Today would have been my 8th wedding anniversary...if I had not gotten divorced nearly a year ago. I'm left feeling somewhat ambivalent today. On one hand I am well aware of my current status as a divorced mother of 2 and on the other hand it all feels rather raw and difficult, still. It was also one year ago this week that I announced to my husband that I believed we needed to separate. It was an ultimatum of sorts...either work with me or I'll not work on this anymore. I meant it, and we were divorced just a few short months later.
I was re-reading the story of Jonah and the whale recently. I was inspired to re-read the story after an author I've been reading talked about it as a story of finding oneself. As I looked again at the story with fresh eyes, I was taken by how fully I can identify with it.
The story begins with Jonah on the run. He hears the voice of God loud and clear and he dives in the bushes. Or rather below deck. I was struck by the observation of how Jonah (in his running away) fell into a deep sleep. As if he wasn't too bothered by the fact that he was on the run. It doesn't seem to be a big problem for him, at first.
I feel much the same. In the beginning, when I first started moving away from who I was, I wasn't even really aware of it. It was like a slow dance...one that was carrying me away from what I knew for sure and from God. By the time I reached the point when I began to understand that something was amiss, I had drifted far from home. I almost felt unrecognizable to myself. I hadn't just run away from home, I had created a new home where up was down and wrong was right. I couldn't recall who I was. And when I started wanting to, I just became more upset with myself, with God. How to make sense of this mess? Who am I? What do I need? What is my "call?" What the hell do I mean by that anyway? The questions overwhelmed me, and I wasn't sure that I had any faith, let alone enough to sustain this sort of bumpy ride to nowhere in particular.
Still there was something compelling me. Or perhaps more appropriately stated propelling me forward. A deep recognition that something seemed different. That God was with me, even then. Even in my darkness. Maybe especially in my darkness. While I felt I was groping for something I couldn't see clearly, I understood this dance was not *the* dance, and I had to break away.
The others on the boat wake Jonah up and tell him to pray...to stop the waves from tossing the boat so they can live. Jonah's wake up call is loud, profound and leaves little room for doubt. And pretty soon he finds himself thrown overboard into the raging sea. It doesn't take long, and Jonah is swallowed up, and next thing he knows he's in the belly of the whale suddenly ready and willing to go to Nineveh. Amazing what desperation does to us.
When I was startled awake, I found my own wake up call loud, profound and leaving little room for doubt. I knew life had to change and move and grow. What had been static was now dynamic. I could no longer stay in a marriage that was artificial and harmful to me. I could no longer pretend I didn't care or wasn't affected, when I did and I was. But I had no idea where to go and how to start. What I did understand, fundamentally, was that life was a-changing. And I could either run like hell, or try to adjust my eyes to this new place. To see what was around me, in me, through me.
As Jonah sat in the whale's belly - he had time to think and to see clearly, with his heart. So too, I have had the past year or so as time to try and understand...to make sense of...to feel deeply what I know is next....to let go of fear. I can't say I get it...or that I'm always able. But certainly there is a new recognition in me. Of God. Of me. Of God and me. Of communion. Of what it really means to be in relationship with as opposed to trying to relate to. The belly time is important I think. Although for this impatient woman, not an easy thing. I heard a song recently that said something to the effect of "if it all happened overnight you would never learn to believe." There's value in that. Some sort of wisdom. I get it. I'm listening.
A few nights ago I was really struggling. Thoughts racing through my mind and I couldn't shut them off to try and sleep. The same sorts of thoughts I've struggled with for weeks...how did my marriage/relationship/life get so off course? How did I not see what was right in front of my face? How could he do that to me? Why me? Why any of us? Where the hell is God in this mess? And after laying in bed restless for an hour, wrestling with the multitude of thoughts, I finally just whispered, in a moment of panic "Jesus help me." Out of my desperation. Out of my depths. It was the only thing I knew to do. And while the thoughts were still there, I was able to sleep. I had some measure of peace. Even here. Even in the belly of the whale.
The story of course doesn't end in the belly. I realize that I am approaching that moment when I will be coughed up onto the shore. While I long to feel forward momentum, that moment is a little worrisome for me. What will it look like? What shore? What then? Now more than perhaps any other moment, I trust the answers will come. And at the rate and depth I can handle. If I've learned anything in the belly, it is to have a little faith. That when I feel at my most vulnerable, if I can whisper, "Jesus help me" - that he will. It really only takes a little faith. Nothing that's moving any mountains.
Sometimes I realize that but for the belly time, there would be no authentic faith. No life-giving faith, hope, joy. And perhaps that has been the most valuable lesson of being in the belly of the whale. It is only in the belly that I learn that faith has texture and layers and depth beyond what I ever knew intellectually. It becomes sustaining rather than just something to fall back on. As I remain in this time, I hope I am preparing for what is to come while still tasting what is now. I hope I can appreciate this time and accept the gifts that come with it.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
When it all comes down
I've been thinking a lot this past week about what I most hope to teach my children...what I hope they will get from me above everything else. I'm not dying or anything (at least not today I hope). But after watching them at Mickey Mouse Land, and feeling a little of the awe and wonder they felt at the sights and sounds of that magical place, I have been thinking about my legacy for them. And what I've begun to realize is that I hope they understand more than anything else that I love them. I want them to rest assured that for the rest of my life, until I have nothing left to give them, until I draw my last breath...that I will love them.
I know, all too well, my weaknesses. I am impatient. Sometimes I snap at them, and my tongue can be harsh. I lose my temper at moments. I forget they are 6 and 4 and expect them to comprehend things they cannot possibly fathom. And still I love them.
Above all, I love these two people like no one before and likely no one after. Since the moment they entered my world, they have been incredible gifts. Even in their moments of impatience or anger or frustration...they are still mine. I claim them regardless. And I love them.
I was listening to some good ol Amy Grant on youtube tonight, and there's an old song she sings called Hope Set High. The refrain, which I used to think was more than a little hokey, is "When it all comes down...when it all comes down...if there's anything good that happens in life, it's from Jesus." When it all comes down, the only thing I know to do for my children is love them. And yet it is the greatest gift I can give them. I recognize I fall short at times, but I hope that when it all comes down, that I can love them first, and figure out the rest second. This is the thing I hope for in the communities I'm involved in.
The fighting, the positioning, the silliness that we all succumb to from time to time...it's all really of very little consequence. When it all comes down...it's about love. The love that is so strong it knocks down the walls we build up around us and between each other. The love that knows no boundaries...that sees no limits. The love that despite our shortcomings and faithless moments still says I will carry you...I will hold you until your faith returns and you can come to the faith on your own again. The love that overcomes our anger, sadness and fear. The love that is holy, wild, beautiful.
Love doesn't mean we ignore our own shortcomings...or ignore or condone bad behavior by others...but what it does mean is that before we talk about those things...we love each other. Someone was complaining recently to me about another member of my community. After listening for several minutes, I finally replied, "But I love him, and I have to believe that he wants what is best for you and for me. If I don't believe that, then I have to leave the community." It really is that simple for me.
If I believe that those I trust with my faith, with the faith of my children are not examples of love...then I have to move away from the community and into some place different. I've reached that point in my life, and in my faith journey, where logistics mean very little to me. Whether we gather in a basement, at a bar or in a park...means very little to me. Whether we say the words of the past thousand years or we don't say any words at all...means very little to me. It's what we do. How do we live? What are we saying to those not part of our community by what we do? What message do we send everyday in the small, subtle ways? Do we love each other first, and talk about our differences second? When we fail one another, can we still be a community of love first and of everything else second? When we disagree, whether it is about the way we worship or whether we are moving in the right direction, can we love one another first and talk about our areas of disagreement second? When it all comes down, it's about love and if anything good is to come from all of our efforts, it has to start there.
I know, all too well, my weaknesses. I am impatient. Sometimes I snap at them, and my tongue can be harsh. I lose my temper at moments. I forget they are 6 and 4 and expect them to comprehend things they cannot possibly fathom. And still I love them.
Above all, I love these two people like no one before and likely no one after. Since the moment they entered my world, they have been incredible gifts. Even in their moments of impatience or anger or frustration...they are still mine. I claim them regardless. And I love them.
I was listening to some good ol Amy Grant on youtube tonight, and there's an old song she sings called Hope Set High. The refrain, which I used to think was more than a little hokey, is "When it all comes down...when it all comes down...if there's anything good that happens in life, it's from Jesus." When it all comes down, the only thing I know to do for my children is love them. And yet it is the greatest gift I can give them. I recognize I fall short at times, but I hope that when it all comes down, that I can love them first, and figure out the rest second. This is the thing I hope for in the communities I'm involved in.
The fighting, the positioning, the silliness that we all succumb to from time to time...it's all really of very little consequence. When it all comes down...it's about love. The love that is so strong it knocks down the walls we build up around us and between each other. The love that knows no boundaries...that sees no limits. The love that despite our shortcomings and faithless moments still says I will carry you...I will hold you until your faith returns and you can come to the faith on your own again. The love that overcomes our anger, sadness and fear. The love that is holy, wild, beautiful.
Love doesn't mean we ignore our own shortcomings...or ignore or condone bad behavior by others...but what it does mean is that before we talk about those things...we love each other. Someone was complaining recently to me about another member of my community. After listening for several minutes, I finally replied, "But I love him, and I have to believe that he wants what is best for you and for me. If I don't believe that, then I have to leave the community." It really is that simple for me.
If I believe that those I trust with my faith, with the faith of my children are not examples of love...then I have to move away from the community and into some place different. I've reached that point in my life, and in my faith journey, where logistics mean very little to me. Whether we gather in a basement, at a bar or in a park...means very little to me. Whether we say the words of the past thousand years or we don't say any words at all...means very little to me. It's what we do. How do we live? What are we saying to those not part of our community by what we do? What message do we send everyday in the small, subtle ways? Do we love each other first, and talk about our differences second? When we fail one another, can we still be a community of love first and of everything else second? When we disagree, whether it is about the way we worship or whether we are moving in the right direction, can we love one another first and talk about our areas of disagreement second? When it all comes down, it's about love and if anything good is to come from all of our efforts, it has to start there.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day
Today is Mother's Day, and I've been fairly contemplative today. I think I started thinking about this day yesterday during a quiet period of planned contemplation. My relationship with my mother has always been a bit of sore spot for me. Complicated. Complex. Not comforting. The benefit of being 34 is that I finally see that in most ways she was doing what she knew to do. I don't believe there was any malice on her part.
From a very early age, I felt a disconnect from my mother. My mother is aloof, at times cold, and often emotionally unavailable. From my earliest days, she demanded a lot of me. When I was a first grader, I was so fearful of getting anything but A's and B's in school that I sat on the stoop of the school crying when I saw a "C" on my report card. The C was actually my reading level, and not anything bad...but I knew my mother demanded more of me, and I was fearful of her reaction, of disappointing her. My mother was never physically abusive or intimidating. She just did not know what to do with me. But, my driven-ness made her happy. And so I spent a lot of time trying to get better and better grades, to be the best at something. But I never felt like what I did was quite enough. Not that she said so...just my own projection - I felt inadequate.
My mother was (and is) hard to read. She shows little feeling, and so it's hard to know what it is she is thinking and feeling. Contrast this to me...and well, I'm sure I was a challenge for her. I have always been someone that is emotionally charged - I love to laugh and I cry easily. I have always been pretty social - I like to spend time with people - all types of people. I enjoy hearing what other people think and feel. My mother has always had a strong disdain for overweight people. Sometimes I think one of my chief hangups with my weight is some sort of defiant gesture aimed at her. My mother and I...well we lack much commonality at all.
When I was a child, she took me to church. Even in the years my father was "angry" at the church and refused to attend, she continued to take me each week. She encouraged my participation. She went to church really for two reasons I think - first it was what you should do if you were a good, respectable kind of person and second she didn't want to go to hell. She didn't share any part of herself with the people there, and she spent a decent amount of time judging those in attendance. On the other hand, I was attracted to the community and to the "feelings" I got from faith. It didn't start out as an intellectual pursuit for me. Although she introduced me to the church, the church really became my home - I don't think it did/does really nourish her the way it did me. I remember her being incensed with me for telling our pastor that my parents were talking divorce. They had been fighting continually - and I was fearful...so I told the person I trusted - my pastor. He called my parents in for a meeting. To say they were displeased with my betrayal of family secrets would be putting it mildly. I was taught a lesson in that instance, and never again did I discuss our family drama with anyone at church. But the drama continued, and church was my escape.
My mother and I...we've never really shared much about what we think and feel about things. Despite this fact...I do realize that she has done her best with me. She did what she knew to do. She made sure I was physically cared for and provided for. She encouraged me to go on to college, and made sure that I knew she still expected a lot from me even after I had moved away. What she couldn't give in verbal or physical affection, she gave in other ways. After the birth of my first child, she came to my house and cleaned and cooked one day. Anytime I have called, she has come. I have rarely called, because our relationship hasn't really ever made me feel entirely comfortable asking for her help. This week I was telling her how disappointing it was to me that my daughter's father is not more involved in her schooling. She didn't say much about it. But today, she indicated she would attend my daughter's first grade play tomorrow night. My daughter has one line in the play. But, to her, having her grandmother there is a big deal. So, she will drive an hour to listen to a moment. She is doing what she knows to do. And I appreciate her efforts more now than I have in the past.
Maybe my new found appreciation has something to do with wondering how my own daughter will judge her mother some day. Will she only remember what I was unable to do? Or will she remember the good things to? Will she judge me on how little I know? Or will she give me the benefit of the doubt because she knows I love her? One of the things I never understood about my mother was why she stayed married to my father. They fought often. And it certainly didn't seem that they loved each other most days. Why stay? Perhaps someday in the not too distant future, my own daughter will question why I left. It's hard to know how all this will look 20 years from now.
Regardless I am thankful my mother gave what she had to give. I hope I have learned the lessons she taught me, both in what she did do and in what she didn't do. And I hope someday my own daughter will grant me a measure of grace for those things I did and did not do for her.
From a very early age, I felt a disconnect from my mother. My mother is aloof, at times cold, and often emotionally unavailable. From my earliest days, she demanded a lot of me. When I was a first grader, I was so fearful of getting anything but A's and B's in school that I sat on the stoop of the school crying when I saw a "C" on my report card. The C was actually my reading level, and not anything bad...but I knew my mother demanded more of me, and I was fearful of her reaction, of disappointing her. My mother was never physically abusive or intimidating. She just did not know what to do with me. But, my driven-ness made her happy. And so I spent a lot of time trying to get better and better grades, to be the best at something. But I never felt like what I did was quite enough. Not that she said so...just my own projection - I felt inadequate.
My mother was (and is) hard to read. She shows little feeling, and so it's hard to know what it is she is thinking and feeling. Contrast this to me...and well, I'm sure I was a challenge for her. I have always been someone that is emotionally charged - I love to laugh and I cry easily. I have always been pretty social - I like to spend time with people - all types of people. I enjoy hearing what other people think and feel. My mother has always had a strong disdain for overweight people. Sometimes I think one of my chief hangups with my weight is some sort of defiant gesture aimed at her. My mother and I...well we lack much commonality at all.
When I was a child, she took me to church. Even in the years my father was "angry" at the church and refused to attend, she continued to take me each week. She encouraged my participation. She went to church really for two reasons I think - first it was what you should do if you were a good, respectable kind of person and second she didn't want to go to hell. She didn't share any part of herself with the people there, and she spent a decent amount of time judging those in attendance. On the other hand, I was attracted to the community and to the "feelings" I got from faith. It didn't start out as an intellectual pursuit for me. Although she introduced me to the church, the church really became my home - I don't think it did/does really nourish her the way it did me. I remember her being incensed with me for telling our pastor that my parents were talking divorce. They had been fighting continually - and I was fearful...so I told the person I trusted - my pastor. He called my parents in for a meeting. To say they were displeased with my betrayal of family secrets would be putting it mildly. I was taught a lesson in that instance, and never again did I discuss our family drama with anyone at church. But the drama continued, and church was my escape.
My mother and I...we've never really shared much about what we think and feel about things. Despite this fact...I do realize that she has done her best with me. She did what she knew to do. She made sure I was physically cared for and provided for. She encouraged me to go on to college, and made sure that I knew she still expected a lot from me even after I had moved away. What she couldn't give in verbal or physical affection, she gave in other ways. After the birth of my first child, she came to my house and cleaned and cooked one day. Anytime I have called, she has come. I have rarely called, because our relationship hasn't really ever made me feel entirely comfortable asking for her help. This week I was telling her how disappointing it was to me that my daughter's father is not more involved in her schooling. She didn't say much about it. But today, she indicated she would attend my daughter's first grade play tomorrow night. My daughter has one line in the play. But, to her, having her grandmother there is a big deal. So, she will drive an hour to listen to a moment. She is doing what she knows to do. And I appreciate her efforts more now than I have in the past.
Maybe my new found appreciation has something to do with wondering how my own daughter will judge her mother some day. Will she only remember what I was unable to do? Or will she remember the good things to? Will she judge me on how little I know? Or will she give me the benefit of the doubt because she knows I love her? One of the things I never understood about my mother was why she stayed married to my father. They fought often. And it certainly didn't seem that they loved each other most days. Why stay? Perhaps someday in the not too distant future, my own daughter will question why I left. It's hard to know how all this will look 20 years from now.
Regardless I am thankful my mother gave what she had to give. I hope I have learned the lessons she taught me, both in what she did do and in what she didn't do. And I hope someday my own daughter will grant me a measure of grace for those things I did and did not do for her.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Becoming
These past few days have been some of the hardest of the past few years. My daughter came home recently with the news that my ex-husband had fathered a child with another woman during our marriage. I have been alternately stunned, angered and incredibly overwhelmed with sadness and hurt. There really aren't any words to describe how I feel. Stunned probably comes the closest. Stunned that he lied to me so completely and easily. Stunned that I didn't see the signs. Stunned that he was capable of such a thing. The tears have flowed constantly, even when I've tried to stop them from coming. I feel as if a heavy blanket has been thrown over my head, and I can't get out from under it.
I started reading a new book last night, in the midst of my breakdown. Sometimes the synchonicity with which God works in my life amazes me. I had went to the bookstore a few days ago and stumbled upon three books that were unrelated, but that appealed to me. I, in an odd moment of impulse, bought all three, brought them home, and then got busy with life. I can't help but think now there was a reason I came home with these three messages.
The first is a book by Sue Monk Kidd called "When the Heart waits." I just started it, but already I see some light at the end of this seemingly endless tunnel. She says, "when the fullness of time comes, a sacred voice at the heart of us cries out, shaking the old foundation. It draws us into a turbulence that forces us to confront our deepest issues...one way or another, the false roles, identities and illusions spill over the sides of our life, and we're forced to stand in the chaos."
The thing that struck me when I read these lines is how radically I changed who I was to remain in a very dysfunctional marriage. If I'm honest, I changed everything about myself. I changed how I spoke...choosing to dumb down my speech rather than speak the way I know how to speak. I chose to appear less intelligent than I am. I chose to squash the feelings I felt and deny them to everyone, including myself. I stopped trusting my instincts, and stop listening to them altogether. I tried to lessen who I was, because if I was who I am, who I know I can be...then my light shone too brightly...so I had to dim it. I couldn't read philosophy, theology and the stuff I enjoyed. I had to be less bold, less funny than I was. It goes way beyond not being able to see the movies I wanted or eat the food I desired when we went out...I changed who I was all the way to my core. All so that this man would love me. And the kick in the ass is...it didn't work. He wasn't capable of an adult, faithful relationship. So, all that work on my part to be sure I was less than I am only to have the plan fail miserably.
Now that I understand all this, life must change. And perhaps this is how I got into this "mess" to begin with - when I really began to understand a year ago that I was missing something - that Thomas was trying to explain to me - that I had to enter into a period of becoming...I realized rather quickly my marriage was doomed. There wasn't room in the relationship for the real me. And for his part, my husband didn't know what to do with me acting like me. He was only accustomed to me acting like the version of me I thought he wanted me to be.
And if I'm realistic, this is how I have lived my whole life. I was who my parents wanted me to be for as long as I could handle that...then I was who my mentor wanted me to be until it conflicted with who I had to be for my family...then I was who my husband wanted me to be. Having children opened my eyes though. Suddenly I yearned to be who I knew I could be. I wanted my children to grow up whole, healthy and happy and I felt the only way that could happen was if there mother was whole, healthy and happy. Somewhere along each of the old paths, I lost who I was born to be...who God created me to be from the beginning. Again, Sue Monk Kidd says, "There is a self within each of us aching to be born. And when this aching breaks into our lives - whether through some crisis or struggle - we must somehow find the courage to say yes. Yes to this more real, more Christ-like self struggling to be born."
I cannot help but believe this is my truth. If I only have the courage to continue the path, stay the course. This new me is struggling to be born...can I handle the pain of this process and remain in it? It seems as if there really isn't a choice - I cannot go back. I feel the change coming over me...there really is no other option. It's sort of when you see something so promising and spectacular that you can't recall what life looked like before you saw it. Having each of my children was a moment like that - holding each of them shortly after they were born - that stunning moment when I knew that my life was forever changed by the experience of loving them. Similarly, I see clearly now that my life has changed. Not just because I got divorced, but because I have finally chosen to enter into the becoming. I am no longer running from it, fearful of what the consequences of such a choice look like. I am no longer trying to skip over it to move on to something newer and prettier. I am becoming something new...something old...something holy and blessed from the start.
I started reading a new book last night, in the midst of my breakdown. Sometimes the synchonicity with which God works in my life amazes me. I had went to the bookstore a few days ago and stumbled upon three books that were unrelated, but that appealed to me. I, in an odd moment of impulse, bought all three, brought them home, and then got busy with life. I can't help but think now there was a reason I came home with these three messages.
The first is a book by Sue Monk Kidd called "When the Heart waits." I just started it, but already I see some light at the end of this seemingly endless tunnel. She says, "when the fullness of time comes, a sacred voice at the heart of us cries out, shaking the old foundation. It draws us into a turbulence that forces us to confront our deepest issues...one way or another, the false roles, identities and illusions spill over the sides of our life, and we're forced to stand in the chaos."
The thing that struck me when I read these lines is how radically I changed who I was to remain in a very dysfunctional marriage. If I'm honest, I changed everything about myself. I changed how I spoke...choosing to dumb down my speech rather than speak the way I know how to speak. I chose to appear less intelligent than I am. I chose to squash the feelings I felt and deny them to everyone, including myself. I stopped trusting my instincts, and stop listening to them altogether. I tried to lessen who I was, because if I was who I am, who I know I can be...then my light shone too brightly...so I had to dim it. I couldn't read philosophy, theology and the stuff I enjoyed. I had to be less bold, less funny than I was. It goes way beyond not being able to see the movies I wanted or eat the food I desired when we went out...I changed who I was all the way to my core. All so that this man would love me. And the kick in the ass is...it didn't work. He wasn't capable of an adult, faithful relationship. So, all that work on my part to be sure I was less than I am only to have the plan fail miserably.
Now that I understand all this, life must change. And perhaps this is how I got into this "mess" to begin with - when I really began to understand a year ago that I was missing something - that Thomas was trying to explain to me - that I had to enter into a period of becoming...I realized rather quickly my marriage was doomed. There wasn't room in the relationship for the real me. And for his part, my husband didn't know what to do with me acting like me. He was only accustomed to me acting like the version of me I thought he wanted me to be.
And if I'm realistic, this is how I have lived my whole life. I was who my parents wanted me to be for as long as I could handle that...then I was who my mentor wanted me to be until it conflicted with who I had to be for my family...then I was who my husband wanted me to be. Having children opened my eyes though. Suddenly I yearned to be who I knew I could be. I wanted my children to grow up whole, healthy and happy and I felt the only way that could happen was if there mother was whole, healthy and happy. Somewhere along each of the old paths, I lost who I was born to be...who God created me to be from the beginning. Again, Sue Monk Kidd says, "There is a self within each of us aching to be born. And when this aching breaks into our lives - whether through some crisis or struggle - we must somehow find the courage to say yes. Yes to this more real, more Christ-like self struggling to be born."
I cannot help but believe this is my truth. If I only have the courage to continue the path, stay the course. This new me is struggling to be born...can I handle the pain of this process and remain in it? It seems as if there really isn't a choice - I cannot go back. I feel the change coming over me...there really is no other option. It's sort of when you see something so promising and spectacular that you can't recall what life looked like before you saw it. Having each of my children was a moment like that - holding each of them shortly after they were born - that stunning moment when I knew that my life was forever changed by the experience of loving them. Similarly, I see clearly now that my life has changed. Not just because I got divorced, but because I have finally chosen to enter into the becoming. I am no longer running from it, fearful of what the consequences of such a choice look like. I am no longer trying to skip over it to move on to something newer and prettier. I am becoming something new...something old...something holy and blessed from the start.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Thomas - a year later
It's been a year. A year spent trying to discern where I am supposed to go, discovering who I am going to be when I grow up. The instant I knew things were changing (if I can really narrow it to one) was the moment the Gospel lesson being read on a Sunday about a year ago. That old story about Thomas - needing to see before he could believe. I was moved to tears listening to the story that day. And I felt pushed to action. I could no longer deny that life had to change, and change drastically. And it has. If I know nothing else, I know this much.
I left a toxic, destructive marriage. And unfortunately I really believed for a moment that I was over that experience - that I had indeed "moved on." In fact, I see clearly now I have a ways to go. The anger, sadness, pain of it all still overwhelms me some days. I am not "over it." In fact, all the honesty I've been trying in the past month has sucked me into some sort of vortex. I'm having difficulty concentrating, struggling at work and feeling down. Releasing the denial of the past 10 years has overwhelmed me. I feel close to tears a lot. And I'm having difficulty communicating how I feel to people around me. I'm writing more lately. And talking less. Perhaps it's time for that.
Today, I feel no closer to discovering what it is Thomas was trying to teach me a year ago . But perhaps that's not fair. I heard this Gospel again recently. And while I was still moved to tears, I was gently reminded that while Thomas couldn't get there - not on his own - that God still met him where he was. And that there was no condemnation for Thomas. Jesus didn't kick him out of the club because he was struggling with it all. My faith, I've discovered, is still at its core shaken, but not broken. I still believe there is a God. I still believe that God wants relationship. I still believe I want relationship with God. These certainties are about the only ones I've got right now. But, maybe, just maybe, these are enough for now. Rather than feeling as if some sort of metaphorical biological clock is ticking for me, and that if I don't have some pretty monumental decisions made by tomorrow, then I'm not accomplishing what I set out to accomplish; I feel strongly that whatever path is set before me, I'm going to walk it. And that I won't walk alone. And despite all my misgivings about faith, life and my place in it, there is still so much beauty in the world. There is still laughter. There is still indescribable joy.
I jokingly commented to someone today that "it's all a process." I was joking because that phrase has become so cliche these days. We say everything "is a process." But, we don't really mean it. We don't really give ourselves (or those we love) room to grieve. Room to just be sad. Room to feel a little off. Oftentimes what we really mean when we say this is "Gee, I'm hoping this part is over soon. Maybe if I say it's all a process then this part will pass and I can move on." But this is largely the lesson I have learned from this past year.
For Thomas his journey certainly didn't end in that room feeling the scars in Jesus's hands. No, for him life continued on, and he was forever affected by this man. He couldn't undo what he had seen, what he had lived with Jesus. He was deeply affected - and his hurt as evidenced by his refusal to believe - was evident, even palpable. I'm sure if Thomas had thought of it, he would have told us, "it's a process." This thing called faith - hope - love. All are in process. While I yearn for the answers, I have come to accept that for whatever reasons they are not clear to me today. I have to believe God is still with me. That is really all there is say. All I know for sure at this moment.
I left a toxic, destructive marriage. And unfortunately I really believed for a moment that I was over that experience - that I had indeed "moved on." In fact, I see clearly now I have a ways to go. The anger, sadness, pain of it all still overwhelms me some days. I am not "over it." In fact, all the honesty I've been trying in the past month has sucked me into some sort of vortex. I'm having difficulty concentrating, struggling at work and feeling down. Releasing the denial of the past 10 years has overwhelmed me. I feel close to tears a lot. And I'm having difficulty communicating how I feel to people around me. I'm writing more lately. And talking less. Perhaps it's time for that.
Today, I feel no closer to discovering what it is Thomas was trying to teach me a year ago . But perhaps that's not fair. I heard this Gospel again recently. And while I was still moved to tears, I was gently reminded that while Thomas couldn't get there - not on his own - that God still met him where he was. And that there was no condemnation for Thomas. Jesus didn't kick him out of the club because he was struggling with it all. My faith, I've discovered, is still at its core shaken, but not broken. I still believe there is a God. I still believe that God wants relationship. I still believe I want relationship with God. These certainties are about the only ones I've got right now. But, maybe, just maybe, these are enough for now. Rather than feeling as if some sort of metaphorical biological clock is ticking for me, and that if I don't have some pretty monumental decisions made by tomorrow, then I'm not accomplishing what I set out to accomplish; I feel strongly that whatever path is set before me, I'm going to walk it. And that I won't walk alone. And despite all my misgivings about faith, life and my place in it, there is still so much beauty in the world. There is still laughter. There is still indescribable joy.
I jokingly commented to someone today that "it's all a process." I was joking because that phrase has become so cliche these days. We say everything "is a process." But, we don't really mean it. We don't really give ourselves (or those we love) room to grieve. Room to just be sad. Room to feel a little off. Oftentimes what we really mean when we say this is "Gee, I'm hoping this part is over soon. Maybe if I say it's all a process then this part will pass and I can move on." But this is largely the lesson I have learned from this past year.
For Thomas his journey certainly didn't end in that room feeling the scars in Jesus's hands. No, for him life continued on, and he was forever affected by this man. He couldn't undo what he had seen, what he had lived with Jesus. He was deeply affected - and his hurt as evidenced by his refusal to believe - was evident, even palpable. I'm sure if Thomas had thought of it, he would have told us, "it's a process." This thing called faith - hope - love. All are in process. While I yearn for the answers, I have come to accept that for whatever reasons they are not clear to me today. I have to believe God is still with me. That is really all there is say. All I know for sure at this moment.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Amy
Tonight I went to see Amy Grant in concert. I sat there, near the front, crying my eyes out for the first 30 minutes or so. I had heard she was going to be in town, but delayed making a decision about going until about 3 hours before the concert. Then, at the last minute, I decided I had to go. Since I hadn't really planned on it, I ended up going by myself. This turned out to be a blessing I think. I didn't even try to rein in my emotions. I just cried. A lot. At first I wasn't sure why I was crying. After all, it wasn't intended to be a sad event.
I have loved Amy Grant since I was a pup. I think I might've been 10 or 11 when my church youth leader introduced me to her. Prior to that I was a big Madonna/Michael Jackson fan. (I still am actually) But there was something about Amy. I had never heard of "Christian pop" or "Contemporary christian music" - as she eventually was labeled. All I understood was here was this young woman singing about God, her faith and her struggles. I was fascinated, and I loved her honesty. I went to my first concert when I was 11 or 12 - at the Fox Theatre. It was actually my first concert ever. We were in the WAY back of the theatre, but still I was mesmerized. I went back, again and again, to see this woman sing. I followed her music over the next 2 decades as she went pop and then back to hymns and now to somewhere in between. Her newest CD speaks to precisely where I find myself today. It is soulful and gentle. It is painful at moments, and sweet at others.
I think the reason I was so overcome with emotion tonight had to do with a lot of things. At least some of it was remembering how easy and simple faith was back when I first met Amy. While it wasn't nearly as textured and layered and moving, it was faith all the same. And it was strong and overwhelming even then. I didn't understand God very well, and I was often fearful of screwing up - but I knew I wanted this thing called faith - this relationship with God. My image of God has changed drastically...but the longing remains. That beautiful longing for the Divine. There is something to be said for life experience, but that first breath - that first fall - it is holy. It is what drove the songwriter to write, "How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed." I remember, with not just a little longing, that hour. How new everything appeared - how I knew that my faith was enough to sustain me for a whole lifetime. Amy was a part of that experience.
Probably another part of my breakdown had to do with my present circumstances and fear. Amy sings a song called "It takes a little time." And it was one of the first songs she sang tonight. The idea behind it is that change/pain/difficulty is a process, and sometimes it takes some time to pass through it. While I have paid lip service to this idea for the past year, I am just beginning to feel the depths of the pain I have over my divorce. The loss, the betrayal, the pain of it all has overwhelmed me in the past few weeks. It has made me confront feelings I haven't dealt with...ones I have shelved away and hoped not to have to pass through. All I can say is, I hurt. It's hard for me to even speak of it without breaking down. As I type, tears stream down my face. It's as if someone uncorked something deep inside and I cannot help but overflow. My emotions are so near to the surface.
Again, Amy's music is defining for me. When she talks of being unafraid, I get that. While I feel pain, I feel that I can finally face my future unafraid. Fear has played such a large role for me. I have made so many decisions out of fear. Fear of being alone...fear of being rejected...fear of not being enough...fear of what it would mean to live unafraid. For the first time in my life, I am consciously aware that I want to face life unafraid. As she sang tonight, love has made me unafraid, I realized this is the difference. My faith has become about love - about claiming God's love for my life. I can't always tell you whether Jesus was a sacrificial lamb or whether we should have open communion or how I feel about the conflicts that mar our churches from the inside out. But I can tell you that love has to be part of this thing we call faith. And that faith means very little, if anything, without it. And that the only God I understand is one that is love first, and anything else second. And I can tell you that that love is stronger than any fear I have encountered. If I can get out of the way...if I can let go of the faith of my father...if I can embrace what I've always known is holy...then I can live unafraid. Love has made me unafraid. Amy says it best.
This post appears somewhat incomplete. I know there was more to my breakdown tonight than I can recognize or articulate at this point. But I'm thankful. By the end of the concert I was singing along and laughing. It was a journey through my past - a past of both great faith and a life lived with fear. And I know there's so much more to learn - to know - to have faith in.
I have loved Amy Grant since I was a pup. I think I might've been 10 or 11 when my church youth leader introduced me to her. Prior to that I was a big Madonna/Michael Jackson fan. (I still am actually) But there was something about Amy. I had never heard of "Christian pop" or "Contemporary christian music" - as she eventually was labeled. All I understood was here was this young woman singing about God, her faith and her struggles. I was fascinated, and I loved her honesty. I went to my first concert when I was 11 or 12 - at the Fox Theatre. It was actually my first concert ever. We were in the WAY back of the theatre, but still I was mesmerized. I went back, again and again, to see this woman sing. I followed her music over the next 2 decades as she went pop and then back to hymns and now to somewhere in between. Her newest CD speaks to precisely where I find myself today. It is soulful and gentle. It is painful at moments, and sweet at others.
I think the reason I was so overcome with emotion tonight had to do with a lot of things. At least some of it was remembering how easy and simple faith was back when I first met Amy. While it wasn't nearly as textured and layered and moving, it was faith all the same. And it was strong and overwhelming even then. I didn't understand God very well, and I was often fearful of screwing up - but I knew I wanted this thing called faith - this relationship with God. My image of God has changed drastically...but the longing remains. That beautiful longing for the Divine. There is something to be said for life experience, but that first breath - that first fall - it is holy. It is what drove the songwriter to write, "How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed." I remember, with not just a little longing, that hour. How new everything appeared - how I knew that my faith was enough to sustain me for a whole lifetime. Amy was a part of that experience.
Probably another part of my breakdown had to do with my present circumstances and fear. Amy sings a song called "It takes a little time." And it was one of the first songs she sang tonight. The idea behind it is that change/pain/difficulty is a process, and sometimes it takes some time to pass through it. While I have paid lip service to this idea for the past year, I am just beginning to feel the depths of the pain I have over my divorce. The loss, the betrayal, the pain of it all has overwhelmed me in the past few weeks. It has made me confront feelings I haven't dealt with...ones I have shelved away and hoped not to have to pass through. All I can say is, I hurt. It's hard for me to even speak of it without breaking down. As I type, tears stream down my face. It's as if someone uncorked something deep inside and I cannot help but overflow. My emotions are so near to the surface.
Again, Amy's music is defining for me. When she talks of being unafraid, I get that. While I feel pain, I feel that I can finally face my future unafraid. Fear has played such a large role for me. I have made so many decisions out of fear. Fear of being alone...fear of being rejected...fear of not being enough...fear of what it would mean to live unafraid. For the first time in my life, I am consciously aware that I want to face life unafraid. As she sang tonight, love has made me unafraid, I realized this is the difference. My faith has become about love - about claiming God's love for my life. I can't always tell you whether Jesus was a sacrificial lamb or whether we should have open communion or how I feel about the conflicts that mar our churches from the inside out. But I can tell you that love has to be part of this thing we call faith. And that faith means very little, if anything, without it. And that the only God I understand is one that is love first, and anything else second. And I can tell you that that love is stronger than any fear I have encountered. If I can get out of the way...if I can let go of the faith of my father...if I can embrace what I've always known is holy...then I can live unafraid. Love has made me unafraid. Amy says it best.
This post appears somewhat incomplete. I know there was more to my breakdown tonight than I can recognize or articulate at this point. But I'm thankful. By the end of the concert I was singing along and laughing. It was a journey through my past - a past of both great faith and a life lived with fear. And I know there's so much more to learn - to know - to have faith in.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Plausible Deniability
Last night I found out that my ex-husband of 8 months is living with a woman...I knew he was living with a woman beginning in January, so I had already adjusted to that idea, and honestly didn't think too much of it. Then I found out last night that this is the same woman I accused him of having an affair with over 3 years ago. I found all this out when my 6 year old came home from a visit with her dad and told me that daddy had a girlfriend, and that he was going to marry her, and what her name was. As soon as I heard the name it felt like a sucker punch to my gut. I tried hard to control my reaction, because my daughter was distressed. She wasn't ready for her dad to have a girlfriend. Like most kids, I think she hopes we will reconcile at some point, and so the girlfriend doesn't fit in the picture very neatly for her. I reassured her that it would be ok, that after all she likes this woman, and that it is ok. I'm not sure how convincing I was. Her eyes searched my face to see if I was really ok with daddy having a girlfriend. I could tell she wanted to gauge my reaction to see if she should be upset. I did my best to be positive and happy while she was there. But I have to admit I feel a mixture of anger, sadness and humiliation.
In November, 2006, when our son was only 6 or so months old I began to find evidence that my husband was having an affair. Given that I was a divorce lawyer working for a firm that specialized in this kind of stuff, it wasn't hard to identify the patterns of my spouse. I went on a mini-investigation and it didn't take me long to figure out he was certainly seeing someone. If I think back to earlier days in our relationship, certainly there were signs that he likely had had affairs before this one. For whatever reasons I chose to ignore the evidence before me back then. I continued on, and reassured myself that I was just being reactive and paranoid. However, the incident in 2006 was undeniable. It was in my face. There was really no ignoring it. No pretending it didn't happen. While my husband denied that he was having a sexual affair with this woman, he did so half-heartedly. I wasn't overly convinced, but still there was some part of me that wanted some plausible deniability.
At the time I was struggling in a job I hated, contending with an active 3 year old and trying to care for my infant who was having a multitude of health problems. Additionally I was dealing with a major fall out in my family of origin over my brother's issues with addiction and the legal system. It was a hectic time in my life, and quite honestly I was ill-prepared to be confronted with my husband's infidelity. Initially, I raged at him. I cried for days. And then, I acted as if it never happened. I swallowed it down like a bitter pill. Life went on. Within 6 months his father died suddenly, and I tried my best to take care of him, to keep us together by the sheer force of my will. I ignored the misgivings I felt, and plowed through. Somewhere along the way I developed some sort of plausible deniability about the whole thing. After all I didn't know *for sure* that he had cheated. Maybe I was being paranoid or crazy or both. And of course my husband wanted me to believe that so he continually promised me he would never be unfaithful to me. I wanted desperately to believe him.
Even now, after divorcing this man, I must admit that part of me still clung to some notion of plausible deniability, part of me still hoped it wasn't true, that my husband had loved me enough to remain faithful to me. It is much easier to cling to plausible deniability than it is dealing with the feelings of hurt, betrayal, anger and pain over what I have always known happened. So, when I found out last night that indeed the relationship between my ex-husband and this woman was ongoing and now open and notorious, plausible deniability became impossible. It is right in front of me. There's no more hiding behind the illusion. I wasn't prepared for this. It seems overwhelming and hurtful, as if the scab has been ripped off the wound suddenly, without warning.
Someone said to me recently that it's a hell of a lot easier to live in denial than it is to live with the pain and disappointment life brings. I agree. But now there's no more denying what I know, what I've always known. And that's tough, but perhaps shaking off denial is just the first step. No more denying the truth, even when it hurts. No more hiding behind excess weight so that I can shield myself from my feelings, my heart. No more denying what I've always known was my path even if that path doesn't seem convenient, easy or simple. No more denying God, denying who I am as a child of God even when I'm sad, hurt and lonely. No more denying the gifts God has given me because denying them is safer, easier and comfortable.
In November, 2006, when our son was only 6 or so months old I began to find evidence that my husband was having an affair. Given that I was a divorce lawyer working for a firm that specialized in this kind of stuff, it wasn't hard to identify the patterns of my spouse. I went on a mini-investigation and it didn't take me long to figure out he was certainly seeing someone. If I think back to earlier days in our relationship, certainly there were signs that he likely had had affairs before this one. For whatever reasons I chose to ignore the evidence before me back then. I continued on, and reassured myself that I was just being reactive and paranoid. However, the incident in 2006 was undeniable. It was in my face. There was really no ignoring it. No pretending it didn't happen. While my husband denied that he was having a sexual affair with this woman, he did so half-heartedly. I wasn't overly convinced, but still there was some part of me that wanted some plausible deniability.
At the time I was struggling in a job I hated, contending with an active 3 year old and trying to care for my infant who was having a multitude of health problems. Additionally I was dealing with a major fall out in my family of origin over my brother's issues with addiction and the legal system. It was a hectic time in my life, and quite honestly I was ill-prepared to be confronted with my husband's infidelity. Initially, I raged at him. I cried for days. And then, I acted as if it never happened. I swallowed it down like a bitter pill. Life went on. Within 6 months his father died suddenly, and I tried my best to take care of him, to keep us together by the sheer force of my will. I ignored the misgivings I felt, and plowed through. Somewhere along the way I developed some sort of plausible deniability about the whole thing. After all I didn't know *for sure* that he had cheated. Maybe I was being paranoid or crazy or both. And of course my husband wanted me to believe that so he continually promised me he would never be unfaithful to me. I wanted desperately to believe him.
Even now, after divorcing this man, I must admit that part of me still clung to some notion of plausible deniability, part of me still hoped it wasn't true, that my husband had loved me enough to remain faithful to me. It is much easier to cling to plausible deniability than it is dealing with the feelings of hurt, betrayal, anger and pain over what I have always known happened. So, when I found out last night that indeed the relationship between my ex-husband and this woman was ongoing and now open and notorious, plausible deniability became impossible. It is right in front of me. There's no more hiding behind the illusion. I wasn't prepared for this. It seems overwhelming and hurtful, as if the scab has been ripped off the wound suddenly, without warning.
Someone said to me recently that it's a hell of a lot easier to live in denial than it is to live with the pain and disappointment life brings. I agree. But now there's no more denying what I know, what I've always known. And that's tough, but perhaps shaking off denial is just the first step. No more denying the truth, even when it hurts. No more hiding behind excess weight so that I can shield myself from my feelings, my heart. No more denying what I've always known was my path even if that path doesn't seem convenient, easy or simple. No more denying God, denying who I am as a child of God even when I'm sad, hurt and lonely. No more denying the gifts God has given me because denying them is safer, easier and comfortable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)