You Had to be There

We’ve all told those stories. The ones we think are so funny. The ones that we start to tell and gauging by the look on the listener’s face, you can see that it’s really not THAT funny. The kind of stories that bring you to these words, “You had to be there.”

This story may be one of those stories. But I’m going to attempt to capture what it looks like as our family gathers at the lakehouse for after-dinner conversation. First, a little background. My family, parents, brothers and their families, and me and my family, spend most weekends at the family lakehouse in southern Indiana. (Yes, there are lakes in Indiana.) A typical day includes a leisurely breakfast and newspaper reading out on the upper deck. Then little by little we all don our swimsuits and make our way down to the dock to sunbathe, read some more, swim, kayak, ride the Sea Doo. Then as soon as the kids start begging, we take the boat out for tubing, skiing and wakeboarding for hours at a time. We break for a late lunch. Do a little more of the same in the afternoon. Then someone makes appetizers and brings them down to the bar at the boathouse, where everyone swarms like vultures to a dead raccoon. After we are satisfied with appetizers and drinks, some a little more than satisfied in the drinks department, we venture in for showers and dinner preparation.

The seventeen of us, plus any friends we may have invited, sit down for dinner on the upper deck, overlooking the lake. The kids usually eat inside and quickly get back to playing their indoor soccer or huddling in front of the T.V. down in the basement. The adults light candles, turn on soft music, watch the sunset and continue pouring the wine long after the meal is finished.

Labor Day weekend marks the end of the summer season for us, which means it’s the last weekend we are all there together until next May when we will do it all over again. Because we want the time to linger, no one rushes to clear the plates or clean the kitchen. This past weekend the theme of our stories was: running into glass doors. It started innocently. We were laughing about the two incidents that had happened that day.

About half of us were down by the water, when we heard a loud thud. We glanced up toward the house and saw my oldest son, tripping out of the doorway with the sliding screen door at his feet. He was running from his cousin and had forgotten there was a screen door he should open before attempting to run outside. The screen came off its roller guide and both Son and screen were now outisde of the house.

As we sat down to dinner that night, I noticed the screen door from the sunroom was also off it’s roller guide (excuse the lack of correct term) so I asked what had happened. Apparently, my dad was so focused on his food that he didn’t see the screen door had been closed. Bam! He, too, attempted to walk right through it.

This started the running into glass stories. I told them how we still had the outline of a bird and his wing span on our front window at home. I shared some of the stories from a previous blog post titled, “I Scare Myself.” We tried to sound concerned before we erupted into laughter at my mom and dad’s friend who had run into the glass door the weekend before. They say she walked face first into the sliding glass door that separates the sunroom from the great room. She stood stunned with her head bobbing like a cartoon character and the imprint of her lips, nose and forehead stayed on the door that night as a reminder to the rest of them to be careful. My mom, the ever-so-cautious one in the family, tried to figure out how to find a decal that wasn’t tacky that we could put on the door, since their friend wasn’t the only one who had run into the glass door.

The stories moved into other embarrassing moments, like the time my nephew was in the computer lab at school and he smelled something strange. He asked his friend next to him if she smelled it and she said, “Yeah, I think it’s over here,” then added the quote of the night, “smell my computer.” So Nephew leans over to get a whiff of her computer, but as he leans his chair rolls right out from under him and he lands on the floor. He said he didn’t want to move. The computer lab was full of high school students ready to point and laugh at him. “That’s the last time I tried to smell anyone’s computer.” Whether it was the wine, the mental image, or the quote, “Smell my computer,” we all roared in laughter.

There were several other stories that had us in fits of laughter that night, but none of them will translate well here. Except for this one. We had started to discuss Nephew’s new college roommates when we heard another thud. We looked in the direction of the sunroom and, no kidding, there in a heap was my friend’s little boy. He had just come out to tell his mom that he was “disappointed” in his brother. He’s four. The word choice, in and of itself, was funny. But after my friend counseled him to run back inside, he tried. He ran with all his might. Right into that dang sliding glass door. We couldn’t believe our eyes. I didn’t want to laugh because he was crying in a pile. I wanted to make sure he was okay… and then laugh. So I did. When my friend got back to the table, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. Seeing her laugh gave us all permission to let loose.

So you may have had to be there, but if you try hard enough to conjur up the sound of heads hitting glass doors and faces dazed and confused as to what just happened, you may find a little space in your belly to let out a laugh, too.

In Search of Bon Bons

Today was one of those days. You know, the kind when all you can say is, “Today was one of those days.” The day when you feel overwhelmed. Or the day you wish you had stayed in bed. Or the day you were searching for something, or perhaps lots of somethings, that you could not find. The missing sock. The math homework you signed and put on the counter. The dog’s leash. The keys. Oh, the keys. Don’t even get me started on losing the keys. Thankfully, I had no problem finding my keys today, but I was looking for something. Something I hadn’t necessarily lost. Rather I was searching for something that would console my troubled spirit. Bon bons.

I wanted bon bons because it had been a tough day. Strike that. It’s been a tough week. Scratch that. It’s been a tough few months, and I’m weary. I’ve been putting on the happy face and looking for the silver lining. But my heart aches and I’m tired of the aching. I want it to stop. I want life to be easy. I’m even willing to settle for not-so-hard. But the reality of my life at this moment, in this day, is that it is hard. So naturally, I want to run from the discomfort.  I want to soothe the pain.  I want bon bons.

I usually don’t use food as a comforter, but today I had to have them. So I drove to one store and after scanning every frozen treat known to man, I could not find bon bons. Other ice cream novelties would not do. I HAD to have bon bons. I drove to the next store. Hoping to find my solace in the rich chocolate shell and creamy ice cream center, I inspected every shelf in the ice cream section. No solace found. By now, I had worked myself into such an obsession that I would not rest until I found my beloved bon bons. My precious, little soothers of pain.

I drove to a third store. Bingo.  When I walked to the frozen food section, it was as if a spotlight fixed itself on the bon bon shelf so I couldn’t possibly miss them. I paid for my darling ice cream indulgence drove to a local park, where I sat under a walnut tree popping the sweet treats into my mouth one by one. It was perfect, me with my enchanting bon bons under the shade of a tree on a beautiful, sunny day. Perfect, that is, until my grown-up voice showed up.

“Do you really think these bon bons are the answer to your problems?” It said to me, rather accusingly I might add.

I tried to ignore the voice.

“Feels good now, doesn’t it?” Big grown-up voice asked.

I tried to shut it up, but sometimes that grown-up voice can be so strong-willed. “You can ignore your pain as long as you want, but until you face it, nothing is going to soothe you for long.” I almost choked with laughter at that one.

“Oh yeah?” I said, “Then why do these bon bons taste so good? Why do they make me feel good in the depths of my being?” I tried to argue that I was certain bon bons held some magical power to ease the burdens of life. Grown-up voice stayed silent for a while as I enjoyed the rest of my frozen goodness.

When I had finished the entire package, I felt full and satisfied. Take that, stupid grown-up, know-it-all voice. Bon bons really do make me feel good, I thought. Not once did I think about my sadness as I was consuming my treats.

I got back into my car and started to drive to an appointment. Little by little, I could feel my spirit deflating. I had spent so much of the day searching for something that I had to have and when I got it, I consumed it so quickly that I forgot to savor it. I started to feel empty, and sad that I had used the bon bons as if they could perform some miracle in my life. It sounds extreme for a little ice cream ball, I know, but what I realized is that I wanted the bon bons to make life more bearable.

And for a while they did. What’s so wrong with that? After all, it’s not as if I  hurt anyone by inhaling the bon bons, had I? No, but I had certainly expended a lot of energy searching for them when I set my mind on them. When I had to have them. Would not let go of them. Fixated on them. How much of that time could I have spent  journaling about my real feelings and asking God to come into the wounded, hurt places instead.

The bon bons will never solve my problems like I want them to. Neither will any of the other things I search for and try to stick in the place that only God can heal. But bon bons can be delightful and refreshing and appropriate at the right moments. So, no offense, my sweet little bon bons, for I will always love you for who you are. But from now on, I must stop running to you in a frenzy, because I know that if I really want to feel whole, I must stop and face the pain. The grief over life’s circumstances will come like waves and they will wash over me. But when the waves start to calm and I have gone from rough to smooth, then perhaps I will find you again and we will celebrate the healing together. I look forward to that day.

He Has No Idea

This is part 2 of my earlier post, titled “A Day of Dichotomies.”

After I finished writing that last all-over-the-place post, my son came downstairs and asked me to listen to the song he had just learned on his guitar. The song was “Broken” by Lifehouse. He has no idea what he just did for me. No idea how he stirred my overwhelmed heart. No idea how I wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him singing and playing such a song at a time like this. Without getting into the specifics, I will only say that I feel burdened and just plain sad right now.

Someday I will tell him about this night and how he helped heal a piece of his mom’s heart. But for now, I’ll let him relish in his own coolness at mastering a new song. Here are the lyrics, the perfect lyrics…

“Broken” by Lifehouse

The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time
I am here still waiting though i still have my doubts
I am damaged at best, like you’ve already figured out

I’m falling apart, I’m barely breathing
With a broken heart that’s still beating
In the pain, there is healing
In your name I find meaning
So I’m holdin’ on, I’m holdin’ on, I’m holdin’ on
I’m barely holdin’ on to you

The broken locks were a warning you got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded, I’m an open book instead
I still see your reflection inside of my eyes
That are looking for a purpose, they’re still looking for life

I’m falling apart, I’m barely breathing
with a broken heart that’s still beating
In the pain (in the pain), is there healing
In your name (in your name) I find meaning
So I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’), I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’), I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’)
I’m barely holdin’ on to you

I’m hangin’ on another day
Just to see what you throw my way
And I’m hanging on to the words you say
You said that I will be OK

The broken lights on the freeway left me here alone
I may have lost my way now, haven’t forgotten my way home

I’m falling apart, I’m barely breathing
with a broken heart that’s still beating
In the pain(In the pain) there is healing
In your name I find meaning
So I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’), I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’), I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’),
I’m barely holdin’ on to you

I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’), I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’), I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’),
I’m barely holdin’ on to you

A Day of Dichotomies

I’ve tried to write this post about a thousand times. Every time I read it, my words seem too weak, my sentences sound too trite, and I feel as if I haven’t made sense of anything. That is what I’m trying to do — make sense of a day that was filled with highs and lows. Maybe I’m trying too hard. Maybe I’m not meant to make sense of it. But somehow I must get out what is churning inside and sort through the emotional highs and lows of the events that took place yesterday.

It started the night before, actually. The dichotomy of emotions. I had had an argument with my husband and felt hurt and irritated. He went to bed, and I got on Facebook to decompress for a little while. One of my friends suggested I take a warm bath and provided me with plenty of encouragment. It was just what I needed and I went to bed content and grateful for my dear friend’s presence in my life.

When I woke up yesterday morning, I checked my e-mail. The one that caught my eye was titled, “My Dad.” It was from my friend Michele. She said her dad had died that night and she was able to be with him in his dying moments. I have known Michele since I was 14. She is among one of my most loyal and closest friends. To hear that she had experienced such a loss broke my heart. Yet, I rejoiced because Michele’s prayer that she would be present when her dad died was answered as she wished. Later when she told me the story of her dad’s passing from this life into heaven, tears flowed down my cheeks at the beauty we experience even in the midst of some of the most painful circumstances.

This theme was driven home even more as the day unfolded. After I dropped the boys off at school, I had a delightful morning with my friend Heidi and her son, Will. We ate breakfast at a quaint cafe overlooking the downtown canal and continued catching up on each other’s lives as we headed down the steps from the restaurant to the canalwalk to enjoy the sunshine and let Will feed the ducks. I marveled at the simple things in life: the blue sky with wispy clouds floating overhead, the reflection of the trees on the water, the playful ducks gobbling Will’s leftover muffin, and conversation with a treasured friend.

When I left Heidi and Will, I headed to an appointment with my counselor. My mind turned to Michele and her loss and my heart ached at the thought of her saying goodbye to her father. By the time I walked into my counselor’s office, I felt unsettled again. My anxiety was heightened by the thought of our session. The last time we met, we had decided to address some painful issues I was facing. I dreaded the time, but knew in the end it would be beneficial.

I’m usually fairly engaged when I talk to my therapist. But the nature of the issues we were addressing had me feeling as if I would need to run to the bathroom to vomit at any moment. She noticed something was not quite right, that I was not fully present, and said, “I need to know where you are right now. I can tell you are not grounded.” That was an understatement. Between Michele’s dad’s death and the ramifications of the issues I was addressing, I felt like I had left my body. My arms hung limply by my side. My eyes fixed on the floor in front of me as if I were in a trance. And my breathing was so shallow I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. I tried to stay the course. To listen well. To respond appropriately. But the pain felt like it might ignite inside of me and cause my entire body to erupt in flames. Thankfully God brought to mind my friend Scott. Earlier that day, I sat in a meeting with him and sensing my sadness, he reached over, gave me the biggest bear hug and told me I would be okay… about twenty times.

I wanted to believe that message, but when the  time with my counselor was over, I felt like a zombie. I didn’t want to go home so I wandered around some stores looking for a gift I could give to Michele. I found an I.U. blanket at Dick’s Sporting Goods and wrote a note to tell her the blanket was meant as reminder of her dad’s love, not just for the school he adored, but for his cherished daughter. I told her I hoped it would feel like the arms of God wrapping around her whenever she needed to feel his presence in her grief. It felt good to get outside of myself for a little while.

I was able to get outside myself even more when I got home. As I drove up to my street,  I noticed the usual crowd gathered on the front porch of an old apartment building close by. I was compelled to pray for them, and I asked God to show me how to be a good neighbor. About five minutes after I got home, the doorbell rang. It was a lady from the apartments. She wanted to know if I would buy some meat from her. Her doctor told her she needed to cut out red meat so she asked if I would buy it from her. I didn’t want the meat. It was still packaged, but it felt warm and the “use by” date read August 12. I bought it anyway. I’m not sure if that is how God intended me to help my neighbors but I was in no state to second guess. If anything, it would open the door to have a conversation with her later. So I handed her a $10 and she was on her way. It was such a short interaction and I may have ignored its significance completely had I not just prayed for this neighbor minutes before. In some strange way, it was a reminder that even in the painful circumstances I face right now in my own life, there are others around me who are also struggling. To ignore them would be to miss out on the gift of seeing God’s miracles revealed. When I turned to come inside, I felt a little more alive than I had an hour before, and again I was struck by the dichotomy of beauty from pain.

There’s a song I love called “Beauty from Pain” by Superchick. I will end with these lyrics which seem apropos for a day that was filled my heart with both sorrow and joy. I shared some of these

The lights go out all around me
One last candle to keep out the night
And then the darkness surrounds me
I know i’m alive but i feel like i’ve died
And all that’s left is to accept that it’s over
My dreams ran like sand through the fists that i made
I try to keep warm but i just grow colder
I feel like i’m slipping away

After all this has passed, i still will remain
After i’ve cried my last, there’ll be beauty from pain
Though it won’t be today,
Someday i’ll hope again
And there’ll be beauty from pain
You will bring beauty from my pain

My whole world is the pain inside me
The best i can do is just get through the day
When life before is only a memory
I’ll wonder why God lets me walk through this place
And though i can’t understand why this happened
I know that i will when i look back someday
And see how you’ve brought beauty from ashes
And made me as gold purified through these flames

After all this has passed, i still will remain
After i’ve cried my last, there’ll be beauty from pain
Though it won’t be today,
Someday i’ll hope again
And there’ll be beauty from pain
You will bring beauty from my pain

Here i am, at the end of me
Tryin to hold to what i can’t see
I forgot how to hope
This night’s been so long
I cling to Your promise
There will be a dawn

After all this has passed, i still will remain
After i’ve cried my last, there’ll be beauty from pain
Though it won’t be today,
Someday i’ll hope again
And there’ll be beauty from pain
You will bring beauty from my pain

Kiosk Hater

That’s right. I’m a kiosk hater. I don’t like to go to the mall in the first place. It’s too much for my ADD brain to handle. So many busy window displays. A different song blaring out of each store I pass. The smell of cinnamon buns mixed with burritos wafting from the food court. Not to mention the kiosk merchants that hunt you down.

From the moment you enter the vast Shopping Super Highway, you see them standing there.  Smiling at the passersby, ready to lurch at the next victim with their “you- can’t- live-without-this” product.  They scan the crowd for the person who screams
biggest sucker. Or the one who clearly needs to get her hair straightened by the most amazing hair straightener ever created. Or try on the sunglasses that will revolutionize her life in the great outdoors.

I look straight ahead. I look at the store windows opposite their kiosks. I look at my phone. I look anywhere away from the kiosk stalkers. Yesterday, I must have been the one wearing the “biggest sucker” tatoo. Why else would I have been accosted by the Miraculous Eye Cream man?

“Try this,” he said, lunging at me with a small tube.

“No thanks,” I replied as I did the two-step to get around him.

“Oh, but let me ask you a quick question,” he said as I made my way past his intrusive self. “What kind of eye cream do you use?” He was getting louder as I continued to walk away.

I turned around and said, “I don’t.”

The whole mall waited for his reaction. All the people froze, the music silenced, cinnamon buns inhaled their own aromas, and even the mannequins leaned forward to hear him GASP. “WHAT what what?” his voice echoed throughout the mall.

“I. Don’t. Use. Eye. Cream.”

Apparently my admission was so disturbing to this poor man that he abandoned his kiosk. He was willing to let any ol’ hooligan or jealous competitor walk right up and stuff their pockets or purses full of Miraculous products so he could save me from my ways. When I saw him following me and yelling, “Wait. You have to try this,” I grabbed my son’s hand and ducked into the closest store which just happened to be Victoria’s Secret. I covered my boy’s eyes and ducked behind the Second Skin Plunge Satin Demi Bras. Boy tried to see through the cracks in between my fingers so I tightened my grip while watching out for Miraculous Eye Cream Stalker Man.

When the coast was clear, I let go of Boy, forgetting where I was, and sighed with relief. “Why did he want you to try that cream?” Boy asked.

“That’s what he does,” I said.

“But why did he follow us and yell ‘WHAT’ through the mall?”

“Maybe he hasn’t sold enough eye cream,” I replied.

“Or maybe he really thought you needed that eye cream,” Boy answered back.

“Nah. It’s not like I have bags under my eyes. I’m only 41, after….” then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A Victoria’s Secret mirror, no less. Standing there next to Miss Very Sexy Push Up Bra Model, I saw them like I never had seen them before. Bags. I had bags. We’re not talking full-on luggage but maybe a small, overnight duffle bag. Regardless, I had bags… and lines… and suddenly I wanted to run back to Miraculous Eye Cream Stalker Man and beg for his mercy.

But I sucked up my pride and proceeded to use the moment to teach my son a lesson. “Did you see how he came at me when I least expected it?” I asked Boy. He nodded. “We were coming out of H&M, and we were distracted by our new purchases.” Boy nodded again.

“And did you see how he had the little bottle all ready to put into my hand before I could even think about it?” Another nod. “Well, that is what someone might do to you with drugs some day. What if one of your friends came up to you with something and handed it to you before you could even think, and he told you to try it, what would you do?” Boy wasn’t talking, just nodding.

“That was not a yes or no question,” I said. “What would you do if someone pushed drugs on you like that? Hello? Hellloooo?”

Boy was staring into my eyes but I could tell this lesson was not registering in his pre-pubescent brain. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You’re tell me not to do drugs or something, but it’s kinda hard to concentrate with all these… all these bras and underwear in here,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, laughing. “Does this embarrass you?”

“Not really,” he replied, and then it hit me. He wasn’t distracted because he was traumatized by Miraculous Eye Cream Stalker Man. And he wasn’t speechless because he was embarrassed. He was distracted because he is a boy, a boy whose hormones are just staring to leak out. A boy who could care less about eye cream or bags under his mom’s eyes or the drug talk she feels she needs to give him right now. He is a boy standing in the middle of Victoria’s Secret for goodness sake!

I quickly grabbed him by the hand, covered his eyes and navigated us through the store and back onto the Mall Super Highway, in the opposite direction of any kiosk. When we got in the car, I vowed never to put him through that horror again. What I really meant to say is that I would never put myself through that horror. The eye cream incident was one thing, but my son actually enjoying a store like Victoria’s Secret was another thing altogether.

From now on, we are strip-mall shoppers only. Wait, did I just say “strip?” Oh, Boy!

I Scare Myself

Sometimes I give too much information about myself. Incriminating information. Embarrassing information. Information I wish I could retract. This post may be one of those times.

But I’m also one who celebrates humor and is not afraid to make fun of myself. So that’s why I’m telling you this story. I was about to write a post about the movie Anna and the King when I realized I needed to plug in my laptop. I bent down to plug the cord into the nearby outlet. When I stood up, I saw a person who had been crouching down, too, and was obviously standing up to look into the window. I jumped backwards and gasped at the exact same time the person outside jumped backwards and gasped. It was not until I stumbled backwards onto a laundry basket that I realized that someone was me.

Now in all fairness to myself, I KNOW I am not the only person that has received a near-heart-attack at the sight of my own relfection. In fact, I was with a friend when she came up from the basement at another friend’s home. As she opened the door from the basement, she almost hit someone with the door at which time she politely said, “Oh, excuse me,” before seeing that the someone was herself in the full-length mirror at the top of the steps.

Several years ago, my husband and I went to a restaurant in San Fransico with my parents. While my parents waited for the table, my husband and I took a walk on a nearby beach. When we came back to check on the table, we saw my parents making their way to the back of the restaurant. As we watched them, we noticed that they were walking a little too closely to a mirror. Both of them jumped back at the same time, thinking they were about to run into other people – but like my friend above, they were only about to run into themselves. Needless to say, my husband and I did not follow them to the back of the restaurant for a good, long time.

As if getting scared by your own reflection isn’t bad enough, there’s also the cell phone saga. Once when my friend called me on her phone, she didn’t hear anything at first so she said, “Hello,” to which I said, “Hello.” Then she giggled because I sounded so much like her. When I (apparently) giggled back, she said, “Are you making fun of me,” and I replied, “Are you making fun of me.” Only it wasn’t me. It was her own echo. It took her a couple more sentences to figure out she was really talking to herself. When she called to tell me, she knew I would understand because it’s something I would do, too. Or so she says. Whatever.

Scaring myself by my own relfection is almost as embarrassing as seeing someone I think I know. This happens so much more than I would like to admit. Last week at the State Fair. I looked over and saw an old high school friend, Ann, sitting on the bench. “Ann?! Hi!”

Since I had just put my son on a nearby ride, I sat down next to her on the bench.

“Do I know you?”

“Yes,” I laughed. “Lynn House… well, Morton was my maiden name.” Man, does she have a bad memory, I thought. I mean, we weren’t best friends but we were certainly friends. “It’s been a while,” I said, trying to make her feel better about being so forgetful.

“Uh, I’m Anna,” she said.

“Oh, you don’t go by Ann anymore. That’s what Chrissy DeMars did. She’s now Chris,” I explained. “That’s cool. I even know two people named Jill that totally changed their names. One is now Elise and the other is Ingrid, so Ann to Anna is not that crazy.”

“I’m sorry. Where did you go to high school?” Now she was starting to freak me out. Yes, it’s been a long time since high school, and I have a steel trap memory but seriously, this was getting embarrassing.

“North Central,” I said, trying not to show my discomfort.

“Um, I went to high school in South Bend.”

“Oh. So you’re not Ann Richardson?”

“No,” she said. I could tell she felt sorry for me now. Had I really just told her about the two Jills?

“I’m so sorry. You look exactly like a girl in high school named Ann,” I said, and as if that weren’t enough, I added: “Well, I’m embarrassed now. Gosh, I’m glad my husband is not with me because he would be mortified right now. He hates when I do things like this.” Oh great. I just told her I’ve done this more than this one pathetic time.

Anna looked at me with sympathetic eyes and said something about the ride being finished. I told her it was nice meeting her, even though it really wasn’t because I felt like an idiot now, and I walked to the exit sign of the ride to meet my son. It took me all of five seconds to greet him and turn around to the bench where Anna was… or had been. I figured she was looking for the police to report a crazed woman who sees people who aren’t really who she thinks they are.

Which leads me to one more embarrassing moment. So, you know when you say to a person, or even a group of people,  “Do you ever….” and you finish the sentence with something you are  sure someone will be able to relate to? Then when they can relate, you have formed this bond with them because they are like you in some sort of quirky way. Wellllll, I happened to be at a Bible study, and I started with that very phrase, “Do you ever…” and I finished it with this: “see someone you know, and then realize the person you thought you saw is really dead?”  I waited for someone to chime in with the enthusiastic, “Yes! I did that just yesterday.” Or, “Oh my gosh, I ALWAYS do that.” But it never came. What did come was this question: “Are you saying you see dead people?” Ha ha ha. Laughter erupted. I laughed just to save face.

“No. Not like that,” I explained. “For instance, yesterday I went to get ice cream, and I thought I saw one of my old neighbors. I was about to say, ‘Hi, John. How are you?’ when I remembered John died last year.” Again, nothing. Blank stares. I was left with no one relating to my craziness and getting dubbed as the girl who sees dead people.

Those are only a few of the instances when I wish I could rewind and take back my words. But before I go, let me offer you one more scenario to save you from the same embarrassment. If you go to a wedding in Ohio, and everyone is chatting about their favorite childhood show, don’t sing the theme song to a show that was only broadcast locally. Not only is singing the theme song overkill, but when no one can relate to your stupid theme song, it will quiet a table as fast as you can say “Cowboy Bob.”

So Many Tired Travelers

One of my greatest pleasures as a writer is to hear that something I have written resonates with another person. It’s as if two souls connect for a moment. Recently, a high school friend wrote to tell me she could relate to one of my blog posts. While her experience was different, she could certainly identify with the feelings.

I wrote her back and asked her to clarify something she had said. When she responded, she shared a story that was deeply painful. I sat in bed, reading her story, and I cried. In fact, I cried myself to sleep that night. I could see how she had related to my blog about tears and the honesty of questioning God in difficult circumstances. She has lived through plenty of difficult circumstances.

My friend gave me an incredible gift in sharing her story. By opening her heart, I got a glimpse into the bigger picture of life here on earth. Not just my life, but the lives of those who I pass or come into contact with each day. I was reminded of the immense pain that lives inside so many people who rarely show it but are dying inside. Something magical happens when we have the courage to share our wounds and express our pain. We connect, and we are given the chance to help carry someone else’s load. We can offer hope. Reach out for a hand to hold. Be a light in the darkness.

Even though my friend questions why certain events had to happen the way they did, she is not a prisoner to the sadness or anger surrounding the events. She has accepted them in a way that brings her peace, knowing that she may never fully understand but trusting that there IS a reason. I dare not speculate on what those reasons may be, but I agree that God has a reason for everything. I believe he wastes nothing. One of my favorite Bible verses points to this theme: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.” (Genesis 50:20) The context of this verse is taken from the story of Joseph. You may know it: Joseph’s brothers had intended to do him harm (read: get rid of him) but instead Joseph finds himself, years later, favored in the eyes of Pharoah and subsequently ruler over Egypt. He secured a place of power and wealth, and because of this position he was able help his family in a time of great need. God brought something good out of a painful situation.

But it didn’t happen overnight. So often though we try to squeeze the good out of a situation too quickly. Or worse, we try to get to the healing place all alone. We put on a happy face and recite our religious platitudes. In the end, I believe our pride, the part of us that wants to keep things to ourselves, ends up getting us into even deeper pain.  As Henri Nouwen says in The Wounded Healer, “We live in a society in which loneliness has become one of the most painful wounds.” I’m not pretending that I can fully take away someone’s loneliness, for that has a purpose of its own as well. As Nouwen explains, our loneliness is like the Grand Canyon, “a deep incision in the surface of our existence which has become an inexhaustible source of beauty and self-understanding.” Only God can enter into that kind of deep loneliness. Yet in sharing our stories and allowing ourselves to open up to someone else, we can at least stand in awe as we gaze upon the depth and width of the Grand Canyon of our hearts.

So, thank you, my friend, for being brave and allowing me to stand by your side, even for a moment. Thank you for sharing your story and allowing me to feel connected to another soul. Community, in whatever form it takes, is one of God’s greatest gifts. Even though years have passed since we last saw one another, I know that God has used you in my life. I am reminded that even though there are many tired travelers on this journey, he crosses the paths of those who need each other just at the right time. I am grateful for the way he weaves his people together to help heal and restore us all.

The Power of a Girl

My nephew sent me an instant message on Facebook the other night. He wanted me to know he was bringing a friend to the lake this weekend.

“Uh oh, that means more trouble,” I joked.

“You may want to know it’s… a girl,” he replied.

“WHAAAAAT?”

He’s 14, my nephew. That’s old enough to have a girlfriend, right? Maybe. He claims she’s only a friend. A friend who’s a girl. Either way, having a girl here at the lakehouse is like throwing a kitten in with a bunch of pit bulls. This family of ours is blessed (or cursed, if you want to look at it that way) with more than its share of testosterone. I have four boys, my brothers each have two boys, and then there’s Lydia, the lone girl. She loves all things girl, but she can hold her own in the midst of this pack of boys.

When Girl showed up with Fourteen-Year-Old Nephew, my boys – ages 12, 10, 8 and 7 – gathered around her and stared. What was this creature standing before them? Surely they had seen one before, but to be in their territory was a little different. She had entered into their space; she wasn’t merely passing by, or sharing a classroom with them. She was there because their cousin had invited her. To the lakehouse. All weekend.

Fourteen took Girl on a tour of the house. It became obvious very quickly that Fourteen wasn’t going to have much alone time with his female friend. I suppose they wanted to make sure their cousin didn’t leave out any important information on the tour because my boys became co-tour guides and provided the entertainment segment of the tour by jumping from bed to bed in the large bedroom they share.

After the tour, Girl changed into her bikini and reappeared downstairs. Soon after her appearance, I heard the thumping of boy feet scrambling up the steps to our bedroom, followed by shouts, “Mom, where’s my swimsuit?” Clothes went flying out of the duffle bags and onto the floor in a race to get swimsuits on, towels gathered and to be the first one to get the coveted lounge chair next to Girl.

My boys love the water. But I have never seen them stay in the water as long as I did this weekend. I blame their sunburn all on Girl. She wanted to play King of the Raft, so every boy (along with Lydia) played King of the Raft She wanted to have a diving contest, so the boys had a diving contest. She wanted to tube, so the boys asked one of the parents to drive the boat. She wanted to play water basketball, so everyone played basketball. My favorite was the game Categories.

Categories is the game where all the kids except the one who is “it” line up along the dock, in the water. The person who is “it” stands on the dock and keeps their back to the kids in the water.  He or she declares the category, for instance it could be types of cars or favorite colors or NFL teams, etc. Everyone in the water thinks of their answer. Then the “it” person starts guessing, say, the NFL teams. “Colts, Vikings, Patriots” etc. When he or she says your team, you slowly leave the dock and swim away to the Sea Doo dock. (You usually play Categories in a pool and swim from one side to the other.) If “it” person suspects you are swimming away, he/she turns around to see if you are indeed swimming, in which case she dives in to try and catch you before you get to the other side, or the Sea Doo dock in our case. If she turns around to check and no one is swimming away, then she has to take a step forward.

At one point in the game, Girl decided the category would be “Favorite Person Here at the Lake.” Guess who the favorite person at the lake was? That’s right. Girl. And she knew it. The looks on their faces when she turned around and dove in to tag them was priceless. They all had shy smiles as if to say, “Come after ME! You are my favorite.”

One afternoon, my brother and I wanted to wakeboard. The adults often sacrifice boat time for the kids, who are all tubers. For years we have tried to get them to ski or wakeboard. None of them are interested, except for one of my sons who attempted to ski once. Once. But Girl decided if we were going to wakeboard, then she was going to learn. Guess who else wanted to learn, too? Boys. Not all of them. But half of them suddenly acted like this is what they had been waiting for all summer. “Wakeboard? Oh, yeah. I’ve been dying to learn how to wakeboard.” So scramble, scramble they go again, looking for their lifejackets in the boathouse and coming out with the wakeboard and rope like they do this all the time.

After my brother and I got our fixes in (we’re selfish like that), we promised to teach them. Fourteen tried first. Since Girl was his friend, he had to puff out his chest in bravery and show her how it was done. Well, sort of. He got up and stayed up for about 4.5 seconds. Then Girl tried. And tried. And tried. She was tough. Finally, we had to tell Girl that there were others who wanted to try and she would need to come back on the boat for a while. Secretly, I think she was relieved. It’s a lot of pressure being idolized like she was that weekend and not being able to show up the boys in this area. Next my kids tried. Each of them got up but no one could beat the 4.5 second record. My second child held the record for most seconds combined. Even if it was from the influence of a girl, I’m proud of them for trying.

Usually dinnertime at the lake looks like this: adults sit peacefully on the upper deck overlooking the lake, while the kids eat inside as quickly as possible so they can get back to playing down in the basement. Not so when Girl was there. She took the prime outdoor spot. The adult spot. Since she was our guest, we let it fly. Besides, the picture of all those boys, and Lydia, gathered around that table with Girl was priceless.

When the sun set, the boys begged my brother to take them out on the boat. Again, the kids are usually split on who wants to go out on the boat at night. Not this weekend. Every child was on that boat. My brother needed a stiff drink after that ride. You can only take so much, “omgod, I love this Demi Lovato song because she’s like my favorite singer besides Miley Cyrus…” talk.

It was time to face bedtime. My brother had given Fourteen strict rules and a hefty lecture about where Girl was to sleep. In the basement, away from all boys. Funny how my boys thought it would be a great idea to have a slumber party in the basement that night. Weren’t they afraid to sleep down there just last weekend? Things that make you go hmmm.

I don’t mean to objectify Girl. After all, I happen to be very sensitive about the objectification of women and I teach my boys not to use women as objects either. But I will admit, this girl had power. She was the object of every boys’ affection this weekend.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that power. I’ve decided that if she ever comes back to the lake, I will take her by the hand and have a little chat with her. I’m not going to ask her to wear her bikini, but I’m thinking maybe she could come to my house and pretend she loves to do dishes. Or clean bathrooms. Or have a spotless bedroom. If necessary, I’ll slide her a $20 under the table. We moms have to be creative when it comes to a getting a house full of boys to pick up after themselves. I may not have that much clout when it comes to motivating my sons, but if Girl does, then I ‘m going to figure out exactly how to harness that power … for the betterment of our household, of course. And maybe if she does a good job, I’ll give her private wakeboard lessons so next time she’s out on the boat, she’ll beat that 4.5 second record and earn her rightful place as the Girl who could rock the wakeboard.

Hope: A curse or a blessing?

My friend Stacy just posted this as her facebook status:

Stacy is thinking about how hope can sometimes act like a curse instead of a blessing. But in spite of its potential to be repeatedly crushed, I have to believe that hope with disappointments is better than no hope at all. Right?

I agree, Stacy.

When I was 15, I started praying for someone very dear to me. Some people would have looked at the exterior of his life and written him off as a hopeless case. He lacked direction, he was addicted to drugs, and he continually made bad choices. Sometimes even I wondered if my prayers for him were in vain. One day I received a phone call from him. I was 30. He told me how he had joined a Bible study and that he was now making good choices, had turned away from drugs and was committed to his faith and family. I sat at my kitchen table and cried at the goodness of God. If I had bought into the notion of “there’s no hope for him,” those 15 years of prayer would never have happened. I’m not saying my prayers were what caused his turn-around, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t hurt.

Today I struggle with a different set of circumstances. Some of them are very painful and I’m not sure how they will resolve. If I had no hope for a brighter future, I wouldn’t bother fighting for the things I value, even if I may be crushed. There’s a risk in hoping. I can wish for these circumstances to end up refined and beautiful from this fire I’m walking through. However, these things may end up as ashes instead. But do I stop desiring the best outcome? Do I keep looking at how I’ve been hurt in the past and give up on life?

When my dad was in the hospital, I never gave up hope that he would come out of there alive. When my husband was diagnosed with mulitple sclerosis, I never gave up hope that we would make life work around this illness. When our house was on the market for over a year, I almost gave up hope that it would sell. Even in the midst of the waiting game, I had that little slice of hope to keep me going, to clean the bathrooms once again, vacuum the carpets for the umpteenth time, and fluff the pillows just so in order to bring that one buyer to the table.

Today as I work through difficult situations, I know that to give up hope means to die. Maybe not a physical death, but part of me dies when I lose hope. In other words, hope is not just a feeling or a desire, it’s survival. It’s faith. It’s trust. It’s confidence.

So Stacy, yes, hope can seem like a curse when you desire something so much and it doesn’t work out the way you wanted it to. In the end, though, I have to believe that all things work out for the best. I know, that is so much easier said than done. But I’ll take the disappointments that come from hanging on to hope because I realize that when I stay in the expectation that hope brings, I’m in a place of complete trust in God. Whether he delivers the way I want him to and when I want him to is completely out of my control anyway. I will keep on hoping, because in some situations – most situations, actually – that’s all I have.

How to Guarantee A Good Cry

I hate crying. Wait, let me clarify. I actually hate crying  in front of people. I like crying when I’m alone. Well, “like” may be a bit too strong. But sometimes it feels good to cry. Today, for example.

Today was one of those days I knew I would cry. For years I have heard people rave about a Christian camp in southern Indiana. Until this year, my boys have shown no interest in it. Not to mention my lack of willingness to part with my children for an entire week. Some of you are wondering why. After all, they’ve been known to drive me to drink on more than one occasion. But I am an award-winning mother. (So what if the awards have nothing to do with mothering) so when I found the courage to ask if they wanted to go this year, they didn’t hesitate with their unison “Yes.”

My friends warned me that I might cry so I prepared myself with deep breathing exercises. As we drove closer to the camp, I was breathing deep alright. I had to in order to survive my husband’s driving through the country roads. Had I not practiced deep breathing, I’m certain I would have arrived at camp slumped over the dashboard from the fainting that comes with hyperventilation.

We sat in our car waiting our turn to pull up to the welcome booth. A high school girl, presumably working at the camp, passed out Popsicles as we waited. A nice touch, but not enough to make me cry. The scenery was idyllic, with the majestic pines and rolling hills, and the thought of my boys spending a week in this beautiful countryside caused a lump to form in my throat. But no tears.

After we told the guy at the welcome booth who we were, he sent us on to unload our luggage, which was handled by more high school volunteers, who cheered for the boys as they exited the car. After unloading the bags, we parked and headed into the main lodge to take care of  last minute details. Then the boys walked out of the lodge to meet an old firetruck, which would take them to their cabins. Wanting to play it cool as I said goodbye in front of other 10 to 12 year olds, I gave them quick hugs and snapped a few pictures. Neither of them looked the least bit nervous so I turned to find my husband back at the lodge

He was not where we left him. My two younger boys and I waited and searched for a half hour. By this time, the joy of camp was quickly fading and the irritation brought on by miscommunication was quickly approaching. Finally, I walked back to the car where he was sleeping. The irritation now rose into full-fledged anger. We were supposed to board a wagon, pulled by an old tractor, for a tour of the camp.  He told me he was too tired to walk anymore and how could I be mad at that. Because multiple sclerosis steals these moments from us, and I had no one to take it out on, I blamed him. Why hadn’t he gotten a wheelchair yet? Why didn’t he just stay in one place to conserve his energy? Why didn’t he try to call my cell phone to tell me where he was? The dry eyes were starting to moisten with each footstep back to the wagons.

By the time I boarded the wagon with the two younger boys, my mind had shifted from anger to anticpation. I couldn’t wait to see what the boys would be doing and where they would be staying for the next week. But the sadness of my husband’s absence hung over every moment of the tour.

After we met the boys at their cabins and saw the highlights of the camp, we headed back to the car. An hour had gone by and my anger had dissipated, but the sadness was about to overcome me. I couldn’t look at my husband. I didn’t want to tell him about the camp. I wanted to punish him for not being there. Before I knew it, tears were running down my cheeks. I hadn’t cried when I  pulled up to the camp. I hadn’t shed a tear when I said goodbye. Nor when the tour guide explained the ins and outs of their days. I didn’t choke up when they talked about cabin time or how their counselors had been praying for them. I will admit that the tears were starting to well up, and my heart felt pangs of joy that could have caused an out and out sobfest, but for some reason I had not let it out.

Until the ride home. Until I came face to face with my husband who could not walk any longer that day. Once again he had missed out in a family moment because of a disease we had no control over. So I cried because I felt so ugly. I hated my thoughts of wanting to withdraw and keep him from the information he had every right to receive.

What I thought would be tears for dropping my children off at their first camp experience, ended up being a tears for the losses that we continue to have over this disease that affects our entire family.

My children had a fabulous time, just as I assumed they would. My husband and I have heard story after story of how God worked in their lives and the lives of those around them. When I picked them up from camp, the campers and counselors came together for closing ceremonies where they highlighted the weeks’ events. One of the elements to the closing ceremonies was a drama to the song “You Found Me” by The Fray. The visual of the drama along with the words got that ol’ heart of mine. The tears came with such force that I had to concentrate not to gulp loudly at the intensity I felt over what I saw and heard. No matter how many times I hear the song I am moved by these lyrics:

Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me

Lying on the floor surrounded, surrounded

Why’d you have to wait? Where were you? Where were you?

Just a little late, you found me, you found me..

Sometimes I feel like this is what I say to God… I’m lost and insecure and you find me, but I’m lying on the floor so broken because the pain has gotten the best of me. I’ve crashed and burned while you were waiting to come to me and heal me, to heal my husband, to heal our family. You were too late, and now the damage is done. My heart is broken, my marriage is at stake and I am so confused… so now what? These are all the things I want to say to God. The things I do say to Him.

Yet, even in the rawness, I know He’s not too late. It only appears that way because I want to avoid pain. I want Him to pluck me right out of these painful situations and put me in a place void of hardship. But something inside me knows that even in the worst of the suffering, I will be okay.

I know this because I see the redeeming moments. I experience the joy that comes from simply knowing Him. I trust him still because even when I’m disappointed in Him, he delivers like He says he will, through a friend’s love, a sunny day, an unexpected connection with my husband.

Some people find it sinful to question God or to challenge His goodness. I believe God loves my honest heart. And I love him even more for allowing me to be so honest with him. In the honesty, in the rawness of my pain, I can get to a place where I am guaranteed growth and -  a good cry. A good, cleansing cry. And once in a while I don’t even mind if it’s done in front of people because those are the moments when I am assured that He finds me surrounded, and not a minute too late.