I Hope You Understand--I'm Not Dead

When I deactivated my Facebook account a week or so ago, I received several emails and messages asking if I was okay. Yes, I was...no, I wasn't. 

I was okay in that I wasn't hiding because I was miserable or buried in sadness. I was okay in that the criteria for "okay" my friend and I created last summer was still working. As long as I believed tomorrow would be better, I was alright. I do, and I am.

However, I was ready to get out of the fishbowl. There were some circumstances that offered intense motivation, but really, while the circumstances made me angry, getting out of the fishbowl was a relief.

The truth is I am tired of hearing how "I can't imagine how much pain you are in" and "where you are is so hard and so tragic and so...But just be strong. I know you might not think you'll make it but you will." If that is how you think, then you really can't imagine, and you really don't know.

No, my path through this is not like anyone else' I've known. There are so many details that I simply cannot address publicly, and honestly, it isn't public business anyway. A few very close friends are completely aware of all the details, and they aren't telling either. I think what they would tell you, though, is it really isn't as bad as people seem to imagine or "know".

Contrary to what some would say, I am not speaking out of anger or pain, and I'm not just spewing because life has been so bad people are shocked I can even get out of bed. I'm simply being honest. Honestly, I'm not broken. I'm not sad all the time. I'm not miserable all the time. I'm not drowning in pain, and I don't need or want someone to coddle me, hug me, mother me, or in any other way fix me or make me better.

Frankly, a lot of the time I spend my time trying to help others feel better or telling others I really don't need to be made to feel better. It starts with that, "How are you?" that really means, "Okay, tell me how utterly miserable and sad you are because I know you are just putting on a brave face for everyone else but I can handle the truth. I can handle the real you."

The real me isn't miserable. The real me isn't sad. The real me doesn't need a brave face. The real me doesn't need to feel better nearly as much as some folks need to make me feel better, and I've lost patience with codependent people. Frankly, if you need to do something to make me feel better so you can feel better, help us both feel better by simply not talking to me. It'll give you peace of mind. You won't feel rejected by whatever the latest thing I say is, and I won't avoid you because I get a headache trying to figure out what to say that won't get me a reprimand.

And really, I don't want to hear that you understand. If you want or need to tell me your story because you need to feel like someone can relate to your pain, I'm all ears. I totally understand how hard it is to grieve alone, and I totally understand the need for your pain or loss or life to be validated, and I am honored to be that person. However, really, dear souls with beautiful hearts, you can't understand where I am or what I've been through, and I'm okay with that. I hope you are, too.

Anna had a great description. She said, "It's like people have ridden in a one man rowboat with a leak trying to say they know what it is like to be on the Titanic."

Except that, we aren't on the Titanic. We aren't sinking. A lot of people seem to think we are, but we aren't. In fact, we've changed our sailing vessel. We are on the Avenger-class ship USS Warrior. Look it up. It's groovy.

I know you want to help. Let me tell you how.

The simple fact is I don't want to hear anymore about my being in a hard place. I don't want to hear anymore about how people can't imagine the pain or the loss or gloom, despair, and agony on me.

Yes, I have emotional days. I have exhausting days. They are perfectly normal. Do not look at my emotional/mental bruise or cut and react as though I need heart surgery. Just let me have an emotional day. Roll with it and move on. Do not assume an emotional Monday makes for a trashed Tuesday. IT'S A DAY. Just a day.

And respond differently than the average human. The average human when told a day is bad starts to commiserate with how sorry they are, how they hope things get better. They don't ask why it's bad, just accept it as it is and feeds it. On the contrary, when told a day is great, they ask why, and if it is just because it is sunny and nice and all is good in the world, the person looks at you like your a bit wacky and goes on. It's like you have to convince them it's a good day.

I'm not going to expend my energy trying to convince anyone it's a good day. Frankly, I'd just as soon deactivate my account, turn off my phone, ignore my email, and put my energy elsewhere where it'll mean something, like my writing.

As I said, I'm not mad. On the contrary, I'm blessed, and I appreciate your hearts. I appreciate your love. I just need you to be supportive in a different way. Instead of understanding how miserable and sad I am, understand that I'm not. Understand that I tired of being dead. Mom died. Rob died. I didn't die, and I'm tired of dealing with all the dead stuff.

I'm ready to focus on living.
Understand that it is time to move on, be happy, and find a new life.
Understand that hard days are JUST a day. Life is great.

THAT is where I am puttin my energy. I hope you understand.

The Landscape

I have read so many health insurance policy plans that when I close my eyes they overlay like old overhead sheets on a table. They blur and details are lost, and I wish there were someone to call and ask, "Could you please make this decision for me?"

Could anyone make any decision for me?

A year ago I was the follower, trusting the decisions made that were never topics of discussions, oblivious to the detailed workings of life. Now I am a single mom trying to navigate a country I've never even seen, and when I stare at the latest major thing we have to cross, I remind myself that few things in life truly destroy. They make for struggles, but as life continues, wisdom is gained, and the next crossing will be easier. It is the price of learning life.

The price of learning life.

Thursday I had lunch with Mike and Judy Brisky, and we were discussing the grief process, where I am, how the children are, and so on. I tossed out the fact that people often use the phrase, "when you get past this," as though somewhere down the line at some divine point I will wake and this will be over.

My mom might still be dead, but somehow the missing her will be over, and Rob will still be dead, but somehow the effects will be over, or I'll be over the effects.

I'm not really what "being past this" means. It's not like it is some part of the carwash that you drive through before getting to the next part. You know, you drive through the soapy part, but once you hit the rinse, there is no soapy being dumped on you. The soapy is over. You're past it, and you get to move on to the wind in your face section, and at the end of the journey, you drive into the sunshine, and the carwash is over. You're past it all.

Mike and Judy and I talked about the fact events in life are not over. They become part of the landscape, the bigger picture. The effects are still there. The influence is still visible. Maybe it isn't the whole landscape. Maybe it isn't even in the forefront, but it never completely goes away. Pain and loss is part of the landscape. It isn't something to get past. It is something that becomes a part of the whole picture, part of me, the whole me. and if it is allowed to blend in the right way, it adds to the picture, not becomes the picture. It makes the picture richer, deeper, more interesting to know.

No. I'm not on some carwash ride with parts and pieces I am getting past. I'm living the picture, letting the elements blend from glaring pieces into a stunning landscape, so when peoople look at it, they don't see a moment or an event. Instead, they see how the bright spots and dark places mesh together to become one amazing picture...they see me.

Making a Difference

I am convinced if we asked God how to make a personal difference, He'd tell us.

And I am convinced if we did what He told us to do, it really would make a difference.

Today, I Really Miss You

Dear Rob,

I miss you.

Tomorrow is Robert's birthday, and he's nervous. He's afraid your not being here is going to make him sad. He's right. And I'll do the best I can to walk with him through the pain and anger because he doesn't understand. What he doesn't realize is even if he did understand, it wouldn't help.

I understand a lot about us, about the separation, about your dying, and I've still spent the day in tears and angry.

Last night I rolled over and reached to your side of the bed to feel where you were so I could scootch up to you. I still miss the feel of you, the smell of you. I miss how I wrapped my arm around you and you would wrap your hand around mine and hold it to your chest.

Pretty silly, huh? I mean, it's not like you'd be here anyway.

Still, I miss you.

It's March Madness, and I printed out the brackets, but I haven't watched a game. It's not quite the same when I don't have someone screaming, "Did you see that?" with me. I miss your arms flying up in the air and your yelling, "OH MY GOSH!" when that last second bucket hits and overtime is either created or avoided. Your whole face lit up. I have never known anyone who could get so excited about teams they cared nothing about.

Flowers are coming up in the front flowerbed. I keep looking at the zinnia bed. I need to work on it, but I can't even make myself walk over there. In fact, the very idea of working in the yard at all exhausts me.

The kids and I do clay and paint a lot. Never was big on the clay, but even less so now. I really miss playing games, but that is something the children strongly associate with you, and  they aren't ready. I understand, so I either pinch a piece of clay and just chat with them or I read. Of course, they miss your reading to them. Me, too. I liked your voice. Your reading was always so soothing, especially when you read Winnie the Pooh. :-)

Robert decided he doesn't want streamers and balloons for decorations this year. Honestly, I'm sort of glad. You always did such a good job with the decorations. I would have done them, but it would have been so hard. Sort of like when Meg Ryan is talking to Maverick, and she says, "Goose would have flown without you. He would have hated it, but he would have done it." I would have hated it, but I would have done it.

And, yes, I know. It's not like you would be here. Not like you would be with me.  But there are things we really got right. The children and letting them know they are special and important and amazing...we definitely did well there. We certainly knew how to celebrate them, didn't we?

You were a wonderful dad.

You were a wonderful man in a kazillion ways...and today, I really miss you.

When Silence Speaks Volumes

My friend Michele sent me a sweet message last night asking my forgiveness for her silence. Except, she hasn't been silent. She just hasn't been talking to us. Instead, she's been talking for us, and that is exactly what we needed.


Jerri,

I just read your blog post and wanted to say...

Over and over again, I think of the different ways you have lifted me up - and I have no idea how to do the same for you. I have prayed for you, Anna, & Robert and I'm sorry that is all I have done. Truly. You are precious - to God, to me, and to so many others. You remain in my prayers and please forgive my silence.

My response:
Sweet friend,
A multitude of thanks for the prayers. Prayers for us are EVERYTHING.

Truly. I am not just saying that to make you feel better. God's faithfulness, despite my screaming pain and rage, is obvious. I know He is answering others' prayers because I do not even know what to pray now.

Do not be sorry that is "all I have done". Change your sentence around and hear the power in it. "All I have done is pray." When all you're doing is praying, all you're doing is walking into the throne room on behalf of my children and me and saying, "Lord, God Almighty, Ruler of the entire universe who holds every second, every breath, every answer in Your hand, let me ask of You for my in desperate need friend Jerri and her children."

Oh, my friend, stand in the throne room for us! Stand there! Cry out for us! Seek Him for us! Ask of Him for us!

Michele, I have no words. I somehow wander into the throne room, fall to my knees, stare at Him, and simply lift my hands in empty questions. I do not know what to ask. I have simply sat in His presence and hurt and sobbed.

Speak for us. Put words where I have none. You are doing exactly what we need. Thank you for your faithful intercession. Thank you.

"...and I have no idea how to do the same for you." Oh, my friend, simply saying that does wonders for my soul. Simply saying, "Jerri, I can't imagine the pain and have no idea how to get near it, but I'm with you," is balm.

"...Forgive my silence." Michele, what is there to say? Really? That you are stunned? Shocked? Yep. Me too. That God lvoes me? Believe me, if He didn't, He would have squished me like a bug already. That He has great plans for me? A whole email in and of itself. That...what? This sucks and you can't believe how much has happened in 9 months? Yes, it does, and I can't either.

I'm learning that sometimes silence isn't abandonment or rejection or ambivalence. Sometimes silence is the only way to acknowledge how truly HUGE the impact of something is. Sometimes silence is the only honest response...and sometimes it is the most healing because it validates the immensity of a situation for the person going through it. Silence says this is unlike anything you've ever seen before, and nothing remotely compares.

Losing my mom and Rob dying suddenly within 3 1/2 months of each other is big. Statistically, you don't hit that very often. Throw in the separation, and that shrinks it further. Toss in that our divorce would be final tomorrow, the 15th, and that really knocks it down to tiny number, and for fun, let's mix in a whole slew of details that aren't public domain, and yeah, I have pastors who are friends telling me they are walking in unchartered territory because they have NEVER heard of anything close to this situation.

Yeah, silence because nothing remotely compares...sounds like the perfectly validating response.

So, dear one, walk in freedom. You are doing exactly what you need to do. You are recognizing a situation that is FAR beyound human ability to do anything about, so you are taking it all to the One who can do anything we need.

You are doing EXACTLY what we need you to do. Please keep it up.

And if Daddy shares any words with you, please share them with me if He says you can. :-)

Love you dearly! Sending you huge hugs!!!

When You Don't Know What to Say, Just Say...

One thing I have heard over and over in the last month is, "I don't know what to say." I totally understand. I want to share a few things people have said that really helped me.

"I have never felt more helpless or useless as a friend than I do right now."--My friend John when I called to tell him Rob was gone and I didn't understand the last eight months at all.

"I am here."--a simple text on my phone the morning Rob died. I laid it on my pillow so I could try to rest and not feel so alone.

"I can be on a plane tonight. I want to be sure you are okay."--Kevin when he offered to take time off from the Army and fly from El Paso to be with us during the funeral and the few days following.

"Reason I'm trying to locate you geographically is 'cause...I was going to see if they had a non-stupid person who might check in on my behalf."--Kenneth, a pastor after God's own heart.

"sits on ground next to you. *sighs* picks up a rock and throws it away aimlessly"--sometimes there are no words, only presence, even if it is half-of-Texas away

"Don't you think Joy and I would have been there already if the Teleporter was working?"--Yes, Kenneth, you would be.

"Ugh! (Sorry--that doesn't sound very pastoral or spiritual)."--No, but it sounded like you understood, and I needed that more than anything.

"Silver in forms...Gold Medalist in sparring..."--Two texts that allowed me to feel like I was part of a regular life. It was nice to be Jerri and not just somebody dealing with tragedy.

"Jerri, it's really okay."--It wasn't just Greg's words. It was his tone, the look in his eyes when he said it, and the subordinate truth that I was okay.

"Yes, I can."--Raeetta when asked if she could stay with the children and me the week of the funeral.

"I'll take care of..."--the list was huge, but Chris did take care of all of that, the children, and me. When he said he would take care of something, I never gave it a second thought. It would be done, and it was.

 "Okay, here are three boy toys to start...And if you want to rob the cradle, I mean be a cougar..."--Debra had me laughing out loud! And it felt good. :-)

" :-) Smile"--Bilal, just checking in.

"Just checking in on you. Love you, Dan."--Love you, too.

From Sharilyn--A picture of a car with a grill line that looked like a big smile. In my mind, I could see the tongue lolling out. I rolled

"Understandable: watch out for toxic rain."--Pam's response when she asked how I was, and I said the train hit was rough, and the big crater made by the 747 when it crashed into me was hard to climb out of, but the mushroom cloud pretty much said it all. So nice to be understood. :-)

"When do you want us?"--Debra, who knows life and grief comes in waves.

"We are with you."--Stacey, when lunch after the funeral felt like Everrest.

"I've got you, and I'm not letting go."--Stuart, when he held my hand and led me to his truck after the funeral.

--
Posted By Blogger to Jerri Kelley at 3/13/2011 03:43:00 PM

Worshipping

Tonight there is no Gibbs. There is no shooting terrorists.

Tonight there is stillness.

I am forcing myself to be still, to allow myself to think, to allow myself to feel.

It's a hard thing, this feeling...or drowning in so much feeling that I have gone numb.

The truth is I am simply standing in the midst of carnage, turning in circles, staring at the devestation. The sword I used to wield with such ferocity hangs limp from my hand, and instead of determination, I feel very little more than shock.

And I cannot truly believe what I see around me.

For months my goal has been to keep moving forward no matter what exploded around me or in front of me, and I have done that. However, today, I don't know what "forward" means. I don't even know what movement looks like. Settling Rob's estate? Getting the legal papers signed? Picking up his ashes and figuring out where to put them until we scatter them later? Paying off bills that have accrued? Waking up in the morning, getting out of bed, showering, and brushing my teeth?

When all of this started nine months ago, I told folks we were not "fine", but we were okay. It was hard, but we were going to get to the other side and flourish anyway. I'm not sure what other side we are supposed to get to, and I don't know what "okay" is anymore.

I'm not trying to give the impression that I'm hopeless. I'm not. I'm not depressed either. I'm just...

...hurting...

...and dismayed...

...and waiting.

I have never felt so utterly stripped bare, undefined, and directionless.

I have never stood before God and been so completely at a loss. I have nothing, not even words. I can only stand before Him, stare confused, and shrug with a thousand unworded questions.

And all I really know is He is good.

And instead of being appalled by tears, He accepts them as worship because it is all I have to offer Him. It is what I have been reduced to...tearful trust in Him despite the pain.

TRUST IN THE LORD WITH (ALL YOUR BROKEN) HEART,
and do not lean on your own (finite, pleasure seeking, comfort desiring) understanding.
In all your (broken, tear marked) ways, acknowledge Him (He is the only One who can or will make a difference),
and He will make your (seemingly devestating and dream destroying) paths straight.

This is worship.

It is not standing with hands high, songs filled with happy thoughts, and easy thankfulness for all the good things.

Worship is...

...the staring eyes filled with confusion and questions,

that choose to look to Him and not away,

even when the tears fall hot and the heart aches deep.

...the heart shattered

with nothing left of what it had hoped for

that turns to Him and whispers,

"I hope you can find me here."

Worship is not going to God because He feels good.

Worship is going to God

even when it hurts beyond one's wildest nightmares.

And I stand here...staring...aching...questioning...

...worshiping.

Switch

I have avoided this place with you because I really didn't know what to say. People keep asking how I am. Like I have an answer for that.

The last seventy-two hours have been spent mostly angry. I don't think I can really explain that. Some of the anger is specific, but a lot of it is just the general scatter-shot anger. Angry about the last year. Angry about the marriage I dreamed of. Angry about Rob's choices. Angry that things keep disappearing but God isn't explaining. Just angry.

Two of my men friends tell me men have this ability to simply hit a switch and a situation is over. Done. Sort of like it never happened.

Wish I had that switch...

And I don't wish I had that switch.

Did I ever tell you I wanted to go into the military when I graduated high school? Yep. I either wanted to coach basketball or be a military strategist. Really not that different in purpose. In basketball, you figure out the strengths, weaknesses, and strategies of the opponent, and you use them against them so you win the game. Really not much different with military strategy. You learn your oponent, analyze their strengths and weaknesses, and use that information to defeat them. The difference is in one game everyone goes home. In the other, not so much.

I didn't go into the military, though, because of knee surgery.

However, I've often wish I had. Several of my friends have this self-discipline switch--now granted they are also men, so maybe it is a man thing and has nothing to do with the military--and I have wondered if I had become a Marine, would I have it, too? Would I simply be able to turn off the mental and emotional choas like so many of them seem to be able to do?

Sometimes I wish I could...sometimes I'm glad I can't.

Sometimes I feel like the horrendous pain and all the tears is really weakness, and if I were stronger mentally or emotionally, it wouldn't bother me. I feel like if I had the right self-discipline days like yesterday wouldn't slam me. In fact, they wouldn't bother me at all. But, it did. In fact, it knocked me to my knees.

I went to the funeral home to pick up Rob's death certificates, and the woman said, "Oh, his remains are here, too."

No clue what I looked like, but it must have not been so good because amidst the words "remains are here" scream-echoing in my head, I heard, "Honey, I think you better sit down."

"His remains are here."

It was the first time in the this whole stretch of surrealism that I had to fight to not vomit.

"Honey, you don't have to take them today."

"I didn't know they were here," I heard myself mutter.

"You can leave them for now."

"The kids are in the car." Again, it was my voice.

"Well, then most certainly this is not the best time. Not a problem."

I don't remember leaving her office. I remember leaning against the brick wall while gagging sobs shook my body.

Surely, if I were more mentally disciplined such moments wouldn't happen. Instead of letting the information slam into me, I would have simply taken the ashes, too, thanked the lady for her helpfulness, and told her how much I appreciate the service I received from their funeral home. I would have walked out nonplussed, gotten in the car, and the children would have never been the wiser.

Surely...

Sometimes I think that would make life easier, less painful, and really, I like less painful.

However, as enticing as it looks, this very thing I hate so much--the ability or acceptance of hurting so deeply, so wholly--is the very thing that makes me the most useful. It is my willingness to embrace the dark and its monstrous pain that allows me to walk into it without fear to help others find their way out.

I have learned being in the dark is not weakness. Acknowledging the pain of the dark is not weakness. Letting the dark control me is.

If the dark hurts so much I'd rather flip a switch and hide than to walk into, learn it, understand it, and rescue others from it, then the dark has won, but as long as I am willing to make phone calls when all I can do is sob without words...as long as I am willing to lie in my bed numb from the mental and emotionally beating I have just taken...as long as I know the difference between one day and a crater...then I'm not too afraid.

I think there it is admirable when people are self-disciplined enough to flip a switch and turn off their own mental and emotional responses in order to do their job or to help others. But I'm learning that sometimes it takes courage and self-discipline NOT to hit that switch. Sometimes the self-discipline and courage take me right into the place I least want to be. But oddly, even if I had the power to change it, I don't think I'd switch.

Staggering Forward

My friend Rod Dreher posted this on my Facebook page.

Yes, Rod, yes...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmbQEQltOwM

I keep going back to a phrase from the poet W.H. Auden: "Stagger onward rejoicing." Seems right in this situation. I'm also thinking of a line from that Leonard Cohen song "Hallelujah": "Love is not a victory march/It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah." Yep.

When Words Fail

Believe it or not, I have no doubt God has a purpose. I have no doubt of His love, mercy, or grace. I don't understand this week, but I have not understood most of the last 8 months...except that He continues to take care of the children and me.

But I will also tell you this, I am shell shocked. I do not even know what to pray, little less how to pray it. I keep remembering verses about "those who call on the name of the Lord". Thankfully, it is not "those with eloquent prayers made up of perfect words," because I have no words beyond, "Oh, holy God..." And my voice trails off because I am at a loss, but then maybe, as long as I know to start with Him I am not as lost as I thought.

With Loving Memories

 Rob Phillips

August 6, 1968-February 15, 2011

Rob Phillips suffered a massive heart attack just after midnight on February 15, 2011.

Despite medical efforts, he did not survive.

His family deeply appreciates your prayers as we deal with the shocking loss of such a wonderful man.

For each of you who have known and loved Rob...thank you.

If you would like to bless the family in some way, a trust fund has been set up for the children, donations can be made to the V-Foundation for Cancer Research, or you may contact the family for further ideas.

Thank you for your prayers.

Faith Defined

The best definition of faith I've ever heard:

"Faith is not about everything turning out OK;

Faith is about being OK no matter how things turn out." 

Thank you, Stacey, for sending this to me.

Umbrella Drinks in the Fire

Annoyingly, the rollercoaster is still in full swing. I feel like a pendulum Tarzan slamming from one extreme mood to another. Okay, well, that euphoric part of the manic is a bit elusive lately, but nonetheless. DESPITE THE MOOD PENDULUM TELEPORTATION, I know things are getting better...I am getting better.

First of all, I have really missed my mom this week. Like I told a friend of mine, I don't think I have really been congnizant of grieving Mom in the last 3 1/2 months. I've missed her, but I haven't grieved. This week I grieved. This week, my heart felt broken, and the tears fell with just the mention of her. That Is huge because it means the pain from the divorce is not so great that I find the grief of Mom's death too much. I am now stable enough with the divorce to address the emotions of losing Mom.

Of course, that also means I just swapped rollercoaster rides. Yeehaw.  

I'm also thinking through things faster and not getting lost in the pain, I think. In the last week a few things have slammed me really hard, and I've cried a lot, hurt a lot, but I've also prayed a lot, been still a lot, listened a lot, and thought a lot more clearly. And each time I've walked away from the "trigger" calmer, more focused, more...sure. I won't say I have a swagger in my step, but I do have a smile on my face.

And once again, I am able to see myself as a shaper of our future, not just someone trying to survive a helluva rough seven months, but someone who will flourish and have an amazing life. I can choose that. I'm not a victim. I am a visionary with determination and peace.

Oh, believe me, I am fully aware that tomorrow you could walk in and find me sobbing on my bedroom floor again. If so, just set the Kleenex box beside me. Feel free to sit down with me and wait it out or close the door behind you when you leave. Either is fine because today is good. Right NOW is good...in that "been through the fire and am still there but I'm learning how to enjoy an umbrella drink while I'm here" sort of way. :-)

Close to Home

Drove seventy-five miles to pick up our poodle Fluff at the vet today. I've known Dr. Larry Tisdale my whole life, seriously. He was my folks' vet when they showed and raised Walker Coon Hounds.

While we were talking, we talked about Rob and me. When I left, Larry hugged me, which he's never done, and just held me there a moment and said, "Honey, it's hard and it's painful, and I'm sorry you are going through this, but I'll be praying for you."

It was one of those "breathing" moments when you can't quite go home again...but you get close enough to feel the comfort...

Knowing

I grew up in church, there every time the doors were open, even when we were sick and there was no heater. I memorized verses. Sang hymns. Prayed at the old wooden altar, knees on the hard wood floors. I don't remember ever doubting there is a God, and I thought I knew God.

But the God I've seen in the last year is unlike anything I've ever known or experienced before.

I have been in awe of His power. I have been overwhelmed by His greatness.

Now I am undone by His gentleness.

I have never experienced such compassion or kindness in my whole life. It is as though He has stepped from His high throne as King and wrapped Himself in a towel...and I never understood. I am sure I don't understand now...but for the first time, I am beginning to know that He really does...

And while I am left thinking I do not know this God who is so patient in simply being with me...for me...I am mystified by the completeness of His knowing me.

Sometimes It Takes A Mental Adjustment

I have those days when a variety of elements combine to be annoying and a bit heavy. When those happen, I take a deep breath and mutter, "Time to put on the big girl panties." Then I mentally choose them.

Today, I'm thinking leather with small zippered pockets with silver zippers. Big girl bra to match. For some reason I feel the need to pull out my pump action Nerf shotgun. :-)

Beauty in the Desert

God is amazing, isn't He? That way He takes the desert and puts the most wildly amazing spots of beauty in it that just make me hunger for what it on the other side so I keep moving forward and refuse to be distracted by the mirages that the enemy sets around me. Oh...He takes my breath away...
--Facebook post, January 23, 2011

Milk and Honey

It is now 12:34 am, and the children are in their beds again. It's an emotional night with them really missing their dad. Usually, they see him on Thursday nights, but due to weather concerns that didn't happen. The change in schedule has raised the awareness of Daddy being gone back to the forefront of Favorite Boy's thoughts and emotions. It didn't take Wonder Girl long to join the snuggle pile on the couch.

Nights like this are really hard for me. On one hand, I want to cry because it makes me sad for the children, and when Wonder Boy's voice breaks as he says, "I miss you and Dad being together," my heart breaks, too. Then I get angry because I think the divorce is stupid and unnecessary. It is selfishness at its most unconsionable. However, I don't break into sobs, and I don't throw their dad under a bus. Instead, I speak tenderly and assure them I am here, I have no intention of going anywhere. I tell them again that some days are hard but it is going to get easier, it is easier, and we are okay.

I'm not sure what "okay" looks like, but the hope of it seems to make things better...for them and me.

In my mind, I try to remember that we are in one doozy of a desert right now but the Promised Land is out there. I don't really know what that looks like for us, but I know it is a good place. For the Israelites that was literal. What about us? What does milk and honey look like when you are trying to put your life back together?

Milk--Milk is nurturing, the food a mother gives a baby. It is filled with all the food, nutrients, and provision a baby needs to thrive.

Honey--Sweet, useful for a variety of food items. A teaspoon of local honey everyday can reduce allergies and help one breathe better. It's produced from flowers by worker bees.

While I don't know exactly what the Promised Land looks like or how it will manifest, I know God will nurture us there, and He will give us what we need to thrive. He will fully provide for us as His children. It will be sweet, with beauty around us. It'll be a place we can breathe, and we will have purpose and be productive.

The Promise Land is a good place, a good place indeed, and the God who is going to get us there is with us even now, in the desert...and even now I see the nurturing and the provision, enjoy the sweet moments filled with beauty. Even now, we are breathing...have purpose...are growing...

Even now He is keeping His promise...even now, we really are okay...

The Courage of a Dandelion

I love dandelions. In a field or in my yard. I love them. Bright yellow paint drops on a green canvass, standing out, looking happy, making me smile. Yep. I love them.

I love how the tiny drip of sun becomes a bundle of wishes waiting to happen. Oh, I know. It's superstition to assume my wish will come true if all those little seeds explode into the air just because I can breathe hard enough to send them flying. However, I belief Breath is what gives life, and potential cannot be achieved while clinging to the old. It takes courage to change, to believe in what one can be.

I love that about dandelions.

I know other folks don't like them. They see weeds, bothersome little plants that don't fit into the box of beautiful homes and gardens. Those people can't get beyond established definitions of beautiful or useful or acceptable. Somewhere someone told them dandelions are bad, and they believed...and sadly for them, they are missing the wonder and the beauty...and the freedom to dream of something more.

As for me, I pray to be a dandelion, the bright spot standing out among the status quo and the perfectly manicured. I pray to grow even where I am not understood or even wanted, and I pray I am never afraid to give up what I am for the potential of what I can be. I pray I always have the kind of courage...

...The courage of a dandelion.