what was. Instead of gratitude for the plates that I do set around the table, I want to put out more. Those days, I wonder why God gave me a love I can’t stop for those who seem able to. I listen to sermons about all those who need me and I try to reach out to the needy but I want to be needed by who I choose also. At least seen by them. I try to strike a bargain with God, if I see those you put in my path, if I love those before me, won’t you please bring the other two back? Those days come and go, when they come, my heart shows the cracks.

Today the world sang the Hallelujah chorus and heard sermons on grace and I wondered if Stella was listening. On any given Sunday I feel convicted by the messages and try to correct my course, always correcting my failures to align more with Jesus. How can we listen to the songs and the words and the greetings as we walk into church in our best clothes and not feel compelled to adjust our behavior and notice how often and how much we have been forgiven? Of all the things I don’t understand about the estrangement phenomenon that is so incredibly prevalent and there are many, is how it can possibly live companionably within the heart of a Christian, that is the greatest. But probably that is true of so many ways in which we hurt each other and then go to see our priest or pastor or preacher each week. I know that no sin is worse than any other, I have been granted grace beyond what I can ever express. That is the very reason my heart just cannot hold on to a hurt, a grudge, a wrong. I know the power of forgiveness and multiple opportunities to get it right. I still get so much wrong. Another Sunday, course correction. Somehow my heart just believed that my daughter would walk into a church today and hear a message and the clouds would lift and the angels would sing and the phone would ring. It is Easter, for God’s sake, the big grace day. Did she listen to a choir sing and not think of giving another chance?

Instead I listened to a sermon about a woman who was estranged from her family and went to see true devastation in Rwanda and then heard God speak to her about not straying away from Him. I thought, Stella and I went to the Killing Fields, we did that. Why are we now estranged? I heard the pastor speak of a family that discovered their child dabbling in illegal substances. They decided to go all in and build an orphanage in a foreign country, a means to reach out and pull themselves back together. My cracked broken heart only heard that I should have built an orphanage when I found the first joint in Arrow’s room. My heart was showing the cracks today.

I was missing the message.  The point is that people mess up and God finds a way to bring them back together, if they stay open and present to His word and His calling.  I am open, I am listening, I am mostly present. Let’s see some results, God. Challenge accepted.  The pastor didn’t talk about the happily ever after part, the immediate appearance of the angel and the chorus. Surely it happened. I just want my angel and my kids and my happily ever now.  See my heart cracks? I was a bit angry in the chair during the sermon,  I really felt I was doing my part and God was just not showing up for His. Bold, right? On Easter no less.

Most days I seal up the cracks with forward movement, planning next steps and answering calls of ministry. I spend time with the ones that God puts in my path and I actively seek out more that need what I have. Putty, spackeling, this stuff restores what is breaking in me and in the world. On good days, that is enough to hold me together. I can keep busy enough that I barely consider what size dress my granddaughter might wear, I barely allow myself to note the calendar inching closer ever closer to her birthday. Then Easter comes and suddenly my hopes are raised, this could be the day that restores us all. Might this be the day that I can stop pretending I am my own devastated wasteland, a family killing field, a place where traditions and laughter have been destroyed by the regime of estrangement?

I listened to a podcast Steve Wiens put out on Holy Week, the episode is called Loss. Had me from the start, sigh. I considered not listening but Steve usually gets me so I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t going to disrupt my cracked and barely holding together heart. I was wrong. He smashed it open, he expanded my grief and I am sitting with a new understanding of my loss. He told me I need to offer grace to myself. He is a crazy man.  I have spend two years now seeking begging pleading for forgiveness from my daughter for all the wrongs I can imagine, plunging into our history for evidence of my rights, searching for an identity that allows me to still be her mother when she just says nothing which somehow means no. I forget that I am worthy of forgiving myself. He shared a story that included the message that yes, of course we messed it all up. Yep. Yep, we do that. Owning that is not the end of the story. What else have we done? Did we try to fix it? Offer grace to ourselves.

This is radical stuff to me, I didn’t see it coming. I still am battling with God that I want restoration with my daughter now, that I have cracked open my heart enough for other people. Maybe though the crack hasn’t widened quite enough to include me. Maybe the voice God is calling me to love in the devastation is not all of His other children but me as well. Maybe the orphanage he wants me to build is a home for this child here, who seeks refuge and safety and a place of belonging. God is so sneaky, sending me a double teaming set of pastors to deliver Easter messages, knowing my cracked heart is turned away, turned toward little dresses on grandchildren in another state that I won’t see today. If that isn’t love, if that isn’t grace, I really don’t know what to tell myself.

So I cry some tears but not many and I remember a bit but don’t get lost there and I make my ham and listen to the chatter of the ones who are here and I make the plates on the table be enough. I know the tomb is empty and the weeping was for that moment when the loss was real.  Then all were restored but it was different and unrecognizable, this new Jesus and our job as believers got so much bigger. We have to deal with the cracks in our hearts, we have to let the loss be felt, and then we find restoration and grace in the One who rose. Not a simple 1,2,3 get it done process, no angels singing and the clouds parting when we get it all right. Because we so very rarely do. Thus the grace. For OURSELVES and others.

My sweet friends, offer yourself a gift today and listen to this podcast This Good Word if you dare and if your heart feels ready for some expansion. Some putty may fall away, you may find yourself listening to the call of God’s voice, saying, “You, you child are the one I want you to love and forgive. Then we can do some big stuff with food pantries and orphanages and classrooms and driving without anger.”  The truth is we are all mistake making messes but I would sit next to you at church any day. Will you sit next to me as well? Can we make some space for grace for ourselves this Easter? I am not trying to team up with your pastor, but personally, I think you are worth it.

Waiting

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

I stumbled across an Easter activity on Pinterest that I was sure would make the season more about Jesus and less about the bunny for Plum. You have probably seen it, the one where you dip a marshmallow in water, roll it in cinnamon sugar and then wrap it in a crescent roll and bake it for about 7-8 minutes. The concept is all about the disbelief the disciples had, the lack of trust that Jesus would really be who He said He was. They prepared His body for burial anyway, not understanding He would not stay in the grave. So the marshmallow (Jesus) disappears when we open the robes after some time in the tomb. (I got a bit twitchy about the oven being the tomb but that is my adult awareness, I didn’t share that with my Plum.) He was with me for the entire process of preparation and was all about exploring the rolls, looking for Jesus after they came out of the oven. The waiting, though, which I thought we would do, chairs pulled up to the oven window, watching the slow process of dough puffing and browning, nope. He was out. He couldn’t stay with it for that long. I will admit my timing was off, he was involved in other things, but still, I wanted to tell him if he didn’t sit with me and watch he didn’t get to eat any Jesus rolls after! That didn’t sound right to my own ears, felt just a bit creepy, so he was allowed to play Lego while I cleaned up our mess and kept watch. Next year we will try again and I will enforce the waiting part, that is what living in Saturday, after Good Friday and before the dawn of the Glory of Easter Sunday is, the waiting, slow agonizing empty waiting.

We have a Keurig, it sits in the closet. We decided the expense and the waste were not acceptable to us, we went back to a regular old pot and grinder to make our morning coffee. While I can sit in comfort knowing I am helping the environment with this little step, I must admit I hate the coffee maker every single morning and secretly dream of pulling the faster more efficient machine out, EVERY SINGLE MORNING. In fact Chef just admitted maybe we should use it just for my first cup, while I wait for the pot to brew. Because I don’t wait for the entire pot to fill, as soon as enough liquid has filled the bottom of the carafe, the pot is pulled, my cup is filled and the mess begins. Our machine still sends drips without the pot to catch it, I know the mess is coming, it is acceptable to me each morning as I struggle to wake. I just can’t wait. Or more accurately, I won’t. So towels are at the ready, the mess is wiped as I sip and I always get the strongest of the brew, when Chef reaches for the pot it is mostly black water. There, you are privy to my ugly coffee routine, an inability to wait and share and not be messy. And I am the one who wants to give Plum lessons in the importance of waiting? Do as I say, not as I do, right? IF only it were just a first thing in the morning issue for me, if I were a paragon of patience and trust the rest of the day, I might have more credibility. The truth is, I think I would have been right there with those disciples, lost angry seeking a new direction without my leader. I spend too much time there now and I already know what happens when the rock is rolled away from the tomb, when the crescent roll is broken open. I really should trust more, the waiting should come easier for those of us who know the truth. But Saturdays abound in my life, like early mornings without a Keurig.

Not to take anything away from Good Friday, but this is the harder day for me. I can mourn with the best of them, but waiting is just about the worst thing my Jesus can ask me to do. I don’t want to have down time to think, to feel, to acknowledge my pain and mortality and my sins. Instead I bustle around, wipe the countertops, make a casserole and scroll through Twitter to find others who agree with me about the sins of our leader. More comfortable looking outward while I clean up my coffee splatters, I scour Pinterest for ways to bring more Jesus into Plum’s life.  Move along, push through, avoid avoid avoid. Yet my Saturdays come in the evening, when Plum is in bed or at Mama’s and I am alone without any more energy to bustle and the house is wiped and maybe my wine glass is filled. I’ve been stuck in a very long Saturday of waiting for others to wake up from counting my sins and accepting the glory of a Jesus who has given us all more grace than we can put in our Easter baskets, too much grace like the plastic grass we buy to fill up baskets of candies and little trinkets for kids to find when they wake Easter morning. Grace that always hangs over and despite our best efforts is cleaned up for days afterward, found stuck to our shoes, peeking out of purses and clinging onto our best dresses, a strand between the couch cushions. That grace like the staticy plastic grass sticks to us and to everything it touches, transferred from my hands to the Beast’s fur as I reach down to pet their horrible selves, is transferred to my car on the way to church Sunday morning and left on one of the chairs, maybe the one where the lady who never smiles at me sits or the man who knows me from before will rest. Will they pull the strand away and know they are given the chance to forgive? It really only comes when we sit alone on this Saturday, our basket empty, wishing we had grass and grace and forgiveness and a second chance to say the right thing and not say all the wrong things and the opportunity to read a book to the most ill behaved child in Sunday school. Grace is really only ours when we give it away, like the disappearing marshmallow that still tastes so sweet in the rolls. Waiting for our grace and our baskets to be filled means we have to just be alone, empty, watching the rolls get brown while everyone else goes about their lives and we are aching. We are called to sit wondering how we could have missed the chance to say, “No no, I know how this ends, stick with me, He is who He says HE is, we can trust Him with our everything.” Because tomorrow we will sing glory glory but on Monday will we? On Monday will we worry and fret and stew over whether our children will ever speak to us again, if the job is going to end, if the president is going to lead us into another war, and we forget that we are called to trust in Him. We forget on Monday that we must forgive the car who parks ridiculously and the person who doesn’t take their cart back at the store and the person who always always replies to all instead of just the original sender on an email to 50 people. We forget because we rush through our Saturday and we throw away that grass that annoys us. We don’t notice our grace chances when the sugar high is over.

Tomorrow we will discover that the tomb is empty, that the promises are fulfilled. The crescent roll lesson is not lost on me, I am committing to waiting today. Waiting for this long Saturday of aching searching emptiness to show me the ways I can offer more grace not just tomorrow when everyone looks their best, but on Monday and Tuesday and the days that follow, when we all have a bit of sugar low and grass stuck to our shoes. Maybe, just maybe, my children will find their own awareness of all they ways they have been forgiven. That is between them and their own marshmallow experiment. Just as I couldn’t force my Plum to sit with me, I can’t make them wake up to grace. I can pray a stray bit of plastic grass finds them, all the way from me.

My friends, I pray you embrace this lonely day of waiting, that we might truly feel the glory of the empty tomb. I pray your day is not just filled with egg boiling and ham prepping, but real soul searching. It is a hard day, by design. Still, we know that tomorrow will bring song and fancy clothes. Sit with me in our Saturday, friends as we watch the dough rise.

TGIF

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

Thank God it is Friday, a familiar refrain, one so common even a chain restaurant selected it as the name to draw folks in. Depending on our age, the dawning of the sun on Friday morning might be greater or lesser cause for rejoicing but we all know still that Friday is THE day. School-aged children know the weekend is here, no more waking and dressing and rushing to eat and brush teeth as mom pushes us on to the next thing, the next, hurry hurry out the door. When I was in college we started celebrating Friday on Thursday night, such was the magnitude of the day. (Wonder I even graduated, that might be a different post.) As we enter our working years, family years, the day takes on a different meaning. The weekend holds a chore list that never gets done but still, we rejoice that we have more time with family as we cross of to-do’s and move a bit slower getting up in the morning and go to soccer practice and gymnastics and the grocery store. For retiree’s the days somewhat run together, I know, yet attaching meaning to Friday happens as the group gathers for cards and all the meetings are held at church throughout the week, maybe Friday is left lonely. Still, clearly representing a celebration, a time to rejoice that the hard stuff of the work week is behind and the weekend is ahead, it resonates among those who just need to relax and let go. The phrase means catching up on sleep, lingering over coffee, dining out with friends, attending to chores, ultimately the time is now ours, no longer slaves to the work week. TGIF! Whew, we made it through another week of school lunches and backpacks on the right kid and carpools and deadlines. We can slow down, after work on Friday.

TGIF means we still have to go to school, work, carpool, those last meetings for the day. It isn’t quite the weekend. We can look ahead, we can see it, we know it is coming but we still have to get through one more day. Maybe Fridays are more palatable this way, even though some drag out minute by minute as we wait for the bell to ring, the time clock to hit 4 or 5 or the last guest to leave so we can. We can’t start our celebration until we get through Friday. Actually, it makes me wonder why the saying isn’t Thank God it is Saturday. Full on rejoicing, no waiting. No anticipating.  But we are impatient people, we struggle to be where we are, never quite settling in. We look past this moment to what is ahead. Thus we celebrate the day that means the ending of the week even though that doesn’t end until the end the day.  Getting a little ahead of ourselves, I think. Much like my desire to rush through the crucifixion of Jesus to get to the resurrection.

I have struggled to explain to non-Christian friends just why we call this day Good Friday.  A bit of research says maybe it comes from a belief that this was the fulfillment of the Good News, the Gospel. Or maybe a shortening of God’s Friday, as we like to butcher language when we make it our own. Still, as a child, Good Friday meant just another day out of school, a break to get ready for the Easter bunny. As an adult, I have come to know that this date on the calendar is the real Black Friday, a day of deep sorrow. I know that this day is nothing to rejoice about, that I am so absolutely sinful that Jesus had to die a horrific death, to be shamed and humiliated and pierced and mocked, that each wound might absorb my sins in order for me to ever get accepted into grace. He was left hanging on the cross we wear on necklaces. He bleed out his humanity and became one with God fully again, all for me. What is good about that? Oh yes, it is amazing that He did that for me but that I would need it to be so? That I wouldn’t recognize Him in my midst? Well, I can say I wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have helped fashion the crown of thorns, but can I be sure? Honestly, I can’t say I wouldn’t have been part of the crowd cheering as He walked by with His cross, is my sinful nature any different now?

Jesus died for me so long ago, before I came into being because HE knew I would judge and scorn and walk by those who need what I have and forget to visit those in prison and I would say hurtful things and become too righteous to offer grace to those who hurt me. He carried that cross and agreed to die on it because He was surrounded by disciples who no longer believed in Him even though He spent 3 years teaching them and He knew that even though I had a lifetime learning about I him, I would still be a sinner. How could He even bear the weight of the cross as He carried all of my sins too? Good Friday, I think not. This day I will sit with myself and consider the ways that I have squandered His sacrifice. I will sit in my solitude knowing He truly knew me before I knew Him. Nothing really to celebrate there, He didn’t call from the cross that He was doing this for all but Lisa who just wasn’t going to need such a horrific death in His name because she was going to have it all together.

No, this Friday truly is horrible, still I thank God for it. I thank God for the opportunity to slow down and consider how I can do better, be better that such a horrific sacrifice is worthy. I heard a friend say the other day something about wondering if our kids ever truly understand and appreciate all that we do for them. The answer is usually no, not until they themselves have children and sit through sleepless nights and struggle until the next paycheck and find themselves no longer so cool as their kids keep secrets and grow tall enough to look them in the eye. Do we ever fully understand what Jesus gave up for us? The very nature of our humanity seems to mean we have a cap on our empathy, a limited ability to walk in any shoes but our own. Today is the day we can choose to go barefoot and walk with Jesus as He carried that cross and wore that crown of thorns and was pierced and given vinegar to drink. He was carrying me that day, in the hopes that one day I just might get it and carry someone else.

So I am left with TGIF, today, Good Friday. I do thank God for this day, not for the weekend ahead and Easter dinner and colored eggs. I can’t get ahead of myself. Today I have to sit with Jesus on the cross, it’s the least I can do, He is hanging there for me. He calls me into that space with Him, that I might know that while He knows my sins, He also considers me worthy of what He is experiencing. What He is feeling, the pain, the shame, the agony. I am worth it all. Like a hero rushing into a burning building to save a child, that life is now weighty, must be lived with purpose. Regardless of what the world may say, Jesus has whispered from the cross to me, “Lisa, you are worthy. Now go tell others the same. And feed them.” Maybe the restaurant name makes sense after all.

May you be filled with some sorrow for Jesus and our humanity today, that we might not celebrate too soon without knowing fully the loss and what the cost was. May you hear the whisper of Jesus as HE tells you are worthy of his death, as He asks you to love yourself and your neighbor. Let’s make this a really Good Friday.

 

Wheels Off

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

At the end of last summer Plum and I decided it was time for him to lose the training wheels on the bike Janet’s children had outgrown and donated to us. Wrenches were found, bolts tugged, the extra supports for riding his bike were gone. Helmet and Gran snuggly attached, he eased down the driveway and onto the street. Several trips back and forth, he was so close. Lacking confidence though, he wasn’t ready to ride away from me. I didn’t communicate that confidence. I saw my little grandson, that baby, on a dangerous machine, traveling on roads with other vehicles trying only to crash into him. I saw rocks that would catch his tire and fling him 100 feet into the air and I couldn’t run fast enough to catch him. I saw other horrid children on their own bikes teaching him bad tricks like no hands and standing up and going ever faster away from me. My mouth said things like, “You’ve got this!” but the hand on his back surely said, “No no honey not yet.” I am not the teacher of next steps. The training wheels were reattached. Summer ended, winter came, a new spring is here. God knows our needs and gave us a Chef.

Yesterday the sun was warm and the breeze was light, the bus brought us a Plum and Chef decided it was the day. He didn’t warn either of us. Plum said no. I said no, only in my mind. Maybe my eyes said that as well to Chef but he wasn’t looking at me. Out loud I said to Plum I actually didn’t want him to ride with no training wheels because then I couldn’t keep up with him, I wasn’t sure of his speed. He said yes, gramps let’s go. I know I am not the teacher but I have a role to play as supporter, of gentle nudger. They found the wrench while I found a chair. As I got situated in the driveway for what was sure to be a long lesson and tears and several falls, I wondered if I should get band-aids ready, hide them in my pocket. Maybe an ice bag, no that would melt, a bit warm out. Still, as they prepared to ride, I prepared for the fall. He didn’t.

Within 5 minutes of Chef taking off the extra wheels, Plum was gone down the street, victorious and free. I missed the first joyous bit of freedom because I was still getting ready. He already was. This could be a story about the amazing teaching ability of Chef. It could be a story about waiting until a child is really ready before setting them up for a task. It really is a story though about understanding again and again that our children are meant to ride away from us. They may need a nudge, help removing the wheels, a more supportive hand on the shoulder, but ultimately, they must to go. As they leave, they need to know we are not sitting with the first aid kit in our lap, that kind of readiness does not speak confidence in their skills but rather our own inability to let a skinned knee be shouted to all that achievement is theirs. Covering every last boo boo also hides their hard work. I forget the air is healing for those scrapes also.

With twinkling eyes, Plum rode up to me as I sat in the driveway. My God he looks like his father. He arches one eyebrow, gives me a saucy wink and says, “Didja see that, Gran?   I just burned out my tire.” Yes, yes, my sweet, I saw. I saw you riding away and I know you will ride further and further and still I will sit here for the times you ride back. I will celebrate your bravery as I sit with bandaids in my pocket. I will shout with joy that you can ride fast and go far, as my heart knows the babe I held and fed and nurtured is two less tires closer to me. Maybe it is because I am missing my children so much, maybe it is because the world feels os unsafe these days. I want only to hold him closer, Chef knows we have to send him out more.

My blessing list includes a grandpa who teaches you not to be afraid of the world and of leaving us a bit behind. My prayer list will always mention his safety and amazing adventures.  I will also pray that we both have courage for all the chances he gets in the days and years ahead.  Still, I will always have bandaids, bright colorful bandaids in my pockets. Just in case. Because while I know he is brave, I also know he is precious. His short little life hasn’t always been filled with people who have known that, my role in that regard is secure. As he grows older, his achievements more remarkable, it may be true that others will step in and step up to celebrate with him. My chair will scoot further back to allow others a front row view. I know he will always find me in the crowd and with a saucy wink, ask, “Gran, didja see that?” Yes, my love, I see you and am so proud of you. Chef will be right next me, knowing he gave the real nudge out into the world.

Also, today we buy a new helmet that fits.

 

Kiwi Love

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I remember the first time I tasted a kiwi, the slightly tart incredibly sweet fruit surprised me. I was a bit standoffish about this fruit, it was green, it had black seeds, it was different. I was a real standard issue fruit girl. Apples, oranges, bananas, berries.  Offered a kiwi at a breakfast gathering, it would have been too impolite to turn my nose up, I was pushed out of my produce prejudice into a wildly wonderful experience. I relished this new taste, I couldn’t wait to share it. When I searched for the fruit at the grocery though, all I could find was a rough dirty brown colored egg-shaped offering. This was no longer appealing. Great effort was required to remember just how delightful the inside was, the exterior was not luring me. Still, I gave the store kiwi a chance and we have been in love ever since, over 30 years now. That tough skin protects what is precious, I get it now. That shell keeps the uninitiated, the fearful, away. More for those of us who are daring, who are willing to go deeper. The lesson of the kiwi could have saved me many years of shame and hiding, I am a very slow learner.

I listened last night to a presentation at church from an elderly woman who has been doing prison ministry for many many years. She sees a need and figures out that she can meet it and then brings some friends along. She makes new friends and brings them. She does ministry at prison because as she said, “Jesus told us 6 places go in His name, go to the prisons.” She spoke with passion barely contained, told her story in a meandering way because her stories are so plentiful. She raves about her ladies, the opportunities to touch lives that have been forgotten. She brought along one of those lives, a woman who had served 16 years inside and now is living freely, productively, assuredly. This woman told her story as well, not that we had any right to hear it. Still she shared it and she also told how critical it was for people who don’t have to tell you that you are worth something to do so. She explained how forgotten people can drink up those words and begin to believe them if they hear them often enough. How that can change the outcome upon release. She was brought as evidence. I was sitting in the audience as evidence, not many knew it. She was brave, I felt like a coward. I applauded her peeling off the hard shell right away, getting to that fruit immediately, showing the world how worthy she is without waiting to be discovered.

How much time has been lost, what could I have achieved if I had peeled off my hard coating, hiding behind what I thought was protection of a new life? I see now that each time I was terminated from a position because of that box you have to check, that secret agreement you make with the employer, that was an opportunity to remove the whole coating and just bear the fruit of my story, of my soul. Instead, I cowered, I wailed, I cried out to God, how could this happen again? I didn’t see He wanted me to be free of the shame that only secrets can bring, He wanted it all out in the open so I could live fully. Fear stops us from trying new food, fear stops us from being who we are. So I was given many chances by God and ugly people who did mean things not know God was going to turn their stuff to good, each time a bit of the outer covering was nicked off. A scrape here, a scratch there. See the shining soul within? That’s me. Finally brave enough, desperate enough, exhausted from hiding, I just ripped it all off and discovered that I am worthy still. Slow learner here.

Here’s the thing though, not all of us go to prison and have horrible histories and try to conceal who we are. Some of us just have not so great histories and try to hide. Others have not great todays and put up fences or wear masks. Regardless of our stories, we all do it. We are caught in the lie that no one will love us if we tell the truth, if we uncover what is really going on, how much we are hurting and what we, gasp! have done. IT IS A LIE. It is a complete fabrication that shields us from being picked up in the produce aisle, unwanted fruit with our tough exterior, and cherished for our sweet souls.

We are doing it to ourselves. We ignore the opportunities when we get that first scrape of hardship to share our hurting. We add more makeup and carry on. When everything is going to hell at home or work or with our children, we put on a new outfit and present the world with a tough exterior that hides the true story. We cover and cover and cover until the layers themselves become so heavy we can’t find our souls ourselves. The weight of our secrets toughening our resolve, we forget that all those run-ins with tragedy are meant to be shedding times. Is it any wonder that the tough exterior is called a hide? God wants our souls laid bare, our secrets out so we are no longer covered in  new shoes and fresh eyeliner, the us He created unmasked and vulnerable so love can seep through. And then really go out. Because just like that first taste of kiwi, I couldn’t keep it for myself. I shared that delicious fruit with my family, at every gathering. I offered it to all who would dine at my table. “You have to try this, it is amazing.” Amazing indeed, to be real, open, me.

As we enter the hardest days of the Christian calendar, the days we really would like to rush through to get to the promise fulfilled, I know my Jesus was unmasked. He was laid bare at the cross. He was naked and vulnerable. This is how He went to His Father. I see now that He wants no less from me, from you. Broken, peeled, bared for all to see that they might come to Him also, encouraged by our truths, giving grace to each other, shining Light on the One who knows our secrets and has already forgiven.  Will you dare sacrifice your mask at the cross? I would so love to know you, really know you. Together we could shine more Light. Together we could taste the sweetness of authentic lives. I wasted too many years covered in shame. Don’t waste a minute more. Your soul deserves to be seen and shared. Trust God to handle the rest.

By the way, have you ever tasted a kiwi? Please join me in the produce aisle. I know it’s ugly, trust me. Together we are going to find a real treasure inside.

 

1 Since God has so generously let us in on what he is doing, we’re not about to throw up our hands and walk off the job just because we run into occasional hard times.
2 We refuse to wear masks and play games. We don’t maneuver and manipulate behind the scenes. And we don’t twist God’s Word to suit ourselves. Rather, we keep everything we do and say out in the open, the whole truth on display, so that those who want to can see and judge for themselves in the presence of God.
3 If our Message is obscure to anyone, it’s not because we’re holding back in any way. No, it’s because these other people are looking or going the wrong way and refuse to give it serious attention.
4 All they have eyes for is the fashionable god of darkness. They think he can give them what they want, and that they won’t have to bother believing a Truth they can’t see. They’re stone-blind to the dayspring brightness of the Message that shines with Christ, who gives us the best picture of God we’ll ever get.
5 Remember, our Message is not about ourselves; we’re proclaiming Jesus Christ, the Master. All we are is messengers, errand runners from Jesus for you.
6 It started when God said, “Light up the darkness!” and our lives filled up with light as we saw and understood God in the face of Christ, all bright and beautiful.
7 If you only look at us, you might well miss the brightness. We carry this precious Message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives. That’s to prevent anyone from confusing God’s incomparable power with us. 2 Corinthians 4:1-7

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.