Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

Hair Shaming

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Sitting across from my Chef one day, finishing a scrapped together lunch, chatting, catching up, he turned to me and uttered words with such sincerity, no guile or malice, and yet I was lost on how to respond. He said, “So when do you think you will let your hair grow out?”  My head tilted, I paused, asked him to repeat the question, all warnings that he was on dangerous territory and maybe he might want to back up, rethink, even abandon his line of questioning all together. Subtleties are lost with him though and he continued on. To be fair to him, when we dated, when we married, I had long blond hair, I was thinner. I presented an image of femininity that garnered second glances. So what he wants maybe hasn’t changed in the 20 plus years of our togetherness, I am the one who has altered the contract. I cut my hair, shorter, a bit shorter until I planned my trip to South East Asia and really cut it. Travel freed me of the long hot hair and the need to please anyone other than myself with my appearance. I didn’t realize he was still waiting for me to go back.

An older gentleman I barely know, I am sure he doesn’t even know my name, walked out of the sanctuary doors as the service ended two weeks ago and stopped in his tracks. He took one long look at me and remarked to the other female usher, “Do you think she needs  a haircut?” His sarcastic remark as one foot was in the commons and one still within the room of God’s Holy Place, stunned me. I didn’t remark on his clothing, his choice to have more coffee and less toothbrushing, his.. whatever… I actually didn’t notice his physical appearance. I was so shocked that he felt completely comfortable discussing my person, a stranger to him, and present it as a negative. Had he offered a compliment on the fact that my shoes matched or my scarf was lovely, we would have smiled and moved on. Why is my hair a thing? I know a man who married a woman he fell for when he was just out of high school, she was barely 16. They have been married for over 30 years.  He has insisted she maintain the hairstyle of her 16 year old self. She does it. I have always thought this was creepy and unnerving and an oddity but am now questioning if he isn’t just more honest.

For as many moments that men feel the need to discuss my very short hair, women secretly, in whispered tones, tell me they wish they were so brave. Store clerks, the person next to me waiting for a table, the lady cheering the kids on at any event. Time and again, I hear women tell me that they love my short hair and wish their husbands would accept them with such a cut. They look longingly at my head and want to hear stories, as if I were showing travel pictures while they have to stay home. I tell these women to do it. Listen to themselves. Own their bodies. What am I missing?

But maybe they know what I didn’t all along, the image of beauty is so ingrained that even after 4 years, my husband is still waiting, as if this was some wacky experiment. As if he has been uber patient and understanding, now can we just get back to his needs? When was the last time a woman asked her man to do his hair in a way that is pleasing to her? Women, have you accepted your husband’s hair loss as part of aging or have you asked him to get implants, asked him to remain the thing of beauty you first fell for, not budging on acceptance of the inner glory? Is this a thing I just don’t know about?

Today is the day women are striking. I have friends who are posting that they have no idea why, they think it is dumb. This breaks my heart for many reasons but then I remember that they can’t cut their hair. Their husbands would get mad. They don’t trust their worth in their marriage outside of their appearance. That we as women are made to believe we are that insignificant, that what we bring is measured in tress length, this is more than heart breaking. Do these women not understand this is the equivalent of being forced to wear a covering to hide your beauty? Your person is controlled by the will of the men who decide what you can show, what is deemed acceptable. This is why women march, this is why feminism. This is why a day away from all the jobs that women fulfill is critical for men to see us not as objects for their pleasure but as people.

Every Wednesday I cook a meal for roughly 100 people at our church before they break up into several small groups for study. My pastor’s wife and I had joked that I might strike on this day, that I might not do this thing I so love, that I have volunteered to do, in solidarity with those who are leaving their jobs for the day. She told me she warned her husband. He had no worries that I would be there. I assumed it was because he knows this opportunity feeds my soul. Still, I planned to cook red foods, I created a booklet for each table highlighting important women of the bible. As I shared with the pastor what I had planned, I told him that I was doing other things to mark the day since I wasn’t striking. His response, “Well, it is for employed women.”  Boom. That just happened. With one sentence he unknowingly diminished the “work”  that I do for 3 days each week to serve God and this pastor’s vision. His intent was not malicious, his impact was not affirming. Because I don’t receive a paycheck for what I do, is my worth less?

Men, are you unknowingly treating the women you love as objects rather than as equals? Women, are you afraid to grow fully into the child of God you are meant to be because you are instead striving to please a man? I am convinced that feminism is biblical, that we are called on by Jesus Himself to love each other as we would want to be loved. We are asked to love no one above God. Shaming is not the work of Jesus followers. Wear something red today and tell a women what you appreciate about her character. Leave her hair alone. She won’t say anything about yours. Let’s get back to talking about things that really matter. Like where you leave your dirty clothes.

(Amendment: words are powerful, labels are weighty. By using the identifier of “pastor’s wife” to describe the relationship in the story, I was in no means saying that is all this women is, merely the role that she was playing in the story. In describing the interaction with the pastor and highlighting the discussion that had already come before with his significant other, my intent was to show how easy it is to shame women with an off-hand remark, unintended as the shaming may be. Public apologies to any who were hurt by this post, who felt they were slighted or called less then their more. Apologies to any who were concerned that this couple not feel the respect they deserve.)

Math is Hard

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

Math has never been my best subject, I am more inclined towards words, letters. When a teacher in 5th grade taught me to diagram sentences, creating lines and trees on paper, I found the best use for graph paper. I later went on to take advanced algebra in summer school, a rush to fit in all of my credits, squeezing in room for more English Lit courses, thus I learned it for the test and then let it slide away as I went swimming.  What I do know of math is this, when you get married, you add. You bring in this person you have chosen and ask them to not only accept all of your lovable parts but also your quirks and not so great parts. Then you ask them to do the same with your family of origin. This is where sometimes math gets tricky.

When my Chef introduced me to his mother, the kindest most generous crazy woman who has no filter on her mouth or thoughts who does not understand the concept of boundaries,  I was accepted. I still question her wisdom but that is a different story. Nevertheless, Chef and I and his mom and his two brothers became a wider family. My family was surely easy for Chef to love, after all they were my family. Certainly I came with two children, an ex-husband, a battered relationship with my own mother and her odd pick of replacement husband (see how I feel about that one?) and of course my brother and sister-in-law. My family required no adjustments, they were mine. Understanding the nuances and communication styles of his though, that was like multiplication. I didn’t always feel like I had added just one mother-in-law, she is a powerhouse. She often speaks loudly, forcefully, pulls weeds in my flower beds and makes plans with my Chef without talking to me. For holidays. That he agrees to. Without talking to me. Well, mostly we have corrected  that one, but still, the math was hard. I wasn’t always sure about this addition. It would have felt much easier to have just married Chef and move him to Lisa Island where I knew all the inhabitants, my family. But that would have been division. More math. Bad math. Easier, more comfortable for me, not so for my Chef.

The truth is that had I created or pushed for that bad math, I would have missed out on the richness that has developed between me and my mother-in-law. She accepted me first, it took me longer. I love this crazy boisterous extended family, so unlike what I experienced as a child. I know Chef loves the children I brought into the relationship as if he had been there from the beginning, I know how deeply he loves my brother and sister-in-law. We allowed the math problems to become celebrations as we added more and more. (Special note: we have not added in the ex-husband. I am not crazy.)

My point is this: math is hard for some of us, marriage is hard for most of us. Both start with the basics we learn in kindergarten though, just keep adding. We don’t learn to take away for some time, multiplication comes next and division is the very last thing learned, like a last resort. If we consider dividing as our first response to added family members, we are just doing the math wrong. As an English major I can state this with authority. As a mother with an estranged daughter who was wooed away by a new love, I can proclaim it from the mountaintops. Division is bad. I propose we focus on adding, seeing the good and working through the hard. I propose we leave advanced math to God who does the taking away. Let’s just keep adding more to who we love and to who we accept and who we invite to our dinner tables and our flower beds. Let’s add to who we forgive and who we offer mercy and grace and peace to, we may just discover one day we can no longer remember which ones we started with and which ones were supplemental. A blurred family tree with lines that even a math teacher couldn’t graph, connecting points intersecting and reaching out, across.  Oops, I think I moved into geometry. Or Algebra again? Math is hard. Marriage is harder. Lets just add.

Ashes

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef4 Comments

Fat Tuesday, the day to live it up and indulge, as if we need permission go all in on our vices. Don’t get me wrong, I love the parades, I love the beads, I love the excitement and energy. I love the idea of celebration together, so little to celebrate these days. A thousand miles away from the big party in New Orleans, still the day before fasting begins arrived and I wondered at what it all really means. In our home we have been fasting for several months, leaving hope and joy out of our daily diets. We have avoided high calorie elation and glee, sticking to the austerity foods of despair and depression. Chef surely has been on this strict diet, I have to admit to cheating snacks on the side, away from his view. Time with friends allowed me to feast on bits of glee and slices of hope. Sermons at church fed me reminders of hope, Plum always brings a taste of joy. Finally, we are entering back into a season of dining together on these delicacies and the thought of fasting for another 40 days is unsettling.  We just left the dark wilderness yet the calendar is calling us back into it as we walk with Jesus in preparation for Easter.  I want to Easter now.

I have to wonder though at the timing. We have been wandering for 8 months now. We finally see some light and are asked to wander some more, spiritually at least. What is to be gained by turning back around? What did Jesus gain from that time of separation? He was tempted, He prayed intentionally, He was prepared for the darkest times ahead. It would be easy to lose the lessons gained from our own wanderings, lose the humility, the centering, the focus of the wilderness now that light is shining in our eyes. Excitement that comes with new beginnings can cause us to forget that we are merely on the edge of the forest, not yet clear of shadows and the chill. Old habits can resurface, did we wander long enough to internalize the trail markers and remember how we found our way out?

Of course, the season of Lent calls us to slow down, to check our pace. Chef is just getting up to speed again, but I have to consider that maybe I have been running a bit too fast. A pit stop to check my vitals feels unnecessary as I rush forward into my more, the tug to slow down feels like punishment, like when I was a teenager and gave up chocolate for Lent. Truly a sacrifice when I have great momentum. Candy never was more enticing than those 40 days without, never tasted sweeter than Easter morning when I found my basket filled with my favorite kinds. But many times I would discover that I didn’t really want it as much as I thought, it was merely the idea of it, the longing, the knowing I couldn’t have it. Cravings for Three Musketeer and Snickers bars were replaced with thoughts of Jesus on the cross. By the time I was free to indulge again, I found my diet had changed, my desires had changed. If only I hadn’t worked so hard to push this candy back in. Because every year whatever I have chosen to let go of for Lent was really something I needed to let go of for good. A supreme sacrifice for 40 days was preparation for the rest of my life. I have yet to accept the offer. Will this be the year that I offer up my rushing that leaves others behind? Will this be the season that sees me sacrifice my constant movement to spend some quality time in the wilderness, alone with God?

My pastor marked Plum’s forehead with ashes and my soul broke open, I almost fell to the floor crying. Plum looked so earnestly into the pastor’s eyes, absorbed his deep words of God’s love, and then returned to his seat to wiggle and jostle the boys around him. A holy moment lost in “little boy too late in the evening” rowdiness. Still I bore witness. The pastor etched my forehead with ashes and I am not sure I have ever felt more loved. I am pretty sure Jesus was speaking through this man, I think that quite often. But this night, in this moment, he and I were alone, the others all fell away. He spoke words of affirmation while marking ashes along my forehead. Life giving hope out of the death of my Jesus. The moment was actually too powerful for me to sit with my family, my friends any longer in the sanctuary. I left and returned to my safe alone place, the kitchen where I could weep  undetected. I may have looked like a martyr to others as the service ended and I was finishing the meal clean up, they didn’t know I was selfish and needed more time alone with Jesus who had just touched my soul.

The season of Lent is powerful, leads us to the cross, to Calvary, to the empty tomb, to the proof of resurrection. Lent is calling me to slow down and stand on the edge of the forest, accept some darkness, address a bit the ugliness that runs freely in my hidden wilderness. Last night I spent some time with Jesus who promised to go with me on the journey, who told me that I was worth it, He was worth it. My soul is worth it. I will eat chocolate, I will continue to drink Coke. This Lenten season I am doing some soul work. Back the wilderness I go.

Center
Quicken

Finding Stella

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The Chef, Travel3 Comments

Four years ago I was on my way to South Korea, carrying only my new tightly packed huge backpack and enough excitement to fuel the multiple modes of transport that would take me to my daughter. I was bringing her home from her year of teaching but first we were traveling to Cambodia and Thailand. Many weeks of traveling, just us and our backpacks. Mine was pink, I sent her a green one. A constant flow of information between us as we selected our routes, planned our hostel stays, determined how little money we could get by on, and especially the detailed plan for me to reach her apartment once I landed at Incheon International and then found the correct subway and then the all important right stop to disembark. I was traveling across the world to see my girl, all alone, Chef dropping me at the local site to catch the shuttle to take me to the airport 3 hours away. Many transfers, many opportunities for me to get mixed up, turned around, lost. I always get lost. This time, though I found my Stella, I was at her apartment when she returned from work, a testament to her preparation and determination to get me there, a story of just how badly I wanted to see my daughter.

I can point to many life events that have shaped and changed me, set my path on a new course. Some are awful, just so horrific they left me wandering in the dark lost and searching for too long. Other events opened me to new lights and greater glorious fields, new ideas and realizations of my more. This trip was the good kind. The very best kind. I saw my daughter as a woman on this trip, no longer my little girl. I loved who she was, who she had grown into. Sure and confident, living in a foreign country, alone and mastering it. She took me to favorite restaurants where owners hugged her as she walked in. She showed me her classrooms where children asked us to take them back to America because they loved her so much. I met her supervisors who said she always had a place there, she was a wonderful teacher. Then we began to travel and she showed me the world. She taught me how to navigate, how to find our way when English is no where to be found. She showed me her soul as we cried over the Killing Fields in Cambodia. She showed me how to play as we laughed with the elephants in Thailand. She taught me to eat  street food that I will never be able to replicate or name. We slept in places we agreed to never tell Chef about, we rode in vehicles we weren’t sure we would survive in. We talked into the sweaty nights and laughed every sweltering day.

I think my daughter is lost now, maybe I am. We can’t find each other. God knows that I would travel on any tuktuk or midnight bus with sketchy hipsters who haven’t showered in forever if it meant I could reach her. A constant flow of apologies, beseeching, anger, crying out to remember who we are, nothing I do seems to cross the divide. My God I miss that laugh, those eyes, that beautiful woman who teaches me things. I miss how her soul, always an old soul, uses creative ways to explore and explain her insides. Her art, oh Lord, her art. I miss how she loved so fiercely that it often broke her, she loved so loyally that she had no understanding of those who left others behind. I can’t find my daughter in this big world, maybe she has lost herself.

Four years ago today I was leaving for the trip that would forever change how I travel and why I travel. It forever altered how I see those around me, those in the places I visit. I seek out their stories, I want to know them and learn how my life is connected to theirs. Because we ARE all connected, that’s what she showed me most of all. She showed me that the water we waste, the clothing we take for granted, the extra food we throw out, the stories of suffering we don’t care to learn as we buy trinkets and bargain for the lowest price, we are connected to others who suffer. Today as I look back on that trip 4 years ago, I am reminded that Stella and I are still, forever connected, once through joy, today through heartache. She knows I will travel the world to reach her, she knows I will stop at nothing once she says she wants to be found. I feel her some days, so close she could be a shadow, a hazy bit of fog, I reach out but cannot touch her.  I trust that God is with her, near her, hovering over, listening to her soul. I know that God celebrates our connections, God loves our reconciliations and seeks restoration in our broken world. One day God will draw the map that will bring us back together. Today, we remember our past travels and keep walking in the light. Soon, Stella, we will meet again and my God won’t we laugh?

 

 

Leaving the Mat

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

Be Still and Know that I am God. Ps 46:10.  Let go and Let God. I don’t think that one is in there anywhere but I sure hear it often. Both come at me when I am wrestling, when I am struggling and seem to be losing my way. When my faith is shaky, when the foundation under me is crumbling. The words are meant to comfort and guide me, help me catch my breath and center my soul but in the heat of a battle I rarely can remember to be still, to let go. Counterintuitive to any wrestling match, to just stop. What if I let go of my strong hold, the little bit of control I have and all goes to hell-in-a-handbasket, what now? A quick search shows no scripture that guides me in regaining my headlock after release moves. Seemingly, the expectation is to loosen the grip, sit back and listen and wait. Horrible instructions that time and again worked wonderfully, beautifully for those willing to truly follow them.

I have been secretly trying it out. For several months. In the midst of our financial disaster, our estrangement with our daughter, our worry and fear for our son. I have chosen this time to stop wrestling, leave the mat, (I really know nothing of the sport so expect this metaphor to end soon or be misused) shake off the sweat and grime from rolling on the floor with opponents that taunt and mock me. I have taken a shower in God’s promises, I have stopped to listen and most importantly, I have trusted. While hardships stuck their tongue out at me, tried to lure me back into fear and anxiety, while Chef’s mourning threatened to drown me, still I refused to reengage the battle.

Listening for the whispers of God meant seeking out those who hear Him better than me. It meant ignoring those who don’t. It meant being quiet when I wanted to yell or scream or say bad words. It often meant walking away, something that can look hurtful to those on the mat. It meant intentional prayer and seeking out those whose prayers break my soul open.

Letting go meant not sending the cards I wrote out, not putting a stamp on the letters in the envelopes that were fully addressed and ready to hit the mailbox. It meant not reengaging in texting battles (Okay, I had one quick trip back to the mat, but that was an extraordinary circumstance and I found myself feeling filthy and beaten rather quickly. A slip-up that reminded me I am no good at fighting this battle with Arrow.) Letting go meant not accepting the ugliness and desolation that comes with holidays not celebrated with my children, rather being present with ones who were present. It meant allowing Chef to grieve and not falling into depression with him.

What I found is being still and letting go were not passive endeavors, as I have always imagined. I thought I would have to sit. I hate sitting. I thought I would have to wait. I abhor waiting. What I discovered is my time became so full of other pursuits that I barely had time to think about wrestling. No checking the calendar for the next match, I was  off to another meeting, a lunch date, a book club, starting a new ministry. My worry time was transformed, I was transformed.  Before, I said no so often that I was no longer even asked, I stopped looking for ways to grow because I was stuck in the battle. My world was tiny, a gym sized mat consisting of aches over Stella and Arrow, hurts from the past. Allowing myself to let go meant I could say yes. I say yes so often that it is a habit, I am almost becoming an extrovert. (Okay that is a stretch, but I am no longer hiding. An introvert who is out of the shadows is kinda like and extrovert, right?)

It should be noted that resolution has not come to either of those situations. Trust me, if that were true this blog post would start with Hallelujah in the boldest print and then say that 100 times over. Still, I  have a new resolve. I have a new purpose and freedom. I think there just may be something to listening to God and letting God have all of my worries. I pray I can stay off of the wrestling mat, I hope you will join me out of the ring. We can get amazing stuff done out here and trust me, you will feel so much less dirty. Yes, I am now one of those people who just may whisper to you, “Be Still and Know That I Am God.”  Pastor Pat would be proud. Of course his version to me went something like this: Lisa, shut up and listen.  Equally effective.

Will you shut up and listen today, listen for God’s whispering?

Rise Up, Child

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef3 Comments

Coke is my go-to drink during the day, a glass of wine instead for the evening hours. M&M’s and pop tarts have been mentioned frequently enough throughout my previous writings that no-one would be surprised that those are my easy comfort foods. None of this would please Michelle Obama, I know it isn’t healthy. So I balance it all with lots of fruit and vegetables, a tiny bit of protein (Yuck) and drink too much OJ. These habits are sneaky though, unless I keep mine in check, they threaten to become my lifestyle and not treats I indulge in occasionally. I have another habit that I fight with, think I have beaten, only to find it sneaking up on me at the most unexpected times. I know this habit is not pleasing to God. Well, I don’t Michelle would like it either but God is the one who concerns me here. I am talking about shame.

Like the little jar of candies I have on my desk, I often reach for shame without realizing it. I allow stigma to enter my soul without even the sweet taste of chocolate to ease the way. Reading an old message, wondering if a current one is aimed at me, humiliation sliding down my throat while my skin grows cold and my cheeks begin to flush. Shame is that sick feeling of too much food, knowing it was just too much food. The cold bathroom floor brings the only relief, hidden away, accepting punishment that can never really flush away my stains. Tears, angry floods that never drown my accusers, leave salt trails for soul detectives to follow, will they ever find me?

Then I remember that I choose what enters my body. I do actually love carrots and zucchini and mushrooms. I so love pesto and peppers and fresh peas out of the garden. I don’t have to accept the slurs and sideways glances and dis-grace, I can say no thank you and move away from the Shamers. Like a salad bar with all the best toppings, safe places feed my soul and remind me I am a child of God who has already washed away my sins, He doesn’t need my salty tears to do so. God doesn’t remember who I was, what I have done, He knows who I am. God sends soul detectives to follow the salt trails and whisper to me, “Rise up, child.”

The scars throb sometimes, ache with the memories of all the times I lost my job again, lost my hope again, lost my identity again, because of Shamers. Today is a throbbing day, too much delving into the past, tracing wounds that seek to choke out my soul. How to deal with the pain? Rush to the candy jar? I remember the boo-boo bags we got for Plum when he was just a tiny babe, rice inside soft cloth that can be stored in the freezer and gently applied to any hurts. These bags mold to his legs, his ankles, around his hands. He is big enough to seek out the boo-boo bags himself now, he knows how to stop the hurt himself. Today I will seek out my own healing bags of grace, those who dispel the ghosts of shamers-past and bring cool refreshing mercy. Today I will go to the salad bar of Jesus who offers redemption and a way back from the bathroom floor. Today I will enjoy some pesto and perspective, remember who I am: a child of God who has plans for me. I think that would please Michelle Obama as well.

Slur
Baby

Stretching

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef1 Comment

A puddle of black water on the counter, again, the damn coffee pot is leaking. Every day I find a stain, a mess, some amount of my morning zing waiting to be sopped up, waiting to be cleared away. Easier to buy a newer coffer maker but funds are tight, gone, thus we are blessed to even have grinds to put in the damn machine so I shouldn’t find offense at the mess. Still, I do. I hate that coffeemaker and the inability to just make a cup without knowing their will be literal fallout. Then I chide myself for the fact that this is my complaint, this?, when so much is wrong all around. So I wipe, scrub, move on. Until the next pot is brewing.

We use the invisible, underground fencing system for our beasts, a system that has worked beautifully for years until recently when our Golden chose to withstand the shock and break free. Sometimes he stands right on the line and gets a really good zap and then just goes. All of this resulted in a pretty yucky infection around his neck, an expensive trip to the vet (several new coffeemakers worth) and 10 days on antibiotics and a full shave around his neck. On the mend now, he is still breaking free. He is huge, he is fast, he is gone. He is making a mess of my free time, I can’t let him out to wander our yard without finding him in the neighbor’s now. Always on the lookout for Plum’s bus, yesterday he chose to go out into the street and try to board it. I considered asking the busdriver to trade me,  all those children for this damn dog. Apparently I need to put in a real fence with the millions of dollars I have hidden under my coffeemaker.

Several days ago Plum ran into the house and asked if it was appropriate for him to know how humans breed. Why did this question not come up when he was riding the bus to mama’s house? Some gentle probing on my part discovered this curiosity was sparked by a Pokemon discussion, I guess they are bred and they evolve and then they get really dumb names. So I somewhat dodged the question. Until he came back for another visit and asked how babies are made. Seriously, kid, you are only 6 and you have parents and I am too old to be trying to remember how much is too much to tell. Where is my coffee? Still, I broke out my best high school science and made his eyes glaze over. Whew, dodged again.  Until bedtime a couple of nights ago when he was preparing to fall asleep, we were snuggling, both in our “walls down, chatting” mode and he asked if boys could have babies. He had me captive, I couldn’t squirm away, I would be breaking our nighttime vulnerable talk rules. So we talked. I explained that it does take mommies and daddies together to make babies but mommies carry them in their bodies. (Please don’t yell at me about all the other possible combinations, I know, I do teach this child about the many ways families can look. I was tired and avoiding.)  Seeds, fertilizing,  growing, beauty, I thought we were going somewhere until he made clear his issue. “Nan, but can daddies ever have the babies?” “No, sweetie, but they get to love them always and care for them always.” “That’s crap! It isn’t fair!” he told me with gusto. I agreed. I told him it was God’s plan so maybe we should take our issue up with Him. “YES!”  So we prayed to God as we laid on the bed, him snuggled under the warm blankets and curled up with his specials.  We told God just what we thought of this situation.  I ended the lament with a request that God get back to us really soon with an answer. Plum and I looked each other, he cocked his eyebrow at me and asked what now? I told him I thought God would get back to us later, we should maybe just go to sleep. He rolled over, closed his eyes and softly said, “You are so silly, gran.”

So much seems to be leaking out right now, breaking through the barriers I have erected. Sneaking through my soul walls, spilling around the edges of my heart. I forget to cry out to God, mostly I just complain and wipe up the mess, stuff down my frustration or leak out my own anger. Remembering that God can take my questions and my wonderings is good. Knowing also that the way we grow is to by stretching, some leaking out of those walls just may be His plan. After all, coffee is still coffee if I use a straw to drink it off of the counter. About the wandering beast, I’ve got nothing.  Breaking free, willing to withstand the pain to get to the other side, all I can see is a neck full of oozing infection and some terrifed  kids on a bus. God surely will get back to me on that. Still I have coffee to drink, beasts to encourage exercise, and a Plum who challenges. Blessings that remind me I am alive, I am still growing. I don’t have answers for everything, I have to seek out the One who does. Then wait for Him to get back to us.

 

Hungry Messy Inconvenient

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

She looks up at me from the crook of my elbow, the perfect distance for newly developing eyesight according to some researcher. Mothers already know this. She locks eyes with me, I am looking at my granddaughter and also at God. Not the “Strong take care of everything control the world ” God but the “tiny vulnerable captivate your soul” God. My God is sometimes the Father but more often the Child, He comes to me through the children who show me grace and love unconditionally. Is it any wonder that women flock to hold a baby even in the midst of the burdens of their own family? It grows ever harder to see the God in us all as we grow: we are needy and wanting and not always very nice. We don’t smell so good and look so sweet. Yet it is ever so clear staring into the eyes of a baby, God is here.

Still, babies cry and want fed and have to be changed and are highly inconvenient, the backstory you forget when you are a grandma who only has visits or a young woman longing for her first child. Those God moments can be more rare in the trenches. But isn’t that the same with our God? Surely our sins bring screams of agony to our Father, cries that cannot be calmed much like a baby with colic, requiring hour after hour of pacing each evening. I can only imagine God’s pure pain at the hate rising up in our world, the violence and separation, the refusal to tend to our neighbors. God is crying, a neglected babe alone.

Can you envision God’s cries as we feed our guilty pleasures, our addictions, fill our time with social media and leave Him starving for our attention, forgetting that time with Him feeds us too? Long walks noticing creation, baking bread, real honest to God knead the dough and let it rise bread, arranging colors on canvas with intentionality, all are answers I have received when asked “How do you feel closer to God.”  The commonality in the responses is time creating and time apart, maybe from others but certainly from regular life. I believe retreating and creating is when we feed God, when He feeds us. Our souls become open to his nurturance.

Scripture reminds us that God is the same, yesterday today always. But we live in a changing world that requires our involvement. We live in a broken hurting world that demands our engagement. This world is God’s, we are His. To ignore the damage is to ignore the baby with the sopping diaper, soon to have a rashy bottom, soon to be blistered and the agony magnified. We are the ones called to do the changing, to tend to all of God’s children. The ones who have been left neglected the longest may smell badly, have the worst sores and scream loudly when we get near. They certainly don’t present as cuddly babies but imagine how long they have waited for our attention? Like a child with diaper rash, one swipe of ointment won’t fix it. We have to be attentive, we have to keep at it. Closed wounds don’t heal themselves. Homeless don’t find homes, hungry don’t grow food, slaves don’t gain freedom alone.

God is inconvenient. I know He does not make my life any easier. My list of those who have angered me and should be scorned forever, cast into the Dungeon of Non-Forgivables grows shorter as I grow closer to God. I try to bring that list to Him, asking for a smiting, a spell that would do Harry Potter proud but come away we another name crossed off as I lose my own fire. I want to stay mad sometimes. I want to hold on sometimes. Inconvenient. I have another list, a list of topics I will not address in public or mixed company so as not to offend. This one is meeting a similar fate. Rather than disappearing in resolution or forgiveness, this list burns within me and God demands that I speak up. God demands that I begin to talk for those who are not present. God demands that voices rise up to confront hate and bigotry and lies. God demands that this list grow and it is inconvenient for me to get louder.

It is inconvenient for me to follow a God who sees our broken world, my hurting home, my addicted son, my estranged daughter, my grandson who cries for his favorite aunt and wonders when he will see his dad again, how can I follow a God who doesn’t fix all these things? NOW. Then I look into the eyes of this babe and know that He gives me her, a way to see Him. A reminder that He is here, He is near, I just need to keep walking and rocking and working on my lists. With each of her cries and diaper changes, I know I am called to act on her behalf out in the wider world. She is God. Hungry, messy, inconvenient.  I pace with her in my arms, pat her bottom as she falls asleep, and thank God for visiting my soul.

Hideout

The 20% Path Towards Easter

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef5 Comments

I awoke sweaty, kicking off blankets, seeking cooler air. Groggy from the heat and deep sleep, I struggled to determine the source of my fevered state. A quick check to the left for the heating blanket controls next to my bed revealed I had been tricked again, the dial reading “H,” a setting I haven’t used in ages. Certainly not for an unseasonably warm February night. My little trickster usually reserves this move for the early mornings, his effort to wake me before our internal alarms say we can rise. But 2:00 am, way too early. A slow look right showed not only had Plum messed with my dials, he had infiltrated my bed and was sleeping soundly on my pillow, edging me out of my spot. Something happened during the night to send him into gran’s bed, seeking comfort and protection. How had I slept through this? Once I would have woken at the slightest noise, hearing everything throughout the night. Learning as a child that night time was dangerous and sleep made me vulnerable, I rarely really rested. Now a small child can seemingly climb right over me, get under the covers and scoot me aside and still I slept on. Oddly enough, this is a good thing. It signals a clear sense of safety.

Childhood sexual abuse carries into adulthood, alters reality so dramatically that merely sleeping soundly is a huge win. But what other effects have I held onto without really questioning, without deciding to address? What if I did alter that abuse DNA to live more wholly, more fully? The topic came up as I talked with my small group of friends and smugly spouted my stance on pain management, pain levels, pain awareness. Even as I spoke I knew I was sinking into the realm of the absurd, somehow I couldn’t stop myself from trying to defend the indefensible. My ears could hear how wrong I was, my practice and habits bespoke years of training. Maybe I unconsciously wanted to be chided, to be questioned on the validity of my long held beliefs. It worked, I am rethinking.

In order to be a good victim to an adult abuser, you must learn to ignore your own body. You must learn to shutdown warning signs and your learn that pain is a choice, one you cannot afford to experience. You must learn to be quiet, very very quiet. You must learn to escape your body.  In order to be a healthy adult who has survived childhood sexual abuse, much unlearning is required. Years of therapy have gotten me about 80% there I think, on a good day. I have learned to speak up, to protect myself, to stay in my body. But that last bit, really owning my own body and caring for it, I just haven’t conquered. As I explained to my friends, I was a child who would stand outside and wet my pants, completely unaware that my bladder needed emptying. In many ways, I am still that child. Years of ignoring basic needs such as this have led to real medical bladder issues. Years of ignoring body cues to eat that for a time exhibited as anorexia, now look like missed meals and poor food choices.  Lack of awareness about my body makes reporting symptoms to doctors for routine neurological appointments a nightmare. I don’t know, I can’t remember, my standard answers. For most of my adult life this has worked for me, in the sense that I was okay with what I considered my quirks and felt no compulsion to address them.

These last several months with Chef, who has felt real pain and desolation in the stripping of his identity, have called on me to be a better person than I am. There, I said it. Like waking at every creak of the house as it settles during the night, I have old thinking that is disturbing my life now. As I tried to defend my position to my friends, I ultimately decided that maybe I am just a bitch. Wow. Angry ugly labeling to describe my adult self, still it is easier than choosing to address the core. Would I rather remain unkind than own that I am removed from my feelings for good cause? Looking at the source means resurrection of the worst kind, traveling a path that is dark and scary, enough to send the child me into granny’s bed, seeking comfort and protection. But I am the gran, I am the parent, I am the one to provide the comfort to my own broken self. Not trusting that is enough, I stay entrenched in the separation, not realizing that I am no longer hurting me, a pain I don’t feel, but hurting my Chef. I think I have finally reached a point where this is unacceptable. (I suspect Chef will raise his arms in victory at the reading of this.)

I realize that I was once so close to healing, so close to joining my body.  The estrangement with my daughter, a young woman who was guiding me into adulthood as much as I her, left me adrift, afraid. She was my realtime example of brave women who could feel things and do things and laugh out loud. Then she disappeared under the influence of a dangerous narcissistic man who turned her into her own cowering self. We have both shrunken. We have both hidden. We cannot find a way to connect and I stay separate from much of me. But what if God has brought new women along, put some women on my path to guide me back into me? Am I brave enough to accept the challenge to stop being unkind, to shed the label of bitch and finish the last 20% to fully inhabit me? I am convinced that is what God wants. I fill certain that is what Chef would love.

Self-care is just a phrase I speak, words I type, something I have never practiced. I know the importance of putting on your own oxygen mask. Lent is soon to begin and as always, I am giving a great deal of thought to what I will give up. More and more I am realizing I am being called to give up that last 20%. Thus Lent may not look like fasting for me but eating.  Really eating.  Lent may not look like solitude for me, but engaging.  Really engaging.  Giving up chocolate or Coke made the Easter celebration delightful, for sure. Inhabiting all of me may well please God beyond the 40 days.

I may ask for prayers along the way, I may wish I had given my M&M addiction up to the Lord for the season.  I hope to share with you my struggles to keep me honest and on the path. 40 days towards 20%, starting March 1. (I don’t want to get ahead of myself, I may stay a bit aloof for a few more days.)

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More Than One Dress

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef, Travel1 Comment

I bought this dress on a whim while on a trip about a year ago, full of expectation and brimming with the hope that I would be the kind of person who wore that dress. It was a vacation kind of dress, bright fun colors, a bit shorter in cut. It required some sass, a bit of pizzazz to wear. I intended to have those, I wanted to have enough confidence to wear this dress. I purchased it, packed it in my suitcase, brought it home and hung it in my closet where it has stayed all this time. The dress began to mock me recently, laughing as I walked by, knowing it was not for me and I was not for it. I wanted to be that person but the dress just did not fit my vision of me. Oddly though, every time I looked at it fully, I saw not my shortcomings but a vision of my friend. I could not get her out of my head with each pass through the closet. She has sass, she has pizzazz, she routinely wears dresses.  She has been allowing her hair to go gray and has the exact right coloring for this dress. I knew this dress was not me, but surely it was her. Finally, the dress was removed from my closet and now resides in hers. I don’t know if my vision really matches her reality, this could be just a  traveling clothing item that is searching for the right home. Still, I am sure this dress was not for me, the real me. It felt good to let it go, to walk peacefully through my closet and not feel mocked at who I am not, but rather to see my big sweaters and longer, darker dresses, also to see the t-shirts from marches and issues I support sprawled around my shelves. The closet reflects me.

When I was younger, I wanted to heal the world. I was an activist social worker, I wanted to make a difference. I was on track but messages from childhood competed with the education I was receiving in college. I can see now that I was scared, afraid of being on my own, not married, not sure I was capable of protecting myself. My desire to be a mother erupted and overtook my personhood. My life trajectory was forever altered. I don’t regret those years, still it is only with hindsight that I see I gave all to only one aspect of me. I only ever wore one dress at a time. When my children left to begin their own lives, their own relationships and choices with consequences that severed our ability to stay connected, I was left naked. My one dress was gone. I can hear myself tell Chef repeatedly through angry hurtful tears, “But I am a mom, that is who I am.” The sound of my own voice crying out that plea to let me go back, put on my old identity, begging God to just let us all go back, it still breaks my heart as it reverberates in my mind. Like the children of Israel who followed Moses out of slavery, I didn’t understand I was being freed. I didn’t see that while walking in the wilderness, God was leading me by day with the clouds and at night in my fiery dreams. I could only complain about wanting more, what to go back to the known. Yet, God had more for me, wanted more for me, knew that I am more. I didn’t know I was shedding. I did know it was horrible and painful. I didn’t know if there was anything after, if there would be any me left when all that had been was scrapped away.

Wearing roles as my identity is much like that dress, I wanted them to fit. I wanted to be enough for them, them enough for me. Shedding those roles that once defined me has been an excruciating process, not one I would have chosen any more than giving up on this pretty dress. Pain in the peeling, the leaving behind, fear of the resulting emptiness. If I take away “mom” will I disappear?  I did for a bit. I sat in the nothingness, my skin raw as the last vestiges of who I thought I was slid away, unable to expose the fresh tender me to the sunlight. The hiding time was healing time, though. God was growing me into my new skin, from the inside out, not allowing me to don another role of caregiver as my new dress. Hindsight allows me to see that my year of seclusion looks much like a time of wrestling that old skin away, much like my beasts hurling themselves against the huge trees outside, rubbing their bodies from nose to butt against the rough bark to help remove their winter hair. Clumps fall away, get caught in the wind, beasts run with abandon feeling lighter and less itchy. Many trips to the tree, much hurling and tossing about, barks and yips breaking the quiet. Growing into the new is hard, is a process.

I am new. I am becoming more of me. The struggle to assert my personhood even causes friction in my marriage as we establish room, more space for a bigger me. Like the dress that doesn’t fit, not just a size up is needed, an entirely different style. Communication, assertiveness, determination, skills required as Chef realizes he wed one woman and is living with another. We are sweeping up the clumps of hair, wrestling with our evolving selves and how God wants us to stand together to be new and united. I can see that Chef is in the beginning stages of the peeling away, the horrible painful time of losing it all to find what is underneath, to find his more. I have cleaned out his closet to remove those clothes that mock him as well. Now he sits in the nothingness, losing clumps of himself and wondering what will remain, will anything remain. I know, I want to shout with joy, I know so surely, that God is leading him out of this wilderness and into his own time of growth and new identity that is pleasing to God and in fulfillment of His plans. It is okay that Chef doesn’t know, doesn’t always believe, I do.

My raw skin has healed, I am free and new. I am a person of God. I will always be a mom, be grandma. But I am more. My closet is a mixed mess of colors and styles, ready to take me anywhere from the back of my brother’s Harley to Sunday morning church. It takes me to meetings for all the ministries I am involved in and out to the dirt to play. There are comfy clothes for writing time and Tom’s shoes to make my statements.  I pray I never get stuck wearing one dress again, as beautiful and tempting as it may be. I am more.

 

 

 

 

Expectation
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