Throwing Thoughts in the Garbage

I phoned a friend today.  I needed to talk.  But they were busy.  It's ok.  I'm fine with that.

Usually.  Not saying there are times tears might not fall.  Especially when my heart is bruised and I need a shoulder to lean on.

But I'm ok with it.  I am a realist.  Life happens.  Like Forest Gump said.

Instead I sat here with my good headphones on, the ones I use for calling, and turned on music.  These headphones are good!  Music sounds fuller in them.  I haven't just sat and listened to music for a long time.  I used to more often. It's good to do.  Especially when my heart is bruised and I need a shoulder to lean on.

I clicked on a new cd someone put on my computer.  I like this group, but had just never gotten around to listening to this album.  (Like I said, haven't been listening to music that often.  Sometimes it is hard to do.  Especially when my heart is bruised.)

It is Phillips, Craig, & Dean's album "Let the Worshipers Arise".  Nothing new.  But these are voices I am used to, and with my personality and history, I push people away easily and am wary, hesitant to trust.  So voices I am used to, that have history with me, I listen to easier.

The first song is "I am a Friend of God."  I just sat back and listened and let it wash over my hurting heart.  And then I smiled.  You see, I come from and at times still function in, a conservative background - varied, but conservative.  While being raised rubbing shoulders with all other varieties of believers.  And I remember distinctly the voice of one of my friends, older than me, criticizing this song.

"We are NOT all friends of God. God doesn't call all friends.  He says only that 'if you obey my commands you are My friends'!"

There is always that, isn't there?  A sort of two-tiered Christianity.  The carnal Christians and the devout Christians.  The "friends of God" who obey Him and the "others".  The "disciples" and the "just Christians".

I work in the guidance room of a highschool with my new student.  I am there to attend to physical needs, but in all my copious spare time that my student doesn't need a book handed to him or to use the bathroom, I help out where I can.  I tutor, help crowd control, circulate, encourage, provide supervision so over-worked teachers can walk to the bathroom and re-gather their wits.

Last week, we had a student in the English class go off on a verbal rampage.  We were talking about parents and writing an essay titled "Raising Teens - Difficult or A Piece of Cake".  They were to pick a answer and write about it.  This one boy started off in answer to a prompting question on how if a mom had more than one kid and one kid always obeyed and was good, she'd love that one the most.  If she had one kid that was not easy, she would love that one less.  He would not stop, he would not listen, and he just kept going.

The teacher and I are both moms.  I have teens.  Hers are grown.

The kid can't even imagine how wrong he is.

I told him so.  We both did.  We told him that he doesn't understand the heart of a mother.  While a child's behavior can and does make our job easier or harder and a difficult child can tire us out and leave us less energy and we might snap at him, he doesn't understand our hearts.

It is the love of the misbehaved one that keeps us awake at night praying and crying.  Our heart's are tuned to the struggling one perhaps even more than the obedient one and we spend hours thinking, praying, and trying.

Love does not depend on or change because of behavior.

He just didn't know how wrong he was.

And today when I heard my friend's voice mocking this song and saying we are not all friends of God - only if we are obedient.... I picked up her words, walked over to the garbage bin, lifted the lid, threw them in, and slammed the lid back down.

No.

My behavior does not in any way change my status with God.

It might break His heart.  It might cause Him pain.  He might wish better for me.  He will work in my life.  But

 I AM NOT ACCEPTED ANY LESS.

The next song was "Because I am forgiven".  I had just sat down and read Nehemiah.  I was struck by their commitment to "forgo the exacting of every debt".  It just seemed not a big deal - not something that needed to be in that commitment they made to God after seeing their sin.  But there it is.

God's been talking to me very gently about forgiveness.  I say gently because that is how He is doing it.  Quietly.  Asking questions.  Waiting.  Gently because He's not saying, "you sinner!  you need to forgive!"  Gently because He's not saying, "It wasn't really that important, just forgive!"  Gently because He sees and knows these are real offenses, difficult and painful ones, and old wounds.  Times where I have done everything right as much as I knew how, and still was wounded.  So gently, He's been asking me questions.  Laying this topic on the table. Let's talk forgiveness.

I've learned not to rush God nor run from Him.  To let Him ask and talk to me.  To not say, "Oh, God is talking to me about forgiveness, ok, let me say the words and just do it!"  God is not after my words or even my will. He's not after me forcing myself to conform to what I think His will is.  He's after my heart, and He's more interested that I learn what His forgiveness is, what it means, before I substitute my own version.  Letting me see Him, so I can follow.

And His people felt it was important to commit to not seeking to exact every debt from people.  If we think only of money, that is an easy one.  Ok, so they won't pay back... ok... well... life happens.  But what if we set that truth in a different setting?  What if we talk about offenses and not money?  It is a question, among others, that I am pondering today.  Even today, when my heart is freshly bruised.

Music is good.  I still sit, letting it wash over me.  Wishing my friend was free to talk to, but realizing that this is also good.  Listening to "You Are God Alone"....  "in the good times and the bad, You are God alone".  Even now, even here, God is still on His throne, unshaken by the events in my life, not loving me less, not tired of me, and still working in the situation.

And still quietly asking me questions.

I think, coming from my background, that is one thing I appreciate the most about God - His quiet way of asking questions, of letting me respond, instead of forcing me.  It was also what I appreciated most from the one who took me by the hand and led me back to sit with God without fear.  To look up and see love, not judgement, in His eyes.

Is Creationism THAT Important?!

I had people stay recently.  They brought a dvd for my kids to watch.  About creationism.

Fine.  My kids love science and we strongly believe in creationism.

I didn't see the beginning of the film, but came down about a third of the way through.

I had a hard time not shutting the video off.  It was only respect for my guests that let me leave it on, but I had to have a heart to heart talk with my kids afterwards.

It wasn't the message.  It was how it was portrayed.  I had never seen such a mocking, degrading way of portraying truth.  It caricatured non-believers as idiots, liars, and stupid. Even made science teacher's voices sound like a dumb man on cartoons.

I was horrified!

I'd far rather my kids sit in a class on evolution than they watch this movie!!!

What is worse - a unbeliever who believes evolution or a believer who mocks unbelievers?  Aren't we called to love?!

I told my kids that if I ever heard them ever speaking to a non-believer in that tone of voice or that way that.... that... that I'd knock their heads together!  We have the truth - we can afford to be merciful and kind!  We can treat others with respect.  We MUST treat others with respect.

I still hold firmly to my belief that no one has ever been won to Christ by being laughed at by Christians.

As far as I can see, the only people Jesus was rude to was not the lost, but the spiritual leaders who pretended to be righteous when they really were lost.

Thankfully, my kids were just as horrified as I was, but they were uncomfortable and unsure what to do since guests had asked them to watch this film, and they did not want to appear rude by walking away.

wow.  Give me an unsaved person any day over a Christian who mocks unbelievers.  At least we can have a sensible discussion then.  In the end, it is not the person's view of creation that will matter - it is their view of Jesus.  And if they get that right, the rest will fall into place.

The Internal Workings of a MK

The life of a MK has a uniqueness to it that is not visible.  An invisible other.  A world within worlds.  In my case, worlds within worlds.  Various cultures from various places.  I react at different times differently.  I react in many ways.  In silence.  Inside my head.  From these feelings and reactions, I chose which is appropriate to the situation, to the event, to the people involved.  Chosing to show one does not negate the others exist.

Generations of cultures live in my head, some so distant that they are vague, unidentified.  Recently I said to someone that, "oh that is my Hispanic background."  They gave me a blank stare and said, "you are a little dark, but I never knew you were Hispanic."  I smiled.  I didn't stop to explain that it is my white side that is Hispanic.  My dark side is German and Native American.  But I am Hispanic by culture from three generations.  My father was raised there.  My cousins are all partially Hispanic.  I grew some years there also.

I did not confuse the questioner by explaining that my white Chinese grandmother went to Mexico and that is why we are now Hispanic by culture, too.  Too much explanation.

My white, Chinese grandmother was by genetics Canadian, although she did not go there until she was more than half grown.  Her trip there was sudden.  War and uprisings came, and they evacuated.  She grew up Chinese and was suddenly Canadian.  Later she immigrated to America for a time.

Today I finished reading the book Obasan by Joy Kogawa.  I set it down and stared off into space.

 Thinking of my grandmother.

Japanese were treated horrifically on both sides of the border, for sure, but it seems that in Canada, the treatment was worse.  They were stripped of their possessions which were then sold at auction, sent to work camps, separated from each other, and forbidden to re-enter BC for several years after the war.  Not until 1949 were they permitted to return to BC.  Four years after the end of the war.  Four years.  For citizens of their own country.

It is the rhetoric of the government that amazed me.  The angry talk about eliminating the "Japs" and making BC only for the "whites".  This was not in the 1800s.  This was recently.  It was while my father toddled around in diapers.  While my Chinese born grandma lived in BC.

I wonder about her.

Years later, I watched her be a tireless advocate for the Vietnamese boat people and other refugees from East Asia.  She did not simply raise money or speak.  She took them into her home, gave them the furniture and blankets, dishes, and food she had when they were able to get apartments.  She was their family as long as her memory lasted, visiting, eating with them, being a grandma to their children and their children's children.  And when she died, her service was attended by a sea of Asian faces.
 
I wonder about her during these war years when a war was being waged in Canada against Japanese.  A different country, but faces so similar to the land of her birth - her identity.

I wonder then if this passion to welcome and care for those who arrived on her shores came from those years.  If that passion was born out of pain.

 My grandparents took in people.  One day my grandpa made a quick run across the border to buy milk and gas, and came home with a woman from Guatemala.  My grandma made a fuss over her and moved a bed in my room where she stayed for nine months.  She was caught up in someone else's crime, attempted the cross the border (but she didn't even know she was), and was arrested.  My tall, Swedish/Irish grandfather saw her and offered to translate for the bewildered border guards.  Somehow, somehow, he convinced them that it served no one any good purpose to put her in jail for months until her hearing, and talked them into releasing her into his care.  And he brought her home.  At that time, I was living with my grandparents for a year, so we became room-mates. She and I picked blueberries side by side that summer.  She could not work, but I could, so we worked together.  When her deportation came, my grandparents and their church filled her bags with gifts for her two sons, linens, towels, clothes, and the church took a collection and sent her home with an envelope full of money.

Whatever you think of illegal immigration is irrelevant to me.  She was a mother, a widow.  Her crime?  Wanting to make enough money to send her sons to a Christian school.  A more honest, respectful, and fun roommate would be hard to find.  And she returned my grandparents love with delight.  Together we worked in their garden, cleaned the house, and cooked for them.  We laughed and talked many happy hours in Spanish.  I so enjoyed her warmth after my sudden introduction back to a province that was so cold and segregated.

Perhaps I could have just ignored it.  I fit in.  I could walk the streets and not be noticed.  Even my background was partially German, so I could be accepted if I said that... at least pegged.  You should be either German or Dutch.  And you should not be American.  And strangely, even those groups remained at a slight distance from each other.

I did not want to fit in to that isolation.

The other group were the "East Indians".  Indians from India, and opposed to "Indians" who were really Canadians... the Canadians to whom that land belonged before the British, French, German, and Dutch moved in.

(It has never ceased to amaze me how people immigrating from one continent to another and totally taking over the land can be so opposed to immigrants from other countries doing exactly what they did - only not so bad... they are only moving here, not slaughtering and rounding up and relocating those who were already here.)

But at that time, the East Indians were the unspeakables.  They did not mix.  They passed each other in the streets, in the stores, at at the same McDonalds, but they did not mix.  They did not greet.  They did not know each other's names.

I had grown up, not in India, but in Central Asia.  Who was I?  Was I the priviledged or the unspeakable?  I did not yet know.  At times, I was accepted as long as I did not open my mouth or speak of my history.  If I did, I was an "other".  At times called racial slurs.  "You dirty paki".  I stared back silent.  How blind can people be?  My skin is as white as theirs.  Yet I was glad I was not them, for to be the racists would be far worse than being the oppressed.  I was shyly smiled at by East Asians, but their eyes would watch me confused.  Why does this white girl talk to them?  Never completely accepted either. Only with one close friend who knew my history was I accepted.  But I paid a price for my friendship with her.  I chose to sit with her, to eat with her, to study with her.  And I was isolated for that decision.  "She stinks, why would you sit near her?"

So during that time of living in racism, I was thankful for my Guatemalan friend and the open warmth, laughter, and fun of our relationship - a relationship untouched by the world of strict racial lines outside the door.  She and I fit neither group, so together, we could step outside this odd culture and into our Hispanic sides.

Perhaps this is how my grandmother felt living here.  By culture Chinese, by skin white, watching mass hysteria and hatred against Japanese, and by default anyone who looked Asian.  Those people were not "other" to her.  Their faces looked like her auntie's, her friends', her countrymen.

My grandmother never recovered in one way from living in China so long.  She was utterly untouched by the "normals" of western culture, of what was "proper" to wear.  She happily wore her orange and pink flowered shirt with her green and red striped skirt, and threw a blue checked blazer over that.  If we protested and tried to get her to wear matching clothes, she'd look puzzled and say, "Matching?  This shirt is so cheerful, and the skirt is cheerful, too.  So colorful, so cheerful.  Cheerful matches cheerful."  We groaned and gave in.  But it was simply her Asian side.

This is also a part of my heritage.  My Asian side.  My Hispanic side.  My Central Asian side.....  oh, I have so many other sides, too.... places I have lived since childhood, where I am now, where we work...

I have not yet decided what shape I am.  It is not so easy, like a bi-racial child to say "I am Irish/Swedish".  Two sides of a coin.  Perhaps I am like a dice, but even that does not cover all sides.  Yet, like a dice, I am thrown - each side spinning and flipping, now seen, now not.  Which will win this toss?  How will I react?  I wait till the dice lands, look at the reaction, and smile inwardly.  Perhaps it is not the appropriate answer.  So like someone peering into a magic eight ball, smiling at the answer, and going on to do what they think is best, I see the reaction that comes, smile, shake my head, and try to act ....... it depends on who I am with and what they expect out of me.

Hidden behind my appropriate-I-hope response lies a world hidden within a world, something unique and wholly other.  Not only my history, but the rich and varied history of my parents, grand-parents, and great grandparents stretching behind me.  So many cultures woven together into a tapestry that shimmers as one holds it to the light.  Is that blue?  No, purple.  No, look there is some yellow threads; oh, look some greens!  Every way you turn it, it looks different.  Dupioni silk woven with the warp and the weft in different colors. Oil spilt in a rain puddle. A kaleidescope on constant rotation.

I will watch you talk and have six to eight different reactions to what you say.  I am not a multiple-personality disorder off drugs.  I am a MK.  If you see a tiny smile flit across my face, don't assume I'm laughing at you.  I may be laughing at me - at one of my reactions and realizing it is so totally inappropriate to the situation.  I smile, and shake my magic eight ball again searching for the response that fits in your culture.  The color that you live in.  The kaleidoscope piece that fits you.

Disjointed

My life feels disjointed right now.  Not chaotic, but disjointed.

My husband is still gone.  We keep praying for him.  In a relationship sense, we've made steps closer... but not heart level steps.  Not what my heart longs for - assurance that he's changing.  Just steps to coexist smoother.  I learn to set it down.  God will work in him when he and God are ready.  It's not my burden.  So I love and wait.

I'm breathing a little easier now with the introduction of steroids to my inhaling regime.  So thankful for that.

Kid's lives are busy.  I've got a room remodel I'm doing for a birthday gift for my daughter.  We have a party coming up in two days and a bunch of giggly girls excited about it. I bought three more chickens for my coop and am hoping for eggs next week.  I butchered my ducks.  Ducks are just too messy and noisy.

I'm learning to live with a new type of sadness.  I've worked in dementia care for years and am used to death and dying.  But now, working with two boys, one with Spinal Muscle Atrophy and another with Duchenne's muscle dystrophy, means I am again working with people approaching death... but these are the ages of my older two sons.  And they are the only remaining children of their parents.  It is a new type of sadness.  Once took a turn for the worse last week and lost one more ability.  More privacy lost, more freedom.  And I had to introduce him to more medical equipment and more care done to him.  We managed.  I'm good at what I do.  We even managed to share a few laughs during the whole process.

And I went home and cried.

Death should not be nipping at the heels of two boys, barely teens.  I should not be seeing fear, panic, and revulsion in the eyes of a mother watching her son.  (Revulsion at the whole idea of death, not of her son!)  Death is such an unnatural visitor in a highschool. Especially a slow, wasting death. I should not be using words like contractures and range of motion in these halls.  Death belongs by the bedside of a 97 year old with her family gathered around her.  There it is a solemn visitor, unwelcome, but expected... even quietly welcomed at times by those who it has come for.

Yet it is here.  A quiet presence in the rooms, not ready yet to take the child, but to slowly take his abilities and bide his time.

I go from that to the busy activity of my own children.  It can be a disjointing switch.
 
Pray for me as I minister to both mother and child.

And I am physically still weak.  Still recovering slowly. I'm tired.

Waiting

My husband will leave again soon.  Another trip. Our lives punctuated by when Daddy is here and when he is gone.  The kids are older.  Their needs are not so difficult as when they were toddlers.  They are old enough not only to assume responsibilities, but to care for me when I need it.  Even the little ones know that right now mommy needs them to step up, to use their energy where I don't have much.  So we manage well.

How are we doing?  It is a hard question to answer.  I pray, I pray, I pray, and I wait.  And there is silence. Both from God and from my husband.  He's cordial now, talking in the family.  We discuss kid's schedules, grocery lists, and other mundane things.  That is an improvement from his month of silence.

His indifference to any assistance in the house has been hard for me this last month as I've struggled with sickness and trouble breathing.  I wish for a husband who would say a few simple words: "How can I help?" or who would simply pick up the iron instead of saying, "I need more shirts".  He knows how to do all housework and I'm struggling to breathe.  But I'm not willing to face an argument, so I silently struggle on.

But he has not exploded in anger for a few weeks.  There is some good in that, and collectively, the kids and I slowly let out our held breath.  (Except for me.. breathing out is still tough to do without Ventolin!)  We enjoy the lull and pray it lasts.

This is how I feel.  It is as if he is trying to hold two very large, heavy balls.  Balls too big to be held with one hand.  Both his family and his anger.  And he can't.  We've helped him before by propping him up, by living in reaction to him.  We aren't any longer.  We aren't against him at all.  We just have decided to be stable.  Both balls are too big to hold without dropping one.  I hope and pray he makes the right choice and chooses to drop the anger.

Having been through my own struggles to be free from the past which can burden our present too much, I am very aware that it is not so simple as "dropping the anger".  We are willing to help.  Part of that willingness is the willingness not to be part of the problem.  Not to add to the anger.  Not to get involved in it.  Also the difficult and often misunderstood decision not to ignore it, not to prop him up, not to pacify, not to allow the anger to dictate our lives.  By stepping out of the circle, I have opened myself up to harsh criticism that I am "abandoning my husband" or "taking over the reins of the family".  I haven't.  I am here.  Praying for change.  Hoping.  But choosing not to be an enabler of anger.  I chose to be an enabler of healing.  That choice is painful.  I have to endure loneliness.  I have to wait for his timing, not demanding my own.  I have to ignore anger thrown in my direction.  I have to forgive the pain, choosing to say that my pain is not as important as his healing.  I have to stay.  Stay here, stay stable, stay loving... in a relationship where I am getting nothing in return. I have to stay strong... allowing him to feel the consequences of his choices rather than to rescue him and brush the problem under the table.

He will only deal with his problems when he wants to.  I have to trust God that God will ultimately speak to His child and deal with him in His way.  I have to trust that as God's child, my husband will respond to the discipline of His Father.  I have to trust enough to step out of the way and quit demanding that He do it in my way or in my time table.  It's been a long wait, and the wait is lonely and hard.  I really have no clue as to what is going on in his heart and what God is doing.  I wait and I watch.  I think I may sense a softening, but I don't know. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking.  Perhaps it isn't.

Yesterday, I crumpled to the ground and sobbed.  I let myself for two minutes.  Then got up, wiped the tears, squared my shoulders, and went on cleaning my house.  I have to be able to go on.  To chose stability in a life of unstability.  To pray and hope.  If I give in to my own feelings and try to dump those on my husband now - my needs, my pain, my wants - he can't face himself.  I feel God is telling me to leave him to Him.  To leave myself in the hands of God, and let my husband be first of all a child of God, and then a husband.  Let him deal with God face to face and deal with whatever the root of this anger is - whether it is wounds, pain, or feelings he hasn't yet been able to hand over to God.  Only then will he be able to be a husband.  If he can't carry his own pain right now, he can't carry mine, too.  Especially when he knows he is causing my pain.... and he isn't even able to stop that since he can't even carry his own yet.  Leave him to heal with God and then he will be able to heal in our relationship.

It isn't an easy position.  There is something in each of us that wants to say, "hey, what about me?!"  To demand our needs be filled.  To insist on our rights.  To say that this is not fair.  It isn't.  I've fought for my rights long enough.  Demanded that he stop being angry.  That he become a good husband.

I don't know if he can be.

At least not until he becomes a good child.  Not until he is secure as a child of God.  Able to open the wounds of his heart to God and find healing there.

I feel if I fight now for "a good relationship" that I will lose everything.  He isn't capable of it now.  So I am not "fighting for my marriage".  I'm fighting for my husband.  By being stable and uninvolved.

Even Jesus went off a distance to struggle with God alone.  There are some battles that must be fought first with God.  All others stand by watching and praying.

That is all we can do.

For me, it is hard.  I am a communicator.  A talker.  I love conversation - not the shallow group conversation of a party, but the heart to heart of a friend over coffee.  Right now, I'm carrying pain - yet unable to express it much.  I'm lonely, deeply lonely, yet unable to reach out much.  After awhile, what is there to say?  We just wait.  Wait, watch, and pray.

I have faith in God's ability to deal with His own. That holds me on dark days.  I've seen Him deal with me.  I also know that God does not force His children.  He wants their hearts, not their fear.  So He waits.  He calls gently.  And He allows them to go further until they realize how much they need Him.  And then He is right there.

So while I have faith.... I have no assurance that the end is around the corner.  I wait, hoping, but knowing I need the strength to endure with patience.

I was thankful God never forced me to heal on His time, but waited for my heart.  Now I need to chose to be thankful that He will not force my husband, either.

Wait with me.

Each Breath

Breath.  Something we need.  We never even think about it.  We just breathe.

I got a cold a few weeks ago.  Strange as I rarely get sick, but I rested, drank hot tea, and waited.  I felt better in three days.... except I couldn't breathe well.  My chest felt tight.

I rested more.  I drank more tea.  I held hot drinks against my chest trying to relieve the pain in the muscles.  Wondered about pneumonia... but I didn't feel sick enough.  I just couldn't breathe well.

I decided to just go on with my life.  See if the "mom immunity" that tells our bodies that we are just too busy to be sick would kick in and I'd feel better.  I managed fine... as long as I didn't do anything strenuous that required a need for increased breathing.  Breathing was hard.

Then I went back to work.  I took the shift easy, but I couldn't keep up with the need to breathe, walk, and talk all at the same time.  Halfway through, I was struggling.  As the last hours ticked by, I was audibly wheezing and having to force to exhale with little grunts.  But I was the only nurses aide on that late at night and thirty one patients depended on me.  I struggled on.

Immediately after the night shift came on, I drove myself straight to the emergency room.  Amazingly, in a system that usually take four to six hours to get in to the ER, I was ushered in within twenty minutes.  (I must have looked bad!)  It still took them three hours to actually get a doctor to me and begin treatment, but at least I had a bed and an eye on me.

It wasn't pneumonia.  I have asthma.  Why at age forty am I just now coming down with asthma, I do not know, but I have it.  They gave me an inhalation and sent me home with puffers.  I feel... slightly better.  The asthma is by no means controlled and I am still waiting to see my doctor next week and see what can be done about it.  It still hurts to breathe, but at least I have the inhalers for when it gets tough.  I'm managing.  But I have limited endurance.  Singing, walking, working for more than an hour on my feet - this all takes more air than I currently can get.  I tire easily.

I know asthma can be controlled.  I have hope that mine will be once I get to see a doctor.  But for now, during the wait, I treasure breath.  Each one is precious.  With each exhale is the quiet reminder of pain.  A reminder not to push it.  Not to do more activity than my lungs can keep up with.

This is not what I wanted now.

Little Minds, Big Questions

My kids have curious minds. They think deeply.  The ponder life, watch, evaluate, question, and come to conclusions.... or they come to more questions.  They talk openly with me easily about any subject whether it be a typical "red-faced" health issue or anything else.  They talk over behaviors of other kids and stories they hear about in school.  They thrill in their science lessons and come bounding to tell me endless facts and the possibilities of exploring or creating things in the world.  They absorb their history lessons and question me on other events happening in the world at the time.  Their world view is larger than one country, so they are interested in what was occurring in the rest of the world and why one country reacted as it did.  They also discuss their teacher's viewpoint and biases and wonder how that affects they way they teach a particular historical incident.  They discuss plots and feelings in the books they read.  Math excites them (all but the youngest who is quite capable but laboring under the impression that she hates math) and they loudly chatter about different ways to solve problems and get to the same conclusions.  Geography thoroughly interests them as they talk happily about the "oh, I've been there!" or "oh, I'd love to go there!" of each place they study.  If there is one thing my kids can not be accused of, it is of being uninterested or uncurious!

They question.  They ponder.  They wonder.  They ask. 

They feel free to do this also as they struggle to cope with their father.  Sometimes, he is a great dad.  Sometimes, he's angry and silent.  Other times, he explodes for no reason.  Often he is just hyper-critical.  Other times, he makes up explanations for things he doesn't know and tells the kids as if it were true.  Their faces wrinkle up in a confused questioning, but they are silent.  They have learned not to question their dad - to watch for the signs of anger about to erupt.

Over the years as they've struggled to cope with his anger and unpredictability, they go about it in their typical way - they come to me with questions, with ideas, with their thoughts.  Tonight from my two older boys, "What's wrong with Dad tonight?"  I don't know exactly.  I think he is more tense than usual.  They nod and look around to make sure they weren't overheard.  They duck their heads and work on their homework more studiously.  When I call them to help with chores, they work well, and away from his immediate presence, they become children again - those half children, half adults that teens are.  They work hard and well and laugh as they work, but they also goof off with each other, teasing and talking non-stop.

My daughter went shopping with me.  "Mom, why is daddy always so angry?"  I take a breath and pause, thinking.  How much will she be able to grasp?  I've always believed in talking honestly, but simply to my kids.  "Well, I really don't think it has much to do with you or me or the brothers at all.  I think he has a lot of anger he hasn't dealt with, and because it isn't dealt with, it erupts a lot like a volcano when anything makes him annoyed.  Maybe something little like might make another person just annoyed or a little upset, but because he has this anger in him, he explodes."

She thought and then asked, "What is he angry about mommy?"  I told her the truth, that I do not know.  I said I don't believe it is anything we do.  I think it has been there a long time.  I said that perhaps it is not because of anger, but it is because of hurt.  I explained some things that had happened in her daddy's life when he was a boy with some wars and tragedies and changes he had to go through.  I told her that people tend to respond to hurt in two ways - either they cry and feel weak and unable to go on or they get angry.  The anger is only to push away the hurt so they don't feel it as much.

She nodded and said, "Like G_____ at recess.  If people are hurt his feelings, he gets angry.  Then he gets in trouble.  But A_____ cries if people hurt her."  I agreed and told her that typically, but not always, boys tend to get angry as a response to hurt more than girls do.  Part of it is because "big boys don't cry".  I told her that perhaps it is not even that daddy is such an angry man, but it is perhaps that he is angry because he has wounds that he hasn't allowed to be healed yet. 

She pondered that one for awhile.  "But remember when you went away for a course, and it was to help to learn how to deal with people and conflict.  Why didn't that help?  It seemed like it helped for a little while, but it didn't stick."

I explained that the course taught people skills on how to deal with people and conflicts better, but in order to use those skills, you had to be in control of yourself.  Those skills won't work if the anger controls you.  I told her that the problem with choosing anger for a long time is that anything that you allow to control you will begin to control you.  That you actually allow the anger to be in control.

She interrupted me with a child's simple wisdom.  "But, mommy, it would be silly to say anger controls you.  It is more real to say that Satan controls you."

The wisdom and simplicity of children!  I had never discussed this with her before.

I told her that she was right and explained that that is why it is such a problem and why we need to be sure that we do not give sins control of ourselves.  I asked her if she remembered what the gospels said about Satan - that he came to steal, kill, and destroy.  I told her that I doubt her daddy would really want to hurt us with what he says if he was in control of himself, because I believe that he really loves us, but when he is not in control, but allows Satan control.... well, Satan wants to destroy.  So he doesn't care about what destruction he creates in the relationships or what wounds he makes in us.

She nodded and was silent thinking.  Then she asked, "Mommy, how long do you think he will stay angry like this?"  Ah, child.... if only you did not have to carry this weight!  I told her that I hope not long.  I told her that I think God will let him get to a place that he really sees that he needs help, and I think that he is getting closer and closer to that point.  That is why we see things getting worse and worse.  But that we can hope and pray for daddy that he will be willing to take God's help soon.

Then we walked in the store, and her attention went to choosing which fruit she wanted for the next week.  Little mind, big thoughts, and the capacity to understand more than I ever wanted her to ever have to understand.  She's only nine, but she easily grasps and grapples with what she sees.

But they come to me with their questions and their pain.  I've told them that we will get through this together.  We will stick together - them and me, and we will be honest with each other.

At the table this evening, when their dad stopped a child praying to yell at him as to how he was praying, they all were silent.  No one reacted.  No one cried.  We have decided that we will not cower.  If someone begins to, the others will step in to defend.  But the best policy for now is to go on living.  To live and to chose joy where we can.  To stick together.  And in that moment, eyes quickly went from one to the other to me and back to each other.  Quiet, still, bodies quiet, eyes seeking other eyes, supporting, willing strength not to answer back and cause more anger, willing strength not to crumble. 

And then in the busy-ness of cleaning up the meal, each one comes to me, "Why is Dad angry?"  "What is going on?"  I don't know.  It came with no warning.  Slight warning yesterday that he seemed grouchy, but no warning.  They draw a breath, and go on.  We will stick together and we will live our lives.  They search my eyes to see if I need support, and I meet theirs reassuring them that I am fine - sad, but fine, and we go on.  We clean up the kitchen and empty the fridge and the garbage, working together with the practiced ease of five who often do tasks together, and as we work, we begin again to talk and laugh.  Life goes on.  Life of the five of us who chose joy in the midst of the pain we live in.

Singing My Song

I have a hard time with singing.  My parents I guess wanted us to learn to sing, but they only contributed to a deep shame and fear of singing that I carry to some degree to this day.  They would liberally criticize our singing and if we were off tune, would have us sing solo at family devotions "so we would learn it".

Now I've never really noticed that having to sing solo helped.  We learn by singing along with.

Anyway, I was most often ridiculed and even disciplined for my lack of singing ability.  One time sticks in my head.  My husband was in our house - now he was a just a teen that I was really, really interested in at that time - and we were singing.  I had messed up (again), so they told me to stand up and sing it solo so I would learn to do it right.

Ok, there only is one thing more embarrassing than having to sing a solo when you can't sing, and that is to have to sing it in front of your boyfriend while people either glared or laughed at you.  By this time I was thirteen, and I had had enough!  Really enough.

I decided that I was going to stop this here and now.  I gambled that they would not spank me here - not in front of this teen they were discipling.... and if they did, it wouldn't be that bad of a spanking.... so I was going to say no.  I simply said no.  I was threatened, but I said no again.  Quietly.  I didn't want to defy authority really, but I was simply done being belittled that I couldn't sing.  I said no.

I was right - they didn't spank me in front of guests for that, and I had won my freedom.  Never again was I publicly asked to sing solo because I couldn't sing.  I was still ridiculed but only in comments.  "You can't carry a tune in a bucket."  "If you sang, people would pay you to stop."

At some point, I decided to stop singing.  If I was so bad that people would run screaming, I just was not going to sing.  I began to only mouth words in church and never sing.  I went through three years of Bible school like that.  I got asked to leave a mandatory choir when I simply would not open my mouth to sing for the choir director.  (I babysat for the choir instead.  I am good at babysitting.)  My friends told me I can't go through life without singing, but I was determined.  I would not be ridiculed again.

Years later, God asked me when I was going to sing to Him, and I told Him when I have my first child, I will begin to sing.  Later, after my first daughter died and I had more boys and never another girl, I told God that if I had a daughter, I would even sing when I taught kids Sunday school.  I would even sing in public.

My first son was born.... he was perfect.  And I opened my mouth and began to sing to him.  I even opened my mouth and began to sing in church because God reminded me of my promise.  I still couldn't sing and tried to maneuver in church to sit in front of a strong singer so I could follow along and behind an empty space so no one would have to suffer for hearing me. But I sang.

The years went by and I grew more confident, but never relaxed about singing.  Only in the car with only my kids would I sing loudly and fearlessly.  I figured I was off key, but I gave birth to them - they have to endure me.  They sang loudly and cheerfully alongside of me.  In fact, they thought I sounded great!  But what would they know.

Then my son, the one like me, joined choir in high school.  Choir?!  As in sing in public?  I wanted to tell him that he can't sing - we're no good at that, don't you know?  But I was silent.  I told him to go ahead. He did.  He sings ok.  Even decent.

Today, in church, I stood there happily singing.  Next to me was my son with his deep strong voice singing with all his heart.  And I sang along.  As I sang, I thought something.

He's easy to sing with.  His voice is like mine.

You see, my mom sings with a warbling soprano.  My voice is a low alto.  All these years, she had been trying to get me to sing like her.  I will never sing soprano, let alone a warbling one!  I am the deep voice, the shadow, the quiet pool, not the bubbling brook.  It was a friend who let me understand that.  I told her I don't sing because I sing horribly.  She teaches music, and she said, "you don't sing badly - you just sing a low alto.  You just have to learn to sing your own song."

I can't say that I believed her.  Not totally.  But I thought about it.  I stopped trying to sing the high part.  I don't sing the ladies section of songs anymore.  I can't. But it wasn't until I heard my son's voice that I understood.  He's got a beautiful voice.  But it is deep.  He can sing his section - deep and strong.  When he giggles and tries to sing the other parts, he sounds horrible.

I just needed to learn to sing my song, not someone else's.

And you know what - I actually can sing.  I sing ok.  My son and I sing together, and I smile.  This is what I was created to do - sing low and deep, and I like singing now.  Once in a blue moon, you'll even catch me singing all alone, quietly, in public while I work.

I promised God that I would sing when my son was born.  I didn't know that it was my son who would give me my voice back.

Re-Telling Our Stories

I've had an interesting path recovering from a trauma a few years ago.  It's been a fairly solitary path - not by choice at all, but by neglect of others.  It wasn't at all what I expected to happen after a trauma like that, and the very neglect itself became a sort of secondary trauma that I had to (and still at times have to) sort through.  Added to that, just to make things more interesting, was an event that was almost an attack on us in the middle of the immediate recovery.  From a distance, I can see that it was the result of putting too many freshly hurt people in a room together with no competent guidance or leadership.  But it deeply hurt.

I think one of the difficulties about working in some areas of the world is that everyone is so closely connected to everyone - wanted or not.  One person's mistakes can cost another person's visa, career, or life's work.  Or life.  So tensions tend to run high when things go wrong.  And working in an area of the world that sees as many deaths of workers as this area of the world means that many workers are working with wounds.  Many of us have lost friends.  Some died, some were killed, and some simply disappeared and that awful unknown haunts us.  People like that should never, ever attempt any type of team debrief of any situation without competent guidance and leadership that is NOT involved in the situation.  What happens then is that the wounded attack the weakest - not perhaps because they want to, but because they are wounded and can't even cope with their own wounds.

But we did not know that then.

Others neglected us simply because they were ignorant.  They thought that narrowly averting a tragedy was good news.  That's great, praise God, all is well.  But they put no thought into the effect of the days of trauma.  They were just ignorant, focused on the end result and not on the journey.  Perhaps even thinking that because we coped well in a trauma that "they must be strong".  We are.  But even the strong need to bandage their wounds or they will not any longer be strong.  Often those who stay strong during a crisis need the most care afterwards.  They save all the emotions for dealing with when it is safe.  We've been able to communicate this to our leadership now.

But they did not know that then.

Today I was at work in the old folks home, my part-time side job.  We had some new health information posters put up, and I read one today.  It said that people who have experienced a traumatic event need to tell their story about eight or nine times to listening ears before they are able to begin to come to grips with it.

Eight or nine times.

  Hear that.

I stared at that poster and my eyes filled up until I blinked and turned away.  Eight or nine times.  All I wanted that first week was to talk, to tell my story, and I was told to be quiet, not to talk.  Then I was told to listen to other's stories, but not talk.  "It was their trauma, not yours."  I understand that. They went through what we didn't.  But I needed them to understand that we went through what they didn't.  Don't leave the family out.


The first time I told my story was all alone in a room.  Out of desperation, I grabbed a cup of tea and spoke into empty space, asking God to sit and listen to a story He already knew simply to let me tell it.  The second time was to someone I've never met.  Out of desperation, I wrote my story out to a blogger friend who volunteered her strong shoulders and listening ear.  For the first time, except for the empty room, I felt like someone listened.  What a relief!

Eventually, as best as I could without specifics, I blogged about it, and many of you listened.  That helped.

Later I wanted to talk, and finally, weeks later, someone listened.  But it was the weirdest experience I had ever had in talking to this person.  It was as if he was listening because he had to do a duty, to check it off his list, and wasn't listening with his heart.  It was hard for me.  Really hard.  Perhaps he couldn't.  Perhaps he was too close.  But it just intensified the loneliness.

But I still needed to talk.  And I felt bad about it.  I had talked.  Why still need to?  Even a few times, someone suggested that maybe I was just "stuck" and needed to put it down.  So I felt guilty about it.

When we went home, I was blessed by two groups that heard my story.  Not in all the detail - there was no time, but they HEARD, and that was what I needed.  Then I was really blessed by a friend and a coffee date.... and her poor sister who ended up babysitting for four hours!  I got to tell it again - for the first time face to face with a friend who listened and heard my feelings.

Shortly after that, I was able to spend a week at my Bible school.  I got suddenly dumped with a missions class to teach when there was a family emergency in a teacher's life.  I talked to them simply about what I wished someone had told me when I was sitting behind those desks.  Perhaps they had told me, but I hadn't listened.  I talked to them about the realities of life in missions, and simply listed the events we had been having to deal with as a community over the last year.

I was sitting eating lunch when the dean of woman came and grabbed me.  She stole my food and dumped it and took me out.  We ordered Chinese at a quiet place and when the appetizers came, she said, "now.  Talk!"  So I did.  This time was to an older woman who I respect, but who has also known me since I was 16 years old.

I slowly began to feel more normal, but this year a suggestion by leadership sent me back into a tailspin.  I was on my way to a friend's house - a retired worker who knew our field well.  She also listens well, and she listened as I shared the story.  By this time, I was moving on from the trauma of the actual trauma and starting to process the trauma of the neglected recovery.

But before this, we had a group here for a training session, and one of them who should know better said to me again that maybe I just need to move on and get over it.  I felt bad - both angry and hurt.  Why would people who did such a bad job caring for me in the first place get upset that the wound hadn't healed well?  I started to doubt myself - am I just a mess, not dealing with this well?  Am I just weak, not cut out for this type of work?

Today, I stood there reading our "mental health" poster of the month. My eyes filled up with tears.  They were both tears of pain and tears of relief.  Validation that I am not crazy or weak to still have needed to tell my story.  Relief that I now begin to feel whole.  Whole enough to be able to examine the reasons behind the failures and neglect at the beginning.  The best way to prevent it happening to someone else is to understand why it happened here.  Then to fix it.

I've told my story eight times.  I don't count the time telling it to the person who really only listened out of duty - that actually ached more than silence.... which ached enough on its own!   Eight times now, and I'm feeling better.  But, it's nice to have that ninth time in my back pocket in case I need it! ;-)

I may need to tell my story again.  And if I do, I will not cringe and think I am weak for needing to.  I will stand strong and realize that I AM healing.  I can tell.  I am re-telling when I need to.  Those are the steps to recovery, not the signs of weakness.

I could have just been silent because people told me to be at first or because people didn't care when they should have.  Then I would have been still wounded, and I wouldn't have understood what was needed to heal.  I wouldn't have felt the anger that I feel over a system that let down its workers so badly, and I wouldn't have fought to understand the reasons well enough to stop it from happening again.

Next time someone tells you the same story again, LISTEN AGAIN!  But as you listen, pay attention to listen carefully.  Hear.  Let it touch your heart.  And as you listen again, ask yourself, what are they telling this time?  Are they this time able to identify feelings along with actions?  Which feelings?  From what events?  And respond to those. It takes awhile to work your way through all that a trauma sends your way, and people need each other to hear those feelings.  This week it might be the fear.  Next month, it might be the confusion.  Please, please, don't say, "you told me that already, why are you telling it again?" The why may be different this time, so listen again.  Respond with questions.  Don't be afraid to let your heart show.  How does the story affect you?  How do you feel about the actions and feelings expressed?  It isn't all about you, but some of your reaction helps me feel heard.

Don't worry - we won't tell the story forever.  But we will keep telling it until we've sorted it out enough.  Or until we've been heard.  Please keep listening.

And if you haven't been heard yet from your trauma, please keep talking.  Some will not listen to you, but keep talking.  There are ears out there, keep looking.

Take a Hike

Sometimes its the best thing you can do.  Today we took a long hike.  Not all that long, but long enough to be a good way to wear out a day.  We hiked 14.4 km on a trail up through a ravine.  Being a mountain girl living in a flat land, I am always disappointed when people say "go see the cliffs".  It was a pretty ravine, and the trees were gorgeous, but it was not mountains.  Still there were a few feet where our path led through a stand of pines, and for those moments, we could close our eyes, breathe deeply, and smell home.

We came back tired and happy.  Feeling better after being in the sun again.  The adrenaline of the last weeks of insane busy-ness under a load of relational stress worn off.  We love hiking - well, all but my daughter who doesn't really love activity.... but we ignore that and bring her anyway.  The boys and I were dreaming of training for a big hike.  There is a hike near us that could take about a week to complete.  We'd love to do it.  Really love to.  We hiked the Grand Canyon on our last home leave - all the way down to the bottom and spent two nights there.  It only whet our appetite to do more big overnight hikes.  So now we dream.  We'll spend a few more weekends doing some small hikes before the weather turns, and then perhaps, perhaps we'll be ready.