This past weekend, I went on a retreat with the women’s group I’m honored to be a part of, and to serve on as one of the board members. It’s my favorite event we do all year, one I count down to starting at the end of summer. I always know something life changing, or at least perspective changing, will happen to me. This year I got both. Right now I’ll focus on the perspective change.
Many of you who know me, and some of you who don’t but have followed What If I Said long enough to notice my emotional trends, will know that I have a pretty low stress threshold. I get overwhelmed easily. By stupid little things that to normal people wouldn’t make one lick of difference. And once something small happens, every subsequent thing looms larger and larger, until I’m spiraling out of control on a wave of crazy.
I’ve had a rough October. With a wedding, various family crises, birthdays, planning for a women’s retreat, kids falling into a firm school routine, emotional upheaval... And when I say rough, I obviously just mean rough for someone like me, who absorbs stress, others’ troubles, and even normal everyday occurrences, like a dishrag, letting them weigh me down like dirty water. Someone like me, whose biggest accomplishment is getting laundry folded. Not put away. Just folded, and, if I’m lucky, into a basket. A basket that will sit in a corner of my living room for 2 weeks while we dig through it looking for clothes, until eventually it all needs to be folded again. And again. So you see, even my accomplishments have the hamster on a wheel quality.
This weekend, God spoke to me, through many different mediums, the word “Breathe”. That’s it. Just breathe, which in my mind, can be loosely interpreted as “Be. Just be.” Actually He’s been speaking it to me almost all year, and in my frenzied, out of control perception, it has been impossible for me to breathe. I say that frequently- “I don’t even have time to breathe!” I actually got quite offended with God earlier this year, and with the person He spoke to me through, when he told me that I needed to “Stop looking ahead to what the future holds, and enjoy where you are. Take a minute to notice your surroundings. Breathe.” Well! I was so angry I wanted to scream. One more item to add to my list of things I couldn’t possibly handle: Breathing, of all things!
When I try to sit back and make a mental list of all the things that make me feel like I can’t breathe, there’s never even anything concrete. All the things I list seem trivial, and something that most “normal” wives, mothers- stay at home or otherwise- could handle. And I just can’t. I’m ashamed of my freak-outs, embarrassed by the fact that I can’t seem to deal with what- to most people- is a normal life.
I came home from the retreat this year in the middle of Hurricane Sandy. Wet, clammy, miserable, with a head cold that I’d acquired over the weekend, to boot. My house was a disaster. My kids were out of school because of the storm. My husband and I were at each others’ throats all day, cooped up in the said disastrous house, with the three rampaging kids. Came home to stress and discord and mess and storms. It was one of my ruder awakenings, as we always get upon every return from vacation. I lost my ability to keep things in perspective rather quickly. Today was no better, with fights over homework, Atleigh catching my cold, realizing that Ashton never got his Halloween costume and making a last minute run to the packed, picked-over aisles of K-Mart to find him a costume that he didn’t even really want. Tonight, my accomplishment was getting my kids into bed unharmed. No teeth brushing. Chloe, as I type this, is sleeping with Nutella smeared across her upper lip. Atleigh, who is still awake and howling from her bed that she “Can’t go to sleeeeeep”, has strawberry jelly up her nose. Obviously, dinner was not one of my accomplishments tonight, either.
So did I breathe through all of this? The answer is probably more no than yes. But I did try. Some of it may have been breathing through gritted teeth, or through my nose as I counted to 10. And honestly, some of it was probably breathing in deeply so I could get enough power behind my yell. It will take practice.
But.
Here are a few things I’ve embraced this weekend, and can focus on now that I’m sitting alone in my living room, just breathing. Just... being.
- I have Christ in me. The hope of glory. Hope. Of glory. Not the “already attained” glory. Hope. Which means I will always have room to grow, room to make mistakes in, room to BE. Because I will always have hope that tomorrow, I will be better.
- I can do all of this hoping with a good attitude. Hope without a good attitude isn’t hope at all, it’s malcontent. It’s just waiting for something better to come along without being satisfied where you are. And so we carry that dissatisfaction into our next “something better”, until we’ve exhausted them all and left ourselves with nothing but hope deferred and a heart made sick.
“I pray that you’ll have the strength to stick it out over the long haul- not the grim strength of gritting your teeth, but the glory-strength God gives.” Colossians 1, MSG
And following that,
“This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike, ‘What’s next, Papa?’” Romans 8, MSG
While I’m sitting here, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself to BE, I can wait with expectation. See, He’s not just telling me to breathe for survival. He’s telling me to breathe in all the promises He’s made me, to breathe in and hold within myself the “What’s next?” It goes hand in hand with the hope of glory thing.
And so, for now, for tonight, I can hope.
I can breathe.
I can be.
And if I can do those three things, I’ve accomplished a lot more than that basket of laundry.
I bought this book today- two chapters in and I've cried probably every three pages. If you're struggling with some of the things I've just written about, I'd recommend it to you.
And here are some songs that help me get through those moments when I feel like breathing is the last possible thing I can do (keep in mind I tend towards more melancholy music. Maybe you prefer "I Will Survive". That's perfectly fine) :
Glen Hansard- Bird of Sorrow
Eden's Bridge- Shadow of Your Hand
David Crowder* Band- Sometimes
Waterdeep- Hush
Mumford & Sons- After the Storm
Jenn Johnson- Come to Me
Showing posts with label Introspect. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Introspect. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Weekend Discoveries
I’ve discovered a few things this weekend. Not life lessons, necessarily, but just little “take notice” things. For instance:
Chloe went on a play date yesterday. Now, she has friends that she plays with sometimes, but usually they are family friends, where all the kids play together at once. This was her very first schoolmate play date. I’ve said before that Chloe is the perfect middle child. No, really, she is. So far, she has none of the infamous middle child characteristics (which her father sports so well). She’s more like the perfect filler to our kids. She’s easygoing. Happy. Gentle. She is the perfect cohesive balance to Ashton and Atleigh, who are definitely more high maintenance- Ashton with all of his intellectual angst and “Nobody understands me” drama, and Atleigh with her high-flying, devil-may-care, baby of the family mindset. So having her gone all day on Saturday was a huge eye-opener to me. I will admit, somewhat abashedly, that because of her low maintenance personality, my poor Princess tends to get lost in the shuffle sometimes. She’s not really assertive, but she’s confident enough in herself to not be needy. She just floats along on the maelstrom of the Box House, a happy little butterfly, singing, dancing, pretending. But I missed her yesterday. Missed her being the sweet little icing in our Oreo. Ashton and Atleigh have nothing in common. Nothing. The stress level in the house ratcheted up about 10 levels without Chloe there to be buffer between the two A’s explosive personalities. Who was going to play the computer, who was going to sit in the coveted corner of the couch, heck- who was going to use the bathroom first. Who cares who uses the bathroom first?? When she came home Saturday evening, a sense of balance returned to our household, and I realized for the first time how much of a true unit we are. How we all need each other, balance each other out. This was a happy discovery for me, to know that we are our own little entity in this world.
Here are some other, several less happy, discoveries I’ve made this weekend:
* Not sure how it happened, but Chloe’s Betsy Ross costume that we bought, for her speech competition, was missing her little mop cap. The only thing I can think of is that it fell out of the bag when she tried it on in the store. This was a very unhappy discovery.
* No stores carry JUST mop caps. None that I found anyway. None of the four that I went to, or the three that I called, had them. This afternoon was an unfulfilling one of trekking around in absurd high heels (more on those in a minute), searching for an elusive circa 1776 piece of white cotton headwear.
* As far as I can tell, there are no belts for boys with snaps to change belt buckles. Ashton got a Confederate Soldier belt buckle to wear with his Stonewall Jackson getup, but no belt he owns supports such a thing. Add that to my unfulfilling afternoon.
* Necessity is indeed the mother of invention. Today I had to get inventive. Here’s what I did: I bought a $5 belt from Walmart for Ashton, along with an 84 cent seam ripper to tear open the stitching holding the buckle in place. The seam ripper broke off three stitches in, after which I progressed with a dull serrated kitchen knife, all the while having vain imaginings of putting a huge jagged cut somewhere in the region of my eyebrow, and wondering how that would play out with my schedule for the week. Thankfully, nobody was maimed. I finished ripping the seams out, tossed aside the original buckle, and fitted the CS one onto the belt. Then I folded it back over and superglued it. The glue started to melt the synthetic materials but, hey, it was only $5. Voila! Instant Confederate belt! For Chloe’s annoying mop cap dilemma, I bought some red gift wrap ribbon (not even cloth ribbon. PAPER ribbon! Betsy would have rolled over in her grave- which I found out on Wikipedia is not actually where everyone thinks it is, by the way) grabbed my favorite white(ish) knit beanie, and threaded said ribbon through the knit holes, and then tied in a knob on the top. Not quite the same effect, but hopefully close enough for a classroom of first graders.
* On top of all this today, I wore high heels. I bought a pair a few weeks ago that I’ve been eyeing for months, and I finally gave in. I NEVER wear heels. I mean, ever. Not since I started dating Jeremy, who is only a few inches taller than I am. Here was my discovery concerning the shoes: High heels are ridiculous. And sexy. I heard at least 5 comments about my shoes. Yeahhhh girl. Despite the torture, and the resultant blisters, and the many times I whispered under my breath “fuh fuh fuh fuh” (which is NOT a shortened term of the expletive, just so you know; it’s just how I breathe when I’m in pain) while telling myself I just had to make it to the car, just had to make it across the parking lot, beauty is pain and daggone you look sexy girl, I’m pretty sure I will be wearing those shoes again. So, there’s a little discovery about myself: I’m an idiot, and a sucker for admiration.
* Contrary to what I thought, not all patches are iron on. I discovered this the hard way tonight, while trying to iron Ashton’s patch onto his costume jacket. So, what did I do, instead of just nixing the idea like any sensible person would? I did the non-sensible mom thing, and sewed it on the sleeve instead. Another discovery: I’m no seamstress (actually this isn’t shocking news to me at all. Domesticated I am not). But, the patch is on, for better or for worse. I wondered aloud to my sister if she thought that the soldiers during the Civil War had to sew all their own patches, darn their own socks, etc., or did they get the nurses, or their mothers or sisters or wives or daughters to do it for them? We concluded that they must have had to do most of it on their own, on the march and in the trenches. And they probably did a much better job than I did. I contemplated rousing Ashton from his barracks to sew his own flipping patch on, and let him really experience what those men had to deal with, but again, I decided to do the mom thing and let him get a good night’s sleep before the day of his big speech.
Once most of the costume issues were resolved, I took the kids outside to take a few pictures of them all turned out. While there, I made a few more discoveries, which are probably elementary, but to a mom whose kids are just starting to grow up, it was an epiphany. While I was behind the camera, watching them laugh and tease each other, I had one of those out of body experiences we moms sometimes have, looking at our kids and thinking, “This is mine. I made this. I can’t believe I’m a parent.” It seems so surreal sometimes, when I really think about it. I think a lot of time as mothers, parents, whatever, we tend to see our kids as just an extension of ourselves. I know I do. I sometimes don’t acknowledge them as their own people, wholly other from me. I mean, so completely other. Yes, they are a part of me, and I a part of them, but really, they are not MINE. They are their own, and ultimately, HIS. And they’re growing up so fast. So, so fast. They have their own interests, senses of humor, ideas of the way things should be. What am I going to do? My years of influence are swiftly waning. These little people, who will sooner than I can ever imagine be big people, who are mine but not mine, will soon be grown and gone. And so here was my final discovery of this weekend: My time with them is short. These next 4 or 5 years are going to mold them more than the last 9, 7, and 4 years put together. What am I going to do with that time? I hope I discover newer, deeper waters in these little souls I’ve been entrusted with. That I can discover all the best parts of them and cultivate those good, sweet, wholesome things into a thriving life. I pray that I never contribute to brokenness in them, and that I can help heal any that comes along, as I know it must. And I pray that when the time comes, I discover new strength in myself to let them go, to be who they are meant to be.
So maybe I need to rethink my opening statement of not learning any life lessons this weekend. Apparently I’ve discovered more than I thought.
-M
Here are a few of the pictures I took tonight. As you can see, by the time I got to Ashton, I was losing light, but I decided to embrace the graininess as totally period, and therefore acceptable and cool.
As usual, you can follow me on Instagram, @mbsmoot, to see my life and discoveries in photos.
Chloe went on a play date yesterday. Now, she has friends that she plays with sometimes, but usually they are family friends, where all the kids play together at once. This was her very first schoolmate play date. I’ve said before that Chloe is the perfect middle child. No, really, she is. So far, she has none of the infamous middle child characteristics (which her father sports so well). She’s more like the perfect filler to our kids. She’s easygoing. Happy. Gentle. She is the perfect cohesive balance to Ashton and Atleigh, who are definitely more high maintenance- Ashton with all of his intellectual angst and “Nobody understands me” drama, and Atleigh with her high-flying, devil-may-care, baby of the family mindset. So having her gone all day on Saturday was a huge eye-opener to me. I will admit, somewhat abashedly, that because of her low maintenance personality, my poor Princess tends to get lost in the shuffle sometimes. She’s not really assertive, but she’s confident enough in herself to not be needy. She just floats along on the maelstrom of the Box House, a happy little butterfly, singing, dancing, pretending. But I missed her yesterday. Missed her being the sweet little icing in our Oreo. Ashton and Atleigh have nothing in common. Nothing. The stress level in the house ratcheted up about 10 levels without Chloe there to be buffer between the two A’s explosive personalities. Who was going to play the computer, who was going to sit in the coveted corner of the couch, heck- who was going to use the bathroom first. Who cares who uses the bathroom first?? When she came home Saturday evening, a sense of balance returned to our household, and I realized for the first time how much of a true unit we are. How we all need each other, balance each other out. This was a happy discovery for me, to know that we are our own little entity in this world.
Here are some other, several less happy, discoveries I’ve made this weekend:
* Not sure how it happened, but Chloe’s Betsy Ross costume that we bought, for her speech competition, was missing her little mop cap. The only thing I can think of is that it fell out of the bag when she tried it on in the store. This was a very unhappy discovery.
* No stores carry JUST mop caps. None that I found anyway. None of the four that I went to, or the three that I called, had them. This afternoon was an unfulfilling one of trekking around in absurd high heels (more on those in a minute), searching for an elusive circa 1776 piece of white cotton headwear.
* As far as I can tell, there are no belts for boys with snaps to change belt buckles. Ashton got a Confederate Soldier belt buckle to wear with his Stonewall Jackson getup, but no belt he owns supports such a thing. Add that to my unfulfilling afternoon.
* Necessity is indeed the mother of invention. Today I had to get inventive. Here’s what I did: I bought a $5 belt from Walmart for Ashton, along with an 84 cent seam ripper to tear open the stitching holding the buckle in place. The seam ripper broke off three stitches in, after which I progressed with a dull serrated kitchen knife, all the while having vain imaginings of putting a huge jagged cut somewhere in the region of my eyebrow, and wondering how that would play out with my schedule for the week. Thankfully, nobody was maimed. I finished ripping the seams out, tossed aside the original buckle, and fitted the CS one onto the belt. Then I folded it back over and superglued it. The glue started to melt the synthetic materials but, hey, it was only $5. Voila! Instant Confederate belt! For Chloe’s annoying mop cap dilemma, I bought some red gift wrap ribbon (not even cloth ribbon. PAPER ribbon! Betsy would have rolled over in her grave- which I found out on Wikipedia is not actually where everyone thinks it is, by the way) grabbed my favorite white(ish) knit beanie, and threaded said ribbon through the knit holes, and then tied in a knob on the top. Not quite the same effect, but hopefully close enough for a classroom of first graders.
* On top of all this today, I wore high heels. I bought a pair a few weeks ago that I’ve been eyeing for months, and I finally gave in. I NEVER wear heels. I mean, ever. Not since I started dating Jeremy, who is only a few inches taller than I am. Here was my discovery concerning the shoes: High heels are ridiculous. And sexy. I heard at least 5 comments about my shoes. Yeahhhh girl. Despite the torture, and the resultant blisters, and the many times I whispered under my breath “fuh fuh fuh fuh” (which is NOT a shortened term of the expletive, just so you know; it’s just how I breathe when I’m in pain) while telling myself I just had to make it to the car, just had to make it across the parking lot, beauty is pain and daggone you look sexy girl, I’m pretty sure I will be wearing those shoes again. So, there’s a little discovery about myself: I’m an idiot, and a sucker for admiration.
* Contrary to what I thought, not all patches are iron on. I discovered this the hard way tonight, while trying to iron Ashton’s patch onto his costume jacket. So, what did I do, instead of just nixing the idea like any sensible person would? I did the non-sensible mom thing, and sewed it on the sleeve instead. Another discovery: I’m no seamstress (actually this isn’t shocking news to me at all. Domesticated I am not). But, the patch is on, for better or for worse. I wondered aloud to my sister if she thought that the soldiers during the Civil War had to sew all their own patches, darn their own socks, etc., or did they get the nurses, or their mothers or sisters or wives or daughters to do it for them? We concluded that they must have had to do most of it on their own, on the march and in the trenches. And they probably did a much better job than I did. I contemplated rousing Ashton from his barracks to sew his own flipping patch on, and let him really experience what those men had to deal with, but again, I decided to do the mom thing and let him get a good night’s sleep before the day of his big speech.
Once most of the costume issues were resolved, I took the kids outside to take a few pictures of them all turned out. While there, I made a few more discoveries, which are probably elementary, but to a mom whose kids are just starting to grow up, it was an epiphany. While I was behind the camera, watching them laugh and tease each other, I had one of those out of body experiences we moms sometimes have, looking at our kids and thinking, “This is mine. I made this. I can’t believe I’m a parent.” It seems so surreal sometimes, when I really think about it. I think a lot of time as mothers, parents, whatever, we tend to see our kids as just an extension of ourselves. I know I do. I sometimes don’t acknowledge them as their own people, wholly other from me. I mean, so completely other. Yes, they are a part of me, and I a part of them, but really, they are not MINE. They are their own, and ultimately, HIS. And they’re growing up so fast. So, so fast. They have their own interests, senses of humor, ideas of the way things should be. What am I going to do? My years of influence are swiftly waning. These little people, who will sooner than I can ever imagine be big people, who are mine but not mine, will soon be grown and gone. And so here was my final discovery of this weekend: My time with them is short. These next 4 or 5 years are going to mold them more than the last 9, 7, and 4 years put together. What am I going to do with that time? I hope I discover newer, deeper waters in these little souls I’ve been entrusted with. That I can discover all the best parts of them and cultivate those good, sweet, wholesome things into a thriving life. I pray that I never contribute to brokenness in them, and that I can help heal any that comes along, as I know it must. And I pray that when the time comes, I discover new strength in myself to let them go, to be who they are meant to be.
So maybe I need to rethink my opening statement of not learning any life lessons this weekend. Apparently I’ve discovered more than I thought.
-M
Here are a few of the pictures I took tonight. As you can see, by the time I got to Ashton, I was losing light, but I decided to embrace the graininess as totally period, and therefore acceptable and cool.
Remember, I said we would do what we must, when it came to the Old Glory themed costume.
Those eyes.
This is the face of a child who has read one too many Civil War histories (oh yes- he has read them). He was so excited for me to take his picture, and as soon as I lifted the camera: Instant serious face.
As usual, you can follow me on Instagram, @mbsmoot, to see my life and discoveries in photos.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Making an Investment
I know my kids’ birth certificates are in my house somewhere. At least I hope so. If they are, they’re hiding in a deep abyss. And rather than tear my house apart looking for them, I would rather just order new ones.
I hate that the 4th is the tacit “beginning of the end” of summer. Summer has just started, especially for the students in our area, since school doesn’t get out until the 3rd week of June. Now, does that seem fair? But I know, that if I go to any Target or Wal-Mart, I’ll see back packs and notebooks and school uniforms. That’s the reason I need the birth certificates- for school. My kids start in 7 weeks. SEVEN. WEEKS. That is just depressing. I’m trying not to think about it, otherwise it will go by that much faster. It’s like the little trick I use if I wake up before my alarm goes off. I refuse to look out the windows or at any clock to gauge what time it is. Even if I go in the kitchen for a drink of water, I studiously avoid looking at the microwave or oven clocks. I know if I do, I’ll just spend the last hour or so before my alarm goes off wondering if it’s time for me to get up yet.
So today I drove to Richmond with my dad to get some new birth certificates. Richmond is a little under an hour and a half from where I live. But between traffic and Dad’s and my conflicting GPS’s (cough cough- translation: we got LOST), it took around 2 and a half hours. My dad had to get a copy of his and my mom’s marriage certificate so she could get her Florida driver’s license. I don’t know why they require it, but they do. Dumb. Anyway, they couldn’t find it. The marriage certificate, I mean. They told him it might be on the microfiche. I guess that’s where they store all the old people records. My parents would have been married 33 years this week.
Now. Before I go into this. My parents have been separated for 10 years this winter (it’s so surreal typing that out). They’ve both moved on, they’re cordial to each other. I don’t say this to make anyone feel guilty or point fingers, or assume feelings that aren’t there. I believe they’re both happy. But I watched my dad study that marriage certificate when they finally found it. I watched his eyes scan the names and the date. I couldn’t help but wonder how I would feel. 23 years is a huge chunk of life. I said to him, flippantly, in reference to our drive and the wait, “Well, that was virtually painless, wasn’t it?” And he shrugged and kind of half smiled, said, “Yeah.” All while looking at that sheet of paper. I know it wasn’t painless. Like I said, both of my parents have moved on. I’m not trying to imply anything. But I know he felt regret. Over mistakes made, words unsaid. It makes me want to strive harder than ever at my marriage, to always remain open and honest, even if honesty is brutally painful sometimes. To make sure my investment in my marriage is always at the top of my list, so that I don’t wake up one day and realize it’s bankrupt.
I love both of my parents, and I’m proud of them both. I know that the decisions they’ve made haven’t been easy on them, or on our family. We’ve adjusted, and we’ve found a new normal. But I don’t ever want to have to experience that kind of grieving and regret.
With all that said, I’ve made a new resolution today. One that says I’m never going to have to stand there and scan a document that equals regret. Not without knowing that I did everything in my power to breathe life and love into my marriage, to speak up when words need to be spoken, and to keep quiet when they don’t (now THAT will be the hard part). That I invested myself 100%, not holding back, not keeping a little part of me safe, “just in case”. Today I decided there is no “just in case”. I know relationships aren’t black and white- that’s not what I’m saying at all. There’s plenty of gray area to get lost in. I’m just deciding to do everything in my power to not get lost in it, and if I do- to hold my husband’s hand all the way through that fog.
I hate that the 4th is the tacit “beginning of the end” of summer. Summer has just started, especially for the students in our area, since school doesn’t get out until the 3rd week of June. Now, does that seem fair? But I know, that if I go to any Target or Wal-Mart, I’ll see back packs and notebooks and school uniforms. That’s the reason I need the birth certificates- for school. My kids start in 7 weeks. SEVEN. WEEKS. That is just depressing. I’m trying not to think about it, otherwise it will go by that much faster. It’s like the little trick I use if I wake up before my alarm goes off. I refuse to look out the windows or at any clock to gauge what time it is. Even if I go in the kitchen for a drink of water, I studiously avoid looking at the microwave or oven clocks. I know if I do, I’ll just spend the last hour or so before my alarm goes off wondering if it’s time for me to get up yet.
So today I drove to Richmond with my dad to get some new birth certificates. Richmond is a little under an hour and a half from where I live. But between traffic and Dad’s and my conflicting GPS’s (cough cough- translation: we got LOST), it took around 2 and a half hours. My dad had to get a copy of his and my mom’s marriage certificate so she could get her Florida driver’s license. I don’t know why they require it, but they do. Dumb. Anyway, they couldn’t find it. The marriage certificate, I mean. They told him it might be on the microfiche. I guess that’s where they store all the old people records. My parents would have been married 33 years this week.
Now. Before I go into this. My parents have been separated for 10 years this winter (it’s so surreal typing that out). They’ve both moved on, they’re cordial to each other. I don’t say this to make anyone feel guilty or point fingers, or assume feelings that aren’t there. I believe they’re both happy. But I watched my dad study that marriage certificate when they finally found it. I watched his eyes scan the names and the date. I couldn’t help but wonder how I would feel. 23 years is a huge chunk of life. I said to him, flippantly, in reference to our drive and the wait, “Well, that was virtually painless, wasn’t it?” And he shrugged and kind of half smiled, said, “Yeah.” All while looking at that sheet of paper. I know it wasn’t painless. Like I said, both of my parents have moved on. I’m not trying to imply anything. But I know he felt regret. Over mistakes made, words unsaid. It makes me want to strive harder than ever at my marriage, to always remain open and honest, even if honesty is brutally painful sometimes. To make sure my investment in my marriage is always at the top of my list, so that I don’t wake up one day and realize it’s bankrupt.
I love both of my parents, and I’m proud of them both. I know that the decisions they’ve made haven’t been easy on them, or on our family. We’ve adjusted, and we’ve found a new normal. But I don’t ever want to have to experience that kind of grieving and regret.
With all that said, I’ve made a new resolution today. One that says I’m never going to have to stand there and scan a document that equals regret. Not without knowing that I did everything in my power to breathe life and love into my marriage, to speak up when words need to be spoken, and to keep quiet when they don’t (now THAT will be the hard part). That I invested myself 100%, not holding back, not keeping a little part of me safe, “just in case”. Today I decided there is no “just in case”. I know relationships aren’t black and white- that’s not what I’m saying at all. There’s plenty of gray area to get lost in. I’m just deciding to do everything in my power to not get lost in it, and if I do- to hold my husband’s hand all the way through that fog.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Fragile Faith
My faith has been tested in recent years. Well... let me rephrase that. Perhaps I mean my trust has been tested. In terms of faith, there have been times (Omg omg omg. I just killed a spider crawling on my arm. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Okay. Okay. I’m okay. Continuing on....)- there have been times, days, weeks, long stretches of barren wasteland, where I thought my faith was being wrenched. But I've realized, in retrospect, that the times when I thought my faith was gone, it was there all along, a steady, tired beating. Sometimes I may have managed to tune it out. But the rhythm of the steps that kept me plodding on through those dry, aching times, was the rhythm of my being. The core of my faith. Whether I knew it was there or not, it kept me. It held me when I wasn’t strong enough to hold it on my own. My faith has never wavered. But my trust... now that’s a different story.
My trust is being stretched again. I’m not a naturally trusting person. I think I can say that along with many of the human race. We are not a trusting species. We’re wary, and cruel, and biting. Those who do trust are considered naive, chewed up and spit out in a bitter pile. I learned early not to place my trust in people. Certain types of people especially. If my initial judgment of someone is too harsh, it’s merely out of self defense. And yet, somehow, these certain types of people seem to always reel me in. Against my better- or baser, at least- judgment.
So what call do I make? Do I back into a corner, hissing and spitting, ready to bite any hand that reaches out to me, merely because I mistakenly placed my trust in a fallible human being that I knew would break me eventually anyway?
Or, do I exercise this fragile faith of mine, knowing that it’s very likely I’ll be hurt, broken even, and people I love along with me? Do I take that LEAP I’ve been maundering on about, forgive what needs forgiving, and love with a vulnerability I don’t feel? Do I let others make mistakes in front of me, leading me down thorny, gravelly paths, and trust that my true Guide won’t let me get lost?
I don’t know. It’s easy for me to sit here in the middle of the night, and bravely beat my chest, saying, “Oh yes! I’ll be strong! I’ll be resilient! I’ll trust and be broken, and broken again, knowing that He can put me to rights!” It’s easy to type those words out. But when faced with a choice to trust or run, odds are good that I’ll run right back to my corner with my hackles raised like a suspicious cat, my eyes dilated and reflecting the darkness of my brokenness.
So here’s what I’ll do. For now. I will plod through these wastelands with a steady gait, trusting that the rhythm of my steps will not be lost on Him, because His heart beats with mine, bleeds with mine, and breaks with mine. I will take this fragile faith, and I’ll place it in the only One in my life thus far Who has truly earned it. And I will trust Him to nurture it, nourish it, and make me well.
My trust is being stretched again. I’m not a naturally trusting person. I think I can say that along with many of the human race. We are not a trusting species. We’re wary, and cruel, and biting. Those who do trust are considered naive, chewed up and spit out in a bitter pile. I learned early not to place my trust in people. Certain types of people especially. If my initial judgment of someone is too harsh, it’s merely out of self defense. And yet, somehow, these certain types of people seem to always reel me in. Against my better- or baser, at least- judgment.
So what call do I make? Do I back into a corner, hissing and spitting, ready to bite any hand that reaches out to me, merely because I mistakenly placed my trust in a fallible human being that I knew would break me eventually anyway?
Or, do I exercise this fragile faith of mine, knowing that it’s very likely I’ll be hurt, broken even, and people I love along with me? Do I take that LEAP I’ve been maundering on about, forgive what needs forgiving, and love with a vulnerability I don’t feel? Do I let others make mistakes in front of me, leading me down thorny, gravelly paths, and trust that my true Guide won’t let me get lost?
I don’t know. It’s easy for me to sit here in the middle of the night, and bravely beat my chest, saying, “Oh yes! I’ll be strong! I’ll be resilient! I’ll trust and be broken, and broken again, knowing that He can put me to rights!” It’s easy to type those words out. But when faced with a choice to trust or run, odds are good that I’ll run right back to my corner with my hackles raised like a suspicious cat, my eyes dilated and reflecting the darkness of my brokenness.
So here’s what I’ll do. For now. I will plod through these wastelands with a steady gait, trusting that the rhythm of my steps will not be lost on Him, because His heart beats with mine, bleeds with mine, and breaks with mine. I will take this fragile faith, and I’ll place it in the only One in my life thus far Who has truly earned it. And I will trust Him to nurture it, nourish it, and make me well.
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