In Memoriam

Dear Reader,

If you ever find yourself in the darkness, the deep kind filled with despair and indecision, the kind that feels never ending, like there is no way out, I want to promise you there is. You may feel like you are the only one who feels the way you do. You might stand in a group of people and feel totally alone. You may hear comments or half conversations and be convinced that others are speaking unkindly, ignoring you or can't understand how you feel.

Let me tell you a secret. We all feel that way sometimes. We all have moments when we feel uncomfortable, inept and alone. It's a huge risk to open up to another human being. When we open up we risk being rejected or feeling stupid. Maybe you've felt that. We all have. Some of us cover up our feelings of rejection with bravado and ill treatment of others. Some of us choose to talk endlessly so that we never have to feel the silence of our sorrow. Some of us walk around all day pretending everything is wonderful and come home and cry ourselves to sleep. Some of us feel constant anxiety and fear of rejection. But all of us feel, reader. All of us understand.

You may feel like you will never feel any differently - that life is pointless. You may decide in that moment that life is not worth living anymore. You may consider doing something drastic, something final in that moment. Perhaps you think nobody will notice or care. If so, I wish you could have been with me in my car last week to see the faces of shock, terror and grief as the ambulance arrived. I wish you could have heard the cries of disbelief and anguish over a life cut so short, so suddenly, so pointlessly. I wish you could hear the expressions of grief by close friends, blaming themselves for the words not said or the signs not seen. I wish you could feel the sorrow of strangers feeling the loss, sharing the burden of grief. I wish you could see and feel the ripples of a life stilled in such a sudden and tragic way and the never ending wish that that life were still with us.

I hope that you would consider, for a moment, that your life touches others. Your presence, your breathing, your essence carries beyond yourself in every moment to other people. If they knew, if they really knew of your deepest feelings they would tell you that you are not alone. They would plead with you to talk to someone about how you're feeling. They would want you to know that life is worth living, even when it's hard. They would want you to know there is hope.

There is a way out, a different way. I promise.

Take a walk - notice the creations around you. Consider the care with which they were made. You are infinitely more important than the most perfect flower or tree. Find an animal and spend some time with it. Softly stroke its fur or wing. Feel its innocence and peace. Listen for its heartbeat and consider the gift of your own. Write your feelings down, the sad ones, the scary ones, the silly ones and the insecure ones. Validate for yourself what you are feeling. Recognize that you have words to speak. Things to say. Things worth saying. Listen to a song, not one filled with anger and despair. Find music that speaks of hope, of peace. Listen carefully to how you feel as you hear it. Let its beauty fill you. Read a book about someone who knows what it is to suffer, study how they have fought the darkness. Learn from them. Try to emulate them. Study your medications. Sometimes certain medicines that work wonderfully to help us with asthma or anxiety can cause devastating effects on our minds. Perhaps adjustments need to be made. Read about your family. Find out if anyone else in your family, present or past, has had struggles like you are having. Sometimes our heredity betrays us with our genetics and we have to fight the demons harder than others. This is not an excuse or a source of blame, it is a pathway to treatment and understanding.

Finally, reader, talk to someone. If you still feel the darkness, the despair pulling at you and dragging you into the place of no return, tell someone. If you can't speak the words out loud, write them in a letter. Not a final letter, but a letter to someone you know would want to know. Then wait. Wait as long as it takes. They may not know what to say or how to help. Their silence may not be one of carelessness, but of fear and uncertainty. If they don't respond, tell someone else. Tell and tell and talk and talk until someone listens, really listens. Then let them help you. Open up and let them listen. Let them understand your world of sorrow. Let them lead you to people who can show you the way out of the struggle. Let them remind you that you are not alone. You are not beyond help. You are of infinite worth.

There is a way out. I promise.

Balance

I constantly struggle to find balance in my life. I often feel pulled in fifteen different directions all warranting my time and energy at once. When I place my focus on one area, I feel guilty that I'm not doing something else.

I was sharing my struggle with a friend the other day and she told me about her Dad's boat. She said that there is a mechanism on his boat called a 'trim tab'. If there is ever imbalance in the weight distribution of the boat, you can push a button and weight will be distributed to the opposite side to create balance that will keep the boat afloat. She explained that it was a slow, careful process to determine what is the proper weight distribution for the boat to be perfectly balanced.

I have considered carefully since then the balance of my own boat. I think I'm carrying a lot of unnecessary weight around on my boat. I've thought about what items in my boat simply need to be jettisoned. Sometimes I allow others to place things on my boat without permission and then spend the day working to adjust my trim tab to compensate for it. Sometimes I place unneeded weight on my own boat, not realizing the time and energy it will require to have it there. Other times I place undue importance on things, making them heavier than they need to be. I also realized the imbalance created when I try to carry loads that are designed to be carried well by other boats. You see, it dawned on me that no two boats are alike. We are all designed differently to carry different loads, chart different courses through life and accomplish different things. I need to stop looking at any other boats in comparison, and simply focus on balancing my own.

It's a constant readjustment, working that trim tab. Seeking balance, day by day.

Ship ahoy!

Monday Morning

Maybe it's just Monday morning. Maybe it's the clouds and cold permeating the scene through my window. But it's only 11:00 a.m. and it's already been a day for me.

The dog started barking at 5:30. Dead dragging, toe freezing, pull myself up with every ounce of energy I haven't got kind of a morning. As I was making lunches with the last crusts of bread I could scavenge due to my sinking dread of returning yet again to the grocery store, I was inundated with paperwork. Flu shot papers, sign the reading record, testing reports, everything that was tossed aside with backpacks and lunchboxes on a whimsical Friday afternoon. Shoes and jacket thrown over my still pajama clad self as I went into the garage to remember that my son's bike chain had come off last week - its disrepair another casualty of the weekend. Dashing in the van to cart him to his destination, only returning home to find the dog had made a chew toy of my daughter's headband. Her departure joined by simultaneous barking and frenzied response as her friends rang the doorbell. Out she went. Moment to breathe. Only a moment.

Turning then to see my youngest still in pajamas, upset already about the fact that I wasn't allowed to join him in the preschool field trip today. Too many moms signed up and I wasn't high enough on the list to merit chaperone status this time. Finding shoes, coat, lunchbox & pizza party money, I had just pulled out my cereal bowl for a moment of quiet to myself when the garage door opened and in trudged my terribly sick husband who had earlier dragged himself to work only to find after his arrival, he was in fact too sick to be there after all. After getting him settled, I realized my time for breakfast and a shower had disappeared and it was suddenly time for preschool carpool, hearing again how much I was wanted at the field trip. Coming home to walk the restless dog, pick up his business all over the back yard, start the load of towels that had been left soaking all over the bathroom floor and throw the remaining dishes left from last night's dinner into the dishwasher that had been left sitting on the table as I ran out the door to a meeting for church.

10:30 - finally - breakfast, read the paper, a moment of silence and solitude.

I have been trying for months, years really, to understand how to take things in stride. How to find balance amidst the demands of my family's busy lives. I've made significant efforts to simplify, to slow down, to be content. I feel like I'm making progress, I'm changing and slowing down and then I have a Monday morning...

I guess part of motherhood and raising a family is learning to be fluid. Trying to take life as it comes and not let it phase you too significantly. People eat, dirty their clothes, come and go and then do it all again the next day. And the next day and the next. There's really no such state as 'finished' in a busy household of growing children. I guess the trick is to be present, truly engaged in the moments that are important - saying goodbye, holding hands during prayer, saying I love you, hugs before field trips, cold Sprite when you're sick. The rest of it will all wash away with the day, and into the next and beyond. I guess I'm learning to move with the current of life, trying not to feel drowned or let it wash me away by clinging to the buoys of meaningful moments along the way.

Off to finally take my shower...

Of Plants & Blooming

I have a houseplant that hates my house. I have tried it in every room in my house, including the bathroom, to no avail. It would do fine for a few days, then the leaves would start to droop, sometimes yellow and even fall off. After months of this plant's tenuous survival as a houseplant, I finally moved it outside to my screened in porch. Within a day, it was thriving. I couldn't believe the difference it made simply moving it to the right location.

I have heard the phrase 'bloom where you are planted', but I think sometimes you need to plant yourself where you will bloom. Many times we place ourselves in situations, relationships, organizations or otherwise that do not allow us to thrive. We put ourselves in the front window when really we need to be on the back porch. The beauty of life is that we have choices. Even when we are surrounded by circumstances not of our choosing, we get to choose how we react. We get to choose how we feel. We get to choose how we will handle it. We get to decide on the location of our heart.

So if it's not working, try a new spot. Maybe you need to plant yourself where you will bloom.

Perspective

Are you having a bad day? Feeling sorry for yourself? I was this morning. Until...

I had the opportunity to help someone. A single mother of three whose youngest son was almost killed in an accidental shooting two years ago. She was moving because the small house she had been renting was in foreclosure - her landlords simply hadn't paid the mortgage with her rent checks. She only had a couple of days to find a new place that would accommodate her son's wheelchair and ongoing medical needs. Her nursing hours had been cut, so she had been up most of last night caring for him. Her parents had come to help, but her father was limited because he is in the early stages of Parkinson's disease.

All I did was wipe down things throughout the house. She came in with her son in tow, smiling from ear to ear. She got right to work, talking and laughing as we cleaned. She took everything in stride, even when her carpet cleaner blew up. Her biggest concern as I went to leave was that she had taken all the food over to her new home and didn't have anything to feed me for lunch.

Hungry? It was the last thing on my mind. I had driven to that home seeing only the difficulties in my life. I was hungry then, but for perspective, not pastries. I needed to see all the things I had to be grateful for. I needed to be lifted by a woman who had every reason to be bitter and angry and feeling sorry for herself, but who laughed and smiled and worked. I left there feeling filled, despite the empty refrigerator.

There is always a reason to be discouraged. You can always find a reason to despair. But there is always someone who has it harder. There is always someone you can help. There is always a reason to seek for joy. There is always something to be grateful for.

Perspective. It's what's for dinner.

You Never Know

I lost a friend two weeks ago. A young friend. He was 17 years old and in the prime of his life. He had gone to the track near his home to run, working on one of the final badges he needed to earn his Eagle Scout. When he didn't come home, his Dad went to look for him. He found him - face down on the track. He was gone.

I was able to attend his funeral last week and was amazed that all of his family members spoke. I was so touched by all of them, but particularly his mother. She talked about that Monday. She had been out that afternoon and called home to find out if the family needed anything from the store. Her 17 year old answered the phone and excitedly said, "Mom, guess what? You're going to be so proud of me. I'm going to earn my Eagle Scout!" She responded, "That's great. I am so proud of you. Now hand the phone to Dad." Life - a quick phone call, a simple verbal exchange, but those words ended up being the last words she ever spoke to her son. "I am so proud of you." What a comfort to a grieving mother that she hadn't said anything she would regret. She could have reminded him to take out the trash or asked him why he hadn't made his bed that morning. She could have felt rushed in the craziness of her afternoon and simply said, "That's great. I'll talk to you about it when I get home - please hand the phone to Dad." But she didn't. She had a moment to connect with her son in a loving, positive way, and she did. She said, "I am so proud of you."

Those words have been haunting me the past two weeks. Each time I hang up the phone or send someone off for the day, I replay the last words I said to them. If they were final words, would they be comforting to me, to them? I find myself listening to my words more carefully. What am I really saying to those around me, especially to my family? In the bustling busy-ness of life, am I taking the time to connect, to uplift, to simply say, "I am so proud of you."

I was at a birthday party with one of my children on Friday. I spoke with two other mothers there, both women I knew from my neighborhood. We are all so busy that most of the time our interactions consist of waving to each other as we pass by in our cars. But as we watched the children roller skate, we had a few moments to connect. I found out that one woman had recently survived a massive blood clot. She had been in the ICU for days following what she thought initially was a pulled muscle. She has four children. Another woman told me of her recent scare with breast cancer, her husband overseas on a difficult job assignment. She also has four children. She spoke to me of her brush with mortality and the wake up call she received. She has been rushing for so many years, this experience has taught her to slow down, to breathe, to connect. She realized how fleeting and fragile this life is. The reality is that you never know. You never know when your time will come.

Am I ready? I don't suppose I'll ever really know that for sure, but I feel the wheels of time spinning under my current daily routines, asking me if I am. If a blood clot or breast cancer or genetic heart defect took me tomorrow, what would others remember as my last words to them? I'm trying to preemptively edit myself, to hear what I say even in seemingly mundane conversations differently. I want them to hear, "You are important to me. I love you. You are the breath of my life. You are my everything. I am so proud of you. Now hand the phone to Dad."

Because, you never know.

I'm Alive

This Kenny Chesney / Dave Matthews duet is one of my new favorite songs. Take a listen. Sometimes we make gratitude complicated.

"Breathing in and out's a blessing, can't you see?"

"I'm alive and well."

Amen.

Hooray!

My husband ran over our son's bike last night. The brand new bike he just got for his birthday. He hadn't put it away all the way, so my husband caught the end of it as he pulled into the garage after a very long day at work. My husband felt horrible, the destruction capping off the day he'd just endured. He hesitated telling our son, but knew he'd have to before the next morning when he'd want to ride it to school. He walked to the front yard, told our son he'd crushed the training wheel on his new bike. Our son jumped up and down shouting, "Hooray!" He was thrilled that now he'd get to learn to ride his bike without training wheels. Dad and son spent the rest of the evening mastering the art of two wheeled biking, having a wonderful time.

I wonder if we should try to see our trials in life and shout, "Hooray!" for the opportunity to learn something from them. Somehow I think God is waiting for us to embrace all our life experiences as chances to learn and grow, to finally ride on two wheels.

Hooray!