The Quitter

I'm the quitter.

I quit trying to fix someone else.  I quit trying to love someone who doesn't know how to accept love. I quit telling myself I'm not good enough, or that my inability to connect with an Adult Child or a Personality Disordered person is my fault.

I quit believing that I have all the answers.  I quit giving so much of myself that I forget who I am.  I quit looking for the answers for everyone else instead of finding solutions for myself.  I quit internalizing the criticism, blame and shame that has piled up in my mind.  I quit avoiding my own needs and quit waiting for someone else to meet them.

I quit avoiding mirrors because I'm afraid of what will be reflected back at me when I see myself as I really am.  I quit trying to BE a mirror for other people who refuse to look at their own reflections.

I quit making excuses for the behavior of others, even though I love them and feel empathy for their pain.  Everyone has pain; we don't all choose to hurt one another because we hurt.  I quit acting out in ways that are not consistent with my character because of my own frustration and pain. I quit trying to fight fire with fire.

Instead, I hand you a bucket of water.  I give you a wet blanket, a fire extinguisher.  I sound a smoke alarm and make sure the doors are open so you can find your way out.  I let you borrow my phone so you can call the fire department; I wait for you outside where I can safely breathe while you find your way out. I quit telling myself you'll join me out here in the fresh air. I quit screaming at you to save yourself before it's too late.

I quit asking you for anything or expecting anything or hoping for anything from you.  I finally realize there's nothing there for me. Nothing you can offer me but a fully involved inferno of turmoil, shame, rage and fear and those are things I already have enough of on my own.

I finally recognize you: You are the child of neglect. the forgotten, the blamed, the invalidated.  You are the one who never saw a promise fulfilled, never knew what security was, never learned that real love isn't conditional.  You're the kid who didn't know that you could love someone and be angry at them too.  You are the kid who couldn't be a kid. You were the kid who wasn't allowed to feel, the kid who had to overlook his own inner world because of the constant threat of the outer world.


I get it. I understand why you can't trust. I understand the rules and regulations, the boundaries that are actually walls of defense, the yearning for closeness and the inner conflict that takes place when someone does manage to get a little too close.  My mind has a grasp of why you must believe the worst of everyone but my heart has trouble accepting it.  Until now, I couldn't stop blaming myself because I am so imperfect, so flawed, so inadequate. But now I know that by blaming myself, I give you weapons to use against me. I've allowed you to inflict pain upon me. I have even come back for more, time and time again.

But now I quit giving you the stick with which to chase me away.

Instead I hope you will smell the smoke and take steps to put out this fire that burns within you before there's nothing left of you anymore. I used to know you as someone else, but that person is swiftly fading away into oblivion. It's really a shame.  That person you used to be always made me smile.

I quit; but I hope.  And I wish hoping were enough but I know it is not.

Nothing I do will ever be enough.  I have to leave this to you.

So, I'm the quitter.

Granny's Tree

"I'm not even gon' put up a Christmas tree this year." She said.  "They ain't no point in all that mess."

At first I felt a little dismayed, but then I remembered, she said that every year.

Inevitably, the Christmas spirit won her over every time despite her consternation and there would be a Christmas tree of some kind tucked away in a corner of our house.  Many years it was a big bush of a cedar that my sisters and I went and chopped down, a few times a big bushy evergreen that my dad brought home from a hunting trip and in recent years, an artificial tree.  With five of us girls around, she never had to do any of the work but she secretly enjoyed the sparkly lights and ornaments with us after we strung the lights and flung the baubles on.

In the days leading up to Christmas the presents would start to pile underneath, just a few at a time after she would come home from the Dollar Store and hide away in the bedroom with wrapping paper and scissors. We were filled with anxious excitement while we waited outside the door, eager to check out the size of the packages and arrange them under the tree so we could feel them, shake them and poke them; try to figure out what surprises waited inside.

Yesterday Charlie and I went to visit with my dad for his birthday.  There was a sense of something missing, as there always is in the house now without my mother there.  The more I sat and chatted with him, the more I missed her.  I missed the way she tried to hide her child-like excitement at decorating for Christmas.  I missed her Christmas tree that she was so proud of the last few years, the little decorations she would pepper around the house, the way she would talk about "strands of lights" that didn't work.  Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, and I found myself rummaging through the back room looking for her decorations.

I found the Christmas tree boxed up, her ornaments and lights put away in the same fashion they had always been; Thrown haphazardly in boxes and baskets and bags.  I found the lights all tangled up together in a ball and remembered that my job as a little girl was always to untangle the mess of lights my mother made when she put them away every January.  My dad watched and we talked while I put the tree together, untangled the lights and rearranged the furniture so I could put the tree where Mama always wanted it.  We found the colored sparkly lights and when I plugged them in, I could see the joy on my daddy's face. "Those are bright!" He exclaimed.  Charlie was delighted at the sparkly special effects.  My mama loved lights that did tricks.

I strung on the lights, all sparkling and colorful, but when I got to the last string, half of them didn't work.  There just weren't enough lights to make it look right, so I rummaged for more.  I found a big jumble of white lights and I was about to take the colored ones off and put the white ones on when I looked up and saw that the half-string that was dark and lifeless a few minutes before was suddenly blazing with bright beautiful light.  "Thanks, Granny" I said under my breath, and I finished the tree with her colored fancy lights.  I know she would have loved it.  She would have wanted it up, if for no other reason than to watch the fascination on the faces of all the great-grandchildren when they came to visit.  She would want my dad to have the joy of Christmas, even without her there.

My sister came in to pick up Daddy for church before I finished the work and cleaned everything up. I told him goodbye, "I love you" and promised to lock up the house for him when I left.  I rummaged until I found the tree skirt, found Granny and Papa's Christmas stockings, but decided to not put them out.  It felt too sad to hang just one.  It was too much of a reminder of her absence for my dad and for all of us.

The tree is there for her.  It is in her memory, in honor of all the Christmases she shared with us, playing Santa when we were little, buying dollar-store gifts for our kids, finding little somethings for the great-grands every year and messily wrapping them before piling them under the tree.  I loved her with every little snowman I hung on its branches, loved her as I placed the angel with crooked wings on top, loved her with one last look through the window at  the tree's twinkling lights as Charlie and I locked the door and walked away.

I hope it greeted my dad with warm memories of all the Christmases past when he walked in the door from church last night.  I hope he sat in its glow and remembered our mother with fondness, I hope he felt a little of her presence there with him the way I felt her there when I was decorating the tree.

I found a little of my mother yesterday, packed away in the back room of her house.  She comforted me with her lights and ornaments, and even with the careless way she had packed everything away from last year.  I remembered her with love and fondness for even her quirkiest of ways; but most of all I was reminded that as long as I live, she will live in me through all the little pieces of her that she gave of herself over the years.  She lives in my father, my sisters, her grandchildren.  She shines back at us from her Christmas tree, reminding us to embrace the joy of the season, even if, like her,
we are too proud to admit that the spirit seizes us like children all over again every year.

Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.

Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.

Being Broken

In the quiet of a chilly autumn morning I sit with myself, shouldering a burden of thoughts that seem so preposterously heavy I'm not even sure how I manage to carry them all by myself.  I wonder why I choose to carry them all by myself, instead of asking someone out there to help me bear the load.  It feels impossible though, that I could just unload some of this, hand it off to someone else and be free from it.

In all my thinking and trying to figure things out, the only truth  that keeps coming back to me is that of my own brokenness.  I broke a long time ago, when I began to realize that life never quite lives up to the expectations we set for ourselves as children.  I broke a little more when I found out that my differences--something as seemingly insignificant even as having red hair and freckles, could separate me from the love and acceptance of my peers.  With every set-back, every disappointment, every failure, brokenness replaced my image of myself until finally, I sit here on a couch in someone else's world looking at myself, the broken pieces of me all askance from my effort to hold on to parts of me that I should probably let go.

Sometimes we break in such a way that our pieces don't fit back together the same way anymore..

I feel as though my life became a competition somewhere along the way.  I wanted to prove to myself and to everyone else that my ideas about love, fairness, hope and faith could all exist in perfect harmony; I wanted them to exist without struggle, without boundary, without fear or loss. With every set-back though, I learned more and more that without struggle, without limitations, and especially without loss, the sweetest things in life become the very things we take for granted.

All those broken parts of me define me. I could strive for perfection and perhaps remain intact, never letting my human experience break through the thin shell of my outer existence, but then who would I be?  What substance would I possess?  I believe I would be an empty vessel, sealed off so tightly that no amount of love could ever make its way to my core.

  If we seal ourselves away so completely, no outpouring of love, empathy, joy or goodwill can ever reach our hearts.  We are often too afraid to open ourselves up the easy way and let love transform us. That resistance is why I sit here with these heavy thoughts and an even heavier heart, having poured out all I am trying to fill a vessel that can't even crack itself open enough to even let in a little of what I have to give. What I am will never be good enough.  I possess no perfection to offer.  I am scarred and still somewhat wounded. At times my weaknesses over take me, I hide myself away so I can hang on to parts of me that seem so necessary to keep, but only because no one offers me a safe place to surrender them.

I need no judge or jury to tell me that I am so flawed and imperfect.  I know this very well.

I seek only for the safety of acceptance as I seek to accept those around me.  I wish for the peace of resting securely in the kind of knowledge that is only known by the soul when we are made whole by the unconditional love of someone who has the courage to help us piece ourselves back together.

Yes, I am broken and my soul is poured out.  But brokenness is part of life.  It shatters our ideas of perfection and challenges us, time and time again to redefine ourselves and what gives us meaning.

I sit here in the quiet of an autumn morning on someone else's couch, listening to a little fire crackling in the heater, the rush of cars on the highway outside and the sound of my own voice telling me to let go; let the scattered remains of who I am fall where they may so God, or the Universe or whomever will, can put me back together again.  Because I am only able to make an abstract version of me, and that girl doesn't make sense to anyone.

The Big Lie

The last time I talked to my mother, I told her a lie.  I know, we all lie to our moms now and then even when we are little kids.  Nobody wants to admit they broke the ceramic owl (sorry mom) and no one is going to admit to eating the last cookie, especially if your mother is a midnight snacker  who goes looking for sweets during the night like my mom did.  But the lie I told was a different kind of lie.

When I let it slip out of my mouth with tears welling in my eyes, I told myself that I was telling that lie to protect her.  After all, I couldn't have her going to her grave believing I was anything but okay.  She was so weak, but she knew me, held my hand as I sat on the arm of the chair beside her and started telling her how all my kids were doing.  She asked about each one of them, and I assured her they were all doing well.  We talked about Hannah's job, Sylia's wedding and Charlie's new school and love of Batman.  She said she wanted to buy him more Batman stuff but couldn't find any whenever she looked for it. Then she asked me very sincerely, looking me straight in the eye with whatever strength she could muster, "How are you doing? Are you okay?"

"Yes," I said.  "I'm fine!"
She looked at me unconvinced.
"I'm happy," I said with a big smile.

I saw the concern in her face melt away as she said, "Good. I've been worried about you since you lost your house.  I'm glad you're doing alright."

"I am." I said.  And then I changed the subject to her banana pudding and the time I called her for the recipe.

I have replayed that conversation in my head a million times over the last 2 weeks.  I sent my mother out of this world believing a lie, and although I would have rather her leave this world without a worry for me, I still feel kind of guilty for lying to her.  Maybe the guilt comes from knowing that in that moment, I was lying to myself as much as I was to her.  I couldn't say out loud that I'm not happy.  If I said it out loud I would have to accept it as the truth.  Sometimes clinging to a delusion is just the only way we can cope.

I don't know whether it was wrong to lie to my mother that one last time. Part of me is relieved that I did, another part of me feels sick about it.  The only thing that's for sure, is that I can't change it now.  All I can do now is make what I said to her the truth.  I suppose that's the only way I can set the record straight with her now, and the only way I'll find peace with myself as well.

A Friend in Grief

It has been a little over a week since my mother died.  I like to use the word "died" instead of "passed away."  It seems like people are so afraid to say the words, "death" or "died" because they are heavy with the reality that life isn't permanent, they signify the end of us in some way and even those of us who believe that there is a life after this one aren't exactly comfortable with the finality of death.

Anyway, she died on October the 11th and the days following her death, with the funeral planning, spending time with my dad and sisters, the visitation and the funeral itself the whole week following her death was a blur.  For the first time in my life I found myself standing on the receiving end of that line of family and friends who came to pay their respects and show their love for us.  It was really very overwhelming to see so many faces, old and new, of people who knew my mother or who were there to show support for one of us whom they knew and loved and felt empathy for.  I saw family members I haven't seen in years, saw friends I hardly think about anymore, and was deeply moved by the friends in my life who came to hug me and tell me how sorry they were for my loss.  I never really understood the value of the visitation before the funeral until now; even my father has commented on how surprised he felt that so many people cared about him and his grief.  I left there that night feeling emotionally wrung out, physically tired and so mentally overcome that I had to drive home slowly, taking in my thoughts as they came to me, concentrating minute by minute on what was before me.

My mother wasn't the kind of person who had close relationships with anyone, including her daughters.  She wasn't the kind of mom we could call up to ask for advice or to vent our frustrations to. In fact we couldn't really talk to her at all about anyone in our lives who caused us any trouble; she was so biased towards us that if we ever once spoke ill of someone in our lives, she forever thought of them as evil.  When I was younger I saw this as a fault in my mother, but now with adult daughters of my own, even in my efforts to remain objective, I have trouble not becoming bitter and angry at anyone who has done wrong by my children.  I like to think that I learned from my mother that it isn't always the best idea to blurt out my own opinions as she did.  Even though I understand it was her love for me that got her stirred up against anyone she thought had mistreated me, I realize the distance her reactions created between us.

Having had a strained relationship with my mom for most of my life I always felt envious of my friends who had close mother-daughter bonds.  My friend Debbie, for instance, had such a bond with her mother that they almost seemed like one person at times.  Her "Mama" as she always referred to her, was often her best friend.  They shared a home together, shared worries and troubles.  They supported each other, worried about each other and both absolutely adored one another.  Debbie took on her mother's nature, always giving to others, recognizing the strengths of others and being everyone's cheerleader.  I often wished for that kind of bond with my own mother, but I knew she was just not that kind of person.  My mother was guarded, always thinking that people were not to be trusted, that most people just ended up causing her pain, so she, in a way, protected herself by not letting anyone get too close.  That wall was erected so soundly that even her children couldn't penetrate it completely.  I don't doubt that she loved us with all her heart, but she wasn't able to really express that love because she couldn't be that vulnerable.  Likewise, I believe I often shield myself from potential "danger" by holding myself back emotionally, even at times when my own emotional vulnerability could help someone else.

Whoever they are, and whatever struggles our mothers face, they teach us how to relate to the world.  My mother taught me to be careful, to hold others suspect, even after they prove they are trust worthy.  Debbie's mom taught her to look for the positives in others, to give her heart and to be a beacon of encouragement to the people she loves.

On the day my mother died, I drove home, tired and emotionally worn out.  I took a long shower and cried to myself at the thought of her languishing on her death-bed.  I hummed the tune of her favorite hymn to myself quietly, and cried even more as I let it comfort me with the assurance that the storms were over for her; that perhaps she was finally resting in that perfect love she had always craved but been too afraid to accept.  I tucked myself into bed, pulling the covers up under my chin as my mind began to race with what the next day would hold--planning the funeral.  Just as I was about to ease into my pillow and seek the comfort of sleep, my phone made that chiming sound.

I had been texting with my friend Debbie earlier in the day, letting her know that my mother had died that morning.  Her mother had been battling all week from illness and was not doing well either. This was the message she sent me just before I went to sleep:



We are two completely different women with completely different mothers, but together we grieve for what we lost when we lost them.  It's a journey that we embarked on together, without ever knowing why it happened as it did.  Their funerals were on the same day, at the same time, and although we were both experiencing our own losses, we both remembered one another as well.  Through her own suffering, my mother taught me never to forget about the suffering of others; through her own graciousness and openness, Debbie's mother taught her to never fail to think of and encourage others.  They went about it in different ways, but both of our mothers must have done a good job, because here we are, traversing the road of grief together, never once getting so lost in our own grief that we forget that we have a friend who is also hurting.

And for those lessons our mothers taught us, we must be forever grateful.  We will miss them, we will wonder what could have been different.  We will feel the loss for a long time to come, but we can both take comfort in remembering and recognizing those parts of our mothers that are now a part of us.  Mama lives on in the struggles and victories, the loves and losses we experience.  She lives on in us when we find ourselves repeating her words, cooking her food, seeing her looking back at us in the mirror as we age.  In a way, Mothers never die, as long as they leave their mark on us.  And our mothers surely did just that.

Sheltered In The Arms Of God

My mother was terrified of storms.  Any time a dark cloud would linger on the horizon and the wind would start to kick up a bit, she would warn us to all sit down and be quiet.  "It's comin' up a cloud!" She'd say, and we would usually obey her orders.  I guess you could say she instilled within us as well, her nearly irrational fear of stormy weather.

She told us stories of the devastation she had witnessed from the ravages of storms: a family member's home that was picked up and tossed about by a tornado, another relative who was struck by lightening while stirring a pot on a stove.  This was a woman whose bravery in the face of illness allowed her to care for my aunt who was dying from cancer, night after night without respite.  A woman who once fired a gun at a would-be intruder and accidentally shot a howling dog trying to scare it away.  She was fiercely protective of her children, causing a scene more than once when she felt one of her daughters had been the victim of some injustice.  She was often stubborn and ornery, determined to have her way even when the odds were against her; but something as simple as a clap of thunder could humble her in a second.

I suppose nearly everyone has some kind of irrational fear that they carry with them throughout life. For some of us its spiders or snakes or heights.  For others its public speaking or roller coasters--things that though they inspire fear in our hearts, are usually quite avoidable.  But storms are something over which we have no control.  Perhaps that lack of control was what my mother found so incredibly frightening about strong wind, heavy rain and angry lightening licking the ground with abandon all around her.  There was no way to stop it, no way to slow it down or change its direction.  Storms were something over which she was powerless, something that made her have to rely on nothing more than her faith in God until the winds calmed and the thunder faded into the distance.

She taught us as children, to sit quietly in reverence to the power of a storm.  It just seemed like tempting God to her if we carried on with business as usual while the weather raged all around us.  It gave her some strange sense of peace I think, to stop the chatter, the playful running around, the chores as usual to just sit and listen as the awesome power of nature drew near, lingered for a while and then began to drift away, moving on to its new destination, leaving us in peace to resume our day with a renewed sense of gratefulness for having survived the turmoil.

My mother was no stranger to the storms of life.  She weathered many that came to her in the form of physical challenges, heartbreak and disappointment.  She suffered with pain in her body for years, day in and day out, seeking relief from it, but never quite finding it.  She suffered the loss of her parents, her friends and even a pregnancy.  She stood strong as a rock for my father as he suffered through painful illnesses, the losses of his own parents and some friends.  She knew the uncertainty of need as my parents struggled to financially provide for 5 daughters and give us all we needed to be healthy and happy.  She helped her daughters find strength to weather their own tribulations and experienced our heartbreaks and struggles as acutely as we  felt them ourselves.

So it is no wonder to me that my mother found great comfort in the song "Sheltered in The Arms of God."  Ever since I got the call this morning that my mother had taken her last breath with my father by her side, the words of that old hymn have been playing in my head.  I've even found myself humming it quietly to myself a few times--feeling the same kind of comfort it must have given her over the years.  On Tuesday my nieces will sing it at her funeral, a reminder to all of us that she is finally in a place where storms can no longer threaten her peace of mind.  She is tucked securely into the shelter of God's arms, where no matter how high the storms may rage, she will never be afraid again.

In memory of my mother, here are the lyrics to that sweet song:

I feel the touch of hands so kind and gentle,
They're leading me in paths that I must trod;
I have no fear when Jesus walks beside me,
For I'm sheltered in the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high, the dark clouds rise,
They won't worry me for I'm sheltered safe within the arms of God;
He walks with me and naught of Earth can harm me,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

Soon I shall hear the call from Heaven's portals,
Come home my child, it's the last mile you must trod;
I'll fall asleep and wake in God's new Heaven,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high, the dark clouds rise,
They won't worry me for I'm sheltered safe within the arms of God;
He walks with me and naught of Earth can harm me,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

Sheltered safe within the arms of God!

Back Freckle

I was born with a heart-shaped vascular birthmark on my back.  When I was a kid my parents taught me to believe it was special. I remember not really understanding what they were talking about when they would carry on about my heart shaped birthmark. Of course when I got a little older and figured out how to use two mirrors to see my back, I examined the little red splotch thoroughly. It didn't look like a heart to me but I was never bothered by it.

Nearly every summer some kid at the lake or the pool would, in a panic, tell me my back was bleeding. I never blinked though, before I just explained to them that it was a birthmark.  

I have friends who refer to it (and to me) simply as Back Freckle, which I find funny and a pretty creative description of my red splotch. It's just one of those things that has always , literally, followed me around.  I've known people who rubbed it for luck, men who wanted to write their names on it (because of the heart-shaped thing that I still don't see) and people who have tried to persuade me to have it removed because of cancer risks they think are associated with it.

A few years ago I went to my doctor and asked about having it removed.  His answer was "absolutely not."  He said it was a harmless bundle of blood vessels that just happened to form above the skin and there was no need to remove it. So, I left it there.

For most of my adult life I've tried to keep it covered, but in recent years I've relaxed a bit more. I wear lower backed blouses and tank tops without even thinking about the lowly back freckle.  Maybe I've let down my guard a bit too much though, because I think I crossed a boundary of some sort the other day when I asked a close friend to put lotion on my back. 

Not everyone is cool with ol' back freckle. In fact it apparently grosses some folks out pretty bad, which is something I never really considered.  But isn't it just like life to let you live for so many years without even realizing that the rest of the world is disgusted by some small physical flaw you have that you've never even thought twice about?

Point is, now I know that my birthmark is indeed, gross.  And that makes me wonder what else there is about me that makes other people want to lose their lunch.  My skin? My hair? My squishy body? For sure the tube in my belly, right? And maybe my ugly teeth...

The worst things about me I think are hidden away, but maybe they're more obvious than I think, and maybe I expect too much when I believe that anyone else could ever accept and embrace me for who I am.  Especially when it's very likely that I'm not even close to being the okay kind of person I think I am.

Change

Change sucks.  Not to be Ms. Negativity or anything, I'm just admitting that change isn't easy and that when I get myself into difficult situations that involve strenuous effort to adapt, I often want to shut down.  Seriously, I'm like a generator that's running out of gas. I feel a cough and a sputter coming on, and pretty soon I'm going to be empty.  Out of fuel. Shut down completely. 

Change is a whole lot tougher when, for all the effort you're giving it, someone keeps reminding you of just how inadequate and sucky you really are at life.  It isn't as if I think I'm good at life in the first place. I know I'm not and there aren't enough "hacks" out there to save me.  I make stupid decisions. I'm a poor judge of character. I trust people I shouldn't trust and I put up with way more bullshit from bullshitters than anyone should ever tolerate. I honestly hope that my hopefulness will someday pay off, but let's be real.  I'm just kidding myself.

So, I'm working on this adjustment thing. Adjusting to living in someone else's house with their rules and pet peeves (which are endless) and trying my best to he gracious and tiptoe around so as not to disrupt the stays quo.  The last thing would ever want to do is make someone I love miserable, but that seems to be exactly what I'm doing. Just by existing, being a mom, having a kid who acts like a kid...and even though I want to make this adjustment and make the most if my situation, I fear I am in a no-win scenario. No matter how much I change and adapt, I'm never going to be adequate. 

A lot of folks love me just the way I am, so I know I can't be as awful as I often feel lately.  Still, it's tough to not internalize the sarcasm and constant criticism that I hear daily. I know the issues aren't all mine, but I'm all too willing to take them on. Another way that I'm bad at life, I suppose.

All I seem to be able to hear are echoes from the past.  Voices of men who tell me I'm not sexy enough. I'm not smart enough.  I'm not educated enough, not disciplined enough, not seductive, not pretty, not healthy enough...it's as if my effort to adapt and overcome is worthless. Is there no merit in simply refusing to give up?  

I mean really, who else do I know who would take on a hike in the dark with a still-healing broken leg, a belly full of dialysate (fluid, a liter to be exact) an 8 year old and a dog. All of this with a healthy as a horse former marine who walks like he's going to put out a fire everywhere he goes.  Is it for nothing that I'm determined enough to keep putting one foot in front of another and push my body past it's comfort zone?  Does that not say to anyone that I'm not a quitter? 

Would it even matter if I were a quitter? 

I just don't know anymore, and like I said, I'm running out of energy. I'm not sure how much longer I can even give a damn, when giving a damn seems to not matter anyway.  You can care all you want, try as hard as you can, you can even improve yourself, but you can't make someone accept you for who you are. And who you are, it turns out, is really the only thing that counts when it comes to life.  So maybe the only thing I can do is find the people who are able to accept me and love me despite my foibles and cling to those people for the rest of my days.  It's probably the only way I'll ever feel like I'm enough.