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.

Prayer List

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

These days it seems my prayer list is just too long. Ever have a season like that? Too many friends are aching, ailing, alienated. Young moms are lonely, longing, looking for affirmation.  Family of friends, friends of family, I hear the calls to pray for this one and that one, for this situation and that. I know these asks are offered up out of a deep conviction or even deeper desperation, a trust that prayers will be lifted and further, they will be heard. Remembering this keeps the list in perspective. I am not asked to carry the weight of the list, only to shoulder it for a moment, to then send it on, send it up to the One who can manage all the parts. Right? That is the call, the job of being that connected to others, to hearing their hurts and heartbreaks. Except something happens between the hearing and the lifting. A piece of the burden stays with each of us, just a crumb, maybe, a sliver, as the load is ever so lighter to those who suffer. How can I be sure? I have been the teller oh so many times.

I wrote about slaying my monster, about a hard talk I needed to have. Update, monster destroyed. The slaying required incredible vulnerability in a safe place, necessitated releasing my truth and allowing it to be heard. What I discovered is a new truth that came as swiftly as if I had been in darkness and the light was turned on, which in fact is what happened. I was able to see my own answer when the dust cleared, when was all laid out and my eyes were no longer clouded by all the junk and debris. I could see what was so simple. My wound began healing, I felt like I was in the presence of God Himself, I could feel it so. And yet, as I walked away, I knew I left some of my hurt behind, not all of it rose with the Spirit. Some stayed with the one who heard me, a bit of damage dust now covering his shoulders. My eyes that now shone with the Light could see that his were lined just a bit more, evidence of feeling so deeply what is brought to him. We prayed together, surely God heard my concerns. But some stayed right there in that room. I know this now.

Hearing that a friend has a sudden horrible diagnosis and is asking for prayers means also that I absolutely will begin to make food to deliver to the family. This family has been more than faithful in praying alongside us, praying when I couldn’t for our son and then when Chef was suddenly was pitched into his own pit of despair. They came into my home with food and compassion even when we couldn’t eat. I will try to put some dinner on the table on a regular basis. I will pray to the Great Healer. I know it works. Hopefully she will feel me carry her burden, an itty bitty crumble, along side her. that is how it works.

Other words are not so easy to carry, so simple to lift up. Words that are close to our own traumas and worries, the things that cause our pillows to be tearstained, those, those, we get more than a bit of dust on our shoulders, those require more than a dinner. I sometimes want to avoid those. I try to shield myself from prayer requests from friends or family who are suffering from addiction issues. I circle those like the candy aisle, I can’t even smell the chocolate without putting it in my own cart, without purchasing it, without even knowing it has all happened. Isn’t it wiser to just avoid altogether? It is with M&M’s but just because my shoulders get heavier with the burden of a friend who is aching over a son who is using and the family is being destroyed one puff at a time, can I really be that choosy with my prayer list? My list currently carries the family of several families who are aching in just this way and my prayers are especially fervent. Most are in the battle, some have lost it. The stuff that breaks your soul into pieces, that is where we need to show up and offer no words, merely a hug and our presence. Allow some of the dust to settle onto us, allow the weight to shift even for a moment, onto our backs.

God I think says we just have to show up, I have learned this over and over. We don’t have to say the best words or bake the best casserole. We are only asked to drop one off and pick up a little crumb of concern. We are asked to let our unlined eyes become riddled with crows feet because we have cried and laughed and loved our neighbors through soul storms. We pick up a tiny bit of their worries, they share ours as we allow the Spirit to work out the details. I live beside a gravel road, I fight a dusty home all the time. I learned long ago that you sweep first, dust last. Otherwise you kick up motes that settles back down onto all the surfaces, leaving a light coating and nothing is really cleaned. Swirling dust shining in the sun light catches my eye, can never be all contained. Those, those are the worry and wound pieces that God asks us to carry for each other. A long prayer list is evidence we are doing our part, catching crumbs, wearing some dust. Showing up with what we have and raising up all the rest to the One who does the real sweeping. We dust first, God will step last. Pray over the list that grows and grows.

18 And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people. Ephesians 6:18

 

 

Standing in the Tension

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

After months of therapy, the first time I talked with a professional and began spilling the horrible secrets of the sexual abuse that lasted throughout my childhood, I returned home to have a conversation with my mother. My therapist and I had practiced this, considered what my goals were, what the possible outcomes could be. Still, in my heart I just knew my mom loved me enough to wrap me in her arms and try her best to wash away the hurt. That is really all I wanted. What I got was almost as damaging as the abuse. She told me that because my father was already dead, she couldn’t ask him about it. Conversation done. As if there needed to be two sides, as if I might not be telling the truth. As if my voice didn’t count. I learned then that speaking up was a dangerous risk, one that could damage any relationship, I learned to weigh my need to speak up with the need to be loved. I learned I can’t have both. It took many years to understand that she was not just my mom in this scenario, she played a role in the years of abuse, surely she was feeling her own guilt and to accept my truth meant her complicity was clear. Her feelings must have overwhelmed her ability to be my mom in that moment. Sadly, had she just wrapped me up, I would have forgiven, at least I believe so, all of it. Instead, it laid there between us, my truth and her inaction, to the day she died.

I was 22 when I had that talk with my mother, I still struggle with sharing my truth. Will I be believed? Is sharing it worth risking the relationship I have? What is the point? Yet my soul suffers, I carry the burden of silence. Relationships that aren’t authentic or are based on my participation in wearing a mask are no longer ones I value. I avoid them. So when I am confronted with a situation that violates my own standards of acceptable behavior where I am forced to choose, like everyone, speak up or back away, I hear my mother’s voice and mostly back away.  I have been so blessed to have a husband who hears my truth. As opposite as we are, we have many many opportunities for real talks. We have countless chances for talks that allow me to practice sharing my truth in a safe environment and still come away loved. But what about my wider circle? Outside of my home and into my world?

I have some tough choices to make, I am waffling with each passing hour. I know I need to have a hard conversation and yet the risk just feels too great. Backing away doesn’t feel acceptable either. I imagine someone without my history would charge right in and spill it all, a resolution would be found. I imagine so many things would be different without a history of distrusting myself, believing I have to have the perfect words to convince my audience I am telling the truth. Steve Wiens talks about Monsters in his book “Beginnings” in such a beautiful, transformative way.  My friend Janet with her so talented artsy self created a drawing that I stare at every day using words from the book. It says, “Facing your Monster requires you to stand in an in between place where you abandon your turf and your rules in order to create new space for yourself and others. You need to go where your dragon lives, on the border of its land and yours. You need to remain on that border and do battle. You need to face and hold the tension of that space until your Monster goes down.”  I see my answer in this quote, I see the nudge to stand my ground. Standing there in that tension is better than cowering in a quivering mess, waffling in indecision.

Standing, yes, that seems to be a good first step. Deciding to stand up and be heard, to take the risk, I can hear it in this book that has brought me back into my life, my faith, myself, a better self, the one God has waited for me to become. Do I dare really fight the monster, though? I think if I really trust Steve, and I actually do, and I really trust Janet and I absolutely do, I can hold on to that trust until I fully trust myself. They both have been instrumental in directing my trust unto God. I have to be willing to abandon what I have always known, my rules, that I will not be believed, to create a new space. What would it look like to be a person others trusted? I think I might be already, I certainly have evidence to support that if I truly look. So maybe this is really an opportunity to again quiet those mom memories, the ugly rumor voices, that say I have lied. Maybe it is a chance to free those sounds from my heart and write my own song that will sing louder louder louder as the notes shine light on my 22 year old heart and wrap it in love.

Remaining, that too calls for sticking to my truth, my reality, not giving up when it gets a bit hard or worrying that it may get ugly. Fighting monsters in every story or movie requires some thrashing about, some wreckage. There is in fact some drama. I only like my drama in a good book that I can close if need be. To fight my own personal monster, I can’t dog-ear the page and come back later. Committing to the battle is key. I am growing more so now by the minute. Whisperings of encouragement fill my soul. Is that me or you, God? My friend at church gave me a new mug yesterday, a surprise gift with these words imprinted, “God loves you most” on one side and “nothing can ever separate us from God’s love” from Romans 8:38 on the other. She had no idea that I needed to fill that up with my coffee, hold the warmth in my hands and be encouraged as I drink, letting  truth replace the chill,  filling with hope and love.  Or maybe she did. She is like that. Still, the timing was all God.

I am preparing for battle with my monster but what I know deep down is that my monster isn’t anyone else. It resides solely within me. Slaying it requires that I have this really hard conversation but the monster isn’t the other. The other isn’t inherently bad and I am good. I don’t believe that. Just as bleach and ammonia each have their own strengths alone, mixed together something really toxic is created. This other and I seem to be in a chemical mess where words just wound me so deeply and every attempt to address them is met with more hurt. Still, I see that the this other is not the issue. I can back away from the other but not from not being heard. That is breaking my soul,  that monster is welling up with a ferocity that only with God as my guide, can I slay it.

Today I am facing my monster. I think. If all goes according to plan. It will surely be messy and uncomfortable and most definitely painful. I may even get a few scraps and scratches in the battle. I am beginning though to wonder what it will feel like not to carry this horrid thing around with me anymore. That means I am getting closer to the light.  Are you avoiding that big conversation, that major decision, that change you want to make, out of fear or worry or self-doubt? I have praised Steve’s book over and over and I will only say, if you find yourself in that place, please pick up a copy and know that monster slaying will be possible for you too. I am standing in the tension today.  Warning shot fired, monster, here I come. Can you hear me?

Communion in St. Paul

Fresh Start

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

It was one of those days that tried so hard to be right but kept being wrong anyway. I was contentedly drinking my coffee chatting with Chef as the beasts sweetly barked in my ear to go outside. For the 11 millionth time I rose to let them out and go sit in the chilly spring sun to supervise my runaway horrible rotten beast as Chef asked again how much the fence was going to cost. With the sinking gut clench that forewarned his buyers remorse was coming, I pointed him in the direction of the folder holding the quote. He began to research alternatives to the fence man who was due to come in just 3 days. Three more days until my dog drama was over and Chef wanted to reevaluate the project, maybe put the fence in himself when he had time (never). The weather inside our home became chilly with storm clouds threatening. The dog decided to defecate in the neighbor’s yard. I looked for a frying pan to gently nudge Chef back into the project. It wasn’t even 9 am.

The church men’s group was scheduled to do a grounds project, Chef asked if I could make some lunch for them. I preferred to stay in my jammies until time for the fancy dinner later in the evening but recognized that was pretty selfish. Also Chef may have a frying pan of his own. I got dressed, went to the store, went to the church, started lunch, only to get a text from Chef  about 15 minutes in saying actually they were done and leaving. Now if you are thinking that I killed my wonderful Chef you would be wrong. He was taking me to a black tie dinner later so I had to keep him alive long enough to wear my fancy dress and have delightful wine. But you would be correct in guessing that I stood in the very church where I worship each week and committed the sin of considering harming him. Remember Jimmy Carter’s honesty when he said adultery is even allowing his thoughts to stray? I am convicted of bad stuff in my church kitchen. Still, I unmade lunch, did the dishes and returned home to my poor beasts who had been cooped up unnecessarily. To discover one of them, I am sure it was Chef’s, had defecated in the house. What a lovely day this was turning out to be.

When Chef called on his way home from the church and began chatting like the day was still wonderful, I educated him on reality. His laughter did not lend authenticity to his apology. I want back to bed. Sometimes a fresh start is the only hope for a day like this. There I stayed until a stink bug swirled and buzzed with helicoptered whirling and chose to land on my pillow. Then his friend joined on the window. Then another. Damnit. Every time I got settled and cozy and warm, up again to remove the disgusting smelly insects that rule hell and my nap time. I wanted some beauty sleep to prepare for my fancy dress because I knew this cinderella generally goes to sleep about the time the ball was starting. I knew that crabby frown lines did not match my dress. I knew I needed an attitude alteration. But c’mon. What else could happen?

The rod holding up our shower curtain fell, I put it back up, hung the curtain back up, it fell again. Twice more. I couldn’t find a tube of lipstick to save my soul. I did find the cap to one in the drawer where Plum has stashed away all bits of makeup I used to have. His war paint. Still, I had a fancy dress and I was going to have real wine and talk to other people and it was going to be great. I had kept my dress secret from Chef, knowing, just knowing he was going to be wowed by this baby. He said I looked nice. Seriously? I sent a horrific selfie to my friend who overlooked my jacked up expression and only noted my amazing dress. She affirmed that I looked quite fancy and that my dress was beautiful and we discussed that I who have never won any awards for filling out a t-shirt, had quite a rack. These are conversations you can mostly only have with a really good girlfriend who understands that you almost killed your husband today and you just want to be dressed up and go out.  I hope you have that kind of friend.

First stop was a pub so Chef could get a beer and watch the game. Really.  That happened. But we did get to the event and I looked fancy in my dress and we had wonderful food and delish wine and I met new people. Cinderella made it to the ball and didn’t spill anything or trip even once. It was fun and refreshing. Then we came home, Chef let the cats out and went to bed. I really wanted to discuss calmly with Chef how delighted I was with his pet care so I daintily stomped up the stairs to our bedroom to find him snoring. My Prince Charming.  Back downstairs, back outside,  in all my finery, calling cats and beasts and wondering how we survived such a crazy day. The answer is, some days you just have to keep starting over, all the way up until you let it go and accept that a new day is coming. Somedays you have to reach out to others to help push that reset button, to help you find you own beauty. Chef just wasn’t feeling the party. He was focused inward, his own thoughts and concerns clouding his view. It is unfortunate but sometimes that just happens. One day does not a marriage make. Dressing up is not really me anyway. Play acting, pretending to be what I am not. This cinderella is much more recognizable in pajama pants and thick socks. A day of miscommunication and grand expectations was finally over. To be fair, I am certain there are plenty of days that I miss all the cues that Chef gives me, all the subtle and not so much, hints that this is kinda a big deal, and I just don’t see it. More often than not I am looking inward. Thank God for fresh starts and new days.

Today is already starting better. We have enjoyed our coffee together and rehashed the night. All the pets are where they are supposed to be. It is early, yes, but I have a good feeling about today. Also, anyone need a really fancy dress?

 

Why God?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Rediscovering Fruit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lifetimes

On By LisaIn Faith, Mom, PlumLeave a comment

Something stirs in my Plum’s heart, I never know when to expect it, he begins to cry over the loss of our pets from 2 and 3 years ago. Significant because he is only 6, I often wonder how much he really remembers. Yet a sadness overcomes him, he becomes almost inconsolable. The loss is deep, the yearning is mournful. It matters not that we have new beasts who push past me to lay atop him, providing comfort with heavy fur. Warm dog breath finally eases his pain as we rock and talk about lifetimes, about natural order and about heaven. We agree that it still just hurts when those you love are gone.

He doesn’t remember that one of the dogs he is mourning used to bark all the damn time, insisting as only a border collie can do, that we play with her. He doesn’t remember that we had to monitor her all the time so she didn’t herd him in his little walker. He doesn’t remember that I had to nurse her the last two years of her life, forcing her to eat as I watched clumps grow around her midsection. He only knows he misses her. God only knows why.

He doesn’t remember that our other dog, the best rescue ever that we saved from Hurricane Katrina watery parasites and brought home to love, was so strong he could knock my Plum over. We had to keep an eye on that one as well, Plum was just toddling and could easily be toppled. He doesn’t remember that he used to flinch from the loud battles they all used to have. He only knows he misses him, God only knows why.

He surely doesn’t remember the last loss, our sweet sweet rescue who was so protective of me she used to bare her teeth and nip a bit when others came too close. She nipped at him a couple of times and also nestled up so closely when he was feeling, well, any strong emotion. He had to battle with her to get to me many times, he didn’t like her on his bed but there she slept, watching over him, worrying about his doorway when he wasn’t here. He only knows that he misses her, God only knows why.

Plum only remembers how soft their fur was, how much he loved that they loved him. He listens to stories about their better days, their finer qualities and takes those in as his own memories. So sometimes he weeps, we comfort him. I understand his selective memory. That is how our hearts heal from brokenness, we smooth over the rough places of hurt with stories of laughter and silliness, we focus on the good times and loosen the damaged patches from our soul storage. We begin to remember with grace. This is how I have dealt with the loss of my own mother, 5 years ago today.

With each passing year, it becomes harder to remember the difficulties in our relationship,   there were plenty. The big things don’t ever go away maybe but their weight, their importance diminishes as more sweet memories and deep longing replace them, smooth out the hurts. Distance allows me to see her as a person aside from her role, to see that her own  needs weren’t met, see her own challenges in life, and wonder how she ever managed to love at all. I especially have become so much more aware of the ways that I hurt her, the times I let her down, distanced myself from her. I look back at our relationship with fresh eyes and a sore soul and know that we just both did the best we could, we were both so broken, so badly damaged. So somedays I find myself weeping for my mother, a strange sight indeed to anyone who knows what a complicated path we took. Those tears smooth out more bad places, wash away more painful memories so that my soul fills with snapshots of those times we laughed and we shopped and we shared recipes.

When Plum is crying, I ask him what he would like to do with his long lost pets if he had just one more chance with them. He often says he wants to play with them or give them a hug. So then we do that with the ones who are near and we go outside and speak to the clouds. We claim our aches and send them up to the sky and then we rejoice with the barking yapping beasts who are close by. The breath of God dries our cheeks and sends fresh joys in the rushing chasing ball carrying beasts who long for our attention. The same is true for me, as I consider what one more thing I would want from my mom. At one point it would have been affirmation of all my hurts, that I was right she was wrong. Later it might have been that she really did love me. The long road of healing now shows I need neither of those last conversations, I know she was as right as she could be and she always loved me as best she could. Today I would only want to tell her that I am sorry. But just like every other conversation I wanted to have, she already knows that. All I really want is one last time to snuggle up and share some comfort. Healing for us both, all we ever both sought. My soul is making progress in the mom compartment. So I speak my yearning to God and cuddle with the one who is here, my Plum who really just wants to dance today. So we dance. And I know my mom is rejoicing at our silliness.

We all know that death strikes too suddenly, too often with no warning. Sometimes we have the chance to say our goodbyes but still healing takes much longer. Lifetimes, everything has a lifetime, I teach my Plum. I don’t teach him hurts have lifetimes. We are practicing giving those up to the clouds as they come, in the hopes that his little soul may become the generation to grow up less scabbed and scarred, more trusting and open. Still, he cries and I comfort. Today I leak out some sorrow of my own, unexpected feelings of loss for a mother who left us 5 years ago and still is missed. And today we dance and throw balls for beasts and snuggle up just a bit closer. Soul healing means making some new memories and letting the old fly away with grace.

I remember you mom, as the woman you were and the woman I wanted you to be and all the love that fell somewhere in between. Look at Plum, hasn’t he grown? His love for our beasts surely melts your heart. I feel your smile so deep in my soul it is pushing water out of my eyes. Let’s go dance.

The Great Fence Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eight Days and Over Two Years

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

This meaningless ordinary symptom of acceptance, a minimal label to conquer controversy. Whew, I managed to get all the daily prompt words in for the last 8 days, behind on my writing but catching up in one sentence. A rush, indeed, maybe nonsensical if anyone dares look too closely, but still. Done. Project complete. Except, no. Just spewing out words without thought and concern for where they fall, no acceptance of consequences  when they do can stir controversy for sure, create just another meaningless mess of letters that conquer a page but nothing more. In fact realizing that our words are powerful, that what we choose to say or withhold speaking will have long lasting impact, that is truth, for sure. I can’t just throw out words strung together and catch up, I can’t just throw out apologies and make it all better. Thoughtful consideration, deep listening, that is the stuff of relationship building, bridges that heal and stabilize and continue the conversation.

Much has been said about the word salad that our new president serves up daily, a feast of letters that leaves me bloated and still hungry for meaning. Anger rises in me when I read transcripts of his remarks, not just for content but in the absolute butchering of our language. I worry about generations to come who will study his remarks as if they are reflections of acceptable speech. Closer to home, though, I wonder if I am accountable for my words. I know I certainly don’t always say what I mean, my heart is not always expressed as clearly as I intend. I am shocked to find someone has taken offense at what I have written or found hurt in one of my posts. A blog about grace, and someone got their feelings hurt? Really digging, right? It must be them. But is it? Maybe my own word salad has been tossed, something mixed up between the writing and the reading. Doesn’t it matter that my intent is not to bring pain? Is it my responsibility to continue to follow up until clarity reigns? Grace requires that I seek out those who find offense and work towards reconciliation. And then do better with my words.

I heard of a published author who posted this week that she received a really nasty bit of feedback, an email that ended with, “Stop writing.” Wow. While I was hurt for her, I was somewhat buoyed by the fact that even someone of her stature can set off a reader, elicit such anger. That she chose to expose it and address it publicly was my real wow. She didn’t hide in shame, she owned her words and her space. I have invited some folks not to read my words. I have apologized to others, have almost shut down in shame as well. Finally, I decided to own my space. I also committed to being more thoughtful about my writer words. Still, I think back to the turning point disagreement with Stella and her fiancé at the time, words were spoken that altered our course. We all thought we had apologized, clarified, got quiet and listened enough to move on. To share our space. Hindsight shows that night broke the bridge, each time it rained the flood waters washed more away. Since that time, there has been much word salad and excessive letters, controversial notes and emails and attempts to visit, the bridge won’t hold us up. Because, ultimately, clarity and understanding, accountability requires that the speaker and the hearer each own up to their parts of the message. One way communication is a lecture, not a relationship. Words only going out mean interpretation happens with no chance for feedback and translation. Like 8 days worth of writing prompts, words mixed together may look good, but one can only guess at the meaning. And guessing is dangerous when we are talking about matters of the heart or our country.

Here’s to catching up on prompts and one day catching up with Stella. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you oh God. And to you dear readers. And to you my dear daughter.

29 Watch the way you talk. Let nothing foul or dirty come out of your mouth. Say only what helps, each word a gift. Ephesians 4:29The Message 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Controversy
Conquer
Label
Minimal
Acceptance
Symptom
Ordinary
Meaningless