Lessons and Leaves

I’ve returned to this old, trusty blog to write about what I’ve been through the last two weeks; I never want to forget. 

Two weeks ago, on a typical weeknight, I came home from work, sat down to watch the Seahawks on Thursday Night Football, and a wall of exhaustion hit me. I looked at the clock, which read 6:00 PM on the dot. I then looked at my husband and told him I was going to lay down for a bit. The nest thing I remember was that it was morning, I was dizzy and couldn’t get out of bed. After being in bed for over 24 hours, I reassessed the situation, and I knew something was off. The next four days were a blur of ER, urgent care, and primary doctor visits. I felt so frustrated and dismissed. On Sunday, my left eye became red and sore. On Monday, I had developed my first blister. On Tuesday, back to the ER where this angel attending said, “We think you likely have Ramsay Hunt Syndrome.”  Finally, a diagnosis, An answer. 

I was sent on my way with a prescription for anti-viral meds and painkillers. It wasn’t enough, I had become so depleted over the last five days that I was back in the ER at 4 AM on Wednesday and that is where I remained for the next three days. ER holding room for a full day and then a room in isolation. 

During the worst of it, I couldn’t open my eye, tolerate any light, had facial weakness, and the pain was quite intense. I had infusions of meds three times a day and continued to sleep. I was sent home on Friday evening to finish my recovery at home with another week’s worth of anti-viral pills and meds targeted for nerve pain. 

It’s slow going. My eye, although much improved, is still sore and blurry. The blisters are starting to scab over, The nerve pain is still pretty consistent, but manageable with meds. I am still tired and not allowed to drive. I am trying my best to remain patient and positive. Healing takes time. 

And here’s the thing: this, most-likely, was all caused by stress. I was under enough stress from my life that a dormant zoster virus reactivated and attacked my facial and ocular nerves. The incredible thing was, I didn’t necessarily feel that stressed out. Looking back, I think it just had become my new baseline, which is ridiculous. 

I had been working extremely hard in therapy over the past few months to reprocess childhood trauma. It was simply the right time to do so; to reclaim my life and my past and my inner dialogue. But, in that, I know there was obviously vulnerability and a level of internal stress.

Then there’s the place I spend most of my time outside of home: work. I have been honest about the toll work has taken on me over the past few years, including the ever-increasing workload and the inability to feel caught up or on top of the unrealistic expectations. My high-level of commitment and care is rewarded with a high-level of stress, and if I am being perfectly honest, unhappiness. No amount of salsa gardens or book clubs could have prevented this. The weeks leading up to my illness, I found myself Googling things like: how to start a second career when you need health insurance and looking into my service credits. 

While I am on a this forced break, I am leaning into rest and figuring out how to move forward. There is one thing, however, I know without a doubt: I will NEVER again allow myself to let stress go unchecked and become so unwell. 

I will do what I need to do for me, unapologetically. I turn 50 in five weeks and I am determined to use this as reset and wake-up call. I am so thankful for the small things. To be home. People who love me. A hot shower. A good cup of coffee. Laughter. Music. Seasonal candles and decorations. God-willing, I will fully recover because there’s still so much more I want to accomplish in this precious life, so much more that I want to contribute. So much more love to give. 

A New {School} Year’s Resolution

I have always loved the start of a new school year. The last few years haven’t held that same magic for me. I can pinpoint some specific reasons as to why this was, but overall I think it was more nuanced and complicated. 

I am someone who will give her all until there is almost nothing left. This can be especially problematic when there is an ever-increasing workload and not enough help. I have struggled with the four B’s (which is not a thing, I just made it up because I like alliteration): Burnout, Bitterness, Balance, and Boundaries. 

I would be on the verge of burnout, develop feelings of bitterness (which I felt guilty about) but wouldn’t implement appropriate balance and boundaries because how could I when the needs were so great? 

And so it went. This dysfunctional dance with a recurring chorus of demoralization. 

I was in such a bad space last year, that receiving the monthly wellness offering emails would trigger me. 

I have a renewed resolve, however, to find the magic again, to let things go, especially things I have absolutely no control over in the first place. I resolve to focus on my own wellness. 

I want to get back to the person I was BC (before Covid). I want to radiate positivity. I want to find the joy in all of it. I want to respond with love and kindness in every situation. I want to seek to understand and assume good intentions. I want to feel valued and seen and heard. Moreover, I want others to feel valued, supported, seen, and heard by me. 

I resolve to take deep breaths and lunch breaks. I resolve to ask for help and take mental health days if needed. I will be honest and not hide on the hard days. 

I resolve to remember that I have the ability to control how I respond to things. I will respond in ways which are helpful and productive instead of something like, “Are you fucking kidding me?!” (I know, it makes me sad, too, but I am being honest). 

I feel ready to go back, which hasn’t been the case in quite some time.  I feel ready to seek out the beautiful magic that happens when we work together for the good of everyone. I feel so ready to get up every day and feel excited again. 

It’s time.

 *tap, tap* Is this thing on? I guess Blogger is still up and running, which is good. I don’t think many people blog anymore, especially on Blogger. Maybe they have fancy websites, or they post influence-y TikToks, or vlogs, or actually write books. Who knows? But here I am. Coming back to what I know. 

Between August 2009 and September 2018, I published 139 blogs. I’d write consistently for awhile, then have large gaps. I was surprised to see that this last gap was almost five years. It was also a little disheartening to scroll through the titles and remember all the things I had felt so brave in sharing, are still, in many ways, things I still struggle with to this day. I poured myself into those posts. 

So, you may be wondering why have I decided to write #140. Because, simply, it’s time. It’s time to focus on doing the hard work. 

Although I am not Cheryl Strayed, and this is not my journey hiking the Pacific Crest Trail to find myself, I am currently sitting in an Airbnb in the mountains of Nothern California, 400 miles from home. You see, I have never really done anything alone. I’ve never lived alone. Never went away to college or done any traveling. My family began right out of high school. So when my time off was coming to an end, and I told my mister that I was feeling this strong pull to go somewhere solo, he fully supported me. 

In some ways, I feel more like Julia Robert’s character, Maggie, in Runaway Bride. She didn’t know how she liked her eggs. She always said her favorite was the same as her former fiancés. It’s time for me to figuratively figure out how I like my eggs (and strive to be the person I was created to be). 

I don’t have the best track record with follow-through. Maybe those things I previously let go of weren’t meant for me. All I know, with increasing clarity the older I get, is that more days are not promised and only the things done in love truly matter. 

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” -Mary Oliver

What, indeed? 

Beautiful

I've become far more transparent as I get older. Those close to me know that I have struggled a bit more than normal the last few months. Summer was definitely quite rough. I experienced bouts of sadness coupled with anxiety. I remember one particularly bad morning, I started crying and literally couldn't stop. My mister came home from work early to find me curled up in a fetal position, sobbing, and I didn't even know why.

Then, towards the end of July, what I have feared since losing over one hundred pounds happened: An extremely stressful situation occurred, and I reverted back to all of those unhealthy habits that accompanies emotional eating. I started to eat to fill a void, instead of eating to fuel my body. I would eat when I wasn't hungry and I would eat all of the high fat, high sugar foods. I would overeat, too. Sad = eat. Bored = eat. Anxious = eat. Stressed or overwhelmed? Eat. Eat. Eat. And, the weight has crept back up. And I fell so defeated.

Last week was a long week; it was a long, stressful week. I ate my way through it. The temporary gratification is always replaced with disgust and self-loathing, yet the cycle continued.

Tonight, I went to one of those smiling feet places to hopefully work out some knots out as a fresh week begins. As I was trying to relax, listening to the instrumental music with the ocean sounds, I asked God to help me not become so consumed with my negative feelings. And when those feelings arise, because they inevitable will, I prayed that I can respond in a healthy way, not eat ten pieces of candy.

As I continued to pour my heart out to God, telling Him all the ways I have fallen short and how I really don't know what I am doing, the man with his elbow in my shoulder blade spoke. It jolted me back to the room. He said, "Měilì....beautiful." He was referring to the tattoo in the middle of my back. I got it many years ago, and, at the time, I wanted it to be a reminder of a beautiful life, a life that gleaned beauty from the ashes. Hearing it spoken in that moment, and having that reminder was a balm to my hurting heart.

Tomorrow is a new day, and the start of a new month. One thing I do know is this: His mercies are new each day. It's true. And it remains true, even if I don't have my shit together. Especially when I don't have it all together.

So, that's where I am...In a place of striving. And falling. And getting back up again. A place where I am attempting to discern what to do with my future. And most importantly, a place of attempting to live life well, which means loving those around me {and loving myself, too.}

Heard (conclusion)

And so it went. Without her voice, the little girl retreated inward. She imagined a different reality for herself, where she was seen. Where she was loved. One day, when it all became too much, she left the home that held her captive and rode her rusty bicycle to the end of the street. There, she would stage an accident. She waited in that dirty pile of leaves. Waiting for someone or something to rescue her.

Eventually, a lady stopped and asked the girl lying in the leaves if she was okay.

Fine.

All she could muster was 'Fine.'

She was always fine.

The girl's mother had a bad track record when it came to men. Her second husband was no exception, and he, like the others, wouldn't last long.

And it was like a miracle. Finally the prayer she prayed to her favorite Tears for Fears song was being answered {nothing ever lasts forever}

And for the first time in two years, the girl tried to reassure herself that the nightmares were only in her head, not in the middle of the night or anytime she was left alone with him.

She probably would've remained quiet had he stayed away, but that wasn't her fate. And the girl, who wasn't little anymore,  knew that she would have find the courage. She would have speak the unspeakable in order to protect her little sister. There was never any other option.

So, she took her notebook and wrote a note to her P.E. teacher. Ms. Coats seemed like a good choice since the previous month they all watched a PSA about not keeping secrets and the difference between a 'good touch' and 'bad touch.'

The very next day she called to the office where her mother's guilt-ridden face was waiting, but she was the one who felt ashamed. Then came the subsequent trip back to the scene of the crime so to speak. There, she would be forced to undergo a physical exam and talk to a slew of detectives and psychologists. One of the sessions, she was given a paper and pencils and was asked to draw a picture. Even at 13, she saw right through this request. She obliged by drawing a bouquet of heart-shaped balloons floating up in the sky. She wondered if their analysis would lead them to conclude that she desired love and freedom.

Both sentiments still ring true today.

And nothing ever happened. Some people are good at hiding.

The statute of limitation has long since passed, but not for that little girl, who become a timid teenager, and stumbling adult.

But, when she needed to protect the well-being of another, she ultimately found her voice.

And she continues to do so, learning to speak when it matters, even when it's scary. Learning to stop apologizing for things that are not her fault.

Little by little, she is becoming fearless.

And somehow, by God's unfathomable grace, she knows she is free.

{I am free}

Heard

Forty-three years and some odd months and I am still trying to find my voice. Circumstances have all but forced me to rip this from my heart, or else claw away at my very flesh.

*************

Her youngest memories are like the pictures in an old photo album. The kind with embroidery and ribbons adorning the cover. Delicate and beautiful on the outside. Inside, however, were the yellowing pages and faded faces which appear to be smiling. Just snapshots in time. Christmases. First days of school. Backyard kiddie pools. Pictures of houses that no longer stood, where she would stand on swirling wooden stairs and marvel at the dust in the sunbeams, like it was sent from another realm.

She was a quiet and painfully shy girl. They said she suffered in silence, like it was something brave and not a learned behavior out of desperation. Before she was ten, another upheaval. New city. New stepfather. New siblings. 

Her mother was talking too loudly one day about how the house she rented had been the scene of a murder. It made sense to the little girl, as she would see the evil that resided within its walls. 

The first night he came into her room, she thought she was dreaming. The moment when a dream turns, without warning, to a nightmare. She opened her mouth to scream, to utter anything, but nothing came out. Her voice betrayed her, as it left her, alone. Unsafe. 

Did he know, as most predators would, that he would be able to silence her with just his foreboding presence? Did he know that her voice would betray her the same way he would again and again? Did he know that his actions would repeatedly break the wing of the fledgling bird, keeping her grounded far too long, for her spirit longed to soar? Away from this place of nightmares. High, like the other little birdies. Somewhere safe. Somewhere where her voice would not betray her. Heard. 

To be continued...

Reasons

Shortly after the New Year, I took about a three week break from Facebook, deleting the app from my phone. I felt that it was in my best interest. As a whole, it made me feel wretched about myself (or bitter, or judgmental, or a slew of other negative emotions). Not to mention the amount of time I wasted.

It was hard at first, as most habits are, to break. But, as the days went on, it became easier, and I had more time to be engaged in the present. I was looking less at my phone for the red notifications. However, there were certain things I missed, such as seeing pictures of those that live far away, or sharing in others' happy news.

So, after some time, and after I felt like I had found some balance, I decided to log back in. It was the day after the inauguration and the day of the women's march. Two of my best friends and I went together. We joined about 5,000 others in Riverside. People of differing beliefs and backgrounds came together in solidarity, each person choosing to march for his or her own reasons.

For me, this is why I marched: I marched because I believe that our individual and collective voices matter; I marched because I believe that misogyny and xenophobia need to be addressed and eradicated from government; I marched because I believe that all children (including the children of undocumented immigrants like those who attend my school) deserve the best possible education; Most importantly, I marched because I believe that every single person is to be valued. Every one. We do not get to decide if we think someone is worthy of love. I marched because God loves ALL people. Period.

Then, it seems, the world, especially the social media one, went berserk. It is so easy to find articles that prove your viewpoint. It is easy to disregard others behind the safety of your keyboard. It is easy to share some pointed post that will show them what's what. But, ultimately it is never effective.

So, when a distant family member sees that your friend marched and he asks her if she has been ¨kicked in the head,¨ well, that is just plain unacceptable. He could have asked her what led her to march. He could have attempted to understand her feelings.

There is so much division and hate. He is the president, and I do hope to God that he does well, but his actions are unnerving to me. His insatiable ego has no place in the White House. His actions (which I honestly thought were enough to not get him elected) have not changed. His refusal to release his tax records, as was confirmed today, is thoroughly suspicious. And it is so telling that he would rather live with peoples' suspicions than to divulge the truth. Truth matters not to him. Whatever he is hiding must be so damning. I won´t even go into his conflicts of interest.

He has censored the National Park Service for reporting facts, he had Press Secretary Spicer lie to us, then the next morning his counselor, who he publicly called ´baby´ while thanking her,  straight-faced said that he did not lie, but gave ¨alternative facts.¨ Seriously?

Anyway, I think it is time to take a more extended break from Facebook. Now is not the time to remain silent, but nor is it the time to engage over social media. I appreciate what President Obama said in his Farewell Speech: ¨If you're tired of arguing with strangers on the Internet, try talking to them in real life.¨

So, that is what I am planning. I will regret potentially not seeing pictures of your cute kiddos, or missing an opportunity to connect with you or encourage you, but I am still here (I just won't be on online much).

Remember, you matter. Kindness matters. You are loved. And never be afraid to speak out against hate. Peace.

xo.

when you are done

This will probably read more like a quick update instead of my usual posts. It's been a while. I am not entirely sure when I last wrote, or what I wrote about. Probably Grace. Or thanksgiving. And I am sure there was certainly some angst woven somewhere in there. Maybe even a curse word or two.

I can be all about the angst. Sure, there is a time and place, but it's heavy, man. I mean, it's a lot for one person to carry. All. The, Time.

I think it is inherently good to be honest about areas of necessary growth. A huge area for me {although it can be a positive thing} is my emotions. They own me. I feel things deeply. For all the things. All. The. Time. This can be problematic when I have been wounded, or when my emotions are overspent on the same scenarios.

But, with the New Year we ventured back out into the pews or chairs. Among the old and the new. Heavy with liturgy or twinkling with lights under purposely exposed ducts.

I began to feel like Edward Norton's Narrator in Fight Club. He kept going to different support groups to find meaning. Connection. I keep going to all these different churches. Always looking for connection and meaning, but ending up feeling tragically more lost.  

Nothing in these places of worship have changed. I have changed. My heart has finally accepted that we are all broken. There is something so freeing about letting go of all of the junk and looking ahead without any expectations. Expectations that could never be met by people. There is something to be said for sticking it out. Even when it is uncomfortable and difficult. Especially when it gets uncomfortably difficult.

This past Sunday was communion. My best friend's teenage son had not experienced  communion at a Lutheran church before. He was accustomed to walking up and taking the bread and grape juice. The rails and elements were foreign to him. When he was handed the wafer, he stared at it in his hand, not knowing what to do with it. I looked at him, pointed to the wafer, and then pointed to my mouth. **blinkblink** He stared at me quizzically. I whispered to him and he then ate the wafer {discovering the wine was a whole other thing}

This interaction stayed with me. It was me. It is all of us. Or it can be.

I was feeling so lost. Looking everywhere. But, when I looked down, there was Jesus.

And He was there the whole time. He was waiting. I hadn't known what to do, but it didn't matter. I had been carrying him around from place to place in my hand like that wafer, but He wanted me to receive Him. Again. And you know what? All of the heavy stuff I had been carrying around, like a shackled prisoner, just faded away.

I was ready to release it. I was ready to be done.

The Unattainable

November is probably my favorite month. I adore autumn. And Thanksgiving. Late this afternoon, as I was leaving work, the sun was starting its early descent and there was a distinct, crisp bite to the air as storm clouds rolled across the sky. I breathed in deeply and felt invigorated, like in that brief second, I believed that anything was possible.

Sometimes, I feel stuck. I start things, and for whatever reason, I don't finish them. Maybe it's just part of my quirky personality. I lose interest. Or simply move on. Some things, however, feel unfinished. I think about these things as if they were completely unattainable. But, you know what? They're not.

Tonight I drove by the plaza and the sight of the Christmas tree surprised me. It reminded me that seasons eventually change. Abruptly, even. The days eventually get shorter. In a few weeks I will turn 41. A new year. A fresh start of sorts. And I want to make the most of it because these years are going by at breakneck speed. I want to be able to look back and know that it mattered.

So what now? If I am able, I want to go back to school and finish my degree. I know it'll be challenging and take awhile, and maybe it's all the magic in the air, but I feel as if it's within my reach.

Regardless of what the future brings, my prayer is that it will be filled with endless possibilities to love. And to love others well.

The Unexpected

It was supposed to be a quick check-in with my doctor. My foot was bothering me. My ankle would swell and all of my walking I had done in Washington seemed to have exasperated the issue. My doctor told me my arch had fallen. She instructed me to stop wearing flats and get some inserts. Easy enough. As I was checking out, she reminded me that since I was 40, I should stop in for my first mammogram.

I had already been gone longer than I had wanted. After all, school was gearing back up and I had so much to do. I didn't want to take any more time. I don't know why, but I decided to go anyway.

It was very routine. The "squeeze" didn't hurt as much as I had anticipated. As I wrapped the open-in-the-front gown around me, the technician said I'd get the all-clear postcard in the mail.

I did not receive that postcard, but a call instead. They suspected something and asked that I come back in nine days to have the images redone. I tried not to think too much about it, and I was so busy with work anyway.

This mammogram was different. They weren't gentle. I sucked in my breath and tried not to move. The machine beeped and I looked at the resulting image on the monitor. It was like looking at endless galaxies the likes of which I would never see; the white spot shined bright. I blinked in disbelief.

Within moments I was waiting in a different department for an ultrasound. I tried not to hyperventilate. I focused on my breathing. Deep breath in, slowly blow it out.

The tech struggled to find the area as I waited, bare breast, arm over my head while she called for the radiologist to come in. She froze the image. I stared at it. It looked like a spider or a weird starburst or some demented sea creature with tentacles. The radiologist got right to the point and stated that I needed a biopsy. I was scheduled the next day.

The biopsy wasn't as bad as I had imagined. It only took about 10 minutes. I tried to make light of the situation by telling the doctor that my husband wasn't happy about another man fondling my left breast. He laughed nervously and I instantly regretted saying it. But I couldn't take it back.

And I couldn't make the mass disappear either. After placing a titanium clip to mark the area, the kind nurse cleaned and bandaged me. She said that the results would be available on September 1. A nurse would call me in the nine o'clock hour.

The waiting has been harder than I thought. Educating myself of the terminology in preparation for the call has been dizzying. Discovering that my mass is presenting like a malignancy is sobering and scary.

And yet, I feel at peace. I want for it to be nothing. A mistake. Benign. Anything but cancer. But, if it turns out that it is cancer, I know two things for sure. One: God is good. Always. And two: I am not alone.

In these past few days I have vacillated between feeling emotionally fragile and feeling extremely brave. Such a dichotomy. But aren't we all? I want to choose brave.

But the sun still rises. I have been looking at things a bit differently since all this began. I have been specifically looking for the good. It is there. Good in each day. Good to be seen when we take the time to look. That, and taking things one day at a time. That is my goal.

All I know is that in this time of waiting and in the unknown, I have been changed. I can't quite explain it, or even pinpoint what it is exactly, but it is there just underneath. And it's permanent.

And somehow, it feels necessary.

Of Fear...

Tonight is the fifth night out of my normalcy. My routines. My surroundings, which are comfortable and customary. Tonight, I sit with a cup of hot tea as the cool, Washington breeze blows sympathetically and my curly hair dries in the night air.

I should be tired, but I am not. I just spent the last 36 hours away. Camping and exploring towns and trails and asking questions about the area as quaint towns popped up as the miles wore on.

It was wonderful. Everything except for 2 AM. You see, at 2 AM I was awake. Too much coffee too late in the evening necessitated a trip to the camp bathrooms which were about 100 feet away. They were easy to spot from our tent trailer but the grounds were full of obstacles. Logs. Rocks. Shrubbery. And the possibility of God-knows-what? Bears? Creepers lurking in the dark?

I talked myself into being brave and slipped my flip-flops on over my socks and prepared to venture out. The flashlight that was left by the door wouldn't turn on, so I flipped on the flashlight mode on my phone. The trailer door squeaked as I thrust it open and my chest caught with the sharp, unwelcome cold air. I stumbled towards my destination as my heart raced.

Upon attempting to return to camp - still terrified, of course - I couldn't see very well. My "flashlight" barely illuminated the area directly in front of me. I kept running into logs and shrubs. As I walked around them, I quickly ventured off course; veering away from my intended endpoint. I mean, we're talking about a person who gets turned around in a shopping mall.

When I finally emerged onto the asphalt loop, I couldn't see our site. At all. I know it wasn't rational, but it was the middle of the night and I was temporarily lost. In a forest. And I freaked out. For a few bleak seconds, terrible scenarios played through my mind. Then I remembered the sites were
numbered, found the stake of the number I was standing next to, and realized I was three sites
over. I walked to the right and eventually saw the camper. It was like Christmas Day.

After the adrenaline subsided, I wondered why I hadn't asked for help. I didn't want to bother anyone. I didn't want to wake anyone up, not even to ask how to use the the real flashlight.

Sometimes, you should ask for help.

And the other thing I took away from my excursion? Be brave. Don't let fear paralyze.

"Hope is the only thing stronger than fear." - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

I have always adored the truth in that quote. It's time.

Sometimes, you will end up somewhere unexpected. And that's okay.

The trail narrowed and tree carcasses lined the path. In the distance, concrete pillars could be seen. The remnants of a bridge to cross the river. Rocks and logs blocked the other entrance from the road. This path was closed. But the trail? The trail continued on, leading brave people to unexpected places.

Be brave. Be fearless.

I want to be that person.

Yes, a person who hopes and trusts. Wherever I'm led.

Untitled

I feel incredibly vulnerable today. I abhor these days. These days of forced sentiments. These days that mark loss.

Eight years ago, my grandfather, the one who stepped in when my own father split before I was even one, passed away due to complications from a hip replacement.

I received the call in the middle of the night. A call that would jolt me from my sleep. He had taken a turn for the worse. There was blood. They didn't know the source. I hung up and called my mother and brother. Instead of leaving for the hospital, I waited for them. It took them about 25 minutes to get to me and the hospital was another 20 minutes away. I got a second call - the call - as we were around the corner from the hospital saying he was gone.

Around the corner. Had I gone alone, I would have made it to him.

I regret waiting. I regret that he died alone.

I should have left immediately.

Last night I slept fitfully as dreams interfered with rest. Accusatory voices echoed in my head: "You were too late. You didn't make it. You left me to die alone."

**********************************************************

I cried in church this morning when we sang the words, "All my life I have been called unworthy, named by the voice of my shame and regret. But when I hear You whisper, child lift up your head..."

And I came home and cried until I almost threw up. Or blacked out. I think both. I wanted to break shit and watch all of the pieces fall and scatter. Scatter like the pieces of me. I cried for what was lost eight years ago. For the father who abandoned me. For what my step father took from me. And for what was lost this week in Charleston. And for all of the brokenness. For all of those who hurt today. It welled up from the very depths of my being and broke free, like a dam whose force could not be contained. And it was ugly and raw. It was truth.

A choice. I can stay here in this tortured space haunted by the ghosts of my past, or I can move.

And life is always moving. So, I move, too, even if I protest.

I am not who I used to be. And I hope that I am not too late.

The In-between

I was going to be brave. I had set my alarm. Picked out an outfit. But I didn't sleep well. I turned off my alarm. I stayed in bed.

I appreciate that my bedroom is at the back of the house. A small dirt area and an old wood fence separate it from a two-story apartment building. My room is relatively dark the hours after the sun blazes into the heights.

This morning, a subdued antique gold color gently bathed through the window and stretched onto the wall. For some reason, it comforted me. I hadn't realized I needed to be comforted.

It's Easter morning. It doesn't feel like Easter. I am not sure what Easter is supposed to feel like these days.

Maybe I am a hopeless nostaglic and I have a tendency to remember what it used to be like back in the day. Not sure which day, just not today.

Even though it is Resurrection Sunday, I still feel very much as if I am stuck in Saturday. The in-between day. The everything-isn't-quite-right day because they didn't know what was to come. The day of not understanding. The day of mourning.

But I will keep running, walking, crawling, limping towards Sunday.

Maybe that's the point after all. Maybe it's always supposed to feel like the in-between because it always will be until it's not.

Lately, I have been wondering what I am supposed to be doing. I have my family and my job. But what more? I don't know. It could be that just being honest and raw in this space is the more for now. And I don't have to be brave, because I'm not, really. I just have to be obedient.

And eventually find a church again. Even if I feel as if I will never belong somewhere again, because I am incapable of fitting in.

Learning to be obedient in the in-between. It'll take a lifetime of grace-covered mistakes, but I won't give up on it. On Him.

A Mandate

Today is Maundy Thursday. Some people call is Holy Thursday. I have always appreciated the significance of this day. It is a day we remember Jesus' words: " A new command I give you: love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another."

Love. The opposite of hate. 

And He washed their feet. And He washed Judas' feet. He knew Judas' heart. He knew that Judas would betray Him, but He still washed his feet. Demonstrative love. 

And that kind of love - the kind that Jesus commanded us to emulate - doesn't ask us to decide who is deserving. It doesn't call for us to only love those we deem worthy of love. Or easier yet: those like us; those who don't threaten our sensibilities. 

And I just can't. I can't understand. 

I drove by a group of protesters the other day. They were down the street from a Planned Parenthood. There were adults down to elementary-aged children holding bright anti-abortion signs with pictures of ultrasounds and others of what looked like dismembered fetuses. And I just cannot fathom all that time and energy and resources. That isn't loving others. That is shaming them. 

Oh, how I wish that these people could have found a way to truly love others instead of belittle or shame them. To find ways to meaningfully intersect where there is hurt. Where people are scared and lost. To demonstrate love to those who need it the most. To serve. A modern day washing of the feet. 

And I just can't. I can't bring myself to church anymore. It's not for lack of trying. I've tried. Maybe the wounds prevent me from really trying anymore. But, I have tried plenty. 

I feel like I don't belong. I just don't fit in. And I don't, really. 

I don't belong in straight pews with rehearsed sermons and songs. I am way too messy for all of that. 

The other day, the mister and I were in the check out line at Trader Joe's. The man in front of us had forgotten his wallet, so I told the cashier to add his order to ours. The cashier was so taken aback by this. He couldn't believe that we were paying for someone else's items. He commented that this gesture was the nicest thing he had witnessed in a long time. 

And it made me sad, honestly. I mean, what does it really say about the state of humanity that someone purchasing eight dollars of groceries for someone else is the nicest thing he had seen in a long time? 

I don't know. 

Love. A command. 

Love each other. 

Make a difference.

That is all. 

Just love. 

Pensive Ponderings...

I woke up slightly before five to the whir of the heater and a dim light coming from the living room. I groggily stumbled out of my bedroom to wish the mister a good day at work. I leaned down to kiss him goodbye and he told me that he had turned the heater up for me...So I wouldn't be cold when I got up in the morning.

A couple of hours later, when I woke up to a warm house, I remembered his words.

I am feeling particularly nostalgic on this rainy day. The first day of a new month. The clanking of the spoon in my coffee cup, quiet, dark mornings, the rain and how the water dances off the eaves, apple and cinnamon oatmeal, the sound of softly playing music in the background. All things that remind me of my grandparents. My childhood.

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I went to a memorial service on Friday for a young man my son's age. They were childhood friends from the age of two until about eleven when life pulled us in different directions. I had lost touch with his mom until I had heard about Caleb's death.

And she bravely spoke about of the struggles of addiction but also of the God who pursues into the depths of darkness. Those dark, dark places rarely acknowledged. She pondered his legacy and the purpose of his life that will continue to impact those who knew and loved him for some time to come.
She didn't ask why.

I know all about the why. The insidious 'why?' or 'what if?' It starts with one question, then snowballs into a myriad of regrets and painful memories. Of abuses endured. Of paths not chosen.

It has taken me countless years to realize that the 'what ifs' never change a single thing. What they do, however, is steal joy. I have, over the years, slowly made peace with God about those things which once plagued my thoughts. All of those things that made me feel shame have, in actuality, shaped me. They have helped carve a path for the journey ahead. What's done is done. All I see now is grace and second chances and works in progress. And daily opportunities to love and make a difference.

My life is a beautiful mess. It's imperfect. But it is a gift I don't want to squander. And we need to talk more and love more and judge less. I will be the first person to say that I don't have it all figured out, and I'm not even close to having all of my shit together. I don't think I ever will be. And maybe that's the point. Just being able to say it. To be honest and real so others don't have to feel like they are the only ones struggling.

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The heater whirs and warms this house and my heart. And I am so grateful. I can even say that I am grateful for the hard things and my own dark places, because without them, I don't think I would be able to see the impact of redemption and the hope in which it carries.

{So let's talk about the hard things, okay? You are not alone. Talking removes the stigmas and the shame. And let's love. Love those around you. Love all the people you can, while you can.}

In Which I Become an Unlikely Seahawks Fan

It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, really. I mean, I've never been into sports. I've never been to the Pacific Northwest, I'm a California girl, born and raised. But there's just no denying my adoration for the Seattle Seahawks.

My mister, as long as I can remember, has always been a fan. Back in the times of acid-washed overalls and mullets, they were his team. He bought his niece a Bosworth sweatshirt when she was an infant. I mean, who does that? And more importantly, come on, The Boz? But, I digress.

I have never really been interesting in sports of any kind with the exception of some shameful 49ers bandwagoning around 1989-1990 when I bought a t-shirt from the mall because everyone had them, and they were winning (To this day, my husband will not let me live this down!) In my defense, I did just order a Sea Believe shirt which I hope will arrive before Blue Friday.

But, last year, during the 2013 - 2014 season, I began watching the games with my mister. It kind of became our thing. And when you've been married two decades, finding new things to do together is rare and special.

So, we watched. I watched. I began to look forward to the games. I began to root for the Hawks. When the elementary school where I work had a sports themed spirit day, my sweet mister let me wear the only jersey he had at the time.

Here I am in my office with the old school Moon jersey. Represent. 

 Last year's season came to an end with the Championship and Super Bowl win. We were thrilled. 

It seemed like a ridiculously looooooong time before this year's season began. As odd as it was for me, I couldn't wait to pick up where we left off. In fact, if my mister had to work during a game, I would watch the game. Like, by myself (what?!) And I'd text him updates. I remember pondering this strange new phenomenon and wondering who am I, even. I was a fan. Win or lose, over this last season, the Seattle Seahawks became my team.

A game day in October and 90 degrees, but I still wore my scarf for a bit! 

My fangirl status became solidified during the NFC Championship Game in which I felt all the feels. When they won in OT, I cried right alongside Russell Wilson. He is amazing. I mean, he just is. He loves Jesus, he loves others, and he is humble. And Richard Sherman. And Earl Thomas. Goodness. So many men of integrity. The truth is, I couldn't like a team that was filled with a bunch of douche bags.

I have thought often about that game since last Sunday. The sheer audaciousness of it all. Pete Carroll did not give up on his team and they did not give up on each other. I admire the love and respect they have for one another. Also, the community of the 12th Man. I have a thing for genuine community and the 12s are legit.

So, I will be rooting for my team next Sunday! And through this interesting experience, I have learned that it is never too late to embrace something new, something you may have previously written off.

Be bold. Be Daring.

And Go Hawks! :)

On Grief and Hope

I had never witnessed my grandfather shed a single tear before the morning my grandmother died. Living the closest, I was first to arrive at her hospital room while she was taking her final breaths. I remember grabbing her hand and my Bible that I had left there the evening prior and reading Psalm 23 aloud. Seconds later, my grandfather entered the room.

I will never forget what transpired next. His expression was half-crazed. He looked at me and my tears. I could only shake my head ever so slightly. He looked at my grandmother, his sweetheart since the eighth grade, and then let out the most gut-wrenching sounds of sheer and utter grief. His grief pierced through my own. This man who helped raise me. This man who sacrificed for his family. This man with the quirky sense of humor and big heart. To see him so grief-stricken, it left me undone.

And that's the thing about grief. It doesn't matter if you were expecting it or not, the response is the same. When it comes to loss, there's not really a way in which to adequately prepare. Losing someone you love is devastating. I don't fully agree with the old adage that "time heals all wounds." I think with time, there is a lessening of the severity. There is an acceptance. Life continues in its fluidity. It doesn't, even if we wanted it to, remain stagnant, stationary.

I attended a funeral last week. I appreciated how the pastor talked about hope. Hope in the midst of grief. Hope from a life well-lived. A life rooted in Grace.

I have been pondering his words. Especially at Christmastime. A world full of hurting people. People without hope. Hopeless. And sometimes, even those who know, forget and need to be reminded. I know I have experienced times like that myself.

Because there is a difference. There is still grief. There is still loss. There is still hurting here in this place. But there is a Hope that audaciously stands firm in the midst of life's storms. There is a Hope for what's beyond the here and now. Beyond the struggles. Beyond this life. There is a Hope Eternal.

And that hope came down at Christmastime. For us.

"So let us sing Redemption Song,
Let us worship Christ the Holy one,
We were lost, but we were found,
When Hope Came Down,
When Hope Came Down." – Kari Jobe 

And so, I want to share that Hope with the hopeless. To pause. Look around. See the hurting, and in some small way, intervene.

And it doesn't have to be something extraordinary. A small act of service. A kind word. A smile.

You can never underestimate how even the smallest, seemingly inconsequential act will impact others and spark hope in their hearts.

This Little Light of Mine

Yesterday morning, I sat in the darkness of my room. It's that time of year where the mornings and evenings are typically chilly, but the sun's perseverance warms the midday hours. I put on socks to warm my feet and hymns to warm my heart that was feeling heavy. In the midst of all the unrest, I was restless. Mourning and rejoicing was still the companion of my thoughts.

And here's where it gets convoluted: finding some sort of balance. What does it look like to be able to rejoice about all of the good without somehow blocking out or ignoring the mournful bad?

It's easy to feel disconnected, I think, when we aren't directly affected. It's easy to live safe lives inside our carefully crafted constructs. Until we are affected, that is. Until it is our loved one dying, our sick child in the hospital, our city that is engulfed in flames...

In the darkness, I lit a single candle. I was caught off guard as I marveled at how the small, flickering flame illuminated the darkness. This verse came to mind: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. (John 1:5)

Then I remembered, this Sunday is the first Sunday in Advent where people everywhere will light a candle for hope. And that Hope can't be extinguished. Even in the midst of seemingly hopeless and heartbreaking atrocities.

There is Jesus.

And I don't have all the answers...

But, there is Jesus.

The Light in the darkness.

Present in the mourning. The very same Jesus who wept and told us to love one another.

Love those who are marginalized. Love those who are hurting and grieving.

And when we love like Jesus, when we truly seek to emulate Him (and not our own agendas), it would be like a conglomeration of all these little lights that that would come together to illuminate the world. A world full of people who are hurting. A world full of people who need to see the love light shine.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great Light; those who dwelt in the land of intense darkness and the shadow of death, upon them has the Light shined. (Isaiah 9:2)

So, friends? Let it shine. 

Juxtaposition

I feel things. Deeply. I can get stuck in my head. Just me and my feelings. Hanging out for days, weeks. And what I am feeling, and therefore thinking, may or may not always be an accurate reflection of truth, but merely my skewed perception.

Recently, I was going through a rough time, a dry spiritual season so to speak. You see, I didn't feel God. At all. And for someone who relies far too heavily on her feelings, this was disastrously problematic. I wasn't really doing anything to address the situation, in fact, I think I was running from it altogether {I'm also pretty good at avoidance}.

Then Friday happened...

As I have reflected on what transpired, I first just have to say that I am blessed to work with a wise, godly man. He lives out his faith and leads with the sacrificial love of a true servant. He acts justly, loves mercy, and walks humbly (Micah 6:8). He extends grace and is calm and even-keeled. I just simply adore him and his heart for Jesus and for others. Anyway, we had the opportunity to take a book that our students had made for a sweet former colleague and sister in Christ who was recently sent home on hospice. I knew I wanted to go... somehow needed to go. I also knew that it would be difficult.

We almost left the book outside, leaning against the stucco wall, but the door had opened as we were starting to walk away. Even though the visit had been prearranged, our presence seemed to be a surprise. I offered to leave the book, as I heard the sound of the oxygen machine in the hallway, but we were invited in. Invited into the space between life and death. And it was hollowed ground. I was immediately overcome with emotion.

The book was shared with her, along with some handpicked Psalms. I prayed silently, wanting to hold it together (I didn't want to upset her by crying). I held her frail hand as we prayed for her. And then the most unexpected thing happened. This feeling girl who had lost her God-feelings felt enveloped by Him. Like, He had reached down to the very core of my soul and held me tight until I could feel His warmth. A burning deep within.

As we prepared to leave, we told her that she was loved. Loved by so many, but ultimately loved completely by Him.

And that was for me to hear as well.

You are loved completely by Me. Nothing, NOTHING can eradicate it. You are MINE.

{I remember. Thank you for being patient with my forgetfulness. Again.}

I walked outside into the bright sunlight, wiping tears from my eyes. Tears for the impending grief of her loved ones.

And the juxtaposition of mourning and rejoicing, like breathing.

of silent things

Here I sit. Lukewarm coffee and blinking cursor. And, as often is the case, I am not sure how to start. But writing helps immensely. It has always been cathartic.

............... 

And fifteen minutes later.....

So, it's pretty astonishing to me that there are things, like major things, about myself I am just now discovering. It also astonishes me how deeply one can bury something and how easily that "something" can rise, uninvited, to the surface. 

Here it is:

I have abandonment issues. I mean, I have lots of issues, but never would I have ever said that abandonment was one of them. 

It's true, so much of who we are as people is shaped in childhood. 

And sometimes your childhood is effed up. 

My grandparents practically raised me and my twin brother because my parents divorced before my first birthday. And when you're 21, having two babies puts a significant damper on the single lifestyle. 

Growing up, I would overhear stories, like my mom would often drop my brother and I off at my grandparents, then leave and not come back for hours, or even days. 

She went on, lived her life, put a baby up for adoption...

She was in and out of my life like a relative who visited a lot. 

It's strange, even now, she will see a picture or hear a retelling of a story from my childhood apart from her and say that she remembers it, too, but I have no recollection of her being present. I think guilt has an unbelievably remarkable way of allowing people to remember things differently than they actually happened. Because, the truth is something they can't accept. I would never have the heart to tell her otherwise. So, I leave her with her recreated memories. They are a comfort to her. I have a feeling she'd never believe me anyway. 

My dad was absentee. He tried to justify it once to me when I was around twelve. He just said, in a very matter-of-fact kind of way, "I thought you'd be better off without me." 

Huh, okay. And because of this, we aren't close to this day. Which is sad. It was also devastating to not be able to point out which man was "Daddy Mike" in a room full of strangers at Christmastime. 

And I thank God for my grandparents. I miss them. I shudder to think how I would have ended up without them. 

Things were stable for me until I was ten. 

My mom had remarried someone who was ten years her junior and ten years my senior. She got pregnant right away with a second set of twins. After the babies were born, they wanted to relocate to Northern California. 

She wanted to bring us with them. I didn't want to go. At all. Looking back, I can only assume that it was out of sheer selfishness that she forced us to go. She needed help with the babies. And she didn't want to be alone. 

I think I have honestly blocked out a lot of what happened to me that year. The year an already timidly shy girl lost her voice completely. The memories I do retain I wish I could somehow un-remember. I remember getting up on our own. I remember having to wear damp clothes to school and trying to dry them before the bus came by swinging in the chill of the morning air. I remember lying awake at night, terrified I'd hear the doorknob turn and the creak of the door again. Terrified of the darkness and the shadows and the man. I remember in the darkness disconnecting myself from my body and asking, no begging, God to just take me. I felt abandoned by Him, too. I'd listen to "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears and repeat the lyrics "Nothing ever lasts forever" again and again in my head and desperately hope they knew something I didn't. 

And then, without warning, we came home. And I was safe again and little by little found my voice, until I was brave enough to write a letter. 

And I carry those scars. And the blame that was eventually placed on me for being silent. And of others' guilt too hard to accept. 

....................

And so today, I can be overly-sensitive. And I'm a people pleaser. I struggle with emotional eating. When I feel like I may be in danger of being left or mistreated, I withdraw.  It's my defense mechanism. My feeble effort to somehow keep myself safe. I had never made the connection before. I see it so clearly now. 

And I continue to find my voice. To struggle and work through the shadowy places and listen as God brings about a purpose. {I am not defined by bad things that happened to me and neither are you}

And there is evil in the world, but it can never negate the beauty. 

Beauty for ashes. 

Words still being penned. 

Pages still to be written. 

Redemption. 

And I will not remain silent.