I Don’t Want My Daughter To Hate Me

by JessicaB

It’s four years ago and I lie in bed again, crying – warm, tortured tears slowly filling my ears with puddles of my worst fears.

“She’s going to hate me one day.”

Drip.

“I’m losing her.”

Drip.

“I’m a terrible mother.”

Drip.

***

It’s a year later and I bring her home from school, for good. She’s eight years old. My silent nighttime anxiety and daytime frustrations have led me to this decision. I can’t connect with her to the degree we both need if she’s gone eight hours a day. I can’t parent in the margins. I need to be selfish with our time. I need to homeschool.

***

It’s two years ago and I read everything I can get my hands on about gentle parenting. I think and ponder and analyze the ways I was parented, the ways I have parented. And I hope it’s not too late to repair the damage.

***

It’s 5 months ago and four of us sit around a table, sipping wine, swapping stories. We’re from nearly four corners of the continent and yet a common thread emerges from our histories and into our presents. Only one of has a rewarding relationship with the woman who carried her. Most of us, we don’t have encouraging things to say about our mothers. She’s a little too this, a lot too that. There’s a disconnect, or there’s flat-out bitterness, or there’s bridges burned to protect from future flames. “Oh God”, I say, “I hope our daughters don’t say these things about us one day.”

***

It’s a month later and I sit across from another friend, sipping another drink, having the same conversation. The exact same conversation.

***

It’s three weeks ago and we sit in a little shop downtown painting pottery, me sipping a latte, her sipping a chai. She’s twelve now.

***

It’s two weeks ago and we’re in the car again, just her and I. We laugh. We laaaaugh – in the car, isolated, unplugged.

***

It’s four days ago and she tells me I look pretty today.

***

It’s two days ago and she comes up behind me and puts her arms around my neck – an intentional act of bravery – we’re not a touchy-feely people.

***

Her days are filled with creativity, freedom, and topped with a dollop of responsibility. She is a dream of a tween and I don’t cry at night anymore. I don’t let my fears flood the darkness. A part of me knows that this could be the calm before the storm; that the often terrifying hurricane of being a teenager is just around the corner. But I don’t worry about it too much.

***

Our relationship isn’t perfect. It won’t ever be. She’ll still have stuff to say about me one day when she gathers around a table with friends, she’ll have her share of stories to swap. But I hope she’s the one, the one out of the four who has miraculously been saved from the grime of humanity permanently staining our connection.

Even though sometimes I’m impatient and sometimes she’s selfish and sometimes I’m lazy and sometimes she has an attitude.

Despite all that I hope we can remain friends. It’s such a rare gift to remain friends with your mother.

***

In the mean time, we take one day at a time.

And we laugh.

June 17, 2013 in Family with 6 Comments

The Right Way to Grieve

by Amanda

Tuesday marked one year.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Should we celebrate? Mourn? Laugh? Cry? Should we let it pass quietly or make a fancy dinner?

“What was Papaw’s favorite food?” my five year old asked me a couple weeks ago. “I dunno,” I replied. “I guess steak?” “Well, then maybe we should cook a steak.” “Maybe we should,” I said. “Papaw would like that.”

The date arrived at the end of a string of days that felt like walking a path broken glass in bare feet. Sharp. Painful. Necessary. We did not grill steak. We weren’t even all together. We were scattered – my two boys and my husband here at home, my daughter spending the night with my mom, my brother’s family at their home in another state, and me six hours south, sitting in a full sanctuary at another father’s funeral. He was the father and father-in-law of two of my dear college friends, and he passed away suddenly in his home with his wife, five children, five children-in-law, and ten grandchildren in the next room.

His may have been the most inspiring funeral service I’ve ever attended. I did not want inspiration, not that day of all days, but the invisible ones that bring inspiration do not ask permission before entering. They just show up and snap you to attention.

It felt strange but comforting to be reunited with the friends who have known me longest and loved me best at the funeral of another father – one of theirs – on the first anniversary of my own father’s passing. It felt odd but beautiful to sit in a memorial service in a formal sanctuary-turned-circus, its large stage colorfully decorated for Vacation Bible School. A two-story wooden ferris wheel loomed over on the right, a glittery ticket booth stood on the left, a photo-opp clown with a hole cut out for the face standing joyfully in between. A six-foot banner hung vertically in the center of the stage right behind the pulpit, in perfect line with the flower-laden coffin in the front and the large white cross hanging above the baptismal in the back. The banner read in bold carnival letters, “START.”

I suppose death for the believer is the grandest of starts, but it sure hurts like hell for those of us still here.

So there I sat in the makeshift circus, listening to the three oldest sons say what every father hopes their sons will one day say. And there I stood, singing the old familiar hymn, weeping at the images of my daddy conjured up by the last stanza:

And then one day
I’ll cross the river
I’ll fight life’s final war with pain
And then as death
Gives way to victory
I’ll see the lights
Of glory and
I’ll know he lives.

I can’t not see him in his hospital bed, restraints on his tired arms. I can’t not see him in his leather armchair, coming in and out of sleep as grandchildren play at his feet. I can’t not see him in his hospice bed, weary lungs shaking out each breath. I know he lives a new life now, but I can’t stop seeing him die.

We had dinner together Monday night — my four of my oldest, best friends in the world and I. It had been twelve years and twelve babies since we had last seen each other. We ate fried macaroni with the giddiness of children and made margaritas and laughed at the stories that only the five of us know how to tell. It was a balm I did not know my soul desperately needed.

I drove home Tuesday night after the graveside service and listened to Matt Mays on the stereo as the painted sky changed hues of purple and orange. I soaked in the freedom of the straight, empty highway and drank in silence like only a mama away from her babies knows how. I called friends on the phone and talked about my dad, and I listened to track eight of Good Light until it broke me. And then I listened a few times more.

The next day I scooped up my two boys and drove to my mom’s house to pick up my little girl, the largest white balloon I’d ever seen bouncing around the back of the minivan. A friend left it on the porch while I was away with a note that said, “Thought you and your kiddos could tie a knot around a note and send it up to your papa.”

And so we did. We tied drawings and letters with pieces of gold string, kissed the balloon and carried it to the open spot of the backyard between the trees. With a few last hugs and kisses for Papaw, we cut loose the long white lace and watched it soar until our eyes hurt from the sun and the balloon was a tiny star disappearing into blue, until it had sailed away “to his new house,” said the three-year-olds.

There were no tears, no dramatic pauses, no sad sighs. There was no steak. But there were squeals of delight. There were moments of remembering. And though it did not go as planned, it felt just right.

June 14, 2013 in Family with 13 Comments

On Sausage Making and Resurrecting Family Traditions

by Leigh

The ground meat on the dining room table looked more like a mountain. Grandma had already added the spices, adding a sandy sheen. My mom, brother, and I washed our hands and then went to our respective places around the table.

I plunged my hands into the meat, my fingers shocked by its coldness. I squeezed meat and seasoning together, kneading for minutes that seemed like hours. The cold stiffened my knuckles but we could not stop until the task was complete.

This was Sausage Making Day.

Grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins worked side by side. We traded stories and told jokes until meat and spices blended perfectly. We washed our hands again and the cousins ran off to play together. Occasionally I’d return to the kitchen and watch Grandpa or an uncle case the meat by machine. Long tubes of plastic transformed into sausage. Into sustenance.

Later the meat would sit in the smokehouse for curing but I never saw this part of the process. Only the tasty result.

That night we gathered around the table and feasted on the last of the previous year’s sausage, potatoes, vegetables from the garden, and one of Grandma’s pies. The sausage would appear at many family gatherings to come. Each time I’d remember the work and the love it required.

***

It’s been years since I helped out on Sausage Making Day. Truth be told, I can’t remember the last time we went. Regardless, the tradition carried on. One late winter or early spring day, we’d arrive at the farm empty handed and leave with packages of encased meat.

When I moved into an apartment after graduate school, I received a few sausages of my own. I couldn’t imagine a better stamp of adulthood.

No matter why my family gathered, no matter what else was served, there would almost always be coins of sausage at the table. On this we could depend.

I’m not sure when the sausage ran out. Maybe 2007 or as late as 2008. We noticed, of course, but who could remedy our lack?

In 2006, members of the family gathered to make sausage one fine day, not imagining it would be the last time. A few months later, my great-aunt Teresa was diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. Teresa had lived with my grandparents for over 25 years at that point. As Teresa declined, Grandma’s role as caregiver increased.

Teresa outlived her original prognosis and when 2007 rolled around, she’d already been bedbound for a few months. Around the time we should have been making sausage, we were instead making caregiving charts and trying to figure out how to get Grandma to accept more help. Grandma had taken care of other dying loved ones before but she was older now and her back was giving her trouble.

Teresa died that April and two weeks later, Grandma was diagnosed with her own cancer. Not even 2 months later, we said goodbye to her as well.

And with that, all of our family traditions were in a state of flux.

My parents hosted Thanksgiving, an aunt and uncle hosted Christmas, and so on. Grandpa wasn’t ready for the holidays to return to his home and, frankly, neither were we. Even though we had all contributed a side dish or dessert to these meals for years, Grandma was the one making it all come together. She wasn’t just our matriarch, she was the force, the purpose, the glue.

Don’t get me wrong: my family loves spending time together, no matter what. But. When a loved one dies, family dynamics and traditions get shuffled about. We are no longer the same and therefore nothing else is the same.

We’ve now marked 6 years without Aunt Teresa and Grandma. Our traditions continue to evolve. Sometimes Grandpa hosts a holiday, sometimes someone else does.

The last 2 Christmases my cousins and I have tossed around the idea of making sausage. It’s our family sausage and we’re ready for it to return to family meals. At least in theory. Grandpa said he’ll give us the recipe and supervise. Perhaps it’s time for the 3rd generation to rise.

It may be time for me to take charge, matriarch-in-training that I am. Even from out of state. To wrangle everyone’s schedules and choose a date next year and hold us all to it.

It’s time for sausage to be a part of family gatherings again. It’s time to remember the work and love it requires.

June 13, 2013 in Family with 16 Comments

over-exposed

by Robin Dance

“What’s a guy supposed to do when she puts it out there, when she puts it all out there?” he asks because he really wants an answer.

“She had on a low, low-cut tee shirt…” and, looking down, with two fingers starting in the center of his chest, he draws a scoop neck to show me just how low as he continues, “and just about everything she had was out there to see.”

Apparently there was a lot to see.

“She didn’t seem skanky, it wasn’t like that, and I’m a guy trying not to look!” His volume intensifies, the thing that happens when you wrestle. “Most men probably aren’t even trying not to….”

“And then she bent over in front of me….”

His waitress.

I suppose this is the kind of honesty you get when you give your husband permission to tell you the truth about anything.

: : : : : : : : : : : :

I’m not offended by his admission, quite the opposite. By him telling me, it diffuses its power.

I have eyes, too, and I’m honest (and confident?) enough to admit a beautiful cleavage is a powerful force.

There was a book I read ages ago, and in it the author spoke of a man’s mental rolodex, the images of women he’s seen over a lifetime, the ones that stick, the ones he returns to or struggles to avoid or tries to forget altogether. I don’t recall exactly what she said but I’ve never forgotten its general sentiment.

We’ve been married over half our lives and there’s a lot of freedom in what we tell one another. In this instance, I’m curious, I want to know more about his inner thinking; so I ask.

“So is that the kind of thing you think about later, remember…entertain…?” and his answer is credible because he’s earned my trust over a lifetime of truthtelling. Sometimes his honesty has been hard to receive, but I continue, “Does your body respond…?” and he explains it’s nothing like any of t h a t , but in the moment, it’s a rush of some sort.

Some might find our entire exchange offensive or odd or I don’t know what, but I believe him. Without a doubt, I know his attraction and affections are toward me, none of which are undermined by him noticing another woman’s physical appeal.

It’s one of those pieces of advice given to me over 25 years ago that has proven itself true over the course of time: give your spouse the freedom to tell you the truth.

: : : : : : : : : : : :

I have two teenage boys and a college-aged daughter. To the best of our ability, we’ve raised them to love the Lord and to care more about what He values than the cheap but shiny allure of the world.

Sometimes I hate the culture into which they’ve been born. Pressures inconceivable when I was their age.

You can only protect them so far, shield them from the inevitable for so long.

Even if you censor TV viewing at home, restrict and filter the internet or don’t allow smart phones, when they walk out your door, they’ll be bombarded with images to begin filling their mental rolodex.

Magazine covers at the grocer’s check out.

Billboards on the Interstate.

Catalogs in the mailbox.

And the one I hated the most: standing in line to visit Santa at the mall…right next to Victoria’s Secrets and her angels peddling their larger than life wares.

Little doubt what they’re selling….

The kind of images you had to pay for back in the day, a distorted view of reality, airbrushed perfection.

But it’s even closer than that–

Well-endowed waitresses wearing form-fitting, low-cut tees bending over to take an order. I’m talking family restaurants, not Hooters….

Girls at the mall or at the park or at a game wearing 4″ shorts from top to bottom, tramp stamps, thongs that might as well be a flashing neon sign….

When did crack get put on the menu?

All of it infuriates my mom sensibilities.

My wife sensibilities.

My sensibilities as a woman.

: : : : : : : : : : : :

When low, low-rise pants and shorts were introduced a few years ago, a friend of mine was frustrated with her teenage daughter’s fashion choices. She complained but gave in to her daughter’s persistence.

I suggested Shock Parenting: tell your daughter guys are masturbating to her when she wears clothes that show that much skin.

My friend didn’t hesitate, “She’d probably like that.”

Blink blink. Jaw dropped.

Shock Parenting, meet Shocked Friend.

Apart from the Divine, my boys don’t stand a chance.

This is the kind of thing that keeps me up at night and down on my knees in the morning.

It’s one thing for a girl not to realize the effect she has on a guy; but a whole nother when she does.

Lord have mercy.

: : : : : : : : : : : :

“Oh, be careful little eyes what you see…”

That refrain my preschoolers used to sing has become my desperate prayer for my children as they’ve gotten older. Not only for my babies but for the ones they’ll one day marry.

I wonder what kind of baggage will be carried into their marriages.

Yeah…another reason to pray like a warrior, for the ones I love and the ones they’ll love.

: : : : : : : : : : : :

Sometimes I write with a specific call to action in mind (whether or not it’s overtly stated).

This time, I’m not sure why I felt compelled to write (but I was).

An encouragement to those who are married to extend the freedom to tell each other the truth?

An encouragement to parents to pray over their children and their future mates, to have hard talks, to be aware of what’s out there?

To ask you how to protect your hearts and minds in the midst of our sexually permissive culture?

To women, to be aware how your clothing might affect a total stranger?

(Ha! As I write that, I just realized three fingers are pointing my way! I just remembered someone who was concerned I showed too much skin!! Oh, the irony….)

: : : : : : : : : : : :

I realize husbands and sons and wives and daughters are responsible for training their hearts and minds to honor the Lord they profess.

I just wish it wasn’t so hard.

June 10, 2013 in Family with 34 Comments

A Parable

by Katherine Willis Pershey

The man shot out of bed as soon as he heard the scream. He found his boy sitting up in bed, covered in sweat, tears streaming down his face. He scooped the frightened three-year-old into his arms and rocked him against his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” His son protested, of course. A scary monster had been chasing him and was definitely hiding in the closet. The father opened the closet door and showed that there was nothing in there but a jumble of t-shirts and shoes and puzzles. “The monster wasn’t real, son. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He repeated this soothing refrain until the boy drifted back to sleep.

Later, when the boy was six, he wanted more than anything to learn to ride his bike without the training wheels. Most of his friends were already racing around the block. But something within the boy just froze when he thought of teetering on those two big wheels with nothing to stop him from crashing to the asphalt.

One morning the father woke up early, tiptoed out of the room so as not to wake the boy’s mother, and gently awakened his son. “Today’s the day, kid. You’re going to learn to ride a bike.” The two took off for a nearby pathway where there were no cars or other kids to watch. The bike, stripped of its training wheels, jostled and bumped in the back of the pickup. When the father parked the truck, he reached for his son’s hand, and repeated those same words he’d whispered a few years before: “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” The boy nodded.

But as the father lifted the bicycle from the truck bed, he felt a little twinge. It wasn’t entirely true that there was nothing to be afraid of, was it? The boy could fall. Even if his helmet protected his head, he could still skin a knee or break a wrist. There was perhaps something to be afraid of after all, though he wasn’t going to break his son’s courage just as he was about to conquer his fear.

The boy learned to ride his bike by lunchtime – without incident, and with great joy.

The twinge in the father’s heart was displaced by full-fledged heartbreak a decade later, when the boy’s mother took ill. The prognosis wasn’t great. As much as the man dreaded how much he would miss her if she didn’t make it, he could scarcely handle the possibility that his boy might lose his mother. For the first few days of her treatment, the father barely spoke to his son. He tried to tell himself that his first priority had to be caring for his wife. She needed him.

But the red eyes and sullen silence of his son crushed his excuses: his boy needed him, too. After dinner they stood in front of the sink, the father handing each clean dish to his son to be dried. The father choked on the feeble words that came to mind. He could not tell his son there was nothing to be afraid of this time. There was something to be afraid of. Even if his wife survived, it would take a toll on her. She would suffer. They would all suffer.

As he handed the last cup to his son, he tentatively put his arm around his son’s shoulder. The boy turned to him and crumpled into an embrace, and bawled. They never did talk much, but somehow in that wordless encounter, the boy was reassured of what he needed to know most: not that there was nothing to be afraid of, but that his father would be with him every step of the way.

Another ten years passed. The boy became a man, and found good work, and met a woman he wanted to marry. The day was bittersweet; his mother had passed away just months before, after years of living in the grace of remission. Her absence was noted by a single rose at the front of the sanctuary. His father was torn during the service. He was happy for his son, but he could hardly take his eyes off the rose. He missed his wife terribly, and wanted her to be there to bless and celebrate their son’s marriage. He was acutely aware that he, too, wouldn’t always be there for his son. On this day of joy, he was flooded with anxiety. As his son vowed to be faithful and loving in good times and bad, all the father could think was that there was so much that could go wrong. What if his son lost a job, or got sick, or had troubled kids? What if, what if, what if?

All he ever wanted to do was protect his child from anything that could hurt him, and somehow that rose announced, once and for all, that he couldn’t do that one thing that mattered the most to him. He couldn’t even promise to be with him every step of the way, not any more than his wife could.

The man felt like he was on a ship that was being tossed to and fro by a fierce storm. A torrent of grief and fear threatened to tear him apart, even as he politely shook hands with his new daughter-in-law’s father.

As the wedding guests began filing out of the church, he sat alone in his pew, trying to pray. As they so often had before, words failed him. He opened the Bible beside him in hopes of finding something that could give him peace. He turned the gospel of Mark and found a familiar story:

A great gale arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, ‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?’ He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’ Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, ‘Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?’ And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, ‘Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?

The father closed the bible and pressed his thumbs into his temples. Not only did he practically feel seasick from anxiety, he felt the same helplessness and anger and indignation and fear encapsulated in that stark question: Teacher, do you not care? Yet he somehow was less impressed by the amazing miracle Jesus performed in response than he was by the question Jesus asked in turn. Why are you afraid? It seemed obvious enough; there was a storm going on and the disciples thought they were going to die. If Jesus had shot up from his sleep in the midst of their nightmare and said, There’s nothing to be afraid of, it would have been a bald-faced lie. The dangers were real, from gravity to loss to the darkness of stormy seas. Yet still Jesus asked why are you afraid? It didn’t seem fair, really, to expect a man to not be afraid… even in the face of his own death. Or the uncertainty of his son’s life.

The father stood and walked to the front of the sanctuary. He pulled the rose from its vase. Drops of water splashed on the Communion table and made spots on his suit. It reminded him of his son’s baptism. He wondered what it would have been like to be on that ship with Jesus. And then, a quiet truth became as clear to him as the empty crystal vase. He was on the ship with Jesus. Or rather, Jesus was on the ship with him.

The storms were real. His grief was real. He couldn’t guarantee his son’s safety and happiness the way he desperately wanted to. But Jesus was with him. And Jesus was with his son; that he was sure of. He didn’t exactly stop being afraid, at that moment. But he trusted that no matter what storms may come, Jesus would be there, whispering peace, peace.

June 7, 2013 in Family with 5 Comments

When Time Collapses

by Diana

Every couple of months in this space, I am chronicling the journey with my mom (and a similar journey with my husband’s mom) through the ravages of dementia. I have learned that I do not take this journey alone, that many of you walk this road, too. And somehow, writing it down, saying it ‘out loud,’ helps us all to manage the pain and the fatigue of this particular path.
You can read earlier posts here, here and here.

Enormous chunks of time are gone now.

How can I watch this? How can I help? How can I say the right thing, do the right thing, be the right daughter?

I am beyond knowing most days. Beyond knowing.

We made plans last weekend for my youngest brother’s two sons and one daughter-in-law to make the long drive from their home to ours. My youngest brother, the one who died in his sleep just over three years ago. This would be the first time these nice kids would see Mom in her new living environment, the one we moved her to in February. The one designed for memory and cognitive loss residents.

The one that reminds me every single time I am there that my mother is fading into the woodwork, that the woman I knew is vacating the premises.

I have learned not to tell Mom about visitors or traveling plans too far in advance. When I do, she frets over it multiple times per day, convinced that NOW is when it all happens. Several weeks ago, she asked me to contact Ken’s boys; she wanted to see them. I was happy to do that.

Thank God for Facebook — connections were made, plans set. One day before our time together, I told mom that we would all go out to lunch together. She was excited and grateful and seemed to understand – seemed being the operative word.

Alarming situation number one: when we arrived, parking in the subterranean lot beneath the wing in which she lives, riding the elevator and turning the circuitous route to her unit, we found her standing outside the building, as cars drove nearby. Maybe that bracelet will be necessary after all, the one that sets off the alarm if she leaves with no one noticing.

I dread it. Dread it.

Alarming situation number two: after greeting everyone gladly and expertly, she climbed into our car, while the younger generation climbed into their own, to follow us to the restaurant. “Who are those people?” she said.

Who are those people?

These, dearest mother-of-mine, these are the very ones you so wanted to see. The very ones. How do I answer you without letting the deep panic I feel creep into my voice? How do I DO that?

Alarming situation number three: my darling mother had no memory that her son, her baby, is dead. Then it all came flooding back, right there, in the backseat of our Honda Pilot, as we drove to lunch on a Sunday afternoon. Tears, sobs, deep sorrow, and multiple explanations about who each young person was, how they were related to one another, to Ken and to her.

More and more, it feels as if this dreadful process is a strange and twisted version of Groundhog Day — the horror movie version. Old memories disappear, submerged beneath the sea of a shrinking hippocampus. Then they jump to the surface, fresh and sharp, like icebergs that head straight for the ship of her heart.

She was overwhelmed and embarrassed that she could not find the pieces, that she could not tell the story. “What must they think of me?” she asked in the car, “Have I abandoned them?”

“No, Mom. You have done nothing wrong — they are so glad to see you. Oh, Mommy! You are so good socially, they don’t even know you’re struggling!”

I think she believed me. I hope she believed me.

And she was able to cover her confusion, at least a little. But that is getting harder and harder to do. All during lunch that day, she would whisper to me, “Now, who is this sitting next to me?” Later that night, and the next night as well — “Tell me again who they were and how I know them.” Finally, today at lunch, she seemed to have most of the pieces in place. Until she realized that meant that my brother must have been married at some point in his life — and another round of panic set in. “Why can’t I remember?” she asks me, tears rimming those blue eyes.

Every dementia journey is unique, I’m told, each story a little bit different. I have to say that I do not like this one, not at all. The only ‘happy ending’ I can see is a pretty grim one. It looks like this: my mother is no longer aware that she is losing it, no longer able to worry about what others think about her, no longer concerned about what she remembers and what she doesn’t, no longer frightened when she realizes entire chunks of her life have fallen into a sinkhole, never to be seen again.

The problem with this scenario is that once she gets to that place — that hard but strangely easier place — the only thing left is death itself.

And right now, death is looking like the best option available.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to write those words? How hard it is to think them? To pray them?

Oh, dear Lord, give me eyes to see your goodness in the midst of all this pain, to find grace in the grim realities, to remember that you are Sovereign over aging brains, that you love my good, beautiful, funny, outrageously intelligent and faithful, Jesus-following mama even more than I do.

Because right now, Lord, right now? Trust is harder and harder to find. And I find myself crying with the psalmist, “How long, O Lord, how long?”

June 6, 2013 in Family with 22 Comments

Beauty in the Brokenness

by Alise

But the shells I like the best are the broken ones. These made me think about the pieces of my life. As I look at these pieces, I can hear my Lord say,
“You’re broken my child, but without this brokenness you can’t grow. As you let me comfort you, you will learn to comfort others.
I love you so much that I sent my one and only Son, Jesus, to die for you.”

Just like I went looking for these shells and collected them; so God came looking for me.
He calls me by name and promises that He will never leave me nor forsake me. What a joy and what a simple lesson to be learned for a few ordinary sea shells, each one different, each one special, just like each one of us is special to our Heavenly Father when we seek a relationship with Him.

~Dana McCoy (my mom), from a piece titled Seashells

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My sister and I were standing outside of a restaurant. We had met to talk about my trip to Moldova and to catch up on what was going on in our lives. We were enjoying a surprisingly beautiful February day and before we said our good-byes, she said, “I don’t think Mom had a stroke.”

We had all noticed that Mom was having some problems with speech over the past few months and that, combined with some problems swallowing had compelled her to see an ENT. However that doctor had said that there was nothing physically wrong with her throat, and he referred her to a neurologist. As we stood there on that clear, sunny day, clouds rolled across my mind as my sister told me that several of her friends had suggested that our mother’s symptoms sounded like they were indicative of amyotrophic lateral sclerois. ALS. Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

I drove home, hit Google, and had the first of many cries.

++++++++

I was in my car, heading home from a night teaching piano lessons when my phone rang. My mom had undergone a muscle test earlier that day, when the EKG came back clean, showing that there was no stroke. From the tiny speaker near my ear came my mom’s voice, telling me that the doctors had given her the diagnosis that we had all feared. I tried to keep it together on the phone with her as she talked about medications that she would be taking and some of the things that she would be doing moving forward.

But after we hung up and I called my husband, the tears flowed freely.

When I got home, we told our children about the diagnosis, and the six of us huddled on the couch together, crying as we held one another, knowing that it probably wasn’t going to be the last time that we cried about this as a family. Grateful for the comfort that we could draw from one another.

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I sat alone in church on Easter Sunday. Big holidays are already difficult for me, and this one felt damn near oppressive. Easter is about resurrection and life, but this year I couldn’t see past the grave. I thought of the jar of broken shells that sat on my dresser, until it fell and the jar smashed, one shell slicing my thumb when I went to clean it up. My mom sees the shells and they give her comfort. For me, those same shells represent a relentless ocean or a cruel predator breaking apart something meant to shelter and protect and instead turning it into something that could cause pain.

It’s hard for me to find solace in broken things.

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I think we’re both right about the shells. Sometimes the shells are broken because what was in them has been destroyed. The life inside has became food for something stronger and hungrier.

But sometimes the shells are broken because they were abandoned. The creature that resided there outgrew the space and needed something better. The shell served no purpose but to be found and admired for its beauty.

I see elements of both in the illness that my mom is experiencing. There are things that are being cast out before their time. Her singing voice has been largely compromised and I know that is a loss that hurts her. She is experiencing physical pain that robs her of rest.

But she is growing as well. She offers encouragement to those in therapy with her. She has experienced kindness from people who didn’t know her. She still spends time volunteering at the nursing home where she worked for most of my life.

I don’t like much of what is happening. It’s not fair. I cry a lot. The brokenness doesn’t make much sense to me.

I’m me, so I’m not going to be able to ignore those things. They are part of how I process. But I hope that increasingly, those darker emotions become a way to highlight the beauty that can be found in the brokenness.

By Wilfredor (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons

June 4, 2013 in Family with 16 Comments

A “Harmless” Reliance on Alcohol

by Ed

I lost a friend for a season of my life because he made a choice—a simple daily choice really. He framed it as a need, an important part of the day that fit in neatly with lunch breaks or a chat around the water cooler.

He just needed a time to relax and unwind. We’d both leave work, but I went home and he stopped at the bar.

I didn’t see the connection months later when his angry outbursts became more frequent. By the time I changed jobs and we cut off ties, he didn’t have any choices left. He needed to “unwind” constantly. Popping open a cold can of beer became a daily need, a way to keep functioning.

Looking back, I can connect the dots and see how one step led to another. I just never expected it. That’s the way with alcohol: You tell yourself that you should see it coming, but so many of us can’t on our own.

The Lure of Happy Hour

Happy hour started at 4:15 pm during the winter months. The bulk of our visitors arrived in the summer. What else was there to do at the end of the day? When the assistant director called us down for the first “meeting,” no one complained.

You could find the whole staff in the old mansion’s kitchen that had only been updated with yet another layer of thick white paint around the frames of the glass cabinet doors. They stuck shut as we yanked them open pulled for crackers and cookies to go with the wine.

They said I “gulped” my wine. I just drank it like grape juice. I am a Baptist after all. Aren’t grape juice and wine basically the same thing?

Alas, we were not drinking from the tiny communion cups. My head started to spin about five minutes into the first happy hour.

Once I started sipping my wine, I kept my head under control. However, when you’re dealing with alcohol, control can be a touchy matter.

I knew how to drink my wine at a better pace, but I also developed a new habit:

DRINK ALCOHOL AFTER WORK

Cultivating a New Habit

I didn’t think too much about this new habit, save for ensuring that I could drive home without endangering myself or anyone else. It continued on and off in the years that followed, often reserving wine for the conclusion of a hard day at work.

I worked my way through sweet wines and eventually graduated to the dry Chardonnay. By the time I turned 30, I decided it was time to “teach” myself to drink beer. I grew weary of being the only guy who couldn’t pick a decent beer at a party.

I sought out beer experts in my circle of friends and tried to nail down one or two “go to” beers. I’d seen enough sneering at “berry” beers to know I couldn’t go down that road.

After a year of “training” in the world of beer, I finally settled on a few brands. I started rotating a wine purchase with a six pack of beer. During the summer I took particular delight in drinking a beer on the porch during the last hour of work.

Remember, happy hour starts at 4:15 for me.

She Saw It Coming

I probably never would drink a second beer after work because I can’t afford to drink more than a beer a day. Heck, I rarely drink more than 3 or 4 beers a week. But I will say this, I really enjoy that beer when I drink it.

However, one day, I said, “Gosh, a second beer would be wonderful…”

My wife spoke up. Who knows how long she’d been thinking this. I should have been thinking of it all along:

“You’re starting to sound a lot like your friend.”

I didn’t know all of the stories around my friend. I didn’t even know if I could ever drink enough to trigger “the alcoholic” button in me. I didn’t even know if I had that button.

Did I want to risk finding out? I still had a choice.

The Freedom of Caution

Because of that conversation, I approach alcohol differently now.

There are still rewards waiting for me at the end of the day. Sometimes it’s chocolate. Sometimes it’s tea. Sometimes it’s a New Castle Brown Ale.

I have a choice. I can stop after one beer. I know plenty of people who can’t.

I don’t need strict boundaries, but I do need to remind myself about my habits: You don’t need alcohol at the end of the day.

After watching someone descend into dependence, I cringe every time I hear someone say, “I need a drink.” It’s usually a harmless phrase. I know where they’re coming from. If I had to put up with the same junk, I may even say the same thing.

But it could be destructive to believe alcohol is the key to unwinding after a hard day.

There are plenty of other ways I can unwind, from gardening, to walking, to watching a hockey game.

Alcohol does not need to become a daily habit or a daily “tradition” for the end of my work day. It has a way of intruding into other parts of the day.

I still love sitting on my porch with a beer. I just fear loving it too much.

I don’t lie to myself: that could happen. I don’t know where or what that line would be, but after seeing it happen, it’s one that I want to keep away from.

I used to think either you’re an alcoholic or you’re not. I’ve since seen the way alcohol becomes a habit that grows and grows, gradually intoxicating an entire life.

I don’t think I’m in danger of becoming an alcoholic, but I also don’t want to take any chances with the way I think about a beer after work.

I just know what I saw: an after work habit that took over an entire life. You may find me drinking a beer on my front porch. I’ll tell you that I like it, but I’ll never say that I need it.

A Note to Readers: I’m grateful for several friends who gave me feedback about their struggles with alcohol as I wrote this post. To learn more about the challenges that alcoholics face, check out Heather Kopp’s memoir Sober Mercies: How Love Caught Up with a Christian Drunk.

June 3, 2013 in Family with 10 Comments

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