Monsters Go Away

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

Monsters lurk under the bed, in the closet, in my head. Fear has guided my steps for years, tiptoeing around the terrifying memory beasts that threaten to pull me under, away. Some  I have managed to slay, the biggest ones, the horrible one-eyed demons that bring back childhood trauma. Still, the monsters who remain are sneakier, relentless. They roam and wander but never go far, awaiting an opportunity when I am vulnerable or tired, when I am a bit unsure or the day has been rough. These monsters deliver self-doubt, they coat me with shame, they whisper “you are not good enough” in my dreams. I know these monsters have gathered again to slink under my defenses when I become nervous, when my anxiety replaces peace. I know I have let them charge through when I begin to ruminate on what others say instead of listening to my own voice. The monsters laugh delightedly as I question, as I wonder, as I look for them instead of remembering that I Am A CHILD OF GOD. I begin to chant, “Monsters have no place here.”

Plum and I read a book of scary stories before bed last night, a fitting ending to a really yuck day. I never read spooky tales to him, we don’t even own any, aside from the Harry Potter series, but that is scary with purpose. Still, I picked up this little book at our church book fair and knew it was a light version of ghost stores, which Plum has been asking me about recently. So we snuggled in after a long day and sought some monsters. We found them to be funny, we knew that behind each effort to frighten us was just a misunderstood prop. While I worried that these tales may grow bigger with his imagination, that I might find his sleep disturbed, our household wakened by his night fears, he slept peacefully. He knew those monsters were silly, he knew he was safe. Before he fell asleep, he shared a story about two children from his evening class who had a disagreement. One child was not nice to the other. I asked who he thought we should tell when that happens. I was prompting for an answer “the teacher.” My wise Plum said, “God.” We told God about the situation, asked God to remind us to watch our words and behavior, to help us not be mean and to guide us in telling a safe adult when we witness others who aren’t playing nicely. Satisfied, he then told me Miss S handled it. He still wanted some God back up. I don’t have to climb a far mountain to get my deep teachings, just snuggle in for sleepy chatter with this kid who explains the inner workings of God to me.

I have some monsters tailing me, knocking about, I can hear them. They want to steal my voice, they want my peace. These tiny little villains want me to believe they are dragons, giants, fierce horrors. Really, they are echoes of the past, they only make sound if I listen. They only breathe if I give them air. They are props in a story meant to undermine my more, meant to confuse me into becoming less less less until I am a shadow and they run freely through my soul. Yesterday I cowered to my monsters, I allowed words to twist me into knots. I slunk away, I retreated. But the monsters didn’t know my arsenal is stocked, I have better resources now. I can rely on discerning friends who stop the ruminating and sort out the knots, help clarify the real battle and help me walk away from what doesn’t require a fight.

Today I will rise again, I will use my voice again, I will remember that my gift is from God. The autopsy shows the dragon I destroyed was only a wee chameleon, nothing to fear. A mere prop that comes with reminders that not only can I fight back, I can put some doors on the closet, I can sweep under the bed. I can control the boundaries and say no thank you when the monsters come knocking. Shame, you are not welcome here. I AM A CHILD OF GOD.  My no’s will be more frequent in the future, I realize I must create some distance between monster zones and myself. I’m not on a monster hunt, just cleaning house a bit and chanting as I go about it, “Monsters have no place here.”

Ruminate
Nervous

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.)

Good Breaking

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella4 Comments

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

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

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

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

 

Breaking Boards

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

I watched Plum break a board yesterday. I listened to his instructor every week tell this rag tag group of boys that one day they would have the chance to do so. I watched these squirmy little boys file in after a long week of classes, bodies aching for freedom and instead being called to line up, listen, obey for just one more hour. They struggled, they wiggled, they popped each other with an errant elbow and wandered off to watching parents or sneak some Friday popcorn from their backpacks. Still they mostly managed the moves, they found ways to align their little bodies with that of the instructor and they staved off their hunger for the extra hour each week. Promotion ceremony had arrived and the boards were visible, I was riddled with doubt.

Most of these children barely weigh 50lbs.  Reading skills are all over the place, making the book work required a challenge for many. Most never had a pen or pencil, it became habit for them to beeline to me and the baggie I kept in my purse of extras just for this purpose. They are babies. I wanted to line them up at the tables, feed them apples and peanut butter crackers and let them run the gym afterwards. The instructor asked them to be respectful and responsible and to listen. When a boy would show her an ouchie hand, she could be heard asking if he needed an ambulance, okay no, then join your friends please. I wanted to give him a band-aid, also from my purse. It struck me that I saw these children as who they used to be, little tiny boys. She saw their future. She saw the need for disciplined choices in the face of discomfort. I am really great at being a grandma, I would be a horrible DoJo.

Someone asked Mama in an almost mocking manner what she would do if Plum turned into an addict, would it all really be so easy for her? This conversation came on the heels of her encouraging setting safe boundaries, turning off the deep desire to enable, owning that addiction is a family disease. The remark broke her heart, hit every worry that has plagued her from the moment of conception. As we followed her hurt but also her choices, I reminded her that she is already doing the hard stuff. She is practicing now, just like those little boys. The great big horrible daunting choice of what to do when your child shows you that he has an addiction that is out of his control, that he is engaging in illegal behavior, that he is skipping school and is broken with mental illness, that hard choice doesn’t just appear after years and years of easy street. Like those squirmy hungry boys who had to choose to line up and listen when they really didn’t want to, she is making hard choices every day. She is practicing. She is breast feeding her daughter, through mastitis and c-section recovery when it would have been easier to switch to formula and get more sleep. This is not a bash on those who have made that choice, merely casting a light into Mama’s life. She has practiced telling Plum yes he does actually have to stay after school again today, no he cannot leave early. She is practicing by gaining control of her home and creating structure for her entire family. This often means telling everyone no it is not movie time, we are cleaning up. With each success, she is gaining the confidence to move to the next level, she is self-promoting for the next board to break.

God forbid she is ever faced with such horrible choices. I hate that any of us are. I hate that she was mocked in such a hurtful way. The reality of parenting an addicted child is that you no longer get to give snacks when they are hungry, bring extra pencils because they forgot. They must find their own ability to succeed and not be undermined by the parent’s need to nurture. They must have the consequences of not getting their work done and then the reward of doing it themselves. The addict child has to lose the shelter of a loving parent early, the parent has to let go faster or will be forced to let go forever. My soul cannot even consider the thought of my Plum under these circumstances yet my mind knows his genetics put him at risk. So off to class he goes, especially when he doesn’t want to. He always has his own pencil. He is just a baby but the world sees him differently. Thank God for an instructor who sees a child who could kick a board with confidence and break it.

The boys anxiously lined up, watched as the first child was called to meet the instructor by the stack of boards. He clumsily got into his stance, told the board  with little assurance that he would break it with his front kick. Then tried over and over. The board didn’t break. I knew this whole event was a mistake. I wanted to call it quits. I looked about the room for this child’s parents, where were they? Why weren’t they saying, no, maybe he isn’t ready? Still it carried on, the instructor encouraging, giving pointers, inspiring. She reminded him of the correct stance, got him fired up. When his kick landed on the board with enough force to split it in two, the room erupted in joy. A collective celebration for this child who then got his stripe of confidence across his belt. Many children were able to land one blow and split the wood, some needed more chances. Plum did it in two. Each boy was on his own journey of self-discovery, conquering more than the board. Their desire to be stronger, to be little ninjas, to be bigger and tougher outweighed their fear and doubt, overcame their hunger and their wiggles.

I watched as these little boys were promoted after they practiced for weeks through hard choices to show that their will could be channeled into their goals. They could do it if they wanted it badly enough. The same goes for parenting, all the day-to-day rough decisions prepare us to set aside our needs and focus on the goal. I realized I am just too tired, too spent doing such hard work. My soul aches for those who have to make these daily hard choices. My desire is to make cookies for all the children and see that they have pencils. God knows we always need grandmas, but we most assuredly need more DoJos. My heart is over-flowing with gratitude for this young woman who inspired a room of ruffians to be their best selves. They all broke the board, she didn’t quit until they did. No one walked away until they achieved the goal. The split some wood with a kick, I feel sure they will all remember that moment, the exact moment when each boy realized he could achieve greatness.

(It should be noted that this class also held ONE LITTLE GIRL, for clarity sake I did not write about her. She deserves a story all her own. She inspired me. Her book work was done before anyone else, she sat up straighter, she listened better, she knew the moves quicker and she won almost every game. She blew the boys away. She broke the board in one kick. She probably weighs 40lbs. She will be the star of another story, many stories I am sure. Also, she always had her own pencil and never got up for popcorn.)

Doubt
Desire

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

What Will the Church Say?

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith5 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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