On being sad.

Today, 6 years ago, I entered a new kind of nightmare.  I got the call that my Daddy had died unexpectedly.  There are loads of posts about it here on my blog, I don't need to rehash it in this one.

Six years is a long time.

Six years without his laugh, his kindness, his smile.

Six years without all the bad stuff about him, too... but that's not what my heart holds onto.

In all of the grief workshops/ therapy/ reading I've done in the last six years, I know that everyone grieves in their own way.  That time doesn't exactly heal all wounds.  I know that.  But this yearly loss anniversary caught me by surprise.

Last Sunday as I was driving back into town, I began to ache in an indescribable way.  It was almost a heart pain.  Before I even remembered the week coming up, I attributed it to the stress of what I'd left behind when we went out of town: bills unpaid, a tree that fell on our deck while we were gone, laundry that had to be done.  But as Dan and I began to debrief the anxiety that I was feeling, I realized my body knew the sadness of this upcoming "anniversary" even when my mind hadn't fully processed what was happening.

Dan and I talked about how to handle this week of grief and came up with tangible ways to protect my fragility.  I said "no" to lots of things this week.  I made an appointment to check in with my therapist.  And, I made a reservation at a nearby hotel so that I could cocoon this weekend.

There was a season in our lives when running away from home would not have been possible.  Whether it was that we didn't have the financial resources or that our children couldn't handle me leaving, it just wasn't in the cards.  But now is a different season.  It's still not ideal for me to be gone from my kids.  It's not great that I've missed some things at church this weekend.  I will go home to a potentially chaotic reentry which will undo some of the good self-care I've done this weekend.

But I needed to be sad.

I am not in a bad spot.  My mental health is in a solid place today... there are some days I can't report that with such authority.  But I'm sad.  AND THAT'S OKAY.

It's awkward being sad, you know.  People don't like to be around sad people.  They want to fix it- to make it better.  Often times that comes from the best of intentions... we don't want other people to be lonely or suffer.  But sometimes we want to "fix" their sad because it could potentially rub off on us- and make us sad, too.

Being sad isn't fun.  And staying sad is when things derail.  One wise woman in my life told me that I wasn't just dealing with grief- I was dealing with grief upon grief which can break someone.  There have been moments it's almost broken me.

Last weekend at Why Christian, I heard a minister say words that were life giving to me.  She stated that anxiety and depression aren't a result of something wrong with us- they are often a NATURAL RESPONSE to trauma.  Lord knows I've had trauma.  I lost all 3 of my parents in 5 years.  One right after another.  During those same 5 years, I was caregiver for my Mom as I watched her disease progress and wreck her life.  I was sad.   To add to that pain, I experienced the loss of my known community when we changed churches.  Sad.  I lost friends.  Sad.  And all of that pain changed who I am in some ways.  And during that time, I often stayed sad.

Continual sadness has made me more tender.

It's made me ache.

It's made me sensitive to suffering.

Those aren't bad.

Sometimes, it's caused me depression and anxiety.

Those can be bad.

But today, I'm just sad.

The thing that keeps me whole when I'm sad is those who aren't scared of my sadness.  Those who send me gifts of journals and cookie dough.  Those who send texts and call to let me know they remember the life of my Daddy... and they acknowledge my grief.  Those who let me escape and let me run back to open arms.

This morning I drove past a junkyard while listening to The Wailin' Jennys sing "The Valley".  It was a perfect moment of reflection of what this feels like.  A visual reminder of what the "piling on" looks like.  Grief upon grief.

I live in the hills  

You live in the valley
And all that you know
Are these blackbirds

You rise every morning
Wondering what in the world
Will the world bring today
Will it bring you joy
Or will it take it away?

And every step you take is guided by
The love of the light on the land
And the blackbird's cry

You will walk, you will walk
You will walk in good company

The valley is dark, the burgeoning holding
The stillness obscured by their judging
You walk through the shadows
Uncertain and surely hurting
Deserted by the blackbirds
And the staccato of the staff

And though you trust the light
Towards which you wend your way
Sometimes you feel all that you wanted
Has been taken away

There are days when I'm in the valleys.  And days I'm on the hills.  Through it all, I will try to trust the Light.  That trust may happen while I'm eating spoonfuls of cookie dough... and I think that's okay.

Connection.

I'm currently sitting on my couch... watching Grace and Frankie.

Dan and I started watching it several months ago, and then we never got past the second episode.  It didn't "hook" us like we were hoping.  All of the reviews and hype just didn't click.

Until....

Some time recently I decided to give it another shot.

Something was different.

It clicked.

And it was because I knew it was something my Mom would have enjoyed.

Maybe it was because of 2/3 of "9 to 5" actresses were showing the world that their heyday wasn't over.  Maybe it was because I knew she would cringe and laugh with every moment that they were bashing their exes.  Or maybe the time was just right.

I've recently entered a new phase of looking for- longing for- connection.  Finding something that would bring my Mom... or my Daddy... or Michael, joy.  I enjoyed the BNL concert even more than usual... because of the company, the beer, the music- all because I knew Michael loved each of those things.  I enjoyed buying a new grill because I knew Daddy would want to buy it for us- he actually bought our previous one.  I enjoy wearing earrings of my Mom's because- while she would still be frustrated that I had been in her jewelry box- I long for the connection they bring.

I think this is a normal part of grief.  I think I'm actually in a healthier spot these days- trying to connect with those I've lost.  I feel more like "myself" than I've been in the last 5 years.  It feels good.

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I haven't updated my blog since September.  A lot of that is because of lack of connection.  I attempted to update it in October, but the words were half-assed, the sentiment wasn't genuine.  I wrote out of a sense of obligation, not out of the love of writing.

And this has mimicked itself throughout my life- not just in writing.

A friend said to me last week "I've missed you recently"... Funny, I've missed myself.

In September, right as I was writing my last post, I spiraled.  An off-handed comment from a friend pushed my tentative self right off the ledge of grief.  It has taken me months to claw my way out of that hole.  It's not been a straight up journey- I've fallen back down a time or two.  Hurtful words from people, feeling left out, not having a "place"... those tend to trip me up.

But thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, good therapy, a purpose, a strong church community, and some helpful friends who won't let me fall off the ledge alone... I feel like I'm back.

I've missed connection.

I've wept over friendships that have slowly faded away- ones that I thought would last a lifetime.

We've hosted fewer events in the last 9 months than we ever had... partially because I've started a new job, partially because we have a new dog, and partially because I've been too weary to be social some days.

But that job?  That dog?  They have given me connection.

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I share all of this with you not to make you feel uncomfortable.  It's not to put grief upon you if we have faded apart recently.  But I share this to you to let you know that sometimes when people fade away, they need you to continue to reach out.  They may not respond, they may blow you off, or they may legitimately be too busy/ tired/ whatever to hang out.

But sometimes, as was the case with my buddy Michael, they are on that edge of the hole and just need to know that they are not alone.

That's the whole premise of Grace and Frankie- finding connection when the connection you thought you had is no longer there.  I'm still making amends with my heart and it's broken connections... but even in this bizarre social media connected world, I'm thankful for what connections we have.


Here's hoping you find your Grace (and Frankie), too.

Piles and Rugs and Pain and Faith

Growing up, I thought that by the time I was "an adult", I would be done changing.  I assumed that by the time I was "grown up"... and surely being 40 would be grown up... I would be who I was for better or for worse.  Right?

Wrong.

Our house has been one big pile recently.  Piles of paperwork, piles of plastic toys, piles of Julianna and Elizabeth's clothes because they continue to get bigger and outgrow them before I can even put up the most recent load of laundry, piles of photo albums, piles of books I bought but haven't read, piles of things that make me feel overwhelmed.

I am just now able to sort through those piles.

That was a side of grief I wasn't prepared for.  The debilitating feeling of being overwhelmed.  Not even seeing an end in sight- so much to do, such a constant reminder of being the only one who is going to be able to get it done.

Also in those piles of being overwhelmed- somewhere tucked in between the death of each of my parents- was the remnants of my previous faith.

I never renounced my faith.

I did, however, try to work through how my faith looked on the other side of chaos.

I never doubted the reality of Jesus.

I did, however, wonder how a sovereign God lined up with all of the pain we experienced.

I never ran away from the Lord I knew so well.

I did, however, yell at Him with all I had in me.

In all of the chaos... in all of our piles... as my new self is starting to break out of the debris... I am just now starting to deal with the crap left behind.  I am just now filling bag after bag of trash, making lots of trips to Goodwill, and sorting through some precious heirlooms that I've been handed.

One of the material things we've "inherited" is a rug that was in my Mom's house.  Mom didn't have air conditioning until a few years before we sold her house.  (One benefit of living in the woods is that we rarely needed a/c!)  We're not sure what happened during the installation, but something made the entirety of Mom's house smell like burning rubber for a while.  (Comforting, right?)  The smell eventually went away- except for in that rug.

It's not a smell we necessarily like, but it definitely reminds us of Mom's house.

That's how so many of the things are in our house now... and in my faith.  I don't always like what I smell, or see, or feel... but I'm grateful for what it reminds me of.  The places I've been.  The people who have mentored me.  And the faith that is evolving.

We are still nothing more than a bunch of piles in this house.  There is a good chance that when you stop by, we'll have to move the laundry before you'll have a place to sit.  But I'm hopeful that eventually the piles won't bring panic and pain, but will show the strength of where we've been.  Even when we have a bizarre smell because of it... maybe eventually it will make us all feel a bit nostalgic.

Growing up is hard.

Maybe when I get to be an adult, it won't seem like it's been that difficult.

I'll let you know when I get there.

Making a Path

Today is Elizabeth's second day of school.  She got on the bus yesterday morning full of excitement and possibility- beyond proud of her Hogwarts backpack and ready to see all that Second Grade would hold in store.  As I walked to the car later that morning, my sweet neighbor (who has an only child herself and fully understands all that each landmark holds) asked me how I was doing. Funny enough, yesterday's new adventure seemed shadowed by the minutae of the morning: the baby pouring hot coffee down my pants, finding our dog had destroyed a bag of garbage all over our bedroom floor, realizing E's fish tank pump was broken.

I spent the remainder of the day tending to those crises of the morning, and trying to get my feet under me with a late afternoon bus, a fussy baby, and all that comes with Back to School life. So, to answer my neighbor, yesterday came and went without the heart pangs of realizing my baby is growing up too quickly and instead being grateful for her help.

This summer was a blur. We got started on "summer" so late thanks to the end of school chaos of responsibilities there, then heading straight into Vacation Bible School at our church. We lived up trips to Wild Goose, Wet and Wild, the beach, Camp of Kids, Merriwood, art camp, Oonie Koonie Cha, and reading book after book after book. So many things around our house got put on the back burner as I tried to be intentional about living in the moment with the girls and tried to be as present as I was able (minus a few interruptions of Netflix binges and Frozen Freefall.)

So today I find myself beginning the process of making a path. Those of you who know the events of our last few years understand that we have inherited lots of items from my Daddy's house, my Mom's house, and most recently my Grandparent's house. In the grief of shock of the Daddy's death, some of the things of his house got put away until I was able to deal with them. I had just gone through them when we brought in items from Mom's. Some days as I sorted through box after box, I just couldn't take it anymore. I would feel like I was drowning with the reality of losing both of my parents- and in those moments of drowning, I would often close the door to our garage and walk away from the task at hand. Add to that our tendency to tuck things away that need more attention than we could give... our storage room and our garage have become unbearable. From time to time we would stick things "out of the way" to deal with later.

Now is the later.

This summer, I began making a path through my pain. With the help of good friends, good routine, good truth, good meds, and good intentions... I have set my mind on not just surviving this season of life, but thriving in it. I am trying to no longer just stick things "out of the way." Just like our garage, that is a process. I have pushed things to the side so often that there are lots of layers to sort through as my heart continues to heal.

And just like my heart, our garage has layers upon layers of stories. The chalkboard one of my grandparents used in school. My Mom's Day International water bottle. My Daddy's ash tray. Elizabeth's bike that is too small. My Grandmother's painting of The Last Supper. Extra water balloons from this summer's water balloon fight. With each memory I unpack, sort, purge, and process. Some pieces make me think of friends who could use that item better. This process not only becomes a practical "To Do" task, but a spiritual one as well as I pray for those people who are called to my mind.

I am far from done. But there is now I clear path- letting me know I can function in the days to come. 

numbers

My life has been dictated by numbers.  Forever.

- The age marker.  At 7, I wanted to be 10.  At 10, I wanted to be 13.  At 13, I wanted to be 16.... it continued until I grasped that the age I am now is all that I'm promised.  I love 38, even though I've only been it for 1 month... because it's all I'm promised.

- The number on my scale.  Contradictory to EVERY person I've ever known who's talked to me about weight loss vs. healthy living, I check my scale often.  My friend Renee used to talk about her weight being "one blank 4", or whatever it was at that moment.  Once I crossed into the triple digits (which was way before my peers did), the number immediately after the "one" was what took up much space in my mind.  If I was at 1_4, I wanted to be 1[ _ - one]4.  Times in my life, that numbers have easily gone down.  Other times they have shamefully gone up.  And the shame is all mine- I guilt myself into thinking I'm measured by that number.  I.  Am.  Not.

- My GPA.  Hallmark created a wonderful card a few years back that said something like "True Life Fact #513... No one cares what your GPA is."  Truth.  No one does... but me.  I struggled for those college years because the number on my transcript wasn't as high as I'd imagined it would be.  I allowed it to convince my mind that I was "less than."  That somehow my worth was tied up in those numbers... and somehow I told myself I wasn't the person I knew myself to be.  Lies.

- The number of things on my to-do list.  I will never, ever, ever have an empty list.  I imagine that on my deathbed I will feel guilty for the things still there... and likely some of those will be thank you notes I've not yet sent.  (I blame my thank you note aversion to my wedding.  True story.)  I have recently allowed myself some grace on my to-do list... and that was only after living through tragedies that gave us clarity about what really matters.

- The number in my bank account.  I have never been one of those people who is a natural saver.  Neither am I constantly concerned about how much money we have- it's not a source of pride for either Dan or myself.  But after our rocky financial road in the first few years of marriage... that number says to me whether or not I am doing something "right".  When our checking account dips low, it brings back deep seeded anxiety that I have failed.  Guilt and shame creep back up over issues that are years behind us.  Ridiculous.

None of the numbers I noted above matter.  NONE OF THEM.  If my to-do list is crazy long and we don't have money for our "wants" and I gain weight... IT IS NOT ETERNAL.  "Ain't no mountain gonna fall" because I send thank you notes late, or because it took me 10 years to graduate, or because I can no longer eat whatever I want (could I ever do that?).  I am a smart woman- and not because my GPA reflected that.  I am wealthy beyond most of the world's population... and I am blessed to never have known the other side.  Some of the numbers above are important- I want to be healthy, I need to keep on top of my list because some of the tasks affect other people, and I want to be a good steward- yet none of them determine my true worth.

And yet there are other numbers that are critical.  Some of our friends are in crisis as one of Dan's oldest friends has had a stroke.  As her husband watches the numbers on her monitors and hears the numbers her physicians report... that matters.  A key number in their life is 5- the number of young children they have and now have to provide for all while sitting bedside with their beloved mother.  Those numbers matter.

In this New Year, I pray that I keep my numbers in check.  Focus on the ones that matter, give grace to the ones that aren't big rocks, and let go of the rest.  I'll pray that for you, too.  And I ask that you keep our sweet friend Cristi and her number one fan, Hoke, in your prayers.  They truly are some of the best people we know and need all of our prayers.  While I don't fully know or understand how prayer works, I know that when we petition God in great number, our hearts are knit together.  And those numbers, indeed, do matter.

(You can keep up with Cristi's progress on her Caring Bridge site here.)

A Change in Heart in 2013

Yesterday morning I was up before my family and had some time alone in our kitchen with my thoughts and the sausage balls I was making.  I was thinking through the "What would a 'best of 2013' blog post look like" and all of the fun things that I would include.  These same thoughts went through my mind as I typed our New Years letter... still with our cards that I'm hoping to finish before the weekend.

It's no surprise that in my heart of hearts I've been in a hard spot these last almost 2 years.  Losing people I love has caused me to lose a a little bit of myself.  While, at first, I was ashamed of what those losses changed me to be, I now embrace the new and am hoping to honor the life with which I'm left.  And don't be distraught!  This will not be a "what I lost" post... but rather a "what we gained" reflection.

Our personal 2013 highlights, in no particular order of importance or calendar dating:

September 24 has become Do Good day- not only for just our family, but for so many who have spread the love in their own circles.  This year was no exception.  We opened our home to locals to join us as we celebrate the Good.  Not only was I floored during the day (Daddy's best friend from home SHOCKED me when she arrived unannounced!), I was amazed throughout that week as I heard stories of people Doing Good.
  * We collected over $500 in gift cards to distribute as needs arise.  We have already given several to families in need of some Good, and have been blown away at the stories of how our friends' generosity has met their need in immediate ways.
  * A friend in Asheville put together a drum kit with the help of local musicians to give to a child who was taking lessons and did not yet have a kit.  While his mother may not see hear the Good always in such a LOUD gift, she was thrilled- as was her son- with such a significant gesture.
  * People sent me story after story that day of paying for others' meals, coffees, groceries in anonymity and how amazing that felt.

Goodness won on September 24.  I invite you to mark your shiny new 2014 calendar with Do Good Day.  I'll be posting again in the month of September to remind you of it.  Let's Do Good throughout this new year.  (And, if it's not too much to ask, I'd love you to message me how your Do Good gesture affected you and/or the recipient.)

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We made it our mission this year to say "yes" to things that would bring us happiness.  Several events led to big smiles for all 3 of our family.  We enjoyed a Disney trip during Star Wars weekend- I've never seen many happy nerds in one place (my two included.) I finally met Jen Hatmaker!  I saw Glennon Doyle Melton twice.  I told Philip Yancey how much I've enjoyed his books through the years.  I had a life-giving conversation in the rain with Frank Schaeffer that I reflect on often.  I went to see my other half in Arizona and experienced some of her life there.  I took part in a Grief group at Sawtooth that was healing to my soul.  I ice skated with my little girl in Rockefeller Center as it snowed.  We saw 5 (ridiculous!) shows on Broadway.  Dan and I shared a meal with his best friend from college (and his gorgeous new bride!) and I saw him grin in a way that I've missed.  We had Camp of Kids again with days full of crafts, snacks, and giggles.  E attended her first "grown up" concert- The Indigo Girls- in an amazing venue with amazing people singing loudly all around.  Dan and I saw the Barenaked Ladies, Guster, and Ben Folds with some of our best friends (and rode home with the top down in a convertible... lovely.)  I then followed up with a second BNL show in which I finally met the band.

As silly as some of those things sound- they restored pieces of my heart that had been knocked away by pain.  While it would likely get me a restraining order, I thought about writing BNL a "fan letter" and telling them how their shows connected me to years gone by and how healing they were in my 2013.  I'll never forget Brad Spires introducing me to them in 1996, and I've listened faithfully for the last 17 years.  Singing songs (loudly) that I loved in my 20s reconnected me to the girl I was then... and for that, I am grateful.

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The turning point in my year happened on June 15.  Just two months prior I had sunk to my lowest of points and grieved in new and painful ways.  That Saturday in June, E and I were doing some grocery shopping when I got a text from a friend.  He asked my opinion on ring sizes for his beloved- and I am not exaggerating at all when I say my heart grew two sizes that day.  I got taken out of my hurt and put in the middle of his joy.  While his reasons for including me in his planning were likely practical, for me it became holy as the Joy began to outweigh the Pain.  I texted him yesterday to tell him that while I joked after that moment that he was "better than Xanax" (or Zoloft, depending on the day) that honestly was not far from the truth.  My life is better because of that day, my 2013 was better because we celebrated their engagement, my 2014 will be better as we celebrate their wedding, and my friends' lives will be better as they will share them in marriage.

"Oh, the feels."

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While your 2014 may not be filled with engagements and concerts and celebrations, I pray that your heart will be filled with moments of joy.  We know that there will be dark days amidst the light ones, but I'm committing to focus on the light this year.  Happy New Year, my friends.

Giving Grace: a Hall Pass for the Holidays

Just before Christmas 2005, Dan and I were in the waiting room of our Fertility Clinic awaiting yet another round of "trying."  I had been a regular in this room for months by this point, so not much of the reading material was new... except for a pamphlet they had out that talked about "Protecting Your Heart During the Holidays."  I read through it and felt as though someone understood our struggle.  It talked about giving yourself grace during a season that could be potentially difficult.  It mentioned giving yourself permission to skip walking by the Santa in the mall and seeing all the happy families with sweet babies waiting to see him.  It went as far as to say that if being around your own niece and nephews would be too hard, to excuse yourself from that year's holiday celebration.  While I was not about to walk away from our family's traditions, I imagined that having that "hall pass" was helpful to some people even further down the road than we were.

The "protecting your heart" theme has run rampant in my life in the last 2 years, and especially since we lost our baby in April.  I have had conversations with friends who have new precious children in their lives and apologized that I've not been in a place where I've been able to love upon them yet.  I've struggled with buying baby gifts- not at all because I begrudge them their happiness, but because at moments I've still been drowning in our own sorrow.  Friends who were due the same time I was, in full disclosure, were hard for me to see.  As their baby bellies grew and then became amazing miracles in their families, all that was growing for me was the vacant space in my heart.

Through the years, that brochure has popped back into my mind on occasion.  There have been moments that while they are non-baby related, I've relied on those same words.  In 2010, I was about six weeks out from losing my Stepmother to cancer, and I found myself stuck in a room where people were making jokes about death and dying.  I piped in and asked if we could change the subject.  I'm sure that it was not intentional, but my pain from that recent loss wasn't on the forefront of their minds.  They continued a discussion about "donating (someone's) body to science"... at which point I left the room.  In that moment, rather than lash out at those speaking, I instead needed to excuse myself.  Grace.

Pain seems to hover just at the surface of the holidays for so many people.  I remember one Christmas Party my family hosted in the early 90's- a friend came who had recently lost her husband.  My Mom was playing "The Carpenters' Christmas Album", and "I'll Be Home For Christmas" came on.  Very gently and tactfully, our friend asked my Mom to skip that song.  When Mom skipped ahead to "Merry Christmas, Darling" and saw a similar look of pain in our friend's eyes, she jumped ship and moved on to The Beach Boys instead.

So with all of that hurt ready to erupt during "the most wonderful time of the year", I give you your very own hall pass.  While you may not need to use it now, please understand that someone in your life might... and please accept their pass with grace and and understanding of all that it took to have them present it to you.

HOLIDAY HALLPASS
-Too hard to be around kids because you find yourself longing for one or missing one of your own?  Say no to the activity that will cause yourself pain.  The kindhearted people who invited you will understand your need to miss a year.

- Miss your spouse/partner/ex so much it hurts? Skip the "Couples Only" event where there will be lots of laughter and memories shared in lieu of some pampering just for yourself.

- Can't be around certain family members because they say hurtful things?  Excuse yourself from those painful situations.  It's okay.  They're family.

- Don't feel like hosting even though you always do and people expect it?  Let someone else take on that burden this year.  Shoot, go out to eat for once!  It's one year- people will survive.

- Just don't think you can handle one more sad holiday at home?  As a wise friend said to me last week- "I knew I'd be sad at Christmas, so I told my husband I'd rather be somewhere sad... and WARM."  Take off!  Get out of town!  Or even take a day trip to get you out of that memory drenched location.

- Old traditions too hard to handle because someone won't be there?  Make new traditions!  One of my favorite holiday traditions- our neighborhood Christmas party- was started because my Dad had just moved out and Mom wanted to do something fun and new.  She succeeded... even with the occasional music fail.

Now one caveat in the way of a warning: just like "Baby Blues", sometimes "Holiday Blues" are a much deeper seated issue.  Rather than just escape or hide or run- if you are at a place of significant pain, please get professional help.  Don't know who to talk to?  Message me- I have good connections with some mental health professionals.

Protect your heart this Christmas.  Use the Hall Pass when you need to.  Accept the Hall Pass when it's given to you.  Give grace, receive grace.

And God bless us... everyone.

The Wildness of The Goose

Last night we got home from our first Wild Goose weekend.  I am 100% saturated, overwhelmed, at peace, and all of the other emotions that can land one both impassioned and immobilized.

What I am most overwhelmed by is that I had an encounter with God- and I was able to experience Him in a fresh way- something my wounded heart desperately needed.

I experienced Him most clearly in a remote spot of the campground- surrounded by strangers that I instantly connected with more than even friends of years upon years.  We gathered around a picnic table and shared our stories of grief.  Each of us shared our raw emotion and were met with tears, hands of mercy, and words of comfort.  Everyone around the table knew better than to say those cliche' remarks I've mentioned before- because everyone had experienced the hurt that came with those phrases.  None of us had the same cause for our grief, yet all of us had been changed by it.  And, for the first time in months, I was surrounded by real people- professional Christians- who shared that their grief caused them to relearn their relationships with God.  And no one freaked out by those words.

My newest best friend, Frank.

Our time was wrapped up by a rain shower- not uncommon for our whole time at The Goose.  As several of us walked away from that sacred table together, we decided to seek shelter for a bit and ride out the bulk of the downpour under a tarp or a tent.  As we went for our nearest option, I spent a glorious moment in time sharing life with a magnificent man and had one of the most holy moments that I've enjoyed.  He spoke my language and affirmed my struggle, my heart, and my life in a way that I will treasure.  He shared the story of his childhood- ironically one I had studied in school, but I was given a glimpse of the intimacies of those moments left out of the assigned readings.  I felt a moment of privilege in hearing his wisdom- and at the same time, felt like we were just sharing life as friends.

And that was one of the biggest beauties of The Goose for me.  NEVER have I been to a festival/ conference/ anything of the sort where it just was.  There was no pretense of the speakers.  There was no "us" versus "them".  We were all there to learn from each other- and no one came across as "I'm just here because my agent lined this up."  I was able to tell Phillip Yancey how I had, for years, gained insight from his readings.  I hugged Glennon from Momastery and we chatted briefly about her offline summer... and squealed about our love of the Indigo Girls.  Krista Trippett laughed when I apologized for the rain and told me she was sure I didn't cause it.  My new friends Mike and Mallory are wise in their fields and I run to their books to get to know them better.  My new friends Alice and Kylin Ann are pilgrims like me and we connected over tears and role play.  I spent extended time with the people from Food for the Hungry and know them as well as their mission.  Cindy Morgan laughed (grimaced?) as I told her I had performed one of her songs at a talent show.  Nadia Bola-Weber ate my homemade salsa.  Sybil MacArthur taught me how to journal in person- rather than just through her book that I've enjoyed reading.  I have never been less and more star struck at the same time.

I came home with a bag of new books to challenge my heart and my mind and multiple new CDs to continue to sing words of truth over my home.  I have assignments of finding children to sponsor and allowing myself continued time to heal.  I have full journal pages and a renewed desire to write.

And I have more mud and dirt in my clothes than I know what to do with.

Part of the beauty of this weekend for me was sharing it with Dan and Elizabeth.  I won't lie- I would have likely gotten more out of it had I not had to worry about where E was or what she was doing.  But having her sit on my lap as I (and Emily and Amy) sang "Power of Two" to her was a moment I won't soon forget.  Watching her drag her hair through the mud while she was swinging made me cringe and rejoice at the same time.  Having her ask questions about why we want tomato workers to get paid "One Cent More" and having her play in rivers that nourished my childhood were both balms to my weary soul.  Talking with her about our obligation to help others and watching her make friends instantly... good stuff.

And one final thought on the "Christian-y" part of it all...  The last conference I attended was Passion in Atlanta with some of my favorite people.  It was about as different from The Goose as one could imagine.  People were showered and dressed "nicer".  The speakers were more mainstream Evangelical.  The Goose, however, had names I had mainly heard on NPR versus Christian Radio.  They were people from a variety of heritage, and their journeys to Christianity were entirely different.  I heard a speaker use words I had never heard from the Passion stage- both in their content and their 4-letter-ness.  I saw same gender couples talking about their "right" to be in the church.  I had one-on-one moments with some big names- something that Kristian Stanfield should be thankful I wasn't allowed to do at Passion.  Shoot, even prior to attending The Goose I had another Christian tell me that he was thankful for people "searching" (his assumption that Nothing had yet been found by Goose attendees.)  I quickly asserted that we Geese had indeed found Something... and that His name was Jesus.

I found myself continuing to reflect on the differences of these 2 conferences until Phillip Yancey put it in perspective for me during his Friday talk.  He commented on the differences in the Right and Left parts of Church... and gently pointed out that we all- for all of our hipster attire, or patchouli wearing, or  agenda pushing, or Toms-buying, or barefoot walking, or Chris Tomlin loving, or Indigo Girls loving, or conservative or liberal... we all are just looking to Jesus to guide us.  It's hard for me- as someone who loves both sides of this continuum- to remember that as I see each side hurt the other.  However I think if we look at that- our shared desire to follow the One who loves- and stop pointing out how the other is "wrong"... that will be when real healing will come.

Grace and peace, friends.  And God Bless indoor plumbing.

confessions of a fat girl.

Let me set the stage for you: I shudder when people use the term "fat" as a descriptor.  In fact, just this week, I corrected two little girls I heard playing and reminded them that we are concerned about being "healthy", not about being "fat" or "skinny".

I shudder... because for at least 70% of my life I have been overweight.

When I was little, I was cute with that little baby belly poking out.  As I grew, I was "healthy" until about 2nd or 3rd grade when I began the upward climb to overweight.  Mom and I used to talk about how it likely came from my love of whole milk.  I'd love to be able to blame whole milk.  Yeah, that'd be nice.  Damn you, whole milk.

A complicating factor in my weight gain/weight loss is that my entire life I have had severe asthma.  Severe to the point of hospitalizations so numerous I could not begin to catalog them for you.  Seriously.  Santa comes to see me on the peds ward at Christmas?  Yay.  Jack Hanna pops over in his khaki glory with a baby cheetah while I'm being treated at Duke?  Lucky me.  I wrote my own notes for missed school days starting in elementary school and Mom would sign them: "Please excuse Becky from her absence on March 15.  She had an asthma exacerbation."  I was proud of being able to spell both asthma and exacerbation from an early age.  I was not proud, however, of not being able to do normal kid things in PE.

Don't get me wrong- I LOVED that I was the DJ for circuit day and that I didn't have to run the mile.  Let's not lie, those were 2 of the perks of the disease.  (Well, that and the fact that Mr. Ianniello didn't make me dissect things because formaldehyde made me wheeze.)  But when I would need to sit out from a "basic" game of kickball on occasion... well that sucked.

How quickly we label ourselves and begin to act on those labels.

Me?  I was the SICK GIRL.  Who quickly became the FAT GIRL.  And that was my identity.

I was always friends with skinny girls.  Such is the plight, right?  My best friends were (and still are, mind you) these petite cute cheerleaders... it's by the grace of God I didn't try to throw them over the side of the canoe while we were at Girl Scout camp together.  My skinny girl proximity continues to this day... and it is only now that I don't compare myself to them.


So why do I refuse to call myself the fat girl these days?  Because of a mind shift... a total mind shift and, recently, a behavior shift as well.

About 12 years ago, I first stepped in to a Weight Watchers meeting.  I had allowed my weight (let's be honest, I didn't allow it like I gave it permission... I allowed it in that it crept up and up and I didn't acknowledge it until I got to a point I needed the professionals at WW to help out) to get out of hand and I was ready for change.  I counted points and went to meetings and became fixated on my diet lifestyle choice in a way that all good WWers know works.  I dropped around 20 pounds and was happy with my weight.

For a while.

Once I counted less points, I gained more weight... and when you throw in multiple pregnancies and hormonal craziness of fertility treatments... it was like I knew I was going back to F-- Girl land, yet I wouldn't acknowledge it.

In 2006 I experienced two miracles.  1, I got pregnant and was able to deliver a healthy baby girl. 2, I lost weight- both in my first trimester and then as a result of breast feeding.  In spite of the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, I was at a healthy weight and loved it!

So what made me put the weight back on if I finally conquered it?  One part of my weight problem is obviously food related.  But weight is not based solely on what goes in to your body.  We know the obvious secret... less food + more exercise= weight loss.  The exercise part scared the junk out of me.  Remember that kid who has bad asthma?  She never grew out of it as an adult.  I tried a group exercise class in college... I allowed the negative self-talk and fear to march me right out of the SRC at Carolina.  My one day in Hip-Hop-Arobics was hell for me, and I vowed not to go back.  I would go for walks on campus, carrying my inhaler in one hand and my pepper spray in the other (and a huge fear of confusing the two each time I need a hit of albuterol.)

5 years ago, my best friends (who I trusted to pour out my fears to before we started our group) and I trained together for a 5K.  I had to fight negative self-talk a TON on those early mornings doing sprints at the Y.  I was so angry that I was the least in shape.  I feared failure.  And, unfortunately, I ended up not being able to do the 5K we signed up for as I was recovering from pneumonia.  Yep.  Sounds like Sick Girl was right... she's never going to be able to do it.  Right?

Wrong.

After our miscarriage in April, I was cursed with baby-weight that didn't magically go away after surgery... nor did I have the luxury of breast-feeding it away.  (I did, however, offer to nurse my BFF's newborn in a totally inappropriate move.  I guess it's good I didn't push her over the canoe after all... she knows how to handle those comments.)  Every day as I looked at my mushy-er belly, it was a painful reminder of the baby I won't get to hold this side of heaven.  I knew that I needed to do something.

My dear friend, Debbie, had recently begun some group (or individual!) workouts that sounded do-able.  While Debbie herself is in amazing physical shape, not all the girls in her class are.  They are a wide range of ages, body types, and physical ability. I kept seeing posts on Facebook and asked Debbie on numerous times to give me the rundown... "It's rest-based."  "You do what you are able to do."  "No one looks at what you're doing, they are doing their own thing."

Sign me up.

So about a month ago, this girl decided to not worry about numbers on a scale (!!!) or what other people thought (!!!) and decided to get healthy.  I went to my first class with total fear and trepidation.  I told Debbie that I didn't want to be in the group picture that she always takes at the end of class.  I filled up my water bottle and faced my fear... and I didn't die!  Now I won't lie, I thought MULTIPLE times during the class that I might... but I didn't!  (And, I was so proud of myself at the end that I limped proudly into the group shot for all of Facebook land to see!)

Yesterday, with sweat pouring down my body during the work-out, I realized how healthy I have already become.

* I'm not always the fastest one on sprints, BUT I AM DOING SPRINTS!
* I can't do push-ups as beautifully (or as fast) as I'd like, BUT I AM DOING PUSH-UPS!
* I hate ab-work, BUT I HAVE ABS (who knew?) AND I CAN FEEL THEM!

Y'all... maybe these little baby steps aren't big deals to you- but they are mind-reforming to me.

I had to reach for my inhaler during yesterday's session, but it didn't stop me from finishing.  I am sore as I write this, but it feels so good!  And beautifully, my food choices are lining up with my exercise choices.  While I am not regimented in my intake, I don't want to undo all the good work I suffer through in the mornings.  Yes, I'm still enjoying s'mores this summer... or a drink or two with my sweet cousin at the beach... or Fried Green Tomatoes at a sidewalk cafe in Asheville.... but all of those choices are intentional, with no guilt or regret necessary.

I am a fat girl no more.  I am not held captive by my "can't do" thoughts.  I don't balk from group workouts because I'm worried about other people.  I am a curvy woman trying to give better shape to my curves.  I am a mom teaching my daughter to make good choices and to respect her body.  I want to retrain girls to think against "fat" and think about "healthy".  And I am still choosing to surround myself with cheerleaders who I won't push in the lake... for now.  For me, it's not mind of matter... it's mind over FAT-er.  And I'm winning.

----------------------------
**I'm happy to hook you guys up with Debbie if you're looking for an instructor who won't make you crazy.  She doesn't yell at you like Jillian Michaels and doesn't cheer you on like one of those Disney Channel sitcoms.  She puts your body thru hell- but it's FAST!- and shows you that you can do it.  She's certified in Metabolic Effect and is a lot of fun to boot.  Friend her on Facebook or message me for her contact info.  It's worth it.  If I can do it, you can too.

Without Expectation... an open letter to Thomas Wolfe.

Dear Mr. Wolfe,

As a native-Ashevillian, I have known of your life and work from the moment I knew what an "author" was.  I toured your homeplace, read your writings, sat on your front porch with a boyfriend, and even cried after your home was damaged in a fire.  I always grin in recognition of your angel when I see her.  I feel that you are woven into my story of childhood as a background character- despite the fact you died years before even my mother was born.

So it is with much respect and a bit of trepidation that I must admit: I disagree with you.

I believe, sir, that you can go home again.

I believe it... because I just lived it.

In previous years and trips west, I feel what your character Mr. Webber must have been feeling when he returned to his hometown to find it was not the place his memory had created it to be.  This happened for me previously as I visited my stepmother at my elementary school and felt like the halls were much smaller than I remembered.  It happened when I realized that some friendships were only going to exist for me in memory, rather than in current day.  It happened when my parents were sick or passed on and I realized that a trip home would not include the usual events of my trips west.

However, my heart just experienced a truer sense of a homecoming.  And it occurred without expectation.  I ventured home for a lengthy stay- to hike and to clean out my Mom's house.  Little did I know- because I had not made concrete plans- that my trip would also include a trip to a lovely local winery with friends... and checking out some venues that had been on my bucket list... and time with my girl and her dogs... and breathing in that miracle-working mountain air.  

I was gifted the benefits of surprise and healing because I had not "planned" for them to happen.

I sat in the auditorium at Mars Hill College and "felt" the goodness of teenagers hellbent on changing the world.  The pulse of that room stirred the same emotions in mine as I reflected on my first trip there 22 years ago.  I realized how "ripe" I was for that first experience- my heart was freshly broken from childhood expectations being taken away and was ready to be filled with love and laughter and opportunity to become who I wanted to be.  And as I was greeted by some of those same precious adults (who now loved on my daughter- also captivated in their midst), I felt the same encouragement and hope and respect from 22 years ago.  They believed in me then... and I think they still do now.

I walked around my Mom's backyard numerous times.  The overgrown weeds and bushes at first hurt my heart as I saw the lack of attention given to them by the absence of my mother.  In later days, I saw the green growth for the beauty it is... lush and life bringing.  I enjoyed watching my dogs explore that yard that I used to know by heart... and my favorite moment of the summer thus far happened when I had the chance to catch lightening bugs with Miss E in the very yard where my bug-catching-skill was perfected.

I walked through our fair city and pointed out sights and sounds to my precious girl- including pointing out your angel.  One day soon, I'll share with her your writing... as I'll share with her the writings of Wayne Caldwell... and the story I just read of Zelda Fitzgerald... and I'll tell her of the importance that southern authors bring in telling the story of our home and the characters we meet here.  I'll share with her the wisdom in your writings about not being able to return home- when you are expecting your home to receive you in the same way in which you left it.  And I'll also share with her my recent discovery that when you allow your home and all of the wonderful people and experiences you gained there to welcome you in their overgrown and weedy arms... and breathe it in... and not expect it to do much... but to just let you be... then... then you know that you are truly home.

And then... maybe then... parts of your broken heart will heal in an old way that feels brand new.

Respectfully submitted.

Brokenness and Band-aids

our lovely view on that March weekend

6 months ago *right now*, I was sitting in the mountains of Georgia, enjoying having some girl-time with a dear friend, breathing easier- spiritually- than I had in months.  I had spent the day before reading the words of Hosea... and I woke up restored.

I've written what the next week was like here... it breaks my heart to even see that post again.  It still feels so... well... new.

At the retreat that weekend, I attended a "Date with God" session lead by the sweet woman who had prompted me to read Hosea.  We went from station to station experiencing different mediums through which to connect with God. One of them was a place where you would write a prayer request on a Post-it, place it on the wall, then read the others' requests and pray for them.  My Post-it said "broken."  That weekend, you'll remember, was when we had just been turned down for Foster Care.  In addition to that, I was grieving my best friend's move to Phoenix, and still wrestling with Sweet Leah's leukemia. I truly felt "broken."  In a moment of restoration, I looked at those Post-its as they were affixed later to a cross and felt the hand of God remind me that HE would heal me... no one or nothing else would do.

Our Wailing Wall... Heal us, Lord.

Oh, the irony of the brokenness I felt then.  I didn't know that mere hours later, I would find out my Daddy had died.  I didn't know that 6 weeks after that we would lose my friend Geoff.  I didn't know that 3 months later we would lose my friend Aaron.

Grief upon grief leaves one feeling beyond broken.  It leaves you feeling just plain wrecked.

Yesterday happened to be my Daddy's birthday.  He would have been 70.  From the moment my feet hit the ground yesterday morning, my wrecked-self grieved.  I sobbed in ways I haven't allowed myself to in quite some time.  I also had lots of funny internal-dialog throughout the day imagining what Daddy would say to me if I shared with him my stories.  I wanted to tell him how much I love mowing the yard with his lawn mower.  I wanted to tell him how E asked Dan why he said "dammit" this weekend. (He didn't, btw, he said "hammock"... but hearing my little one say "Why'd you say 'dammit', Daddy?" was a moment that Dadaw would have loved.)  I wanted to talk to him about how hard things are right now and have him tell me what to do.  I wanted to ask him his recipe for Country Style Steak, and then later call him to tell him that Paula Deen's worked out just fine.

Not to sound like a broken record, people... but I just miss my Daddy.

In ways I never imagined.

I think I used to watch people who had lost a parent and think, "Gosh, that must be sad," but didn't understand. I didn't get that it would be a daily ache.  A daily burden.  That every experience- good or bad- would be filtered through the lens of not having your Big Person to share it with.  And in my crazy, jacked up life... I need my Big Person.

Slowly over these last 6 months, there have been moments when my broken heart begins to heal.  Unlike the picture, my heart hasn't been torn straight down the middle.  It's been shattered into millions of pieces, each requiring their own Band-aid.  And the Band-aids are beautiful as they come!  They show up in the form of People Puppy Chow, or coffee mugs, or walks on the Greenway, or phone calls, or verses about "doing good", or comments on Facebook, or well-timed flowers, or bottles of wine, or Stan-like jokes, or leaves changing color, or looking at old pictures, or salted caramel, or a compliment, or a hug, or Country Style Steak, or even through tears.

The hard part of the last 6 months is that sometimes the Band-aids come off.  Sometimes they are ripped off... sometimes they just fall off in the bathtub.  And through it all, it shouldn't surprise me that my encouragement comes from... well... Hosea.

“Come, let us return to the Lord.
He has torn us to pieces
    but he will heal us;
he has injured us
    but he will bind up our wounds....
Let us acknowledge the Lord;
    let us press on to acknowledge him."

Return, heal, acknowledge, press on, and Do Good... cause that's what my Daddy would have wanted.  Happy birthday, Dadaw... I can't believe we've made it 6 months without you here.