Category: Plum

stories of life with a our beautiful grandson

Lying

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

Shivering in the morning chill, my porch is no longer my comfort place. Birds chirp insistently, the feeder empty. Flitting from tree to tree, they come back to complain. Still, I remain, unable to gather the energy to add seeds for my winged friends. Later, I whisper, later I will bring you food. I may be lying. I’m too cold but can’t get up, I know warmth is only steps away, inside, a blanket, socks. Still, I remain. Everything is empty, drained of hope, drained of joy, drained of caring.

The dogs are slowed, responding to my ache. They don’t play, the sit and asked only sometimes to be petted. They know we are having a funeral for my hope.  My Plum told me at dinner that I looked sad. No masking my desolation from this perceptive child, he sees into my soul. I admitted that I was, asked what he does when he feels that way. He suggested I hug one of my specials, he hugs his purple blankie. He is my special. I cannot hug him long enough to quell this hurt.

Sunday again, time for church. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to move from my cold porch, change from my ratty robe, talk to anyone, hear music. I don’t want to enter into God’s house. Rather I want God to come see me here on my porch and bring me hope. I want God to tell me this isn’t a funeral. To whisper, be patient, my child. She is safe. Even then I may think He is lying. I don’t know how to trust again. This is what it feels like to be alone, without the surety that God is leading the way.  Tricked, confused, lost, how can I know what is right anymore. Then the sun begins to hit my chair, spreading warmth. Damn warmth, damn light, right where I sit. Angry, I miss the cold. I want to stay in the cold, the empty. It keeps my numb. I don’t want to feel angry, that lets other feelings in. I can’t bear the other feelings.

My head is screaming just leave me alone yet my soul is aching for the presence of the One who sees me. Grieving again, too much grieving. Unbearable heartache and I have to go to God’s house to sit with others who worship. I may sing the songs but I could be lying.

Sharing Our Little

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

Before we left home for the Labor Day parade in Chef’s home town, I asked my Plum to grab 5 large baggies. Full of questions as he went about his task, his patience for my hedging mixed with the chaos of three families struggling to pack for a day trip led to disclosure earlier than planned. I assured him he would need them later, during the parade when the participants threw candy out. I have been around long enough to know you don’t tell children about candy until it is time for candy. The hour drive and subsequent 15 minute walk to the parade site saw him clutching his bag, ready for donations.

Firetrucks, more firetrucks, more than I have ever seen, led the parade with sirens and waves and no candy. Plum tried to stay interested, he waved back at the first few and then sat somewhat dejectedly in the wagon, still holding his bag, legs flopping over the side. I assured him candy would happen. Finally I spied the telltale signs of sugar tossing: children running to the street further up the parade route.  “Get ready, Plum!” He jumped up, energy restored, as did all the other children around him. Big pressure for the one person tossing. Plum got one piece. His bag looked pitiful. “No worries, more is on the way.” Soon another rider tossed some out, all the children grabbed. Plum was out-battled by the bigger girl next to him. Close to tears, he slunk back to his wagon.

“No, no buster, we aren’t doing this,” I told him. I told you there would be candy, there will be plenty of candy. We are not crying about something that is being given freely to us. It is for all the kids, you will get yours and you can share some too. “Didn’t Gran promise you there would be candy? Have I ever let you down? We have to be patient.”  No tears, no pouting. Have some water. My best boy squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, waited. The candy came. Before long his bag was overflowing, he started on a second bag. Someone threw SourPatch candies, his personal favorite. He grabbed for them, another guy got there first. Then something incredible happened.  The other little boy came over and gave the candy to Plum. The next round, Plum grabbed something and handed it to his new friend. Finally the heat and the overflowing bag convinced him he was ready to hit Great Gran’s pool so we walked back early, pulling a red wagon full of sweets.

I asked him later about the bags, about the sharing. He said it is easier to share when your bag is full. I asked him what if his bag only had a little and someone else had none, what might they think of his bag? He immediately understood that his little would be much to someone else. When pressed about whether he would share with them, his response was the stuff to make God sing. “Of course, Gran, I would share my little.”

We are sharing our little right now, our little that seems like so much to those receiving. I worry about money, I worry about how much more we are spending right now with our extra guests. This was not in the so very tight budget. Suddenly with no incomes, isn’t it wiser to hoard our “candy bags,” hide away what little we have, save for our uncertain future?  But our little all came from God, thrown out to us not because we deserved it but just because we were at the right parade at the right time. I am trusting that more candy will come.  While our bags may never be overflowing again I know they don’t need to be. We do have enough to share today. We have always had enough to share.

No pouting, no tears. A glass of water and a tootsie roll as my snack while I remember all the emptier bags. A smaller bag would have filled more quickly, seemed less stark with only a few pieces. I may be forced in the future to downsize, to leave my large home. For now, as long as I am sharing the space with those God brings our way, He will surely provide enough for all of us. It is hard to see the end of the parade from where we are seated, to just know that better things are coming. Fortunately I have the promises of one who has never let me down as reassurance. More candy is coming, be patient.

Communing Sunday

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Our two rather large dogs were terrifying to our little house guest. No amount of reassurance would convince him that he was safe. As they drew near, he screamed. They are so protective of my Plum that the screaming told hem they must comfort this small boy, so they tried to go closer. More screaming. So our beasts were stuck outside, confused and barking. A dance began, moving the dogs either in or out, depending on where our new friends were. My Chef entertained while I sat with the dogs, our home divided. I prayed that I could find some solution, I wondered about the wisdom of opening our home to strangers. Beautiful in theory, complicated in the execution. We seemed to be offering a bit more misery than hospitality. I searched for a solution, wondering if a different home would be a better fit. Fearing permanent traumatization, I knew something had to change.

Chef informed me that he had invited our housemates to church, I was appalled. This act of evangelism felt disrespectful to their pathway to God, I worried they would feel pressured as our guests to go. Given that the beast dance was wearing me down, I had little energy or even time to chastise my husband. I hoped they would assert themselves and politely decline, I worried how I would attend and leave them with the beasts. I worried, got more and more tired. Finally the dogs and I escaped to my bedroom, fatigued ruling wisdom. I gave up. I forget that until I get so tired of trying to steer the ship, I don’t let God take over.

Before the sun even rose on our sabbath morning I asked Chef for the day’s plan. He confirmed our guests were joining for church, I was taking everyone to meet at the late service as he leaves early to teach Sunday school.  While I slept, he  and God had been busy with details I now had to implement. Escaping to my porch sanctuary with beasts, I drank coffee and talked with God. I drank more coffee, tried to listen. God whispered. Realizing I had the perfect interpreter, someone who could communicate to a little boy that these dogs were harmless. I called in my Plum, this almost 6 year old bundle of compassion who wrestles the beasts and spreads joy. While it was mama’s weekend, she graciously allowed us to pick him up to join for church and play time after. Mama understood non-beasts loving people. What ensued was such beauty that only God could have been messing around with this.

We walked into church, my Plum, little Jesus, Mary and Joseph and I. I’m not sure anyone even greeted me. The children were too adorable, the adults immediately welcomed, shepherded to the coffee bar.  My worrying couldn’t find any place to land, pushed aside by joy. “Yes, I am among friends, friends who will carry this yoke with me.” For a time I could just rest in the house of God.  How often I forget that I don’t have to do this, any of this, alone. Coffee, tea, water bottles in hand, we entered the sanctuary, boys racing around as little boys do.  I will only attend a church that allows little boys to race around.

I assumed we would sit in the back, inconspicuous, as much as any one could be dressed in such beautiful scarves as Mary. Chef told them we sit in the front row and guided everyone up there. His boldness is ridiculous sometimes. The children and I sat on the floor, dumping out the baggie of cars I had brought. Plum searched my purse for the snacks he knows Gran always has. Packages of cookies were opened, divided. One for him, one for Jesus, over and over, as they sat on the prayer kneeler in front of the entire congregation.   Communion in the purest sense.  Music began, the boys danced. Jesus danced just as my Plum used to so freely do until he got a bit shy and aware that he was dancing alone. We go to a Methodist church after all.  When the children were dismissed for Sunday School Jesus went also with some coaxing but soon returned. Back to the floor I went, rolling matchbox cars to and fro, until it was time for communion when I retrieved my Plum. He loves communion. He loves the bread the juice the lining up with everyone to participate in something he knows is special. Jesus was ready to partake as well. More worrying, how to stop a child from having “snack” that everyone else gets?  Anxiety spiking, searching for a quick solution, the voice of my pastor broke through.

Pastor Chris reminded the congregation that everyone is invited to the table. He spoke God to the people. The people heard. Joseph rose to join the line, I could barely breathe. Mary sat still in her chair, the boys rushed ahead. As the communion steward tore a piece of bread and handed it to little Jesus, she told him it was love broken for him. Is there anything more pure, more magnificent?  Finally, Mary rose, unsure, haltingly, to join the line. I walked with her although I had already received this sacrament. Arm in arm, we walked to the table of grace.

After church Plum played with the beasts and spoke confidence into little Jesus. By the end of the day we had harmony in our home, no more separation dance. Our guests cooked a meal for us, stepping around beasts in the kitchen. We communed again. I may never write these words again, pay attention. I was wrong, my Chef was right. He sent out an invitation because he was listening to God’s call. I pray that I can be so fearless when given the chance. I pray that I can trust that when God brings us someone to love, he doesn’t leave us to work it out on our own. I pray that I remember communion is little boys dancing to worship music, Muslims taking bread and juice with a group of Christians because we have shown the real face of our One Father. I want to always remember when Pastor Chris said, “Let’s pray,” Jesus stopped playing cars and ran to me, enveloped me in a hug and didn’t let go as we rocked on the floor of the sanctuary. Hearts beating together, wrapped in the arms of Jesus, is there anything more glorious than that?

My soul is overwhelmed, brimming with the love and light God has shown me. This lesson of trusting God is something I relearn everyday,  easier with the example of children.  Bread and juice and cookies become sacred. If I just keep showing up, our One Father will supply the miracles.  The table is set before me, open for all who seek to lead a life of peace and love. I come to it broken, like the bread. I pour out my pain, just as the blood of Jesus was poured for us all. Shared, we become whole.

  • If I am bold enough to issue invitations,
  • if I am silent long enough to listen to the whispers of God,
  • if I am transparent enough to rely on my faith community,
  • if I am honest enough to acknowledge that quite often my Chef is right,

I will find communion. I don’t ever have to wait for Sunday. Grace and light will meet me there. Thanks be to God.

 

Inner Chamber

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

Matthew 6:6 But you, when you pray, enter into your inner chamber, and having shut your door, pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you openly.

Because no one else was available, I was invited to attend an ultrasound yesterday. My not daughter-in-law, who is carrying not my son’s child, asked me to go and of course I said yes. This relationship has murky boundaries. I am not the grandma of this little girl on the way but I am of her brother. While I will have no claim to her, I have a responsibility to my Plum and to God to see that she has the advantages and the love grandma’s give. If family is a messy business, we may be the CEOs of a disaster corporation. I just keep following the mantra that I have to love who God brings and sort out the details later. Thus I went to the ultrasound. Initially I was a bit emotionally removed, holding back because I knew that I would not be holding this baby right away, that my claims to her would be secondary. I probably won’t have a brag book and won’t be notified of her firsts.  Or maybe I will. Murky. I don’t want to get too attached. I do have to protect my heart. The last ultrasound I watched was with my own granddaughter who I only visit during slumber. Raw ache revisited as I start this process again. Thus I stayed aware of my role: supportive detachment.

I held mama’s hand and watched the technician slide the wand over her belly, finding baby’s face, her hands, her feet. I praised God for His wondrous works, for giving mama another healthy child. Then the wand found the heart. Four beating chambers and I came undone. Tears streamed down my face, I watched this movement and knew God. I felt His Holiness. Why not with her beautiful little nose? Those tiny hands that waved? The baby bottom that wiggled in the womb? Those feet, those lips? None impacted me so greatly, so deeply as watching her heart, those 4 chambers. The wonder of it still makes me weak. I know that I will hold little Miss and whisper to her the moment I fell in love with her. The moment I saw God in her. I will whisper that I have seen her heart and it is God and it is good and great things are waiting for her. I will whisper these things as I sing her to sleep whenever I get the chance, if I get the chance. I will remind her of this as she gets older. I will be the one who is maybe not her grandma but my Plum will share so I can be her something.

Families are messy. Please don’t ask for details about how anyone is connected. Ultimately we have one Father. He is sorting out the rest.  Maybe someday when she is wondering just who she is she will come to me. I can tell her she is surely a child of God. I saw it with my own eyes. In the meantime, we will love who God brings, curse our lack of boundaries when we get hurt, and maybe buy a little photo book. When you see God, you save those pictures.

Growing into Me

On By LisaIn Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

I didn’t get in for a haircut before I left for my trip, a huge mistake I discovered. My family had worried that my weak neck would suffer under the weight of the helmet but the real issue became the itchiness when I got so hot. I imagined shaving my head bald during those long times between stops when I tried to stick a straw between the padding and my head, trying to scratch where my fingers couldn’t reach. Much like wearing a cast in the blazing sun, I was desperate for relief. As soon as we stopped, the helmet came off and I scratched furiously about my crown. I should have taken the time for a hair cut. I mentioned it at least 1 million times to my Chef in our daily calls. “Yes, my back is fine. My pelvis is still in place. I need a haircut!”  A minor thing became a huge annoyance, the mosquito effect.

The morning after our return I stopped at the first place open, a local men’s shop. I have gone there before since  a now wear my hair short. I am not huge on style anymore and the gal does a good job. I go with my Plum and Chef when they are getting styles, real ones. I skip the hot towel and shave. It has been working for me. Why would I think differently?  I ran in with no Plum or Chef. My gal wasn’t there. A new girl, who wanted to chat and I was still decompressing from the trip. Minimal answers to her questions. I am used to professionals understanding when I say cut the whole thing off knowing that this means they need to take control and just offer me some water. She asked those polite questions about why I had planned, I said I had just gotten back from a two week trip on a Harley and needed to figure out if my cats were still alive. I focused on the Olympics playing on every tv, regardless of how she turned my chair. She asked if I was into those. I said I hadn’t seen any coverage, needed to catch up. I really just wanted a haircut and some peace.

It turns out she just shy of shaved my head. It will be weeks before I can attempt at a style which I now think might be important. It occurred to me later that maybe she made an assumption about me based on the clues given, that maybe I was a lesbian. I certainly look for all outward appearances now as the stereotype. Not a lipstick lesbian.  I appear as if I should know how to use power tools. (This is the place where I say sorry to lesbians for stereotyping YOU!) My Chef who was so happy to have me home was quite taken aback when I got into the car.  “Holy Shit, ” I think was his supportive response. This haircut is not just a bad one, it is a statement. The problem is that for those who go to church with me, it is a statement that brings confusion. Did she mean to do that? Is there trouble in that marriage? What really happened on her trip? You know a haircut is bad when folks comment on your shoes. Shoes you have worn forever.

The deal is, I rushed, I didn’t tell the whole story and I got an identity that doesn’t fit. Someone else took pieces that I had laid out and made a choice of who I was and I have to live with that for a few weeks. Fortunately it’s just hair and it grows. Fortunately I don’t really care what others think of my sexual orientation except that has been a newsmaker in the past. Along about 1994, I stopped displaying any femininity. Baggy dark clothes to hide my body, no jewelry to enhance or draw attention, make up by the wayside, I stopped shouting that I am a woman  and instead whispered please don’t see me. I only recently started merging this other part of me back in, slowly, just a bit at a time. Putting in some earrings, wearing clothes that don’t blend into the woodwork. I am 52 years old and still working out my identity. I am still working out what I tell others affect how they see me. I know that I get to decide who I am but not telling also leaves them with little choice but to fill in the blanks.

I am learning, one bad haircut at a time. I am a Harley riding Grandma who loves cats and her family, not always in that order, who watches sports and sappy movies. I am a woman who is figuring out that earrings go with sweatshirts and mascara is ok. I haven’t worked up to lipgloss. What do you think of my shoes? My hair will grow along with my opportunities to be me.

Half A Pack of Mourning Daily

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

I started smoking as an adult who knew better, at a time of huge stress, when I was locked away from my children. I continued this habit for a couple of years after we were rejoined, even after my kids complained. I knew better but was hooked. My son put Mr. Yuck stickers on my cigarette packs. They told me I smelled. I did. I tried the medicine touted as the best way to quit, I became a raging lunatic. Finally I just stopped. That was over 17 years ago, maybe longer. It was a good run.

Through all the crises of addiction and unplanned pregnancy, watching your child choose homelessness, fighting for security for the baby who didn’t choose any of it, I still didn’t stop at the gas station and buy a pack. I ate M&M’s, reverted to some horrible eating habits, prayed, cried, drank too much wine, managed. But I didn’t smoke. Then came my daughter’s wedding that I was no longer invited to, a day so crushingly painful I was sure I wouldn’t survive. Chef and I had traveled to the “paper wedding” in front of a judge where I was surprised to be a signing witness. The relationship was already incredibly strained at that point. I didn’t know what was ahead, I didn’t know I was truly losing my daughter, that the visit then would be the last time I would see her. Seven months later when the real celebration rolled around, I was too thin, too broken, every moment without reconciliation bringing me closer to madness. I went with a friend and bought a pack, as a lark, to get through the day, not realizing this crutch was going to get me through all the days. For two years.

I actually love and hate smoking. I hate the smell, hate that it pushes me away from everyone who loves me. No one in my circle smokes.  No one joins me on the porch with a nice glass of wine and has deep conversations with me. I sit alone and rush through the fire tipped reminder of all that is wrong. But there is a part that I love and it isn’t the cigarette. It is the very same aloneness. Sometimes I just need a time out. I need to pull away from the chaos and the chatter and get re-centered. I need to be alone with my memories and mourn for 5 minutes and then go back to being present in my day. I know why I smoke and I know why I shouldn’t. I tell myself with each purchase of a pack that is the last one but then myself laughs mockingly. I don’t believe me. I haven’t yet committed to letting go of my mourning period.

I never imagined I would lose my daughter. I have fought so many times to keep my son alive, the only way being to give him up to other authorities. My girl, though, always my closest person on earth, always the one who could make me really laugh out loud, I never ever imagined her not in my every days. My heart had no room for such a notion. Coping skills completely broke down, nothing worked on this heart ache. While I have tried extensively to bridge this gap, I haven’t tried to stop smoking. I realize I cannot control when she will come back into my life, if ever, but I can control when I will stop mourning with a lighter and an ashtray. That time is coming. My Chef is so stressed right now I worry that he can’t handle the definite crazy moody swings and nastiness that will result in my withdrawal. I worry that I won’t get my time away from everyone, no excuse for them all not to follow me. I worry that I can’t do it, just like I worry that I can’t really go on another day without a phone call, text, email from my Stella. But I do go on. So maybe I really can quit.

This might just be my last pack.

Becoming Just Gran

On By LisaIn Arrow, Plum1 Comment

My Plum started kindergarten last week and left me home to look at cars and transformers and Lego and potential mud piles all by myself. He stepped right onto the bus and didn’t have the decency to look back and cry for me. He told me that I could play with his toys while he is gone, little comfort. His scooter sits idle, the dogs mope about. Dishes are always done, laundry is caught up, I wander about the house, annoyed at the quiet. Then my phone rings and his mama is asking another question about school lunches. She is terrified he won’t eat there, what if he forgets the ridiculous 5 digit number he has been assigned to access his account. Will they really send him each day to the nurse to get his dairy pill? I am more concerned about him going to the bathroom, this boy who freely pees outside my home behind a bush, delighting in how far his stream goes. Will he actually raise his hand in front of everyone and ask to go into the little room in the same classroom? What about all those other savages, have they been taught to wash their hands? I get the irony, don’t judge. Mama and I commiserate on the unjustness of taking our little prince away to an environment neither of us can control. This is good.

Mama came to us about 6 weeks into her pregnancy, leaving behind my Arrow and the world of addiction and chaos to live with people she hardly knew. She had nothing including weight on her body. We fed her, we loved her, we got her into school. Plum was born into our household and has been in and out all of his just shy of 6 years.When mama was struggling, she came back. Her room was put back together, his never taken apart. Tumultuous days hours minutes during these years finally resulted in trips through the legal system to establish permanency for our boy. Through it all, mama has grown from the unsure teenager to a young woman who fully fits into her role. I have slowly been eased out of granMother and back into just gran. This is good.

Second week of school now and some of the newness is starting to fade. I voluntarily gave up our weekday overnights to keep Plum in a nightly routine, just for the first month. We agreed that coming for a whole family dinner one evening a week could replace this and we would keep our weekends. It all made sense to us, adults with thoughts of bedtimes and consistency. It made sense until my Plum threw a tantrum last night like I haven’t seen since I had to let him go years ago and he tried to climb back through the windows on the front porch to avoid returning to his mama’s. I knew it was wrong then but was helpless to stop it. I know it is right now but hate the look that he gave me, the soul shattering look as he drove away, tears rolling, sobs echoing, restrained by a carseat that was carrying him away from his granMother. He wanted me and I wanted him but I used my most firm voice and stated we would absolutely not have this behavior and besides I would see him tomorrow. He rode away with his mama and I know it was good.

Mama called me after he went to sleep, about ten minutes later, to see if he needed $.50 for milk if he took his lunch or would they take off of his account. Mama called me because she needs me also, maybe because she wanted to make sure I was okay after letting go of our boy. Transitioning to being just a gran is hard, as hard as putting this child on a bus. I am trusting teachers and lunch ladies and bus drivers all to see that smile, those eyes, to see his heart and just know he is one incredible kid. I want them to know his story and to not know it, for him to have a fresh start. He is a regular kindergartner with a mama and a step-daddy, a new sibling on the way. I know mama is with me on all this, finally we are together. I will always be his number two and need to let mama be number one. Even when he looks at me like that. I look back with eyes that tell him it is okay, we trust mama also. Gran will see him tomorrow and we will play cars.

 

Waiting with Hot Chocolate

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, StellaLeave a comment

Growing up in a sexually abusive home means my memory is sketchy. I don’t remember full stories like my little brother. I love to listen to him tell about our shared life, the good parts. He was mentally present. Instead I have snapshots, quickly grabbed photos in my mind that tell the bits of the story I can handle. Many years of therapy have created even more distance between those snapshots and my feelings. Of course horrible counselors insisted I dredge them up and attach emotions to them before I put them away for good. Mostly that works until a nightmare insists I’m not free of those memories. Until the devil himself decides my sleeping hours are his playtime to create such unrest I wake afraid. I awake so unsettled I want to hide again, put on heavy layers of dark clothing, ignore the birds singing their joyful songs, cower under blankets. I can’t hide from my own memories.

We read a book to Plum often about going on a bear hunt. He is afraid of bears. I have explained that bears understand our sign at the front door that says, “Be Nice Or Leave.” He believes me because he needs to. The book finds the family facing tall grass, mud, a forest, a snowstorm. The refrain repeats with each obstacle: we can’t go over it, we can’t go around it, we have to go through it. Together they handle what gets in the way of their goal, until they find the bear. Then they run back through each thing to the safety of their bed. The bear who has been following is left to trudge back to his cave, quite dejectedly. I tell Plum the bear only wanted to play and maybe have a bit of hot chocolate.

I think I need to go through the obstacles again. I want to go around, over, skip them but I can’t get to the damn bear if I don’t just go through. Except I don’t want to find the bear. I want to be left alone. I want to avoid the adventure and let the bear stay in his cave. Yet bears in caves are much scarier though than bears who want a bit of your warm drink, bears who travel over tough lands to play with your Legos. Bears who’s eyes shine in the dark seem so much bigger. Maybe if I travel a bit through all the mud and muck and memories to find the bear, the bear will let me get some sleep.

So, I remember. I remember not just those horrid times as a child but the horrid times as an adult when I felt like a child. I specifically recall sitting at the bottom of the stairs in a filthy apartment looking down, saying no. He was already at the top, saying yes. I said no. He came back down and grabbed my arm and pulled me up. Up to the end of my career, to the end of my marriage, to the end of being present for birthdays and Christmases and everydays with my children. I sat on those steps as if I was 3 again, as if I was 4 and my father had called me home from a play date while my brothers got to stay outside and my mother was at work and I had to go into the bedroom with him or into the shower and I knew I couldn’t make it stop. I sat on those steps until I didn’t and I was upstairs. In that time of climbing step by step my life was over and I don’t even remember climbing. I got to the top somehow to a stained mattress with no sheets to a room covered in old food in wrappers in dark in horror. I see her, I remember the crashing against her body. Then someone comes in and asks if she is ok. Why is she crying. He is gone then. It is over. I am over.

Climbing those stairs took me not closer to heaven but actually straight into the depths of hell. Every choice after was worse than the one before, choices made that never felt like choices. Survivor statements have awakened the national consciousness lately, outrage at light sentences gaining momentum for change.  Stockholm syndrome means you will say anything to appease your captor in order to survive, captivity may be an emotional state. I lost my daughter as I climbed those stairs even though doing so was the only way I knew to survive. Every choice afterward was the only way to save her and my son, saving them for a future that now doesn’t include me. Without being 3 year old me how can you understand 27 year old me who didn’t know how to run? Who only knew how to be silent and go into the bedroom when my father told me to, to go with the man my father told me to, to go, to go, silently.

I want to yell at my daughter that she is so strong because I made her that way. That I taught her to stand up and fight and to yell and to tell people to go away if they hurt her. I taught her those things so that she would never ever have to be silent. Now she is silent to me. She may never understand but at least I know she was always safe from ever climbing stairs or going into bedrooms where horror awaited.  Maybe it isn’t about the bear, maybe it isn’t about the mud and the muck and the snowstorm. Maybe it isn’t even about the nightmares that steal my rest. Maybe I just want to find my way around, though, over this estrangement to get to my daughter. I want her to read those survivor statements and see her mother. I want her outrage to include empathy for the lost little girl that I was, even when I was an adult. I want her to travel over, through, around her own mess to find her mother again and see that I am not a scary bear.  I am just the same mom waiting with hot chocolate.

My Gift

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

I took over 1,000 pictures in the two weeks I was traveling. I didn’t have time to look at them each day, mostly just click and go. I was pretty sure I was a genius though, I was amazed at my newfound gift. I was a photographer. I mean really who wouldn’t be with the scenes before me? The mountains clearly took up many of my shots but I became obsessed with the individual grasses of the prairies in Kansas, the tiny dots of color that made up the wildflower hills in Colorado. Cows have always been a favorite so their glistening skin definitely caught my eye and my viewfinder. Windmills, remnants of old mines, cables abandoned long ago all became art in my eyes and I was sure, in my camera.  I envisioned huge canvas prints of wheat, of cacti, of nature gracing my walls. Glorious.  Only not so much.  I was given amazing views but not amazing gifts as a photographer.

My daughter is an artist. So is Janet. They don’t understand that I am not, maybe that everyone is not. I have watched both take pencils, chalk, paint and turn paper into glory. I turn paper into indecipherable disasters, there is no art from my hands. My brain cannot communicate the beauty it sees to a solid representation. The road is blocked if it was ever built. Just not my gift.

At church there is a young woman who sings like God is pouring out of her soul.  I sing along with her but real quietly. God prefers it that way. So do all those sitting close by.  My desire is strong, my gift is not in singing. My children can attest. I loved when they were little and they knew no better. I sang rather loudly then, a very long time ago.

My chef can run through numbers and talk to anyone about anything. Neither of these are strong places for me. I am okay with math, not scared, actually more afraid of people than fractions.  Clearly my gifts are not found here.

Everyday I tell my Plum he is my favorite. “I know, gran,” comes the exasperated reply. “But how do you know?” I query. “Because you tell me all the time.”  I still figure it is worth repeating because soon enough he will figure out there are many things he is not so great at. He will search for his gifts in a world that pushes for conformity, being quiet, going along. It takes courage to sing loud, to try out and keep trying out, to paint and draw even when your pictures are different from everyone else. My Plum asks what I am good at. This gives me pause. I want to demonstrate for him positive self-esteem but I’m not good at that. I ask what he thinks. “You are good at being smart and being my gran.”Right then I realize I may never take a wall hanging worthy picture, may never doodle an identifiable tree, may always be awkward in social situations, but I have mastered the most important gift God ever gave to me. I rock as a gran. I might even sing a song about it. Quietly.

Keepsakes

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I collect words. Old cartoons, quotes written on napkins, bulletins from church with a hastily scribbled phrase from the sermon, these are in my keepsake box. I have a poem shared over 30 years ago from my college friend that I pull out about every 4 or 5 years, as amazed at how it still rings true for me as I am at her so beautiful handwriting, handwriting that just means her to me. Most of my favorite recipes are on the backs of bills or a piece of newspaper, jotted quickly as my mother recited ingredients over the phone, surely indecipherable to anyone else.  I have the page from my Chef’s Daytimer where he wrote his phone number when he first asked me out. Song lyrics that have spoken to the places I try to hide, stories written by my children after vacations (my consistent homework assignment for them), those little cards that come with flowers, long dead. Letters, probably every letter I have ever received, all in my keepsake box. I collect words.

I found a rock in my mailbox. I am accustomed to seeing spiders, bills and Time magazine inside but this was a first. It was holding in place a small slip of paper, a scrap that would otherwise have blown away as I opened the box door.  Both were treasures, one a gift to my Plum, the other an encouragement to me. It was lovely and enchanting, so very sweet that a new friend made that effort. A place of usual dread, especially now that money is scarce, became delightful. This note is a keepsake.

A visit to St. Paul several months ago yielded much for our souls, in fact prepared us for this next step in our journey. There we met a family so welcoming I wanted to move to be neighbors, to worship with them. A great fit for my Chef, this man who reached out, shared, ate lunch with us.  A bond was created, Facebook allows it to continue from afar until we can travel north again. Several weeks ago I received this most achingly uplifting email from this friend, apologizing if it was inappropriate but sharing the hope of God, promises of our Lord, hearing our agony.  I read his email over and over, could not find anything wrong through my teary eyes. What I saw was someone who took the time to reach across several states and a great deal of fear to share his faith and let us own our hurt. This email is a keepsake.

When I returned from my trip to Colorado, I found a three page handwritten letter (who does that anymore?) from a young woman filled with such grace that the pages felt warm, they glowed.  I don’t care if you believe me. She is that authentic, she is so real.  Her letter lifted me to the heavens, threw me below the very soles of my feet. I wanted to write to her all last year and didn’t. I selfishly figured she was doing well at college, what would she gain from a missive from me? Why did I ignore that push from God? How grateful I am that she is braver than I, that she listened. Her letter is a keepsake.

Since I have begun blogging and sharing my broken life, my search for grace and those bits of light in the darkness around, I have been incredibly blessed to be encouraged by old friends and new. My keepsake chest is ever filling.  I have become much more aware also of the power of words, spoken written and withheld. Storing up my own treasure of words is not pleasing to God, brings Him no glory. I apologize now for all the letters I haven’t written, for the times I held back. I didn’t trust me, I should have trusted God. I hope now to be an encourager, to leave a rock or an email or write a letter that becomes a keepsake for another someday. I strive to be authentic, to be honest with my words and let God do the rest.  If my blog means something to you, maybe it will to someone you know. It is personal but not private. Please share on your pages to help me atone for all the times I was silent. I am searching for courage amongst my treasures and what I keep finding is you. All of you who have let God push you into acting. May I become that brave, today, to speak truth and kindness with lasting words, words that feel like keepsakes.