A Rainbow of Blue

“I am afraid of emotions,” Mack admitted… “I don’t like how they feel.

I’ve hurt others with them and I can’t trust them at all.

Did you create all of them or only the good ones?”…

“Mackenzie.” [spoke] Sarayu “…Emotions are the colors of the soul;

they are spectacular and incredible.

When you don’t feel,

the world becomes dull and colorless.“

~ The Shack ~

Color.  It lifts my spirits.  It reminds me that God is still present.  Still working.  Good in spite of the brokenness and trauma that surrounds me.

Red to yellow through orange
Yellow to blue through greens
Blue to red through violets
Nothingness to an array of blues

When we first moved to Oklahoma in 1992 I came without a job.  On days when my husband was in graduate seminars and I felt particularly down, I went to the fabric store.  I walked around isles and isles and bolts and bolts of colored cotton fabric.  I didn't know a soul in Norman and we had little money, but I immersed myself in color.

Immersed myself in good.

These past few weeks color has once again taken a prominent place in my life.  Color studies visit my life in art displays and projects, spoken words, written words and book covers.

Rainbows…
               Transitions…
                             Meaning…
                                            Beauty…
                                                          Sorrow…
                                                                      Grief…
                                                                                    Pain…

Recently our yoga instructor talked us through a mediation of sorts, a guided way to focus on stretching while breathing.  She asked us to visualize the color of the stretch and then while releasing to visualize the change to another color.

I pictured red-hot red and the transition to yellow through beautiful oranges.  I breathed… stretched… released… stretched and then released again.  I breathed.  Deep breaths.  Breath that reminded me of life.

I relaxed more and stretched once again.  This time my thoughts went from red to orange and stayed present with orange, comforted in orange.

While focusing on breathing my mind also centered on my dear friend who recently _____ her daughter to suicide.  I use a blank because no word seems to fit. Not “lost” to suicide because her daughter is still very much present in her thoughts.  Not “experienced” suicide.  Not past tense because the family still experiences the suicide and the loss of her physical presence every day.

When we visited recently we shared, we grieved, we paused in silence.  In grief and sorrow sometimes words came, but most of the time nothing graced our lips.  The thoughts and ache deep inside.  Red-hot red thoughts.  Red-hot red aches and sorrow.

In a loving grief inspired act, her daughter’s high school art class gave the family a painting her daughter helped create.  Her small group expressed their color wheel study through a celestial view like what Hubble would see.  The painting is stunning and the transitions around the color wheel seamless and timeless.  My friend received the framed painting several days after her daughter’s suicide and I couldn’t help but tear up while she looked at the painting.  I wondered about her thoughts and the rainbow of memories washing through her mind.

***

Not long ago while feeling especially fearful about our cross country move and my writing project I thought about the yoga meditation.  I ask myself what color fits the pain I feel.  Just when I think I’ll dive in and share my writings, the gremlins torment me.  I get excited one moment and in a flash it’s gone and I am overcome with fear.

What color fits this pain?

The feeling is cold. I’m clinched.

The feeling is terrified I will make a mistake; say something “unorthodox”.

This feeling says, “I don’t approve.”

It says, “Stop…no further. Too risky.”

It warns, “You are violating the rules. You’ve stepped out of the ‘good girl’ box.”

I visualize a drab gray, but honestly it feels like the absence of color.  All life drains away when I listen to the critics’ voices.  No blue, yellow or red undertones.  Death really.

As with the yoga meditation I visualize the stretch and pain of stepping out of the “good girl” box.  I choose the color blue, my least favorite color.  Instantly an array of beautiful comes to mind.

Sky Blue
               Storm Blue
                                 Deep Blue
                                                   Navy
                                                             Midnight Blue
                                                                                     Baby Blue
                                                                                                       Cobalt
                                                                                                                    Teal
                                                                                                                             Turquoise

Stepping through this rainbow and weaving though these words, ever so slightly I feel the tight grip release.  I don’t want to give into the critical voices and stop writing.  I don’t want them to win, but their voices are strong in my head.  I fear disconnection which is death to me.  A future fear not grounded in reality, but nonetheless in my present world being open and vulnerable seems a gateway to disconnection.

In her book Daring Greatly, Brené Brown speaks something that stirs my soul.  To be vulnerable is “to engage”, to be “all in”.   Vulnerability is “uncertainty, risk and emotional exposure”.  Brené is adamant that vulnerability is not weakness.

As I dance with the blues I choose to engage “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure” and to release my tight grip on mechanisms I've chosen to protect my heart from being hurt or disappointed. I choose to face my shame triggers, to name them and question their message.

***

I grieved with my friend.  The community grieved with my friend, her husband, and sons.  The church literally overflowing.  No standing room.  People waited outside.

At her home I held her face in my hands.

We’ve been through a lot together over the course of our friendship.  I met her six-months before her daughter was conceived.  Over these years we’ve talked a lot.  Walked through a lot.  Laughed a lot. Cried, grieved and prayed...a lot.  She taught me that absolutely nothing is beyond God’s ability to redeem; nothing too tragic, too scary, too ugly.

My friend’s daughter took her life by cutting off breath.  I thought of her today as my lungs fill with breath.  Oh sweet one!!!  Why?  I search for understanding in a situation that defies it.  Another friend said it well.  Depression…the monster…grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go.

I want to believe that God is "in this" and that God has not left us.  I want to believe that all will turn out for good.  I’m supposed to believe “in all things God works for the good of those who love him,” a major tenet of my faith, but today it is difficult to accept from where I stand.  How on earth will losing a daughter to suicide turn out for good?  How can good come out of this; not tiny good, but huge good that explains why God did not step in and intervene.

I don’t understand why He didn’t.  This is the fear of my struggle.  I want to turn away in disappointment, but this color meditation points me back and reconnects me to God.  Color is my promise that I can dialog with God about my fears, my disappointments (unanswered prayers), my confusion (why did You not intervene), my anguish over my friend’s daughter’s death.

Most of these questions will remain unanswered, but I realize my grace is that I KNOW I can still speak my questions to God.  I know He will meet me, hold my hand and walk with me in the confusion.  I trust His character because He’s walked with me through many other circumstances.  I've faced fears and failures, rejection and loss.  Changed through them.   Learned His character.  Something new.  Something deeper.

I didn’t always believe this, but I now know deep in my bones that God is good.  Good whether the sun shines or not.  Good whether I am rich or poor or in sickness or in health.  Good whether I live or I die.  Good in tragedy or in peace.  Today my hope anchors and trusts that what the enemy meant for evil will eventually bring Life, in much the same way that Jesus’ death was an end; a stop ... but only for a time.  Life returned, transformed and redeemed.

I cling to hope that His ability to redeem anything will once again take flight.

***

As the weeks go by we are settling into our new life with new routines and new networks, most yet to be discovered.  New places.  New faces.  Yet all this newness is mixed with discomfort, instability, and loneliness.  My head spins up narratives that make the loneliness deeper.  My friend’s daughter’s death still troubling me.  My friend and her family’s grief is a billion times more complex, painful, and tragic than mine, but I speak this feeble prayer in the face of my fears.

I bring all this to You.  It is huge.  Too huge for a human to deal with without Your intervention which brings me to my fear.

I’m hurt and my faith wavers.  I still believe You are real and You are good.  I do believe both, but I have a wound of mistrust.  I don’t understand and not able to see why You didn’t step in and change the circumstances.

We prayed so much for her kids.  We prayed and prayed.  One constant prayer was for friends.  In the aftermath we see that she many.  For this I am grateful.

But…

Did we not pray the right prayers?
Did we not pray enough?
Did we not use the right words or
use the right tone or body posture?

I suppose when I start asking these I’ve fallen in a trap.  The trap says I can control and change people through my prayers.  An alluring trap.

What is my safe question to ask?  My insides in anguish.  I come back to a place of great sorrow and grief.  My heart weeps.  Please provide a support netting for my friend and her family to help them through this.

Even while writing I’m hesitant to ask.  It breaks my heart that I hesitate to enter Your embrace.  It’s not fear, but distrust and mistrust.  I don’t know what to do except to confess this.  Tears in my eyes and sorrow in my heart.  I love You and I don’t want to turn away, but I’m so disappointed.

I feel like we exhibited great faith and learned to cling to You hard and fast.  Maybe I thought this would carry to her children and You would protect them from all things.  It’s so complicated; so very complicated.

I’m really hurt and not sure where to turn…

…but still to You.  You are my Stability.  I am beloved and cherished.  I have chosen to walk with You and accept Your wide open call to be a disciple and to step into Your flow.

Yes, again today I speak that You are my God.   I will follow You even through this….even through this.

Strengthen my faith.  Grant me empathy in greater measure.  Empathy for those who struggle to believe You, trust you and to stay in spite of disappointment, loss and confusion.

You are my home.

***

While writing this prayer tears streamed down my face and angst in my cries.  My sweet dog, Gracie, walked over from across the room.  She knew I was upset and pestering me with her nose she anxiously jumped in my lap.  I buried my face in her fur and touched her dog tags.  They made me smile.  Her collar caught my eye among her black and white fur.

Turquoise.  I smiled.  Turquoise BLUE.

Embroidered in big letters is her name, “Grace”, followed by my husband’s cell phone number.   The juxtaposition washed over me.  Her name and our number necessary should she get lost.

I sent my friend a picture of Grace’s collar with these words:

Grace's collar with Brad's phone number reminds me

that grace will always point me back home.

Today I was able to confess to Father that I'm distrusting and mistrusting Him,

but I need home.

I need Him and I don't want to leave Him in my confusion, disappointment, grief, or sorrow.

I don't want to leave home, but my heart aches with confusion.

I'm trusting that Grace truly is my way back home.

Sending hugs to you my dear, dear friend and journey partner.

 

 

  

Rough Drafts and Sketchings*

Rough drafts and sketchings.

Long forgotten.

Your roughness and "mistakes" long ago.

Rough drafts and sketchings.

No longer remembered.

Yet...

Your existence spawns treasure, 

a jewel, a gem, a masterpiece.

Beginnings of...

form.  depth.  beauty.

color.  richness.  texture.

shape.  light.  darkness.  contrast.

Rough drafts and sketchings.

Today I embrace your unfinished beauty.

Today I receive your part of the whole.

Today I bless your work in my life.

Today I honor you.

* dedicated to my niece

Yardsticks

Set us free
that we would know in our bone's marrow 

that we are deeply loved and
completely cherished by You.

May we know this as a grounding truth.

Our performance is nothing to You. 

No measure to You.  No measure You use. 

You don’t use this yardstick.

You know it exists, but You never pick it up.

But we come to You and say 

"measure me and here is my measure." 

On a good day oh do we fly high. 

On a bad day all we see is failure, 

rejection or abandonment.

Your word in these moments is this:

"Child lay down the yardstick. 

I don't need it and neither do you. 

It is not mine. It is not my measure.

"'What,' you ask, 'is Your measure?' 

 Child, that is a beautiful question and a hard one. 

Today lay down your yardstick

and in the coming times 

I will show you My measure, 

My grace bound measure."

My Encounter with John 4 - The Woman at the Well

I've been working my way through Dale Bruner's commentary on the Gospel of John and earlier this summer I focused on John 4.  I've always liked the story of the Samaritan Woman at the Well and although for different reasons, I very much related to her feelings of weariness and isolation and her sadness over events resulting in rejection.

As much as I liked her in the story, however, I felt like Jesus was kind of mean to her.  I'm not sure what propelled me, but I decided to rewrite the story from her perspective as if I lived the story and had this encounter with Jesus.  It has completely changed my perception of Jesus in this story and I'm grateful.  Here is my adaptation.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Part 1 - An Unexpected Conversation
Part 2 - A Disarming Revelation
Part 3 - A Winsome Invitation

A Winsome Invitation (Part 3 - Adapted from John 4)

When I looked at him I saw something I've never seen before.  I can't quite put my finger on it, but a purity of sorts.  Not specifically sexual, but something much more.  A purity of thought, purity of expression, purity of words.  A purity of alignment.  Somehow everything seemed to line up with everything else.  No contradictions, no pretension, no hiding, no false presentation, no spinning.  His actions, his expressions, his words, his movement, his speech pattern.  Even the way he closed his eyes.  Authenticity is the word that comes to mind.

Just as he quietly spoke those stunning words, "I am He," a group of men walked up.  The moment evaporated and the purity disappeared.  Although they said nothing to me, it was obvious by their expressions that they did not associate with my people, let alone a woman with my past.

They clearly knew this man and, thankfully, taking their cues from him they held their tongues.  However, they did not hide their looks.  Were they embarrassed that their leader spoke to me?  Why on earth would he talk with me?  They probably wondered what I wanted from him.  They wouldn't know that he was the one who started the conversation not me.  That he asked me for a drink not the other way around.

On the other hand, maybe they sensed something important occurred?  I don't know, but I quickly turned without saying goodbye or saying what my heart wanted to say.  "Thank you for respecting me and affirming me.  Thank you for listening to me and hearing the words behind my words."

As I walked home the whole conversation replayed again through my mind.  This tired man sitting beside the well when I arrive.  Him asking me for a drink.  Me surprised at his acknowledgement as well as his words.  My shock and slightly edgy response.  His offer of something called Living Water.  His first clue of his true identity.  His invitation to ask for this Quenching and to ask for this Living Satisfaction.

Didn't he say something about never thirsting again?  I desire to be satisfied, to be truly satisfied; and for deep desires to be quieted so they won't rage.  The thing is lost hopes, lost dreams, disappointments, rejection, they always leave an empty place.  Abandoned now, but still known.  Still very much known.  Each new thing has promise.  Each new relationship a focus and a hope for a future.  Yet each eventually disintegrates.  Each one somehow twists into something else.  What initially piqued interest now brings anger.  Not wanting to cling too tightly somehow I still do.  I look for signs.  I look for clues of loosening commitment and for waning interest.  I clutch tighter and tighter trying to control things out of my control.

I always give my heart to each one thinking it will work this time.  I turn over the reins, my hopes, my future, my plans and then it all evaporates.  The reins get twisted and I'm left broken with mounds of unmet needs, confusion, dissatisfaction, and thirst...deep, deep thirst.

Had I inadvertently set each up to fail?  In all honesty were they ever really capable of delivering what I needed?  Is it even possible for a person, a job, a child, a goal to satisfy everything?  Maybe some part of that everything, but I see now a big gulf between their ability and my heartfelt need and desire.

Was his offer of Living Water meant to meet this deep need?  Was his offer to care for my abandoned and broken heart?

you, my beloved, 
are worthy of My love

And I AM 
worthy of your heart.

These words came to mind from out of nowhere.  They reduce me to tears wooing and disarming me. What does it mean for GOD to say he is WORTHY of MY heart.  If He truly is God it seems He bows quite low when He says them.

Something about letting those words settle over me brought a quiet.  I now understand.  He is and had always been the only one who could fully care for my heart.  Not only care for it, but truly honored to be asked.  To all others it is a burden.  Disappointment was always and would always be the end.  It couldn't be any other way.

I realized I never did get that drink he offered.  Though in truth something shifted inside.  No longer is my deep need a home for shame.  For the first time I feel honored and cherished.

Maybe that remarkable man and brilliant prophet really is who is says he is.  Maybe, just maybe, he really is the Messiah after all.


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Part 1 - An Unexpected Conversation
Part 2 - A Disarming Revelation
Part 3 - A Winsome Invitation

A Disarming Revelation (Part 2 - Adapted from John 4)

I came to the well this morning much defeated and dispirited.  I didn't expect to see anyone.  I went alone on purpose at a time when no one else goes.  It is always very hot at noon, but in the end it is easiest.  Yes, I do want this water he spoke of and to never thirst again.  But especially to never have to visit this well again.

I think he must have seen my expression change and caught a glimpse of my sadness.  It felt like his face softened.  Once again his words were completely unexpected.  He asked me to go get my husband.

Jeesh!  The thing is I've been married five times and I'm done with it.  I'm with a guy now but making no plans for a sixth husband.  I don't even want to get into this.  Lots of pain, lots of complication, miles of hard road.  Cycles of destruction and rejection.  I would just rather not talk about this.

I grabbed my water jug so I could leave, not to "go get my husband" but to evade the engulfing shame I've been hoping to escape.  Up to this point I'd held nothing back so my answer was short just that I didn't have a husband.

It wasn't a lie, but not the full story either.

Get this!!  It's like he read my thoughts.  He brought up that I'd had five husbands and now with someone who's not my husband.  How did he know that?

And then you won't believe what he did next.  He affirmed me!  He affirmed that I spoke truthfully.  I cannot explain what his affirmation did...deep, deep down in a long ago devastated place.  The disappointments deep, but somehow I have...not even sure the words...somehow I just keep going but it's not without a cost.

I told him he must be a prophet and then something came to mind that I'd always wondered about.  More truthfully, though, I really just needed to change the subject or I knew I'd fall apart right there, right then, right in front of him.

I asked about worshiping and why his people are so adamant about worshipping in Jerusalem.  They say it is the absolute place we must go.  It's always bothered me because the thing is my people are certainly not welcome there...it's a catch twenty-two really.

Again his answer took the conversation to a whole other plane.  He talked of a time when worship would be in neither place, not there and not here either, and he mentioned bowing before "The Father".  He said my people didn't really understand what we worshipped.  In actuality I understood these words because my people have a long history of putting our trust in many different things.  Pledging our allegiance only to be disappointed by their silence.

He said a time was coming and actually spoke of it as present...a NOW moment when true worshipers would be worshiping this Father by Spirit and Truth.  He said that the Father is actually seeking people that want to know him, who are drawn toward him, and want to surrender to him.  He mentioned this Spirit and Truth again, that they were needed to worship the Father...honestly all very confusing to me.

This man, this prophet; he is like no other.  Like no one I've ever met before. What he said is amazing.  So full of mystery and totally beyond my thoughts and imagination. He spoke of things that hopefully one day the Messiah will explain.   He is coming one day at least that is what I'm supposed to believe.

I wonder what it might be like if or when the Messiah comes.  I wonder what he will look like and how he'll act.  Certainly he will be strong, smart, a warrior, coming as a long awaited king.  I'm certain though he won't visit our town.  Speaking more to myself I said aloud, "You know the Messiah will come one day and will explain everything to us."  I gathered my jar and began drawing his water.

Then he quietly said with this amazing inner strength, "I am He, I, the man talking with you."


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Part 1 - An Unexpected Conversation
Part 2 - A Disarming Revelation
Part 3 - A Winsome Invitation

An Unexpected Conversation (Part 1 - Adapted from John 4)

Today this man asked me for a drink of water.  He was sitting alone resting apparently weary from his walk.  Taken aback by his request and because I was lonely and a bit angry I snidely said,

"Why would you ask me for a drink when most people like you want nothing to do with people like me?"

I expected him to ignore me or give me a dirty look, or worse yell at me.  But he did none of that and maybe even flashed a tiny smile.  Instead of pulling away he seemed to invite me to more conversation.  While looking down and with a slight lilt in his voice he said, "If you knew the free gift of God and who is asking you for a drink, you would have asked him for Living Water and he would have given it to you."

How strange of him to talk in third person.  That was certainly not the answer I expected.  Him now offering me water.  He turned the tables a bit.  That's kinda funny.  Such a nice man and so respectful.  It'd been a long time since someone treated me like that.

Strange thing though, he didn't even have a bucket to draw water and where would he get this water.  Living Water is what he called it.  What on earth is Living Water anyway?  Made me wonder if he thought he was better than my ancestor who gave us this well.  He and all his children and all their flocks drank from here.

So I told him exactly what I was thinking.  I thought he might get angry, but he didn't.  He actually said something pretty bizarre and actually a little bit weird.

Pointing to my well he said, "The people who drink from this well will thirst again.  Your ancestor was thirsty and you will certainly thirst again...BUT," and then he pointed to himself, "anyone including you who drinks, who once drinks the water I give, they will never thirst again.  In fact and THIS is the awesome part," at that point he was smiling so brightly and so excited,  "the water I give, and I will give it, in that person it will become a Fountain of Water.

"This water, this Living Water, will gush up...come gushing up into deep," and I swear he looked deep into my soul, "deep lasting...Life."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Part 1 - An Unexpected Conversation
Part 2 - A Disarming Revelation
Part 3 - A Winsome Invitation

Every note matters

Earlier this summer my new violin teacher said something that stuck with me.  I liked the words and also the feeling that this might just be a life lesson, too.

"Every note matters and we treat each one with love."  

  

Gratitude in a view

Last night my dad was in one of my dreams.  I didn't get to talk to him or anything.

Yesterday marked his three month's passing.

I don't always understand when dreams have meaning or if they always have a meaning every time.

I just know that last night it was really good to see my dad.

I know my Dad was really proud of me and today I'm glad I remembered this.

Grief's Seeds

Feeling kinda sad today.  The reality of Dad's death more real every day...more papers to sign, written correspondence with words "Frank J Holliday - Deceased".  I know it's all part of the process.

I'm cherishing these feelings of grief.  Right now they feel pure and bring healing.  The wounds still so tender.

I ran across this card from a dear college friend that made me cry when I first read it.  Today it reminds me of hope.  Thanks sweet friend!!

Piercings

I've been wanting to post something to the blog.  Over the last several weeks I've started three different posts but nothing is coming together.  I'm wanting to share about my experience reading my story in the OKC Listen To Your Mother show and also about Dad's memorial service and what it meant to me.  I'm getting stuck and discouragement is setting in.  So I'm just going to post some things I've written lately in my journal.

~*~

Trying to make sense of the massive tornadoes (if that is even possible) and the immense destruction in my adopted home state of Oklahoma along with the reality of losing my parents over these last three months.  This is like nothing I've experienced before, though I'm coming to realize that sorrow and sadness live beside the normal living.  Intertwining much like a labyrinth.  Two paths sometimes very close and sometimes very far away.  If I were to blog I would write how grief pierces.

It pains...
It hurts...

Sometimes unexpectedly like realizing  Mom and Dad wouldn't be calling on Monday after the tornado to see if we were okay.  No more check-ins with Mom and Dad.

Sorrow pierces deeply...

As the number of days grows since they breathed their last, the grief is stronger and deeper.  Maybe this will change at some point.  I don't know.  I just know that today with all of this destruction in my adopted state with people loosing all their possessions and in some cases their beloveds...the grief pierces.

I feel out of control.  No that is not right.  With Mom and Dad gone and the fragility of life before my eyes, I feel unmoored like a ship at sea maybe even a little bit lost.  The thing is I don't have some of my grounding voices.  I feel vulnerable in a way I've never experienced before.

~ * ~ 

"My heart is big and sore"...  Brad spoke these words to me in the early days of my Dad's death...a Patty Griffin lyric.  It captures my experience.  With tears in my eyes and snot running out my nose, I wonder and feel like I can't do this.  Why did they have to go now?  Why both within three months of each other?  Don't we still need our parents?  Don't we still need to have someone coach us, guide us and let us know we will be okay and that it will be okay?

I miss them a lot today.  I'm going to cherish this missing and embrace it today.  Quite unexpectedly sweet memories came back to me the other night triggered by couples dancing at a benefit concert for the tornado recovery.  I remember their smiles.  Their connection.  Their faces.  How they placed their hands in each others while they danced.  They were so cute.  I remember Dad's feet, his cowboy boots...gracefully sliding across the floor leading and guiding.  Mom's feet following, lightly sliding across the floor with beauty.  Her beautiful frilly orange square dance dress.

My first day back at work two days after Dad's service, I heard his voice of encouragement in my heart...the importance of getting back to a regular routine.  I remembered him and felt like he was with me that first day back to work.

From my Dad's co-workers
(click to see details)

Last Monday when driving home from work after the tornado, I again felt his words of encouragement.  On an unfamiliar road I could hear his voice to keep going.  I knew where I'd traveled from my starting point and although I was on an obscure tiny road, I still knew where I needed to end up.  I knew how to keep track while driving.  When I was a little girl while taking trips I'd ask Dad if we were traveling east, west, south, north, etc.  He prepared me.  He gave me tools.  I knew how to get home from an unfamiliar place.

So today this is my encouragement.  This is an unfamiliar place and scary at times, but I have tools.  I have preparation.

Also, I don't have to do this alone.  I have community around me.  We all do and it is okay to lean on that in these times.  So today in my sorrow and sadness I will remember I can get through this.  Strength sometimes looks like weakness and fear, and sometimes strength comes out of weakness and fear.

And that is OK.  Blessings to my sweet state of Oklahoma. 

"Our Pink Buddies" - Listen To Your Mother - OKC

Here is my piece I read at Listen To Your Mother - Oklahoma City (LTYM-OKC) on Sunday.  I am blessed beyond measure.  This experience has been both a balm and an oasis in my grief for my Mom and now for my Dad.  I'm so, so, so grateful that my friend, Misti, encouraged me to submit a story just a few weeks after Mom died while my grief still raw.  Little did I know my dad would pass away just 12 weeks later during the week between our rehearsal and the show.  My sisters encouraged me to stay in Oklahoma and read my story to honor both my Mom and my Dad.  I couldn't have done it without knowing they were with me in spirit.  As I approached the podium I paused and thought about them being on my right and on my left.  I love you SO much sisters!!!

        

Our Pink Buddies

by Lisa Raley

Things my mom touched, folded, wore; they mean much more to me now knowing her fingers held these things.  My sister recently sent a few small, silly things.  Each item brings tears.  Her beautiful pink fingernail polish, some lipstick, note cards, her favorite blue pens.

The other day I ran across a note from my mom written about a year ago.  I‘d sent her some recent blog posts about our dogs and mentioned I was taking a writing class.  She enclosed an especially meaningful picture of two foxes in a winter scene snuggled up close to one another. Her note said:

Hi Lisa - The enclosed picture from this week's Time magazine reminded me so much of you and your pets.  Somehow it really clicked with me and I wanted you to see it.  I'm so glad you are taking the writing class.  You get and give so much by sharing your thoughts.  

She ended the note "You are much loved, Lisa," signed it "Mom" with a big blue smiley face from one of her blue pens, something she always did when closing letters.

I planned a trip to visit my parents at the end of January.  I flew out on a Thursday morning and while on the shuttle up from the airport, my sister called with news that Mom fell.  We soon learned she broke her hip.

The weekend before my trip I happened to buy several stuffed animals.  I know it sounds silly, but I bought them in one of those moments you can’t really explain.  The previous day I’d had a painful conversation with my father, painful not because of words spoken, but because of words not spoken ~ words I very much wanted to hear.  I felt like I was five again with that unspoken desire "Pick me!"

For the most part I worked through the biggest internal knots, but was still worrying through some smaller ones.  I’d run to the grocery store for a few items and was stopped instantly by a display chockfull of pink Valentine's Day Beanie Babies.  I looked at the display and nearly burst into tears.  Something about those sweet, big beady-eyed creatures sent me a huge "You are loved....so very, very loved," the same message my mom penned in her note.  So two of those little creatures ended up in my basket:  a plump, round guy with a silly grin and a pink gorilla with red hair and the sweetest little face that just said "please take me home."

While at the hospital with my mom I got to spend some time alone with her.  She was a bit unsettled and struggling with questions about the surgery and her broken hip.  I decided earlier that morning to bring the pink guys with me since they’d helped me through a sleepless night.  I pulled them from the backpack and set them on her hospital bed.  She, like me, was instantly taken by them.  She picked them up and smiled.  She caressed them and kissed them just like I had done.  She kept them in the bed with her.  At one point the round, little guy rolled off the bed.  When I got back to her room she pointed at the floor and I knew exactly what she wanted. I also learned another story about Mom and the buddies.  Their pastor and wife came for a visit and Mom had fallen asleep while they prayed with her.  As they quietly turned to leave they noticed her grasping for something and they realized she was reaching for the pink buddies to hold close.

~*~

My mom and I were close at times and we had fond connections, but we also struggled.  Seems at times we affected each other deeply and sometimes not in a good way.

On the day of my mom’s surgery I wrote her an email.  My subject line was, "My dearest Mommy” and I wrote these words:

Mom - So glad I was able to be with you this weekend and sit beside you at the hospital.  It was an honor and joy.  I will see you this morning and after your surgery.  You will be reading this email after your recovery.   

I just wanted to whisper in your ear that you are deeply, deeply loved and so cherished.  By your family for sure (Dad, Marcie, Pam and I) and most importantly I know for a fact by the Lord.  I know that when He thinks about you, He has a smile on His face.  How those little pink buddies came to be your companions at the hospital is a peek into this.  I knew I needed to bring them from Norman, but didn't know why.  It was for you!!! 

You are a delight, Mom, and always remember that you are special, so very special.  When you hear voices otherwise, you remember those pink buddies because they came with me to deliver this message to you.   

Love you so much,
Lisa

My mom never got to read the email.  Although, she made it through surgery, several days later she contracted pneumonia and died soon after.  It was just too much.  In some ways I wasn't completely surprised by her death.

~*~

So the pink buddies are back with me.  I set them together on our bakers rack in the kitchen and I see them everyday.  They make me smile.  I remember my mom holding them and finding comfort in them.  I remember their message that I am loved, but mostly I remember my mom died knowing that I loved her and that she loved me.

P.S.  Check out the all the Listen To Your Mother videos on YouTube especially the ones from our OKC show.  They are all so good!!

Sheltered

I took pictures of my tulips several weeks ago.  This isn't the best photo but I liked it most.  My eyes gravitate toward the bottom.  Covered by a broad tulip leaf is a sweet yellow pansy.

The day after I took this photo a raging hail storm rushed through and the tulips took the brunt (along with our roof).  They looked nothing like they had and the leaves were shredded.  The pansy, though tattered, was still intact.

I feel like that pansy today in the middle of a hail storm.  My dad is really, really struggling.  Readmitted to the hospital a few days ago with a blood infection and at this time not able to do most "activities of daily living" or ADLs.  (I now know a very important marker in the world of health care.)

This morning when I walked into his room my gaze settled on face, his closed eyes, his body under the blankets.  I quietly said good morning.  His eyes opened and he recognized me and my sisters.  I asked how he's doing.  He said he'd had a tough, tough night.  Essentially confessed that the nurses received the brunt of his frustration.  Then his face pinched, his eyes flooded with tears and he said, "I miss your Mom.  I miss your Mom so much.  I miss talking with her.  I miss her presence."  A sacred moment.  Another sacred moment.  Another moment to share in my parents' vulnerability.  This is so not easy.

My dad is not an emotional man.  Very smart, very capable, very methodical, an engineer by profession.  Now 95% of his "ACLs" are done for him.  So grateful for two mercies.  He still holds a fork, a spoon, a pen.  Still uses his stylus to navigate through his iPhone, checking the news, and his calendar.  His mind still sharp as a tack.

When I wrote those seven "P" words about grief I had absolutely no idea what was on the horizon.  This transition and season of grief is like nothing I've experienced.  At one point in my life when pondering the loss of my parents, I wondered if that loss would completely and entirely crush me.  That it would entirely possess me.  Today I'm grateful it hasn't.  Just as the word "potent" scared me when it initially came to mind, "possess" scared me, too.  I've known periods of tormenting fears and being engulfed by its grip.  Being possessed by grief is something I want to avoid.  This I want to avoid:

to bring or cause to fall under the influence, domination, or control of some emotional or intellectual response or reaction (bolding mine). *

I don't want to be dominated by grief, but desire its important work to be accomplished in my life.  This is what I want:

to have as a faculty, quality, or the like:  to possess courage. *

So this gives me pause.  Do I possess the courage to walk this path of grief?  It is bound to come.  We cannot avoid it.  We cannot step out of the way, jump over it or stop it.  I can either accept it or deny it. In less than three weeks I will read my story for Listen to Your Mother Oklahoma City, the rehearsal one week prior on what would have been my Mom's 75th birthday.  To walk this path will require courage and strength from a place I don't know today, but I'm trusting will come.

There are times when stories in the Bible speak to a deep place in my life.  The first chapter of Joshua has been one of those and one that helped me overcome those tormenting fears.  Today with much grief and sorrow I take courage in them once again.

"The Lord spoke to Joshua son of Nun, Moses’ assistant.  

The Lord said, “My servant Moses is dead.  

Now you and all these people go across...

Be strong and brave... 

be strong and brave! ... 

Remember that I commanded you to be strong and brave.  

Don’t be afraid, because the Lord your God will be with you."  

Joshua 1:1, 2, 6, 7, 9 (NIV)

(bolding mine)

* reference - Merriam-Webster:  possess 

Dawning

Yesterday while listening to music I heard this lyric by Gretchen Peters.

...and in five minutes your whole life can change...

The words capture these last few months.  Six weeks ago Mom was in surgery and within a few short days everything changed.  These days memories of my mom come freely.  Thoughts of her frequent. Occasionally, I look up at the sky with my eyes closed and tears happen.  

I've been thinking about those seven words I wrote about grief.  At the time I had no idea that in eleven days Mom would breath her last.  The word "potent" caught my attention today.  The word scared me at first, but today it brings comfort especially this definition:  

achieving or bringing about a particular result: effective

These words bring hope that this process not only will be effective but is effective; effective today. This grief will achieve and bring about a particular result.  It won't leave me hanging.  I trust it will be good.  

Her loss, my loss, still wedged deeply, yes
...but wedged sweetly, too.  

I don't know if I will always feel her loss this way, but today it is ok.    

Sacred Moments

The morning hours are hardest.  The house quiet.  Missing Mom.  Thinking about her smile; about her eyes, blue like the sea.

Pondering two sacred moments.  Recent days in Colorado.  My mom's lumbar hurt terribly after surgery; she rolled on her side her gown gaped open.  I massaged her upper back.  She affirmed yes in quiet pained breath.  I gently caressed her skin; beautiful ivory showing her 74 years of age.  Lower, she said, and I could feel the muscles, holding tight, protecting.  My thumbs pressed into the tension filled places. Still lower she said.  Her entire backside from the top of her bottom to her hip, holding tight.

In that moment with her backside completely laid bare, so vulnerable; it was sacred.  Her bandages soaked with fresh blood from newly sutured skin encasing her replaced hip.  Sacred, yes sacred.

My mother gifted me birth.  In her womb I was fashioned and formed; born in mid October in Mid Autumn; seasons changing.

With dad just eight days later. Grieving my mother's death and our loss at her memorial service. Later at home with him in grief and physical pain; his hands unable to grasp the tiny buttons to shed his dress shirt. He looked so handsome, donned his beloved cowboy boots perhaps one last time.  His voice in tender request to unbutton his sleeves; his shirt. Tender sacred moments.

I hung his suit, returned his boots and tie to his closet; wondered about Mom's clothes.  When is it time to remove, to reduce...what is the word...to simplify...?   The word is not present today.

Together their embrace, the mystery of conception three times; me the last.

My Pink Provisions in Grief

Perhaps I can write some words of explanation about my grief.  I mentioned in my post about our cabin that my father's health has declined quickly over the last 6 months.  His doctor essentially said he was just plain out of ideas and suggested sending Dad to Mayo Clinic.  We heard this week that they accepted his case which is great news.  So why the grief?

My father has always represented stability and strength to me.  Although he's had his share of health issues over the years, this is different.  His grit and sheer determination which has served him well up to this point (for the most part) isn't working anymore and his ability to control his situation is limited.  Several weeks ago while visiting on the phone all of the sudden he said "Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" in a very, very scared voice.  I've never heard him sound like this before.  Within a few seconds he recovered and told me he almost fell over.  He's lost feeling in both legs up to his knees due to peripheral neuropathy so even driving isn't much of an option for him now.  In that moment his fragility hit me like a ton of bricks.

I want to help my father and encourage him through this last season of his life however long this lasts, but today I'm twisted up with frustration, disappointment, and grief from a painful conversation with him on a call yesterday.  It's still got my insides tangled in a few knots even though I've untangled the biggest ones.  

This afternoon I ran to the grocery store for a quick purchase and was stopped instantly by a display chock full of pink Valentine's Day Beanie Babies.  I looked at the display and almost burst into tears.  Something about all these sweet, big beady-eyed creatures staring back at me sent me a huge "You are loved....so very, very loved" message and these two little things ended up coming home with me.  The one on the right reminds me that sometimes we all act like Monsters (he's from the Monstaz collection) but inside we are special and the guy on the left just said, "please take me home."  (I even went back for him after I grabbed everything off my list).

I'm going to visit my parents next week for a few days.  It's an important trip, but it also makes me quite anxious.  I've decided these two little guys are going with me to remind me of my love for my parents and that I do love them (even when they act less than lovely) and that I'm pretty special, too.

 

As I write this post they are now sitting beside my keyboard.  I'm really glad I bought them and brought them home.

Grief

Powerful

Painful

Pierces

Possess

Potent

Preparer

Provision

(Can't yet write the words that spawned this post, but I think 
that is okay and just good to attach these words to this emotion within me today.)

Holder of Family Secrets

I've been pondering a lot about this notion of family secrets and how they impact not only the generation most closely affected but also subsequent generations.  It's the moon impacting the tides.  Two seemingly separate things, but intimately bound together.

A dear friend wrote me a personal email after reading my previous post on this topic.  We had a great conversation and she helped me gain the clarity about family secrets and what I wanted to talk about here on this blog.  I mentioned that my frustration revolves around not being able to talk about these secrets within the family and yet they have shaped and still shape some of our interactions.  I feel strongly that healthily incorporating this fact into our story will enable clearer connections.  Although the topics are known, they are only spoken about in hushed tones and only for the minimalist of moments.  One particular family secret is intimately connected with our 80-year old family cabin.

Several years ago I updated my blog template and used a picture of the sky above the cabin as my banner.  I took the picture on a day trip with my dad back in 2006 during one of our visits to Colorado.  I took lots of photos both inside and out and later used them in a video montage Brad and I put together for my parents 50th wedding anniversary.

Sky above the Nash Fork of the Little Laramie River in Wyoming

The cabin was built in 1929 by my great-grandparents on my dad's side.  They along with several families from the community built "summer homes" in a cove off the highway.  Little of the physical structure has changed over the years.  The most "recent" was adding electricity in the 1950s.  Although we have an electric hot plate, most food is cooked in a wood burning stove which keeps the cabin warm along with the fireplace.  We have an enclosed porch with a bed, a fairly good size living / kitchen area (all one room), and a back bedroom with two beds and a back door which incidentally is the way to the outhouse ~ correct no indoor plumbing of any kind.

My dad at the entrance just off the highway.
Our cabin is straight back and to the left just inside the cove of trees.
(circa 2006)

My great-grandparents had four children and the cabin now belongs to their families.  Ownership is governed by a trust put in place by my dad.  The last of the original four died earlier this year and due to my dad's declining health he wanted to understand me and my sisters' wishes regarding our fourth of the cabin.  This summer he talked to each of us individually trying hard not to influence our decision.  If we were not interested in keeping it then he thought it best to release our fourth before he died. 

Our Cabin - circa 2006

The cabin has always been a special place to me and for a long time was my most favorite place on earth.  Only two and a half hours from my childhood home and 45 minutes from both sets of grandparents, we traveled to the cabin multiple times every summer.  We opened it Memorial Day just after the last snow (removing internal posts and external shutters) and closed it in early September before the first snow (putting up post and shutters).  Usually we went up at least one other time during the summer and sometimes just for a noon picnic while visiting our grandparents in Laramie.  Names like Lake Marie, Brooklyn Lake, Little Brooklyn Lake, and Medicine Bow Peak have many attached memories.

My dad tells me that my great-grandmother and great-grandfather often went during the winter and even my oldest sister and brother-in-law honeymooned there after their winter wedding back in the early 1980s.  Snowy Range Road (Highway 130) closes to vehicle traffic several miles east of the cabin during the winter months so snow-shoeing or cross-country skiing a requirement.

Main room with the winter posts still intact.
The wood burning stove is to the right.

Recently while walking the dogs, my husband and I talked about what we (really me) wanted to do about the cabin.  I shared that it seemed "life made sense" at the cabin.  As a little girl I didn't know why my dad's last name differed from his siblings or my beloved grandfather's.  I didn't understand why my sisters and I had a "third grandmother" (actually great-grandmother) with our last name that we regularly visited, but my cousins on my dad's side never did.  These cousins never went to the cabin except when we were there.  They were always guests, a feeling foreign to me in this place.

On reflection I don't remember when I first learned our family's secret.  It seemed I always knew my dad's dad died when he was a small boy just two years old.  Knowledge of the cause by his own hand was told to me a number of years later, but I don't remember the specific conversation.  My family never talked about it openly and rarely if ever did my birth grandfather come up in conversation especially around my grandmother.  Memories and markers always avoided.

I think this is why the cabin has a mythic quality of sorts.  This summer during a family reunion I learned that my dad's dad built the cabin's back bedroom.  His hands touched these walls and his feet walked in this place.  Perhaps this is why the cabin means so much to my father.  In this place is a definite connection to his father, someone he never knew.  This importance he transferred to me and my sisters both consciously and unconsciously.

From the river below

During that walk with my husband he described this place as the "holder" of family memories, the family legacy and the family myth.  I knew he was right when he spoke these words.  They beautifully frame my experience, but until I wrote the previous paragraph I didn't grasp the full truth.  This is the only place on earth where my father walks where his father walked, opens doors he opened, builds fires or eats meals.  This is his place of connection.

I know I've got more to write and more to puzzle through regarding the ongoing impact of this family secret, but for now this is a good place to rest.

Blessings.

Family Secrets

i wonder if I can really write this post about family secrets.  thought about this while driving home from yoga and wondered if it could be an entree into rewriting my post about our family cabin, what it is, what it means, to me, to our family, especially my father.  maybe it's too soon.  the ability to be really transparent is so hard for me.

this morning i read trisha's and misti's blog posts about their trip to taos - vacationing with people they'd never met in person, but came to know - actually know - through a facebook group.  sounds like a group where they are very real and transparent with each other.  what you see is what you get.  no hiding, no posturing, no justifying.   trisha also wrote an amazingly touching post about her new tattoo she got while there.

as much as I loved reading the posts and was touched deeply, but i also came away feeling sad because i realize only a few people really know all of me.  i can probably count them on one hand.  maybe this is normal.  i have no idea.  i just know that sometimes i wish i didn't have all these 'selves' to keep track of.

i didn't go to my 30 yr high school reunion last weekend.  i only attended part of the 10th and that was at the last moment.  i didn't attend the 20th either.  lots of excuses as to why.  a big part is thinking about walking up by myself.  it is a huge hurdle for me.  large groups are not usually comfortable for me unless I'm with my husband and can "hide" behind him in his comfort zone.  really though i realized that i wasn't sure which 'self' i should be at the reunion.  the good girl, the professional working woman, the deeply spiritual Christian believer, the "lefty" okie in a totally conservative red state.

one of the reasons i started this blog 9 years ago was to help bridge my 'selves' together, but i still sensor myself on these pages.  some transparency yes, but the fear of saying too much or not the right way keeps me from writing.

anyway, soon i want to write a blog about family secrets and how they've impacted me. someday... but not today....see what I mean?

p.s.  i decided not to capitalize any of the first letters of my sentences as a way to write more freely.  it felt good and freeing.

Love and Rejection

Earlier this year I reread Hinds' Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard.  I first read the book about 15 years ago and loved it.  Again it speaks volumes.  I came across a line spoken by the Shepherd to Much-Afraid as she described her fears about the hurt and pain a loved one can cause.  The Shepherd acknowledges that loving means being vulnerable to pain and he says:

"But it is happy to love...it is happy to love even if you are not loved in return. There is pain, too, but Love does not think that very significant."

During lunch with a friend recently, she shared about a painful experience when she felt rejected by an inadvertent dismissal of a suggestion of hers by a loved one.  In working though her intense reaction, she held her tongue, acknowledged the pain and heard its message.  Although the pain was intense she had a light bulb moment when she realized this pain was a momentary discomfort and not a crisis.  How much she wanted to reject back, but decided not to.

Soon she found herself thinking about another relationship marked by rejection of her and and with compassion she began extending sweet, sweet grace to these old painful memories.  She knew the other person began life rejected and continued experiencing rejection during their early life.   They never learned how to experience risk by reaching out to people.  Never experienced those connections that include a give and take, compromise.  These are all part of the fabric of relationship.

My friend's experience is serving as an example for me.  This is something I need to work on this year.  I hope I can find and extend the same grace.

~*~

You have heard that it was said, 

‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  

But I tell you, 

love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 

that you may be children of your Father in heaven.  

He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, 

and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.  

Matthew 5:43-45 (NIV)

*~*