You Shall Not Pass
Where do I begin? At the beginning? I can’t even find the beginning. The beginning of this day? It was snowing. We finally got a bit of snow. It started to feel seasonal. Christmas is approaching. My girls were frolicking in the flurries. We were off to my dear friend’s home to assemble and decorate ginger bread houses. It’s our tradition. We’ve done it seven years in a row. Her home sits next to a small pond. The girls went ice skating with her two kids. We drank tea, chatted, and enjoyed being with each other. It was the first moment in weeks I’ve had to relax and simply be, and I love being with her. She is one of my favorite people.
In the middle of our tea, treats, and girly conversations, my husband called–”Hey, I wanted to check in, and I also wanted to let you know that your mom sent you a letter.” I sucked in a breath. ”It’s good that you’re over there. You’ll get some time to talk and process.” My heart was beating faster. ”I already read it. It’s pretty weird, babe. She wrote a letter to Santa. It’s not even written to you.” He then proceeded to read her letter to me. I listened to his words. I felt like I was going to choke or vomit. Tears came. I was in a dark room. She wanted to be with her daughter for Christmas. She wanted her granddaughters, too. She wanted a fresh start. She wants to reconcile. To make amends. Could Santa give her that?
I want a fresh start. I want her to make amends. I want her to spend Christmas with us. I want all those things, too. Someone tell me, please, how does one make amends for attempted murder? She tried to murder my two stepsisters in one of her many rages. How does one make amends for multiple suicide attempts? Oh, how many times was I called in by my desperate stepfather to convince her not to blow her head off? Three times? Four? When I was pregnant with my first daughter she slit her wrists. How does one make amends for ruining a wedding? She locked herself in her bedroom for an entire week prior to my wedding. She even refused to come out the day of my wedding. I was a nervous wreck the entirety of my wedding day because of her. I won’t even discuss the rehearsal dinner and all the details associated with planning and executing a wedding. Disaster…How does one make amends for not acknowledging a college graduation and belittling a person for actually going to college? How does one make amends for years and years of verbal and mental abuse? How does one make amends for essentially keeping a daughter as a prisoner in her home? How does one make amends for not reporting a daughter missing after an abduction? How does one make amends for abandoning a daughter after escape from captivity? How does one make amends for essentially making it impossible for a daughter to pursue justice for the crimes committed against her? How does one make amends for trying to pimp out a daughter in exchange for car repairs? I could go on, but what is the point?
Someone tell me. How can she make amends?
She can’t. It isn’t possible. What’s more, I have not asked her to do this. Her debt is too great. She can no more pay me back than I can repay the national debt.
What have I asked? I asked her to find a therapist. I told her that I would not even attempt a relationship with her until she had been seeing a therapist once a week for at least three months. Even then, I said that I may not be able to have a relationship with her. The sound of her voice triggers a panic response in me. When I hear it, I immediately feel frightened. I suddenly feel surrounded by darkness; I feel terribly alone. I feel threatened, and I freeze. That’s my limbic system taking over because she is a threat. She isn’t a perceived threat, you see. She is a real threat.
There is only one person who has seen me after my mother has unleashed the worst of herself upon me. She is a friend of mine from high school. She caught a glimpse of the darkness, of the Witch. My mother is like the stepmother from Disney’s animated film “Snow White”. She is the cold, jealous Queen appearing benevolent at times–”Let me help you with that. That skirt looks fine although I really think you could benefit from a girdle,” she said once baring her teeth in a snarling smile before I left for a date. Rarely, she is the waifish old woman, pulling at your heart-strings, all the while manipulating you. Underneath lurks the beast, the Witch. The Witch is murderous, cruel, and utterly sociopathic. When my mother’s personality is taken over by the Witch her voice and demeanor changes. She can stay in this altered state for hours or days, and she will have little to no memory of it. She will attempt to destroy anyone that she perceives as a threat to her security even if that threat is a difference in opinion.
The Witch nearly destroyed me one night when I was a senior in high school. I will never forget it. Something in me broke that night. It is still broken. And, the Witch is still alive and well inside my mother. I heard her voice during my last conversation with my mother. I won’t let her near my daughters. I won’t let her near me. My husband stands in the gap when I am weak. He protects us all when I cannot stand up for myself. He reads the letters.
How can I reconcile this? A woman who has little memory of her crimes and asks me to open the door to my life as if nothing has happened? She refuses to go to therapy–”I take my Zoloft. I’m fine.” I know better, you see. The Queen wants me to kiss her ring. The Waif wants me to take a bite of the apple and forget. And, the Witch wants to take what isn’t hers.
I am reeling. My heart is aching all over again. I am panicked and scared. What can I say? What can I do? Santa isn’t real. This isn’t a fairytale. There will be no happy ending. The only truly wonderful thing I can say is that my Prince did come, and I was kissed. I woke up. I saw what was true. And…you have no power over me.
You still have to go to therapy.
Otherwise, you shall not pass this way, and you can’t cut my heart out anymore.
Snow White's Stepmother holding a boar's heart in a box although she thought it was Snow White's
And Tonight There Is Pain
My mother was adopted when she was about 6 months-old. The story goes like this: My grandparents were walking through the orphanage when they came upon my mother. She was sitting in a crib. She looked up at my grandfather with big, blue eyes, and he said, “There’s our girl.” That was it. They brought her home. They were told that her birth mother was a Swedish divorcée who found herself pregnant after a relationship with a Swedish man who was visiting the United States. After discovering that she was pregnant, he returned to Sweden. My mother was born and given to the orphanage where she was neglected, never held, and diagnosed with malnutrition when my grandparents took her to the doctor.
Culturally, my mother was raised as the Scandinavian she was. My grandmother was Norwegian, and my grandfather was Swedish. My grandfather was raised in a farming community solely consisting of other Swedes and Native Americans. My grandmother was raised by a Norwegian artist and his very musical Norwegian wife. My grandparents were good people. The best sort of people. They were, however, stoic as Scandinavians can be, and I think my mother felt unloved and left out. She was adopted. She didn’t look like anyone. My mother was strikingly blonde and fair while my grandmother was a darker Norwegian. My grandmother’s brother married into another Norwegian family that was terribly clannish. My grandfather’s family resented him for leaving the farm and moving to the city to make a living. She wanted to fit in with her first cousins who were the darlings of their respective high schools. My mother struggled to fit in. She felt too tall. Not cute and petite like them.
She made bad choices. A lot of very, very bad choices. Her life has been a series of them. Particularly where I’m concerned. She’s been married three times. She’s tried to commit suicide numerous times. She’s battled depression for numerous years. She has hurt many people. She has Borderline Personality Disorder. She won’t get help. She refuses.
One of my mother’s first cousins, Maria, emailed me today:
I was happy to receive a Christmas card from your Mom today. She did not write anything, but I noticed they have moved. I was talking to my sister the other day and mentioned that I have not seen or heard from your mom in so long. I know you don’t much either. Do you keep up some contact? How are they?
I’ve written about my family in other posts. All in all, my mother’s side of the family is altogether lovely albeit a bit clannish. I don’t see them often. The last conversation I had with Maria was over a year ago at an indoor park wherein her daughter (my second cousin) insisted that we all meet. It was a beautiful autumnal day in my neck of the woods which is often hard to come by. Why we spent that day inside, I’ll never know. Maria’s daughter always shuns me. I’m always prepared for it, but it stings every time it happens. I have a name for it. I’ve been “Berg-ed”. That’s the family name–Berg. ICE-berg-ed. If I ever want to feel shunned, left out, or invited but not included, I’ll just go hang out with the Bergs for an hour. They’ll tell jokes and stories that only they understand, name-drop, patronize me, and stand in a circle laughing loudly with their backs turned to me. I digress…
Once again, while Maria’s daughter was openly shunning me, Maria began asking me about my mother. Again, I had nothing to tell her: “Maria, my mother has been ignoring me for years. We don’t have a relationship.” Her response: “I don’t understand. She’s your mother. Surely, you can work it out.” ”Maria, this isn’t up to me.” ”Well, you can forgive her…” “This isn’t about forgiveness.” “What’s it about then?” “Maria, there’s a lot to it. She needs to get help. She’s mentally ill. If you want to understand her, then go home, look up Borderline Personality Disorder, and read. Read a lot. That will give you a sense.” “Well, you need to pray. Claim the name of Jesus.” “Maria…I appreciate what you are trying to do, but…we are not there. Jesus would have her take responsibility for her actions. And, if her mental illness has ravaged her mind to such a point that she can no longer do that? Then, her husband needs to step in. Forgiveness and reconciliation are not the same thing.”
She looked at me like I was the Mata Hari. What I spoke was wrong. It’s not Christian. Blood is thicker than water. But, what if that blood is poison?
I love my mother, but she hates herself. That hatred spews outward to everyone in her midst. I have wept an ocean over the loss of my relationship with her. I remember what she used to be like when she was stable and lucid, and her world seemed bright and right. She taught me to love ballet and Grieg. She gave me my first piece of Swiss chocolate and taught me how to eat it properly. We visited Versailles together. She makes the best apple dumplings in the world. I have wanderlust because she taught me that the world is a beautiful place, meant to be explored. I’m a foodie because of her, too. I’m also the handy person in the house because of her. I can do electrical work, cut in a room, and fix just about anything in the house because I watched my mother, a single mom, do it. I learned that if it had to be done, you better learn to do it. Ain’t no one gonna do it for you. I love her to pieces, and telling her that I would not have a relationship with her any longer broke a part of me–permanently.
How can I possibly open up my chest and reveal the scars, the cracks, and the gaping hole that is there to my insensitive family? How can I tear back the veil of time and show them all the spaces where I have cried out, screamed into my pillow, and curled up under my covers, because of my grief? How can I possibly let them feel what I feel? How can I paint a picture for them that would represent the full and complete image of what I have suffered at her hands? Perhaps what she has suffered at her own hands? Will they then suspend their judgment of me? Would they offer me some mercy? Would they stop looking at me as if I’m some sort of pagan pariah? What have they paid to love her? What has it cost them?
Where were they after I returned from captivity? All they said: “We prayed for you.” But, they turned their backs just like my mother did. I was a defiled Untouchable to them just as I was to my mother–on my own. It’s too much for me to take in. Where are they now? Where have they been? They send cards proclaiming their love for us, all the while knowing that there is a family here with four little girls and no grandparents, no aunts, no uncles, no one. Just a mom and a dad…and four little girls. No one else. Every holiday. Alone. Every birthday. Alone. This Christmas. Alone. But…they pray. What has it cost them to love my mother? What does it cost them to love us? Nothing. Not one goddamn thing.
I could give my mother what she wants, but I would lose myself. I could play the part of the “nice, shiny Christian” by kowtowing to her in front of the family. Everyone would applaud and say what a dutiful, obedient daughter I am. They would say: “We prayed for you.” And, I would drown in a sea of nothingness. My life and identity as well as those of my daughters’ would disappear over the event horizon of my mother’s self-loathing and unending fear of abandonment. We would be annihilated. Oh God, my Beloved…I cannot.
Even if God and I are the only ones who will ever know the truth of my own heart, I can honestly say that I love her. I am weary of the judgment. But, if that is the price that I must pay for safety and freedom, then that is the cross I am willing to bear. It just feels so heavy tonight, and I wish I had no more tears left to give her. It seems, however, that I do.
The Least of These…
When you are giving your gifts this year, please consider these women and children:
Girls involved in the sex trade somewhere in the world
An estimated 2 million children are enslaved and abused in the global commercial sex trade — most of them girls. Many children are sold into prostitution to pay off family debts or forcibly recruited from the street to work in brothels.
Girls who escape or are rescued face a difficult physical and emotional recovery process. “I wanted to run away, but I had nothing, and my family was too far away,” remembers 15-year-old Sophea*. “Life was unbearable … worst were the beatings if I said ‘no.’”
You can help girls like Sophea recover from exploitation. The World Vision center was the first place in a long time where she felt safe. “I feel good here,” she says. “I feel secure, nobody hurts me. I can learn to read and write properly for the first time.” (from World Vision)
*World Vision is committed to the highest standards of child protection and does not publish names or identifiable photos of exploited children without express permission.
I could have been one of these women. I was a victim of human trafficking, but I escaped. I gain nothing by suggesting that you ponder donating to the Maximum Impact Fund. For $35, however, you can make a donation in someone’s name, a friend’s, a family member’s, an organization’s, and a card will be mailed to them. This money goes directly to helping these girls who are enslaved in the sex trade. Those that are rescued are provided with safe shelter, medical care, food, vocational training, and where possible, reintegration with a loving family. If you are looking to make a more meaningful holiday gift this year, then here is an option.
For more information, you can go here.
Shalom.
Is This You?
When you read any of the following statements, do you see yourself? Do they resonate?
- You are a parent who listens to everyone else’s life at dinner but no one asks about your day, and you don’t feel free to intrude your emotions into the discussion.
- You are at a restaurant with a glass of tea. You like real sugar in your tea, but all that is in the box is artificial sweeteners. You don’t ask the waitress for a refill on the sugar, even though you know you could.
- You never ask to borrow a tool from your neighbor, even though you know he is generous in sharing his resources in the neighborhood.
- Someone asks you what you want for Christmas and you tell them something you think they can afford, not what you really would like.
- You are in a group discussion about sports, religion or politics. You have strong opinions but never jump into the conversation, and no one ever asks what you think.
- Five people are going somewhere in a car, and the other four swiftly decide who sits where, without even consulting you.
- You are on a prayer ministry team, but you don’t feel free to share what you heard from the Lord.
- You think about blogging but conclude no one would want to hear what you think anyway.
- You read an intense thread on someone else’s Facebook regarding something you have deep feelings about, but you don’t jump in and comment.
In short, you live in a world of feelings, opinions, thoughts and ideas which are not shared voluntarily and which few people seem to seek out! What is particularly ironic and grating is that you have learned to be exceptionally sensitive to other people and what they are thinking and feeling, but it is not reciprocated. (written by Arthur Burk)
I read the aforementioned quote today, and I was struck by how strongly it resonated. This may, in fact, describe my life.
Arthur Burk has an “interesting” ministry meaning that there are people who may disagree with his theology and his doctrine. If you aren’t a Christian, then you may find his blog weird and outlandish. If you are, then you might still. In any case, I sort of like him. He thinks outside the box; he’s a straight shooter, and he isn’t the least bit religious. I haven’t read his blog in a very, very long time. Not everything there is helpful to me, but sometimes he nails it.
“Foundational to our personhood is the freedom to make our needs known to others without shame or negative repercussions.”
Yes. Damn straight, Arthur. Is that a message you’ve ever been told in church? From parents? Teachers? The wider members of your community or family? More from Arthur:
There are several aberrations to the normal parenting curve:
- One very simple scenario is parents who are too busy or too self-absorbed to listen with their heart to the heart of their children. While no overt offense is intended, being too busy with adult stuff to engage in the world of a child’s needs or wonderings, sends a very loud message to the child about how valueless their feelings are. Only their behavior is considered significant to the adults.
- In the home of an alcoholic or rage-aholic, children’s needs are often treated as an offense to the family, since the only needs that matter are those of the emotional tyrant in the tribe.
- In a very poor home, the desires children have for the things that other kids have cause shame and hurt to the parents who can’t provide those things even if they wanted to. If the parents are not well grounded emotionally, they will tend to react to the kids and make the kids feel guilty for wanting things that the parents can’t give.
- If the child’s desires are different from that of the family culture, those desires may be highly dishonored. Imagine the child designed by God to be a violinist, being born into a family of committed farmers, or the doctor whose daughter wants to be an auto mechanic. In an ideal situation, the parents can embrace God’s design for their kids, but too many parents have some pre-defined limits to what constitutes an acceptable career path for their kids.
- And in a home where the parents suffer from lack of legitimacy, it is quite common for all of the children’s needs to be subordinated to the central metric of the kids looking good so that the parents look good.
- Perhaps the most difficult is the child whose feelings are considered to be aberrant by the parents. Many children have spiritual discernment which the parents don’t have, and when the kids say they are afraid to go somewhere because it is scary, they are apt to be ridiculed or rebuked.
When a child finds that sharing his needs and wants is unsafe, it will dampen his or her sense of personhood. When another sibling has free rein to share their feelings and to be validated for them, it really slams the first one as being quite flawed, unnatural or defective, further solidifying exclusion from the office of personhood.
It is not only good to love ourselves, it is biblical. We may not have grown up in environments where our personhood was valued, and we may have even been abused. Perhaps we entered into adulthood with fractured and shattered identities. Abuse will do that. We do, however, have opportunities every day to try again and even to rebuild. You are beloved. I am beloved. It’s true. Then, why is it so hard to believe? Or, is that just me?
That The Immovable Would Be Moved
A little over six years ago, I found myself in a reasonably happy and fulfilling place in my life. My four daughters were healthy. My husband was happy in his job. I felt well in my life. I was volunteering at the Salvation Army Recovery Center, working with ex-convicts, drug addicts, and alcoholics–all men. I liked it. I finally found a faith community that I liked. Everything seemed to be going well.
One April night, a spring thunderstorm rolled through our city, and lightning struck the roof of the home directly next to ours. I recall the deafening bang and bright light that startled me awake that night. I thought perhaps a nearby tree was struck, but I didn’t hear the telltale sounds of a tree falling so I unwisely allowed myself to drift back to sleep. It must have been only ten or twenty minutes later that I heard the banging on the front door. Apparently, a woman one street over from ours was awakened by the smell of smoke. She felt compelled to get up and walk the streets in order to find its source. I woke up my husband: “Someone’s banging on the door! What’s going on?” He threw on some clothes, walked down the hall, and that’s when I heard him say, “Oh my God. Harriet’s house is on fire. Get the kids. We’ve got to evacuate. Now.” As soon as we gathered the children (and the cat) and opened the front door, my neighbor from across the street was standing at our front door: “Give me the baby. Come on girls! We’ll make M&M pancakes and play games! Follow me!” All this time, I couldn’t figure out why my neighbor was at my door, who had been banging, and if anyone had called 9-1-1. People seemed to be appearing out of nowhere. We put the cat in the family car, and stood back to look at Harriet’s house; her entire roof was engulfed in flames. The night was silent, the wind was strong, and I could hear the crackling of the wood burning like the sounds of a campfire. Where the hell was the fire department?
They arrived shortly, and, in the end, it was a three alarm fire meaning, I guess, that it required the fire trucks from three cities to extinguish the blaze; and, the fire gutted Harriet’s house.
Harriet's House, the day after the fire
The odd serendipities about this fire were: 1) Harriet, the elderly, original homeowner had died 2 weeks prior to the fire that destroyed her home leaving her home vacant. 2) The only fire hydrant on my block is in front of Harriet’s house. 3) The woman who knocked on our door to awaken us was, in fact, a complete stranger. The winds were quite high the night of this fire which caused the smoke from the fire to blow for miles. My neighbor had just appeared seconds prior to our opening the door. I was only able to meet this woman and thank her once. I still don’t know who she is.
This fire was quite traumatic for Harriet’s family as well as ours. I remember Harriet’s son and sister standing on the corner weeping as they watched what was left of Harriet’s life practically burn to the ground. Because our home was directly next door to Harriet’s, our home sustained damage, too. We spent the entire summer following the fire in the company of contractors and workmen while they renovated parts of our home. My daughters developed temporary post-traumatic issues, and one of my daughters is still terrified of thunderstorms.
Looking back, I am fascinated at what occurred in my own life as well as the life of my family after the fire. The suddenness of the fire activated my latent PTSD, and I “lost it” in a way. My youngest daughter was diagnosed with autism. My third daughter was diagnosed with inattentive ADD as well as a learning disability. My migraines went from bad to worse–20 a month, and I started therapy along with Topamax. Our faith community abandoned us because we weren’t ”nice, shiny Christians”, and I had to leave behind the men at the Salvation Army for many, many reasons which are all valid but heartbreaking. It was a horrible time. I felt completely forsaken.
I could write a novel about that time, and a lot of this blog addresses part of that time, I guess. Events happen that are completely outside our control–a lightning strike–and what follows those events rock our worlds. We are left helpless and wondering: “What the fuck just happened?” For me, it felt like one punch after another. The renovation alone was hell because my autistic daughter has Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD). She could not tolerate loud noises. She couldn’t nap. She couldn’t process sensory input or information due to the constant influx of banging, clanging, buzzing, and general construction sounds that lasted for months. So, she just screamed…for hours.
Towards the end of the Summer of Renovation a woman bought the skeletal remains of Harriet’s house and the property upon which it sat. Her name was Barbara. Barbara was a former 1960s environmental activist who wanted to build a “green house”, remove all the grass to replace it with gravel, and put up a Totem pole. Barbara liked to cut corners, and she made enemies of all the neighbors particularly with Leroy, the WWII veteran down the street. He has declared himself the neighborhood watchdog, and no one disputes Leroy. We just get out of his way. The man catches rabbits in pillowcases and “disappears” them for eating his raspberries for crying out loud! (I love my neighbors!) I decided to play nice with Barbara since I was to be her neighbor in the near future, and I let Rhoda, our block captain, call the city with her complaints. She called the city a lot.
Barbara never built a damn thing. The only thing she did was tear down Harriet’s house and leave a gaping hole which she never bothered to fence off. She also removed all the trees and kindly dropped one directly on the roof of my home on the last day of my renovation! More renovations ensued…DAMMIT!!!! The hacks that she hired (who were neither certified nor insured) also smoked pot while operating their machinery and rammed their Bobcat into my retaining wall and damaged it.
After the munchies passed, they wondered if that wall had always been there...
For two years these antics continued, and the city did nothing citing some obscure regulation. I felt paralyzed in my own life, and I was weary of the years of noise and safety issues. Passivity is not my thing, but I honestly did not know what to do. I felt locked in. So, I fasted.
I must say that I hate fasting. I pray a lot. Prayer is a lifestyle for me, but fasting? No, thanks. Plus, I have health issues so I was fearful, but I did feel “led” to fast. Fasting is biblical. I balked. I argued with God. I don’t want to fast. What good will fasting do? Ooooh…I don’t wanna. Be kind to me then. Choose the fast. What’s it gonna be?
There are many sorts of fasts a person can do. There are lifestyle fasts such as limiting television, internet, or certain forms of entertainment. I know some people who choose one day a week to rest and only engage in activities that are refreshing to them–a true Sabbath rest. My husband, an internet news junkie, fasts internet news from time to time when he feels that he’s becoming too agitated or angry. I’ve fasted chocolate for 40 days because I do rely on it for the emotional lift at times. I’ve also fasted television for 40 days. Keep in mind that fasting should not be “religious”. When I say that I mean that a fast serves two purposes. The first purpose of the fast is to calm the spirit, or the inner life and landscape, so that we are able to focus and hear the voice of God. The second purpose of the fast is that it releases divine power into our lives and circumstances. Once those things have been accomplished, a fast can become “religious” which means that we can become entirely focused on our own efforts to reach out to God rather than sinking into the heart of the truth that God’s intention has already been established in his constant coming to us. We only respond. He is the leader of this dance, so to speak, and there is nothing new under the sun. There is no room for religion here. Only relationship.
The fast set before me was the fast that the prophet Daniel chose which you can read about in the Book of Daniel in the Old Testament; it is a partial fast. The diet? Fruits, vegetables, legumes, nuts and water. I allowed myself honey and tisanes. I fasted for 40 days. There was no sugar, bread of any kind, meat, dairy, caffeine, or anything processed. It was like a vegan diet but without bread…or sugar…or most grains. I did eat brown rice. Honestly, it was the longest 40 days of my life, but it was powerful. I have a very familiar relationship with God. I argue with him quite often, and I’m sure he knew that I would give him a condition to the fast. My obedience wasn’t conditional, but I wanted to know that I was on the right track if I was going to fast for 40 days. I asked, therefore, for some kind of sign at the beginning of my fast to encourage me.
On the first day of my fast, after over two years of tolerating Barbara’s tomfoolery, the hole in the ground next door, and the enormously aggravating passivity of the city, I got a phone call from a very nice man from the Office of Environmental Safety. He informed me that he was just made aware of the “terribly unsafe and unacceptable situation” on our block, and he would put a stop to it. Hallelujah!! Six months later, Barbara sold the property, and there is now a new house standing in its stead occupied by a great guy (this is his band, by the way. It was named by the Pentagon as the first-ever “Armed Forces Entertainers of the Year.” Again, I have wonderful neighbors.)
On the second day of my fast, during my very short meditation time, I came across this verse in Micah: The Breaker [the Messiah] will go up before them. They will break through, pass in through the gate and go out through it, and their King will pass on before them, the Lord at their head. Micah 2:13 The words stood out to me as if they were waving a flag, yelling: “Over here! Over here!” This was the theme of my fast, and from here I had a prayer to craft: “Oh Lord, please move the immovable things in my life and the life of my family. Go before us, make a way, and let us break through.” That was it. That became my prayer for 40 days. When words of scripture come to life before us it is God speaking to us, telling us his heart, his intention, what he wants to do, and what he will do. It is then that we can pray with him in agreement rather than to him with importunity.
I did not break my fast. I reached the end of my 40 days, and somehow I thought I would feel triumphant. I did not. I felt drained and a little disappointed. I had never fasted in this way before. There was no one to tell me what should happen next. I experienced tremendous peace in my spirit during my fast, and I didn’t have one migraine either. Not in 40 days. It was, in fact, due to this fast that I was able to help my doctor diagnose me with Celiac Disease. Had I not taken gluten out of my diet for 40 days, I would never have known the source of so many of my health problems. Alas, had I broken through? What had been accomplished in the unseen places of the world around me? Honestly, I was discouraged.
Two days after I ended my fast, I took my daughters out for lunch. The summer weather was beautiful, and, admittedly, something other than water and celery sounded more than a little appealing. I felt heavy-hearted in spite of the weather, but I enjoyed dining out with my girls. We ate our food together, laughing, and playing tic-tac-toe. As we neared the end of our meal, our server approached the table with a huge grin. She looked at all of us and said, “I’ve had to wait a while to tell you this, and now I can. Your meal has been paid for, and the couple who bought your lunch has even paid for ice cream sundaes for each of your daughters. They have chosen to be anonymous and have already left, but they wanted you to know how lovely they think you and your family are.” We were stunned, and I had to try very hard not to cry. The sundaes arrived in all their hot fudgey glory, and I watched my girls delight themselves in the overflowing generosity of two strangers.
The heaviness in my spirit lifted in that moment, and I was struck at the infinite kindness of God. God can show up at any moment in our lives, but so often he does so when we either least deserve it or least expect it. Performing religiously is an easy thing for me. I’m half-Jewish, and I was raised as an orthodox Lutheran which is essentially Catholicism without all the genuflecting. Judaism is defined by legalism, and Lutherans aren’t much better. I wasn’t fasting for “religious” reasons meaning that I wasn’t trying to prove something, but I felt terribly vulnerable and uncertain of myself and my relationship with God when my fast ended. I needed reassurance much like a child. The kindness and generosity of that couple was a reflection of God’s heart. It reminded me that I do not earn favor or love from God. I already have it, and just as I was delighted to watch my daughters devour their sundaes, he, too, delights in us. Not because we’ve earned it, but because it is his nature to love us. We are the apple of his eye, the object of his affection. It pleases him to love us. God is the kindest person I’ve ever met. Frankly, he is nothing like me or anyone else I’ve ever known.
I’m not sure why I shared this. I was remembering that couple today. I remembered how surprised I felt when the server told me that our meal was already covered. The relief, the joy, the gratitude, and the urge to sing out. It was a generous and kind act done for the sheer pleasure of doing it. Just because. My girls and I did not earn that. It was a true gift. That’s God. That’s his nature. If I never did one good thing for the rest of my life, I would still be loved. It would still please God to look upon me with kindness. My darkness, my mistakes, my temper, my bad language, my misspent time, and the myriad flaws in my character past, present, and future do not put him off. To him, I’m utterly lovable as are you.
Stables stink and they're usually messy. They usually have unwanted things living in dark corners, too. Kind of like our lives.
It is my great desire that the profoundly immovable things in your life would be moved, too. We are now in the season of Advent when the Breaker, the Messiah, came to us. He was born into poverty, surrounded by animal shit and stench. Surely, ours don’t bother him. I pray that he would go ahead of you, make a way, lead you on into a clear pasture, give you vision for your future, and reveal the infinite kindness of his Father’s heart…for you.
Shalom
Living with The Tides
When I was 22 years-old, I attended l’Université Paul Valéry in Montpellier, France. Montpellier is a city in southern France, west of Marseilles, quite near the Mediterranean Sea. Paul Valéry is one of the oldest universities in Europe.
I spent time with a lovely woman who had an apartment in this very building at the center of the city.
Montpellier is renowned the world over for something else: l’Ecole Supérieure d’Oenologie; in other words, the School of Oenology. It is considered to be the most prestigious school of oenology in the world. France’s most celebrated wine families send their children to this school to ensure that the family’s winemaking traditions are learned, and, thus, continued. Montpellier isn’t a huge city; I met quite a few of these young, blue blooded vintners in the making. I’m sad to say that they were true to every stereotype–young, snobbish, relatively good-looking, horribly entitled, and xenophobic. If they would deign to speak to you, then you were sure to be insulted. I thought it was humorous. In America, we simply don’t have these sorts of families–one family defined by a profession, generation upon generation upon generation of one craft passing down through the ranks. Our country is simply too young! France’s oldest wine-producing company, Château de Goulaine, was founded in 1000 A.D.! Clearly, my worldview differed from that of these young men.
Thomas was a Californian attending the School of Oenology. He came from a wine family, too, but he wasn’t a wine snob. I met him through another American student in Montpellier. Thomas was in his early 30s. He was very well-educated, and I could never understand why he was in France. He was highly employable already. He was the guy that built the vineyards. He understood grapes, soil, weather, the fermentation process…everything! He had already built a name for himself in Napa Valley. For some reason, however, he thought that attending the most prestigious winemaking school in the world would look good on his CV. He was probably right.
Thomas and I became instant friends. We didn’t see each other often because our studies were rigorous, and he lived on the opposite side of the city. He was ten years my senior, and, I think, he found my friends a bit annoying. They drank too much and talked too loudly. One night, however, we made a date to have dinner and see a movie– an American movie in English! I’m not a huge Quentin Tarantino fan, but “Pulp Fiction” was music to my ears after being forced to listen to the French language 24/7 for months on end. Thomas and I went out for pizza and wine after the movie. It was one of those enchanting evenings when conversation flowed. Everything was just easy, and there was a real depth and connection. We laughed together, but there were moments of true intimacy (as in “in-to-me-see”). It was not romantic in the least. We really were just friends, but, for whatever reason, all pretenses were dropped. Authentic communication and connection happened. I reveled in it because I recognized its evanescence. Thomas walked me home. We hugged. I left France shortly thereafter, and I never saw him again.
This is the way of human interaction, it seems. I don’t know if everyone yearns for authenticity in their relationships, but, if you do, then I suspect you’ll find that it isn’t a constant. There seems to be a tidal quality to intimacy (again, think “in-to-me-see”) in the many and varied forms that human relationships take. There are times when I see my girlfriends, and the conversation is superficial. We don’t bridge the gap very well between each other. Other times, we bypass the shallow end of small talk and dive directly into the deep end of “Tell me how you’re really doing.” Eye contact is easy. We need that hug, and it’s a pleasure to give. Other times, we feel guarded and wary–unwilling to “go there” with anyone. We don’t want anyone seeing into us. We have our reasons.
Sometimes, an intimate, authentic spark occurs between two strangers in the oddest of places. It can be a genuine smile. A short conversation about a book. A compliment. An unexpected conversation at a café. Or, even in virtual conversations through blog comments. In any case, you’ve met a kindred spirit of sorts, and the pleasure of that brief connection washes over you. In that moment, you aren’t alone in the world. You’ve been understood, and you’ve had the chance to extend understanding, too. It goes both ways. Along with the pleasure comes the grief because as soon as it begins, it ends. These moments in time are ephemeral.
They ebb and flow in my own marriage. My husband has been waiting for the latest video game installment of The Elder Scrolls–Skyrim.
I'm a Skyrim widow.
While he hasn’t been ignoring me per se, he has been heavily preoccupied with this game. Admittedly, it’s a very cool game. If I were a gamer, I’d probably be preoccupied, too. Alas, I am not a gamer. Let’s just say, since Skyrim has entered our house, he hasn’t touched me in the bedroom–in any way. We have this tradition. You might laugh, but it’s kept our marriage on track. He tucks me in. He’s a night owl; I am not. So, whenever I go to bed, he stops what he’s doing, and he tucks me into bed by kissing me goodnight. It’s our daily check-in. If something is wrong, if we need to talk, or if we simply need to connect, then this is when we do it. It’s the final connecting point of the day. Since I became a Skyrim widow, he has stopped tucking me in. Marriage is full of opportunities to long for intimacy and connection, isn’t it? It’s also full of lost opportunities. Sometimes it’s bleak. Sometimes it’s full and overflowing.
Recognizing the genuine connection when it happens is important because it reminds us that, in part, we were made for it. It’s also important to recognize them because they are so fleeting. Thomas was a kindred spirit, and I was able to enjoy his presence in my life albeit for a very short time. There are other kindred spirits I’ve known for very brief moments, but I’ve enjoyed the time. I’ve also felt the sadness of their loss, too. The darkness that follows the bright spark of connection appears darker somehow if only for a while.
I wonder if Moses felt like that after he asked God to pass before him. It is written in Exodus 33 that God said that he would indeed “let all his goodness pass before him”, but Moses could only see his back. We are human beings, wired for deep connection, but only allowed to see the back of God. I do wonder sometimes if that accounts for the tidal nature of human relationships. We can be such contrary beings, wanting and fearing at the same time. We reach out, we pull back, just like the tide. What moon is drawing us in and pulling us out? Over and over again.
I have no profound words of encouragement to offer. I’m feeling thoughtful and melancholy today. I’m also grateful. I’m grateful for every opportunity I’ve had to connect with another person however brief that connection may have been. I’ve always come away enriched and bettered in some way. Thanksgiving is fast approaching, and I want to be thankful. While I do, at times, struggle with loneliness and melancholy, I do feel that the only way I can temper that is to glance at the landscape of my life and deliberately give thanks. I may feel grief over loss, but I also felt joy in those places, too. We all have journeys to make, and, one way or another, I must learn to sojourn, progressing forward, under the shadow of the back of God.
May your Thanksgiving be blessed, rich, and graced with the Spirit of gratitude, and may your upcoming year take you into territories unknown, full of new adventures, new intimacies, and genuine relationships.
Shalom.
South Dakota and Panties of Shame, Grateful to Be in Neither
I have a dog and two cats. My dog is an Australian Shepherd otherwise known as an Aussie. Her breeder gave her to us last April. Yep, she just gave us a purebred Aussie–for free. What’s the catch? Well, you have to know something about Aussies to understand her breeder’s decision. The Aussie is one of the most intelligent dog breeds and very energetic. Rally, our Aussie–officially registered as Gold Dust Playin’ To Win at Defiance (it sounds like a thoroughbred’s name, doesn’t it?)–is true to her breed. She’s extremely smart. For instance, we have to gate our kitchen off because she knows where all the boxed food is kept such as cookies and crackers and such. When I’m not looking, she’ll raid the cabinets, open the boxes and eat the contents, leaving nothing behind but empty bags. She’s also trained in agility, obedience, and tracking. This dog has had a tremendous amount of energy and training poured into her. Energetic? Well, have you seen cats get the “crazies”? Their eyes suddenly look maniacal, their ears go back, and they begin to rip around the house for no apparent reason? Imagine a 40-55 pound dog doing that, at midnight. Aussies are known to get the “crazies” just like felines.
Why was this dog given to us? Apparently, she didn’t play well with others. Her breeder called her “the fun police”. She’s a bit bossy particularly with other bitches. She’s one of those bitches that must be on top–an alpha female. In her breeder’s pack of Aussies, there was another alpha female that was more dominant than Rally, and Rally and Trivia were fighting all the time. The time came to place Rally with a family that understood the breed, had no other dogs, and would take good care of her. The catch? Rally was intact; in breeder speak that means that she wasn’t spayed. We would need to take care of that. The other catch? Rally was on a grain-free diet. Well, I have Celiac Disease so we’re on a grain-free diet, too. We were the perfect match. Oh, and we came highly recommended. That always helps.
I already stated that we have two cats. Our cats don’t mind dogs. They are both half-Siamese and are relatively at ease around their canine friends. Relatively. Ginger aka Cleophatra, our rather buxom cat, likes dogs. If the dog is friendly, she’ll rub against it and purr. Snowbell (I voted to name her Charlotte, but my daughters chose otherwise) feels differently. She loathes dogs and refuses to give up her territory for a lowly canine. Thus, a war has been declared and ongoing since the introduction of the Aussie. Snowbell aka Dragonclaw the Squishable Enforcer plots revenge on Rally on a daily basis.
Caught in the act--Snowbell plots her revenge upon unsuspecting Rally
Aussies have another notable quality–fierce loyalty. The day we brought her home, she chose me as her shepherd. Aussies are sheepdogs, hardworking stock dogs, and they require a leader. This dog decided that her leader would be me, and she sticks to me like velcro. Everywhere I go, she goes–even the bathroom. She would sleep on top of me if I permitted it; she is currently sitting on top of my feet. She could be sound asleep, but if I get up to go anywhere, she is up and following, waiting for a command or a direction. And, she absolutely hates it when my husband and I hug, kiss, cuddle, or, heaven forbid, make love. She cries, whines, barks, and growls. She’s convinced that he’s alpha rolling me, and she’ll have none of it. I must be protected at all costs. It might sound endearing, and, in a way, it is. At times, however, it is annoying. This dog never leaves me. I can’t get away from her! I close the door, she sits on the other side. I have to lock her out of the bathroom. She stares me down when I’m in the kitchen. She stares out the window for hours when I’m gone, waiting for my return. I now know exactly what it means “to be dogged”.
This is a very physical representation of a much less tangible reality that many of us experience. Many of us are dogged by depression, anxiety, melancholy, pain, disease processes…you name it. We try to get up and move forward, but we are dogged by it, whatever it might be. There’s no getting away from it because no matter where you go, there you are. And, wherever you are, there it is. How do we achieve a measure of happiness in our lives when we are dogged by the very things that we experience as detractors of our happiness and well-being? This is a question I’ve been asking. I wish I had an answer. What I have are experiences.
I have an anxiety disorder, PTSD. I will always have PTSD. I accept that. At this point, I treat it like a condition that goes into remission with recurring exacerbations. I can go for periods of time and feel quite well, but life is predictable in that there will always be something that will cause me to “flare up”. I will have a flashback or a panic attack, and I will suffer from these for a while. I have learned to use these events as an opportunity to pursue deeper healing when they occur. I don’t like them, but I view them as sign posts pointing to a deeper recovery. I am currently in the middle of an exacerbation. Anxiety is dogging me.
I experienced a PTSD exacerbation a few years ago about this time. It was caused by the radiator on the family Mystery Machine leaking. I went out one chilly November morning to run some errands, and I noticed that green liquid was pooling underneath the vehicle. My heart sank into my stomach, and I began to panic. No, no, no, no, no…we were not in a position to pay for a major car repair. Suddenly, I imagined myself without a vehicle, trapped in the house with four kids, unable to leave. One car. No way out. Days of staying indoors with no options, watching as my husband drove off to work while I was stranded, left behind, alone, with no resources. Let the panic begin!! I remember lying in my bedroom, under the covers, weeping, unable to breathe, feeling completely out of touch with all rational thought. I thought I might vomit. My husband quietly came into the bedroom and tried to reason with me. He suggested that I might need to find a therapist. I was offended. He didn’t understand that I was having a panic attack. Frankly, I wasn’t in my right mind. I never am when I’m fighting off feelings of impending death and doom. What stands out in my memory is that I prayed over and over again, “Please, God, please. I can’t do without a car. Please, I’ll be trapped. Please help us fix this car. Please…..Please…..Please don’t let anything happen to that car.”
Well, the radiator had to be replaced. I was without the car for a week, and it cost us a pretty penny. I recovered, but I was left with this nagging question, “What happened? Why did I freak out, and where was God?” What I have learned is that feelings of being trapped trigger me. The feeling of financial tightness which leads to feelings of being without options or having one’s back against the wall, for me, is almost identical to the feelings I had when I was trapped in captivity. This is actually a very helpful revelation albeit extremely unpleasant. Now, I can bring something to the therapeutic environment and gain some traction. In this way, the panic attack has been helpful. As David Schnarch said–the truth doesn’t always set you free, it just tells you where the fight is. Indeed.
Where was God when I was sinking to the bottom of the panic pit? What about my car? Our resources? Well, I whined about my situation to my then-therapist who was also a car mechanic. He was a very interesting therapist. I did my deepest and best work with this man. His response: “You say that you asked God to help you with your car, and because you had to replace the radiator you feel that he abandoned you? Hmmm…well, if your radiator hadn’t leaked for you, you would never have known it wasn’t functioning. You would have lost the whole engine. A radiator is a whole lot easier not to mention cheaper to replace than an entire engine. I’d say he helped you out. He didn’t leave you.” Instant reframe. My leaking radiator saved my engine. Well, shit.
This is the current question on my mind: Where do I need to reframe my circumstances or other aspects of my life or relationships? When we pray for help, we often assume this posture of passivity as if God is deciding whether or not to come through for us. How many things am I desiring currently in my own life? What is heavy on my own heart? When I’m still, what causes me to sigh? What is causing me pain or distress? All of those things matter to God, too. In fact, when I say, “God, help. I need you to intervene for me, on my behalf, and bring change because this cannot stand. These things can’t continue to go on like this. Help me.” Why would he say ‘no’ to that? Those prayers are ‘yes’ prayers. Oftentimes, however, it feels as if God is uninterested because we are in the throes of immediate pain, and we need immediate anesthetic. We need intervention–NOW! I’ve been there. In a way, I’m still there. What I am discovering is that the ‘yes’ lies in the process. Not an answer I like, but an answer I am finding to be true.
I compare it to this: What if my daughters came to me and said, “We want to go to Paris!” If I had abundant resources, I would say ‘yes’ to this. Paris is a wonderful city, full of diversions, educational opportunities, beauty, art, food, and endless fun. Why would I say ‘no’? The question remaining would be: What is the best way to get there? Yes, we could take the quickest way which would be to fly, but is there a better way? Could the girls benefit by traveling by sea? Traveling by sea will definitely take a long time, but, in the end, would they arrive in Paris better developed, prepared for the next steps of the adventure, if we journey by ship? Either way, the short or long way, there is still a process involved in arriving at the place we want to be. We simply can’t get around it. What I have come to realize is that most of my circumstances, be they perceived as positive or negative, are probably designed to move me along to the next place even if it doesn’t feel like it. If I feel like I’m stagnating or not getting anywhere? Perhaps I’m at a rest area. Everyone has to refuel. Perhaps I stopped engaging in the journey and camped out somewhere. I’ve done that before.
In the end, we can’t get there from here without hitting all the points in between. I love driving to the Pacific Northwest, but I hate driving through South Dakota. Truly. I think I’m driving through South Dakota right now. It feels endless, flat, boring, and my ass is starting to hurt. You need great company, fantastic music, and a wonderful sense of humor to make it through South Dakota. Catch my meaning? The good news is that South Dakota does have boundaries, and the glorious Rocky Mountains aren’t far off once you cross them.
I took this photo somewhere in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. The drive through South Dakota is worth it.
I’m not trying to oversimplify the very complex human experience nor am I implying that God is the author of our suffering. I don’t believe that he is. I am trying to flesh out a very gossamer notion that is floating around in my mind. It’s hard to articulate, but at the center of it lies something encouraging. This idea that there is a ‘yes’ slowly permeating our lives, that we can ask for help and not be turned away, is bolstering me up. I understand that it takes time to get from one place to another, and I know all about long journeys. I’ve driven from the Midwest to the Pacific Northwest with four kids and a dog. Oh yeah, I drove through South Dakota…twice. I leave you with that notion. Whatever it is that is dogging you, I believe that there is a ‘yes’ for that. How that will look in your life? I have no idea.
As for Rally? Well, we haven’t gotten her spayed yet, and I discovered this morning that she’s just come “into season”. That explains why she’s been so bitchy lately. Apparently, female dogs get PMS, too. Who knew? So, tonight, as you lie down in your bed, pondering your day, be thankful, if you’re a woman, that you don’t have to wear Panties of Shame when you come “into season”. And, if you’re a guy, well, just be thankful that you’re not my husband. He had to put these Panties of Shame on Rally about an hour ago. His parting words? “Ugh..gross. I just got wet ass hair on my hand!”
Rally wearing her Panties of Shame..I tried to make them pretty with the flower
