It's with a disappointed heart that I share the following: this blog is going on hiatus until further notice.
I've been writing. I have. It's not that I have neglected my art. Most of what I have been writing has wound up in the mouths of my teenage actors. I've been writing new plays for them every 6 to 8 weeks or so, and I also feel that the time has come for me to resurrect some of my older skits and plays and give them new life.
In addition, I feel that God is calling me to do a new thing in my life, something that will require me to stretch my faith, embrace my gifts, and trust him in an area of my life that I've always considered a hobby, rather than a professions. I am not ready to share this new goal just yet, but it will - God willing - involve me reaching out to others like myself to cultivate the link between the dramatic arts and the church.
I want to thank those of you who have read, commented, encouraged and supported me from my first social media posts (yep - myspace) until now. You have helped carry me through times when I doubted my talent, doubted that I had anything worthwhile to say. After many years, I believe I am finding my voice, and I know what I want to share.
I still have novels and skits and poems in my head that may never come out, but it's time I sat down at the computer and let them have a real fighting chance to do just that.
I'm not ready to seal up this chapter of my life just yet, so I'm keeping my "good-bye" open-ended. It's entirely possible that my path will bring me back here with a lot more to say. But, for now, I need to step back and give my increasingly limited free time to the words that have been locked in my head for too long.
May God's love sustain you, may you never run out of coffee, and may every cat you encounter remind you of me.
Signing off for now,
Rebecca L. Godlove
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Hello. It's Me. Again.
Maybe you're relieved to see this post. Maybe you're irritated. Excited? Well, I'm back, in a way.
I needed time away from social media. All in all, and initially as part of my church's annual January fast, I stepped away from all my personal social media accounts (I still maintained the church's sites). In mid-February, I returned to Instagram. About a week ago, I began commenting and liking n Facebook again, but I still haven't posted. I haven't returned to Twitter or tumblr at all yet, save for posting from my Instagram account.
I have to say that I was shocked to learn that I didn't miss Facebook much at all. Although my feed has come to be less about catching up with friends than it is about mudslinging, religious fervor, and cat pictures, it's still very addictive. A great time-killer. Likewise, though, it's a great way to avoid responsibility and face-to-face interaction with other human beings. I realized that was not a healthy way to live, and found myself pointedly ignoring my phone for long stretches, or checking only e-mail or text messages.
In some ways, I've emerged happier. I don't get sucked into the abyss that is the comments section at the bottom of every Buzzfeed post. I don't mentally correct grammar or wonder what type of horrible education/recreational drug the comments were influenced by. I don't waste time on finding out which celebrity my cat's personality most resembles (although, for the record, I think Freyja might be Adele).
I've also been writing. A lot. I was entrusted with the huge honor of writing a program for my church's Good Friday service, which is something we haven't done in many, many years. I wrote it, cast it, and we are currently in rehearsals for both the Good Friday service and the Easter Sunday service. I'm incredibly proud of my actors, and more than a little shocked that my father agreed to play Caiaphas, the High Priest!
I've also, against my wishes, had to return to work full-time. I do like my job - don't get me wrong, I really do - but leaving Ronen is not getting easier; it's getting harder. Since January, he has been struggling - we all have - with separation anxiety and sadly, I get the worst of it. He's displaying an over preference for Daddy lately, and I get ignored when I pick him up from my parents' house. Daddy gets squeals of excitement, and I barely elicit a casual "Mum." I know it's normal for his age (almost two, can you believe it?) but it's very difficult.
But the point of this post isn't really to tell you where I've been. It's to tell you where I will be. I'll be here, a bit. I'll also be posting material on an online writing portfolio in the hopes of landing some freelance work (more information to follow). I'm working on editing a collection of my church-friendly skits in the hopes of finding a publisher. And I'm really hoping to work with some of the teenage girls in my church to put together a conference for tweens and teens about what it means to be a godly woman (hint: it's probably not what you think it is).
So I won't be online much. I'll creep on Facebook here and there, and I'll still be blowing up IG with cat pictures and baby videos, but that's about it. I'm not ready to slip out of the grip of social media altogether, but I've decided that I'm in charge. Not my Facebook feed. Not the links to those soul-sucking political articles. I'll be using my accounts to my advantage - not the other way around.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Mother's Day
My hands are smaller than hers were, and less calloused. I can only wear her wedding ring on my right hand, my larger hand, and even then it is too big for my ring finger. I have to wear it on my middle finger, the one reserved for insults
It is a simple, textured gold band with tiny diamond chips in it. It is a sign of love lost, of a failed marriage, of hopes dashed. My parents were married young, and I don't know if they ever completely figured out what marriage was supposed to be. They were both stubborn and often selfish. My mother's parents had been abusive, and her dad had cheated on her mom. My father's parents were far more stable, but were "old-fashioned" by the cultural standards of the mid-1970's and their example didn't really work for my parents.
Over twenty years, two daughters, and countless pets later, my parents' divorce was final within days of what would have been their anniversary.
On my finger, the ring feels foreign. Heavy.
Although I lost three children to miscarriage, I believe I have been a mother since the very moment the first one was conceived. Still, yesterday was the first time I celebrated Mother's Day with tangible proof of that status - a chubby, giggling, happy baby boy.
I had a wonderful time - lunch with family, and a movie with friends, plus flowers and a beautiful card from my husband, but "Mother's Day" felt hollow.
Is it because I know that Mother's Day is a "Hallmark Holiday" designed for increased card and gift sales? Is it because my heart still aches for the women I know for whom motherhood is not an option? Is it because, despite all the incredible, loving, and motherly women in my life, I no longer have my own mother?
Yesterday, my Facebook feed was full of beautiful pictures. Some were old and faded, photos from thirty years ago, or more, of mothers holding sweet-faced babies. Some were black-and-white. Some were laughable, as the hairstyles and clothing were so dramatically dated. Some were more recent, a radiant, shining bride with her modestly-dressed but still-stylish mother. Some were accompanied by wonderful thoughts about motherhood, thank-you notes to moms who sacrificed everything, to moms who were strong in the face of adversity, moms who accepted disappointments, moms who never gave up.
Memories of my own mother are fading from my mind. The ones that remain are not kind and tender moments. I know she told me she loved me. I know she sacrificed so much so that I could participate in school activities. She went back to work full-time after nearly two decades of staying home. I know she was extremely proud of my sister and me, as we were great students and continually excelled at school. Neither she nor my father had gone to college, so her endless refrain was "Get an education and a good job so you can take care of yourself". It was as if she thought, if she said it enough, it would spare her daughters the pain, financial trauma, and heartache that her divorce had caused her. (Poor lady, she didn't realize both her kids would major in the fine arts and end up on the low-paying end of the medical field.)
Almost more than I want my mother back in my life, I want those memories back. Memories of laughter and silliness, memories of birthdays and parties and quiet times watching the snow fall, silent, in the backyard. Memories of a fearless mother who came to the rescue every time a wasp hovered menacingly near a sunbathing child on the deck. Memories of an indignant mother who went to bat for her bullied babies. Memories of a creative mother who carefully piped frosting fantasies onto birthday cakes every year - no matter how ridiculous the request. Those memories are still here, but they are hazy. I want the full-color, glossy versions back. Another year and these ghosts might be gone.
It is a simple, textured gold band with tiny diamond chips in it. It is a sign of love lost, of a failed marriage, of hopes dashed. My parents were married young, and I don't know if they ever completely figured out what marriage was supposed to be. They were both stubborn and often selfish. My mother's parents had been abusive, and her dad had cheated on her mom. My father's parents were far more stable, but were "old-fashioned" by the cultural standards of the mid-1970's and their example didn't really work for my parents.
Over twenty years, two daughters, and countless pets later, my parents' divorce was final within days of what would have been their anniversary.
On my finger, the ring feels foreign. Heavy.
Although I lost three children to miscarriage, I believe I have been a mother since the very moment the first one was conceived. Still, yesterday was the first time I celebrated Mother's Day with tangible proof of that status - a chubby, giggling, happy baby boy.
I had a wonderful time - lunch with family, and a movie with friends, plus flowers and a beautiful card from my husband, but "Mother's Day" felt hollow.
Is it because I know that Mother's Day is a "Hallmark Holiday" designed for increased card and gift sales? Is it because my heart still aches for the women I know for whom motherhood is not an option? Is it because, despite all the incredible, loving, and motherly women in my life, I no longer have my own mother?
Yesterday, my Facebook feed was full of beautiful pictures. Some were old and faded, photos from thirty years ago, or more, of mothers holding sweet-faced babies. Some were black-and-white. Some were laughable, as the hairstyles and clothing were so dramatically dated. Some were more recent, a radiant, shining bride with her modestly-dressed but still-stylish mother. Some were accompanied by wonderful thoughts about motherhood, thank-you notes to moms who sacrificed everything, to moms who were strong in the face of adversity, moms who accepted disappointments, moms who never gave up.
Memories of my own mother are fading from my mind. The ones that remain are not kind and tender moments. I know she told me she loved me. I know she sacrificed so much so that I could participate in school activities. She went back to work full-time after nearly two decades of staying home. I know she was extremely proud of my sister and me, as we were great students and continually excelled at school. Neither she nor my father had gone to college, so her endless refrain was "Get an education and a good job so you can take care of yourself". It was as if she thought, if she said it enough, it would spare her daughters the pain, financial trauma, and heartache that her divorce had caused her. (Poor lady, she didn't realize both her kids would major in the fine arts and end up on the low-paying end of the medical field.)
Almost more than I want my mother back in my life, I want those memories back. Memories of laughter and silliness, memories of birthdays and parties and quiet times watching the snow fall, silent, in the backyard. Memories of a fearless mother who came to the rescue every time a wasp hovered menacingly near a sunbathing child on the deck. Memories of an indignant mother who went to bat for her bullied babies. Memories of a creative mother who carefully piped frosting fantasies onto birthday cakes every year - no matter how ridiculous the request. Those memories are still here, but they are hazy. I want the full-color, glossy versions back. Another year and these ghosts might be gone.
On my left hand, my engagement ring and replacement wedding band are a bit grimy-looking. They are caked with hairspray and dish soap, and I don't get them cleaned as often as my husband suggests. Yet they are still vibrant, the signs of hope after loss, the promise of working through trouble, the humility that comes with admitting a wrong.
Two hands - two choices.
Each time I pick up my mother's ring, I think of how she presented it to me. I, the elder daughter, received her gold wedding band. My younger sister got her silver engagement ring. "I don't need them anymore anyway," we heard as she handed them to us with a shrug. "Lotta good they did me." I remember the sarcasm in her voice now more keenly than when I'd heard it the first time.
And I ache.
I still ache for the women who cannot become mothers. I ache for those without mothers, who lost them or never had them to begin with. But, perhaps, most of all, I ache for the fading memories I have of my own mother as a mother. I can never make more, and the sweetness of them is slowly dripping away, a little bit each day.
Two hands - two choices.
Each time I pick up my mother's ring, I think of how she presented it to me. I, the elder daughter, received her gold wedding band. My younger sister got her silver engagement ring. "I don't need them anymore anyway," we heard as she handed them to us with a shrug. "Lotta good they did me." I remember the sarcasm in her voice now more keenly than when I'd heard it the first time.
And I ache.
I still ache for the women who cannot become mothers. I ache for those without mothers, who lost them or never had them to begin with. But, perhaps, most of all, I ache for the fading memories I have of my own mother as a mother. I can never make more, and the sweetness of them is slowly dripping away, a little bit each day.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Me-vember
Yup, I signed up for NaNoWriMo again. Yup, I gave up again. My excuse this year was the five-day road trip to Iowa, during which I tried to write but found myself both uninspired and carsick.
We were there to visit Ross's family and enjoy and early Thanksgiving. It was a very quick but pleasant trip, made even sweeter by my decision to drop NaNoWriMo this year. No, it's not that I am proud to be a quitter. Not by any means. I've tried this three times and just haven't been able to discipline myself enough to stick with a daily writing schedule. And yes, I know that I will NEVER be a successful writer if I can't do that.
But, while we were in Iowa, I realized a few very important things about myself - things I was unhappy with. Things I want - and need - to change. Things that are far more important than stringing together 50,000 words and patting myself on the back.
Don't think that I'm mocking those who are participating. I think it's a super idea, but for me, right now, it's become low priority.
In two days, I will be 33 years old. My baby just turned 5 months old. I am very unhappy with my body. With my general state of health. I've been told that moms can't snap right back into shape, that their bodies take 9 months to change and grow a baby and that there should be 9 months for it to return to "normal". Which is fine. But that doesn't mean that when my baby is 9 months old, suddenly by body will magically drop these 25 pounds, that my lungs will return to their "running-friendly" state, and that I will be able to sign up for the next 5K that pops up in my Facebook feed.
I have to DO something.
Granted, for 3 months after the birth of my baby, I was under medical orders not to exercise. I'd had an emergency c-section and frankly, dealing with a baby who couldn't nurse, dealing with my own emotions, and dealing with the choice to return to work - or not - after becoming a mom, well, all those things were more than enough for me to focus on. I wasn't worried that I couldn't squeeze my still-swollen feet into my Nikes. Who cared?
Well, now that I've had to invest in a new, "upsized" wardrobe...I do.
It's time to celebrate me by beginning to take care of myself again. Eating healthier. Cooking at home more often. Hiding the Halloween candy from myself. Walking again. Refusing to put myself down with my own words. Putting God first again.
So. For the rest of this month - and hopefully, indefinitely, I have to focus on myself and my family in a healthy, God-honoring way. It doesn't mean I won't write. It just means that I need to plan my time better, to sacrifice some of it for my husband and my son, to work on healthier decisions, to improve my spending habits, to put a little more effort into housework, to exercise more, to pray more, to cook more, to love more, to connect more with friends and family.
And...yeah...to put down the smartphone more.
So that's what I'm doing for the rest of the month. To my Nano-friends: I salute you! May success be yours! I'll join you next year. By then, I am hoping and praying, I will have gotten back into the routine of taking care of myself.
In fact, I'm planning on it.
We were there to visit Ross's family and enjoy and early Thanksgiving. It was a very quick but pleasant trip, made even sweeter by my decision to drop NaNoWriMo this year. No, it's not that I am proud to be a quitter. Not by any means. I've tried this three times and just haven't been able to discipline myself enough to stick with a daily writing schedule. And yes, I know that I will NEVER be a successful writer if I can't do that.
But, while we were in Iowa, I realized a few very important things about myself - things I was unhappy with. Things I want - and need - to change. Things that are far more important than stringing together 50,000 words and patting myself on the back.
Don't think that I'm mocking those who are participating. I think it's a super idea, but for me, right now, it's become low priority.
In two days, I will be 33 years old. My baby just turned 5 months old. I am very unhappy with my body. With my general state of health. I've been told that moms can't snap right back into shape, that their bodies take 9 months to change and grow a baby and that there should be 9 months for it to return to "normal". Which is fine. But that doesn't mean that when my baby is 9 months old, suddenly by body will magically drop these 25 pounds, that my lungs will return to their "running-friendly" state, and that I will be able to sign up for the next 5K that pops up in my Facebook feed.
I have to DO something.
Granted, for 3 months after the birth of my baby, I was under medical orders not to exercise. I'd had an emergency c-section and frankly, dealing with a baby who couldn't nurse, dealing with my own emotions, and dealing with the choice to return to work - or not - after becoming a mom, well, all those things were more than enough for me to focus on. I wasn't worried that I couldn't squeeze my still-swollen feet into my Nikes. Who cared?
Well, now that I've had to invest in a new, "upsized" wardrobe...I do.
It's time to celebrate me by beginning to take care of myself again. Eating healthier. Cooking at home more often. Hiding the Halloween candy from myself. Walking again. Refusing to put myself down with my own words. Putting God first again.
So. For the rest of this month - and hopefully, indefinitely, I have to focus on myself and my family in a healthy, God-honoring way. It doesn't mean I won't write. It just means that I need to plan my time better, to sacrifice some of it for my husband and my son, to work on healthier decisions, to improve my spending habits, to put a little more effort into housework, to exercise more, to pray more, to cook more, to love more, to connect more with friends and family.
And...yeah...to put down the smartphone more.
So that's what I'm doing for the rest of the month. To my Nano-friends: I salute you! May success be yours! I'll join you next year. By then, I am hoping and praying, I will have gotten back into the routine of taking care of myself.
In fact, I'm planning on it.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Pink Ribbons and a Brown-Eyed Girl
I wish I were lacing up my hot pink Nikes to run in this weekend's Race for the Cure. Having been involved only from a spectator's perspective, I know it's a huge and epic event. Well - let's be honest. I wasn't actually spectator, my first time around. I was working as the manager-on-duty in the Oakland Starbucks and we were understaffed and Oh God It Was Terrifying. Seemingly endless waves and waves of pink-clad men and women splashed into the store, wanting little more than a bottle of water or a quick bagel to snack on as they walked and ran in honor of victims and survivors. Although I remember being overwhelmed to the point of numbness, I don't recall any customers being rude or impatient. They were all there because they saw the Bigger Picture.
Which I can see, too, since I now count breast cancer survivors among my closest friends. And I would have no issue with squeezing my seven-month-pregnant belly into a pair of yoga pants and a support belt, ready to walk among those brave woman and thousands of others, but my pregnancy has caused several asthma flare-ups and some pretty scary (though normal, I'm told) episodes of breathlessness lately. Not wise to go tempting fate and power-walking with the Pink Brigade, I'm afraid. Next year.
Not being able to participate is a definite downer, but the hardest part of Mother's Day weekend will surely be the fact that my mother is gone. Last May, I was still in a cocoon of shock, having lost her a mere two months prior. I didn't feel much, and it didn't register too clearly that she was gone. This time around, I've had over a year to process, to rant, to weep, to rage, to mourn, to contemplate, to accept, and to adjust to my mother's passing.
There have been a lot of moments where I was filled with anger - not towards God, but towards her, since her cause of death was likely preventable, had she sought help for her hernia when she was first diagnosed. There have been moments of laughter - when friends ask about my pregnancy and I'm able to tell them that I, mercifully, did not have "six straight months of god-awful heartburn", as my mother (repeatedly) told me she suffered with me. There have been moments of pain - when I have wanted to reach out and ask her intimate questions about family, history, faith, and forgiveness. There have been moments of beauty - when my husband and I finally got up the nerve and went through all of her paperwork, and found ourselves delightedly reviewing old photographs of my dad in his 80s finery (tight jeans, a feathered cowboy hat, and an elaborately embroidered top), birthday cakes from years past, and all of our long-gone pets.
Don't get me wrong, please. I dearly love my step-mama, Deana. She has become to me a treasure and a friend and yes, a wonderful mom. She has been incredibly supportive during our miscarriages and has shown us the same level of support and excitement during this pregnancy. She has taken care of my often-stubborn dad and has weathered years of mothering three daughters (two of whom possess their dad's stubbornness). She is an all-around amazing woman, mother, Christian, teacher, friend, and businesswoman. And I love her.
But I can't ask her the question, "What was it really like when you were pregnant with me?" The baby pictures she has of me aren't connected to her own personal memories. I can't trace my biological family tree through her. I can't laugh over stories of my first taste of solid food, or riding a bike, or a grade school play. I won't be able to show my mother these ultrasound pictures, or let her hold her sweet grandson for the first time, wondering if his eyes will darken to a beautiful brown, like hers.
Two nights ago, I picked Ross up from work and we stopped at Giant Eagle to pick up a few things. I wasn't in a great mood, and he thought he had done or said something wrong. As I threw a package of raisin bread in the cart, I finally blurted out, "I miss my mom!" He looked startled, and asked, "Why?" He probably thought it had something to do with the bread. Did it remind me of her? Poor confused guy. I fought back tears and reminded him, "It's Mother's Day weekend." He didn't say anything, just put his arms around me and wheeled the cart to the register.
On the way home, he gently asked, "Well, what are some of your favorite memories of your mom?" He'd only met her once but had heard hundreds of tales from myself and my dad - some of them funny, many of them sad - about living with her. "I don't know," I said honestly. If I am being completely truthful, which has been my aim in having this blog, then I have to say there were a lot of awful memories. A lot of hours of the silent treatment. A lot of regrets because I didn't understand why I needed to respect her. A lot of fights. A lot of disappointment. A lot of misunderstanding and failure to communicate. A lot of bitterness. Oh, so much bitterness.
Much of that faded in the years after I had moved away from home, and, little by little, happier memories began to join the sad ones. Memories of stopping at Arby's and then browsing at Fashion Bug (now defunct, sadly) for accessories. Memories of text messages and phone conversations about our pets (while I was collecting my Crazy Cat Lady starter kit, she was adopting and rescuing neighborhood strays left and right). Memories of the sweet and silly letters she liked to write, and the goofy doodles she sent me. Memories of conversations in which she admitted to finally forgiving my father for hurting her.
And then the memory of her passing cuts through me like a cold wind, stopping my heart. The look in those soft black-brown eyes when they met mine for the last time, full of pain and regret and weakness and sorrow.
And sympathy. For me, having to see her die.
Those moments stick with us, become an immovable part of who we are. They become tinted over time with either rose-colored optimism or they fade to a shadowy sepia, but they stay with us. In that moment, when I look back, I see her asking forgiveness. Not for the way she raised me, or for anything she might have failed to do as a mother. But forgiveness for having to have our final memory of her one in which she was lying prone and hemorrhaging in a hospital bed in Kentucky, unable to speak or move or breathe on her own, surrounded by gentle strangers. For knowing that we drove five straight hours and risked countless speeding tickets, because seeing her alive was the only thing that mattered.
For her last day alive being so dreadfully ugly.
I can't lie and say I've fully come to terms with the circumstances of her death, or even hear death itself. I still think of her every time I pass by the greeting card section in the grocery store, fighting the urge to pick a silly holiday card to send to her. I see her face in my reflection quite often. I hear her voice when I scold my cats for doing something naughty, and I'm sure I'll hear it when I scold my son.
I recently told a friend of hers that I hope so much that my baby boy has her smile. I know that I have my grandfather's smile, so remarkably so that people frequently mistake my aunt (his daughter), who also shares it, for my mother. How beautiful it would be to get to see my mother's slightly crooked, dimpled grin again, every day for the rest of my life.
Which I can see, too, since I now count breast cancer survivors among my closest friends. And I would have no issue with squeezing my seven-month-pregnant belly into a pair of yoga pants and a support belt, ready to walk among those brave woman and thousands of others, but my pregnancy has caused several asthma flare-ups and some pretty scary (though normal, I'm told) episodes of breathlessness lately. Not wise to go tempting fate and power-walking with the Pink Brigade, I'm afraid. Next year.
Not being able to participate is a definite downer, but the hardest part of Mother's Day weekend will surely be the fact that my mother is gone. Last May, I was still in a cocoon of shock, having lost her a mere two months prior. I didn't feel much, and it didn't register too clearly that she was gone. This time around, I've had over a year to process, to rant, to weep, to rage, to mourn, to contemplate, to accept, and to adjust to my mother's passing.
There have been a lot of moments where I was filled with anger - not towards God, but towards her, since her cause of death was likely preventable, had she sought help for her hernia when she was first diagnosed. There have been moments of laughter - when friends ask about my pregnancy and I'm able to tell them that I, mercifully, did not have "six straight months of god-awful heartburn", as my mother (repeatedly) told me she suffered with me. There have been moments of pain - when I have wanted to reach out and ask her intimate questions about family, history, faith, and forgiveness. There have been moments of beauty - when my husband and I finally got up the nerve and went through all of her paperwork, and found ourselves delightedly reviewing old photographs of my dad in his 80s finery (tight jeans, a feathered cowboy hat, and an elaborately embroidered top), birthday cakes from years past, and all of our long-gone pets.
Don't get me wrong, please. I dearly love my step-mama, Deana. She has become to me a treasure and a friend and yes, a wonderful mom. She has been incredibly supportive during our miscarriages and has shown us the same level of support and excitement during this pregnancy. She has taken care of my often-stubborn dad and has weathered years of mothering three daughters (two of whom possess their dad's stubbornness). She is an all-around amazing woman, mother, Christian, teacher, friend, and businesswoman. And I love her.
But I can't ask her the question, "What was it really like when you were pregnant with me?" The baby pictures she has of me aren't connected to her own personal memories. I can't trace my biological family tree through her. I can't laugh over stories of my first taste of solid food, or riding a bike, or a grade school play. I won't be able to show my mother these ultrasound pictures, or let her hold her sweet grandson for the first time, wondering if his eyes will darken to a beautiful brown, like hers.
Two nights ago, I picked Ross up from work and we stopped at Giant Eagle to pick up a few things. I wasn't in a great mood, and he thought he had done or said something wrong. As I threw a package of raisin bread in the cart, I finally blurted out, "I miss my mom!" He looked startled, and asked, "Why?" He probably thought it had something to do with the bread. Did it remind me of her? Poor confused guy. I fought back tears and reminded him, "It's Mother's Day weekend." He didn't say anything, just put his arms around me and wheeled the cart to the register.
On the way home, he gently asked, "Well, what are some of your favorite memories of your mom?" He'd only met her once but had heard hundreds of tales from myself and my dad - some of them funny, many of them sad - about living with her. "I don't know," I said honestly. If I am being completely truthful, which has been my aim in having this blog, then I have to say there were a lot of awful memories. A lot of hours of the silent treatment. A lot of regrets because I didn't understand why I needed to respect her. A lot of fights. A lot of disappointment. A lot of misunderstanding and failure to communicate. A lot of bitterness. Oh, so much bitterness.
Much of that faded in the years after I had moved away from home, and, little by little, happier memories began to join the sad ones. Memories of stopping at Arby's and then browsing at Fashion Bug (now defunct, sadly) for accessories. Memories of text messages and phone conversations about our pets (while I was collecting my Crazy Cat Lady starter kit, she was adopting and rescuing neighborhood strays left and right). Memories of the sweet and silly letters she liked to write, and the goofy doodles she sent me. Memories of conversations in which she admitted to finally forgiving my father for hurting her.
And then the memory of her passing cuts through me like a cold wind, stopping my heart. The look in those soft black-brown eyes when they met mine for the last time, full of pain and regret and weakness and sorrow.
And sympathy. For me, having to see her die.
Those moments stick with us, become an immovable part of who we are. They become tinted over time with either rose-colored optimism or they fade to a shadowy sepia, but they stay with us. In that moment, when I look back, I see her asking forgiveness. Not for the way she raised me, or for anything she might have failed to do as a mother. But forgiveness for having to have our final memory of her one in which she was lying prone and hemorrhaging in a hospital bed in Kentucky, unable to speak or move or breathe on her own, surrounded by gentle strangers. For knowing that we drove five straight hours and risked countless speeding tickets, because seeing her alive was the only thing that mattered.
For her last day alive being so dreadfully ugly.I can't lie and say I've fully come to terms with the circumstances of her death, or even hear death itself. I still think of her every time I pass by the greeting card section in the grocery store, fighting the urge to pick a silly holiday card to send to her. I see her face in my reflection quite often. I hear her voice when I scold my cats for doing something naughty, and I'm sure I'll hear it when I scold my son.
I recently told a friend of hers that I hope so much that my baby boy has her smile. I know that I have my grandfather's smile, so remarkably so that people frequently mistake my aunt (his daughter), who also shares it, for my mother. How beautiful it would be to get to see my mother's slightly crooked, dimpled grin again, every day for the rest of my life.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Nibble, Nibble
A lot has been going on in my life lately. As I mentioned in my previous post, after six months of unemployment, I am now working full time again - and I'm loving it! Working at a pediatric office is not my dream job, but I have to say that it's surprisingly fulfilling. I admit that seeing all the newborns gets tough because of what I have gone through, but I get to see some pretty inspirational things, too. I children with special needs whose parents are 100% invested in their growth and development - no matter how different or difficult that might prove. I see men taking responsibility for their children and refusing to be just another "baby daddy". I enjoy interacting with the kids - especially the ones who haven't yet equated the notion of the doctor with the pain of a shot. They're fearless, and quite a bit of fun.
Along with the sense of peace brought by being a "productive" member of society again, my job has given me another opportunity for which I am deeply grateful - an hour-long lunch break. I don't use these sixty precious moments to socialize, but, for the first time in a very, very long time, I use them to exercise. Although I started counting calories over seven months ago, I hadn't added exercise to my plan until three months ago, when I started working again. The changes in my body, attitude, and health have been mind-blowing. I even got the chance to write about what I am experiencing on the practice's website! I've lost seventeen pounds (give or take) and two jeans sizes. I even did the unthinkable (for me) and signed up for a Couch to 5K program, which started this week.
When I look at the progress I've made this year in the area of my health, I'm both very proud and very grateful. I know that God has been with me during the whole process, even though I haven't talked to him about it a lot. But when I sit back adn examine other areas of my life, I'm very disappointed. For instance: my writing.
I call myself a writer. In my head, that looks a lot like this: I use every spare moment to scribble on napkins, in notebooks, on my own skin the ideas that leap into my consciousness; I rollphrases around in my mind and on my tongue; I have conversations with characters that exist only in my imagination; I relish in sitting down before a blank screen and bleeding words until that screen is full of perfect little rows of beautiful black letters.
But, actually - at least lately - it's looked a lot more like this: I think about my blog and my two novels-in-progress while I'm power-walking on my lunch break, then I come home and have dinner, change into my pajamas, and watch Netflix (the show of the hour is currently Twin Peaks, since the parents wouldn't let me watch it the first time around).
ThenI I feel bad about my lack of writing, and plan to make up for it the next day.
Which, of course, never happens.
Well, I'm going to do something that I've never done before, and take a cue from my own success. In regards to my health, I had determined to take things slow, one step at a time, and actually stop believing that change was impossible. I set goals that were reasonable for me. I took things one day at a time, one decision at a time, and, when I made poor choices, I forgave myself quickly and started anew the next day. Instead of ripping off huge chunks, I was nibbling away at my goals, allowing myself to adjust to a different lifestyle.
I'm going to "nibble" at my writing, too. Finishing two full-length novels and blogging regularly - well, that's a lot to handle, especially when I have the ridiculous mindset that all of my blog posts have to be life-changing - or at the very least, completely thought-out, rehearsed, and flawlessly edited. Not that they always are, of course. But perfectionism will do that to you.
I'm going to "allow" myself to post blogs that are neither deep nor meaningful. I might even post some short stories or creative writing. Poetry. Movie reviews. I will not post anything that violates my stated purpose - to encourage and inspire. But maybe it would be good to start "nibbling" away at my dream again.
It might even taste sweeter that way.
Along with the sense of peace brought by being a "productive" member of society again, my job has given me another opportunity for which I am deeply grateful - an hour-long lunch break. I don't use these sixty precious moments to socialize, but, for the first time in a very, very long time, I use them to exercise. Although I started counting calories over seven months ago, I hadn't added exercise to my plan until three months ago, when I started working again. The changes in my body, attitude, and health have been mind-blowing. I even got the chance to write about what I am experiencing on the practice's website! I've lost seventeen pounds (give or take) and two jeans sizes. I even did the unthinkable (for me) and signed up for a Couch to 5K program, which started this week.
When I look at the progress I've made this year in the area of my health, I'm both very proud and very grateful. I know that God has been with me during the whole process, even though I haven't talked to him about it a lot. But when I sit back adn examine other areas of my life, I'm very disappointed. For instance: my writing.
I call myself a writer. In my head, that looks a lot like this: I use every spare moment to scribble on napkins, in notebooks, on my own skin the ideas that leap into my consciousness; I rollphrases around in my mind and on my tongue; I have conversations with characters that exist only in my imagination; I relish in sitting down before a blank screen and bleeding words until that screen is full of perfect little rows of beautiful black letters.
But, actually - at least lately - it's looked a lot more like this: I think about my blog and my two novels-in-progress while I'm power-walking on my lunch break, then I come home and have dinner, change into my pajamas, and watch Netflix (the show of the hour is currently Twin Peaks, since the parents wouldn't let me watch it the first time around).
ThenI I feel bad about my lack of writing, and plan to make up for it the next day.
Which, of course, never happens.
Well, I'm going to do something that I've never done before, and take a cue from my own success. In regards to my health, I had determined to take things slow, one step at a time, and actually stop believing that change was impossible. I set goals that were reasonable for me. I took things one day at a time, one decision at a time, and, when I made poor choices, I forgave myself quickly and started anew the next day. Instead of ripping off huge chunks, I was nibbling away at my goals, allowing myself to adjust to a different lifestyle.
I'm going to "nibble" at my writing, too. Finishing two full-length novels and blogging regularly - well, that's a lot to handle, especially when I have the ridiculous mindset that all of my blog posts have to be life-changing - or at the very least, completely thought-out, rehearsed, and flawlessly edited. Not that they always are, of course. But perfectionism will do that to you.
I'm going to "allow" myself to post blogs that are neither deep nor meaningful. I might even post some short stories or creative writing. Poetry. Movie reviews. I will not post anything that violates my stated purpose - to encourage and inspire. But maybe it would be good to start "nibbling" away at my dream again.
It might even taste sweeter that way.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Ghosts of Christmas Past...and Future
Ross and I spent Christmas Eve in the hospital.
Well, only a few hours, really. That morning, as we were rushing to get ready to visit his parents for lunch, Ross received a disturbing e-mail from his mom. In a nutshell, she said that Ross's dad may have had a mini-stroke, and they were in the hospital, and not to come visit because they weren't home. Naturally, we made plans to visit the hospital at once. We were encouraged by a call from Ross's dad, who tried to make light of the situation as best he could.
I won't get into all the details here, but suffice it to say that, being the holiday, John did not really get the care he needed. An MRI was promised on Christmas Eve and, as of Cindy's update last night, it still hadn't been done. He will likely be in the hospital for several more days.
Ross spent a lot of time being reflective the past few days. Although we had a really wonderful Christmas dinner with my family (it was a pajama party - I have awesome relatives!), I could tell that he was thinking about his dad. And who could blame him? Two of our good friends lost parents in the past few months. A former co-worker of mine lost her grandmother around the same time. We buried a friend from church two weeks ago who was about John's age. And, of course, this year we had two miscarriages.
Of course it was scary to think of losing him.
I got to thinking that is has been a miserable year for so many of my friends. Divorce, death, disappointment, job loss, broken relationships, political upheaval, busted vehicles, and of course, increasingly horrifying news stories, like those out of Connecticut and Oregon, have been on a seemingly endless parade through our lives. I don't know why. In a strange way, I feel comforted. I know that I was not alone in my grief this year. That isn't to say I'd wish loss or destruction on anyone else, of course.
It's just that Christmas has always been a hard time of the year for me, like it is for so very many people. It's a myth, I think, that only unmarried or otherwise lonely people become depressed around the holidays. What about those who have lost a dear friend or relative, or a child - especially those who are experiencing their first Christmas without that person? Those who are missing servicemen or women who are deployed? Those who have been through a divorce, regardless of whether they have remarried? Even those who are questioning their faith for one reason or another - the sweet and hopeful message of Christmas can be a difficult one to understand or accept.
This Christmas should have seen us with a beautiful baby girl. Olivia would have been 10 months old - the perfect age to enjoy her first Christmas. Old enough to smile, giggle, and babble at relatives, but young enough to cuddle and pass from aunt to aunt. Yet that isn't how we spent our holiday, and I don't think I will ever know why.
Still - I am grateful that my family is growing closer through our losses. My uncle lost both his parents last year, and Ross and I offered out home for Thanksgiving dinner. It might have been one of the best things we could have done for the family. Since then we have been spending more time with my dad, step-mum, aunt, uncle, and Gram - it's really all I have left. My sisters are out of town and my mother is out-of-state. My grandmother's brothers and sisters have all passed away, and my aunt and uncle never had children. I don't have first cousins. It's only seven of us. But we're continuing to grow closer. I am deeply grateful for that. There isn't any of that holiday drama surrounding us - unless my dad gets peevish and wants to discuss a hot political topic over coffee...but those conversations are becoming more rare as we realize that spending precious time together is far more important than being "right" politcally or morally. Fortunately, we all know and love Jesus and find our hope in Him. It's He alone who has been our strength this past year, even when we have felt faint and weak.
I have, many times this year, felt like a ghost. We taught the kids around Halloween that there are no such things as ghosts - at least, not like the ghosts Hollywood tells us about. Yet, it is that very image I feel I have been portraying...listless, pale, caught between two worlds and unsure of how to move forward.
In the year ahead, I am praying that this "ghostly" feeling is replaced by the power and conviction of the Holy Spirit, and that I, and my friends, are given new strength to forge ahead. I think another year like this one will utterly break me. I can admit that now. Although my faith is still strong, trust me - it's been shaken these past long months. I keep returning to that place of "Why, God?" and I get no answer. I don't know that I ever will in this lifetime. But that's not as depressing as it sounds.
This year has also brought with it a new infusion of hope. Because of my faith, the very thing that has been shaken and bruised and battered of late, I believe that there is an infinity beyond this life. God has given me a greater sense of eternity this year. I cannot see or comprehend "forever", yet it exists simultaneously with "now" - at least to God, for whom time is no barrier. It's so difficult to put into words, but there is an odd and deep sense of peace that comes to me when I think of eternity. I know it makes some people anxious, or confused, or irritated. Many people - even those who believe as I do - live their whole lives without actually contemplating it. Some dismiss it entirely. Yet because I have contemplated it, and studied it, and believe in it, I have been rewarded with the promise of seeing my children, who died before they were born. I have the promise of dancing with Linda at the throne of Christ. I have the promise of seeing my friends' parents and telling them "You raised some darn amazing kids!"
I have the promise of life everlasting. I need that to be my focus for 2013. Health for now, and hope for eternity.
Well, only a few hours, really. That morning, as we were rushing to get ready to visit his parents for lunch, Ross received a disturbing e-mail from his mom. In a nutshell, she said that Ross's dad may have had a mini-stroke, and they were in the hospital, and not to come visit because they weren't home. Naturally, we made plans to visit the hospital at once. We were encouraged by a call from Ross's dad, who tried to make light of the situation as best he could.
I won't get into all the details here, but suffice it to say that, being the holiday, John did not really get the care he needed. An MRI was promised on Christmas Eve and, as of Cindy's update last night, it still hadn't been done. He will likely be in the hospital for several more days.
Ross spent a lot of time being reflective the past few days. Although we had a really wonderful Christmas dinner with my family (it was a pajama party - I have awesome relatives!), I could tell that he was thinking about his dad. And who could blame him? Two of our good friends lost parents in the past few months. A former co-worker of mine lost her grandmother around the same time. We buried a friend from church two weeks ago who was about John's age. And, of course, this year we had two miscarriages.
Of course it was scary to think of losing him.
I got to thinking that is has been a miserable year for so many of my friends. Divorce, death, disappointment, job loss, broken relationships, political upheaval, busted vehicles, and of course, increasingly horrifying news stories, like those out of Connecticut and Oregon, have been on a seemingly endless parade through our lives. I don't know why. In a strange way, I feel comforted. I know that I was not alone in my grief this year. That isn't to say I'd wish loss or destruction on anyone else, of course.
It's just that Christmas has always been a hard time of the year for me, like it is for so very many people. It's a myth, I think, that only unmarried or otherwise lonely people become depressed around the holidays. What about those who have lost a dear friend or relative, or a child - especially those who are experiencing their first Christmas without that person? Those who are missing servicemen or women who are deployed? Those who have been through a divorce, regardless of whether they have remarried? Even those who are questioning their faith for one reason or another - the sweet and hopeful message of Christmas can be a difficult one to understand or accept.
This Christmas should have seen us with a beautiful baby girl. Olivia would have been 10 months old - the perfect age to enjoy her first Christmas. Old enough to smile, giggle, and babble at relatives, but young enough to cuddle and pass from aunt to aunt. Yet that isn't how we spent our holiday, and I don't think I will ever know why.
Still - I am grateful that my family is growing closer through our losses. My uncle lost both his parents last year, and Ross and I offered out home for Thanksgiving dinner. It might have been one of the best things we could have done for the family. Since then we have been spending more time with my dad, step-mum, aunt, uncle, and Gram - it's really all I have left. My sisters are out of town and my mother is out-of-state. My grandmother's brothers and sisters have all passed away, and my aunt and uncle never had children. I don't have first cousins. It's only seven of us. But we're continuing to grow closer. I am deeply grateful for that. There isn't any of that holiday drama surrounding us - unless my dad gets peevish and wants to discuss a hot political topic over coffee...but those conversations are becoming more rare as we realize that spending precious time together is far more important than being "right" politcally or morally. Fortunately, we all know and love Jesus and find our hope in Him. It's He alone who has been our strength this past year, even when we have felt faint and weak.
I have, many times this year, felt like a ghost. We taught the kids around Halloween that there are no such things as ghosts - at least, not like the ghosts Hollywood tells us about. Yet, it is that very image I feel I have been portraying...listless, pale, caught between two worlds and unsure of how to move forward.
In the year ahead, I am praying that this "ghostly" feeling is replaced by the power and conviction of the Holy Spirit, and that I, and my friends, are given new strength to forge ahead. I think another year like this one will utterly break me. I can admit that now. Although my faith is still strong, trust me - it's been shaken these past long months. I keep returning to that place of "Why, God?" and I get no answer. I don't know that I ever will in this lifetime. But that's not as depressing as it sounds.
This year has also brought with it a new infusion of hope. Because of my faith, the very thing that has been shaken and bruised and battered of late, I believe that there is an infinity beyond this life. God has given me a greater sense of eternity this year. I cannot see or comprehend "forever", yet it exists simultaneously with "now" - at least to God, for whom time is no barrier. It's so difficult to put into words, but there is an odd and deep sense of peace that comes to me when I think of eternity. I know it makes some people anxious, or confused, or irritated. Many people - even those who believe as I do - live their whole lives without actually contemplating it. Some dismiss it entirely. Yet because I have contemplated it, and studied it, and believe in it, I have been rewarded with the promise of seeing my children, who died before they were born. I have the promise of dancing with Linda at the throne of Christ. I have the promise of seeing my friends' parents and telling them "You raised some darn amazing kids!"
I have the promise of life everlasting. I need that to be my focus for 2013. Health for now, and hope for eternity.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Shifting into Neutral
There is so much excitement and energy swirling about in my life right now. Thor the kitten, the newest addition to our household, is a crazy bundle of fluffy, needy, lovable grey lightning (he is purring in my lap as I type this, gazing at me with golden-eyed adoration). Berean Fellowship is in the process of launching a new campus of the church, one more focused on worship, expression and relationships. I'm in the middle of starting a new blog, one dedicated entirely to...(drumroll, please) sandwiches! Ross and I are working with the youth at church and getting the chance to really challenge and encourage them. We're working with my dad's BFF and a loyal friend to the family, Lee, on finishing the renovations on the bathroom and starting up on the bedroom. Ross just started a new job and he is feeling fantastic about the changes, opportunities, and pay raise (thank you, Jesus!). Not to mention, there are some other big changes coming down the pike.
So why do I feel like I'm stalling?
It's strange. It's like there is so much going on that I can't process all of it. I want to devote myself entirely to one thing but I can't. Like most people, I've worn many hats throughout my life, most at the same time: student, daughter, churchgoer, volunteer, writer, sister, girlfriend/fiancee/wife, leader, employee, friend. I've never had any success with truly committing to anything. I've always felt like I'm entertaining in all three rings of the circus, never shining or excelling in any of them.
I read a book required by my leadership training courses at Dollar Bank called "Juggling Elephants". Of all the resources the bank has provided, I think that opened my eyes the most. It talked about dividing your life into "arenas" and focusing on the tasks you have when you are in each of them. For example, in my life, in the work ring, I'm supposed to focus on productivity, improving work relationships, and, of course, customers. In the wife ring, I try to put Ross first, take care of the home, and enjoy my relationship with my husband. In the church ring, I devote time, money, and talent to lifting up the Kingdom of God.
Though this book did help me understand my many obligations and how to attempt to sort through them, it didn't seem to acknowledge the fact that I don't simply stop being one thing when I enter another ring. I never stop being a Christian when I am at work, or with my husband. I won't stop being a wife when I am a mother. I won't stop being a mother when I am at church. I know that the book simplified things in a way to help readers focus on one role at a time, but I really wonder if that is practical, rational living.
Instead, I think I need to ask God help me to find a way to marry together all my obligations. I know that there will never be a time in my life where something, or someone, isn't pulling on my heart, asking for time, money, talent, or, in Thor's case, salmon-flavored cat treats and a good scratch between the ears. But I am praying that God will lead me to make peaceable decisions in my life that are not related to title, status, or any expectations but His own. I could map everything out in an elaborate plan for my life, determining exactly how much time to devote to work, my husband, the church, my family, and myself. But God would rearrange it anyway. He is in the business of doing such things. I'll save Him the effort.
Lord, help me place You first, because that is where You belong, and it keeps me healthy in a spiritual sense. Help me love my husband and family next, and then serve the church and reach out to others. That's the real plan, the real priorities, and my only real obligations in life. Let me find peace in the tasks and roles you give me, and let me not focus on the difficult details - just the joy.
You can't fit that in a Venn diagram anyway.
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