Custody

First and third weekends
and Thursday nights
Too fast flash
with the light of your life.

Pack in the fun
between homework and flute
But send her home on a high note
or the fun stuff's moot.

Stall tactics begin.
She doesn't want to go.
Chasing a butterfly.
Walking so slow.

You'd tell her to hurry,
but you don't have the heart.
Takes it with her when she leaves
along with her spark.

The countdown begins
until the next reunion
When she brings back your heart
With another daughter infusion.





I've been learning more about this particular heartache recently.  As painful as it is to witness, I can't imagine what it would be to feel myself.  I understand fully that divorce is sometimes necessary.  But I still hate it.  I hate the heartache of it and the fallout from it.  But I'm super thankful for a God of healing who holds these precious dads and daughters in His hands.

Home Sweet Home

As I get ready to spend my last night in this home, I can’t help but be a little reflective. 

Three years ago, I moved to a little one bedroom apartment across the street from my school.  It was tiny and perfect and safe.  A bit of a cocoon.  When I fled there, it was a frantic escape.  No organization.  No planning but a sleepless night with a notepad and a pencil and a locked door.  And my fear.

That home came to be a place of healing.  The fear hung on for a while, but eventually it lessened.  The nightmares faded.  The panic attacks ceased.  The tears flowed frequently.  Hours of crocheting.  Hours of reading about the “A” word.  And healing.

By the time I got ready to move to Houston, things had changed.  I was looking forward to beginning a new job and a new life and living lakeside with valet trash.  This move wasn’t an escape; it was a rebirth.  A flight home.  And my freedom.

This home has come to be a place of learning.  I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past two years.  I’ve learned that I’m smarter than I thought.  That I can find my way around Houston.  That being a high school counselor is absolutely my calling.  That living near family is a precious gift.  That making mistakes is part of the journey.  That God still loves me.    

Tomorrow I’m moving three miles down the road to the tiniest apartment yet.  It is teeny, old, and completely unglamorous.  But I’m excited.  This move is purposeful; to save money for a house.  The boxes are packed and labeled. 

I feel like I should pack an empty one and label it “Hope”.

Father's Day Legacy

What do you do with Father's Day when yours is gone?  I've tried a variety of coping strategies over the years. As a teenager, I mostly tried to ignore it. I figured if I didn't acknowledge the day, I could pretend I hadn't lost my daddy to cancer days before starting 10th grade. Not terribly effective. 

Later, I decided to acknowledge the other father figures in my life, without whom I might not have become the fabulous adult me you see before you now.  Ha!  Kidding. Men like Jerry Selvidge, Terry Partin, and even Steve West. Some of these men, I thanked. Some probably don't even realize the impact they made. 

But this Father's Day feels uniquely different and special. In a matter of hours, I will be spending time with the two fathers who probably matter most in my life now.  Not as father figures for me, but THE fathers of my most precious children, my nieces and nephews. 

My favorite part of these family get togethers is when we sit around and talk about the old days.  The Michigan days. The persuade the sister to taste vanilla days.  The basketball in the driveway days. 

The kids love hearing these stories. They like to hear about the trouble their dads found.  The pranks they pulled on their sweet and precious baby sister. The broken window and poster covered hole in the wall. 

I love this sacred ritual of storytelling. Legacy leaving. Memory making. Where mere mortal men are transformed into heroes.  Big eyed kiddies and skeptical teens become believers in the coolness of dads.  Their dads. 

And the stories inevitably turn to my dad, their grandfather. The grandfather they never knew for themselves but have come to know and love through the stories. 

Basketball stories. Dog stories. Gardening and garage building stories. Disgusting, Dig Down Deep, Puppy Down Deep stories. And the silly, Thumbnail That Grew stories. 

But my favorite stories are the faith stories. Stories of hitch hikers leaving gifts of just the right amount of money.  Hamburger stand sales that paid car payments. Joyville and bus ministry stories. Cash left in the hand after a handshake stories. Summer school subbing without pay stories.  Stories of mysteriously paid college tuition bills. And my favorite, enthusiasm sock stories. 

On this Father's Day, I'm reminded of words from an old hymn, "Tell me the story of Jesus, write on my heart every word. Tell me the story most precious, sweetest that ever was heard."

On this day and the next few to come, I will participate in the ancient, legend making tradition of storytelling.  Where heroes are made and seeds of faith are sewn. 

My wish for you on this Father's Day is that you would join me. Tell the faith building, legend making stories of your real life fathers and father figures to the precious children in your life.  Write on their hearts the story of Jesus as lived by their dads or the men you wish were their dads.

Slammin' Follow Up

I went to my first Poetry Slam this afternoon, and what a delight.  I was so impressed with our kids who had the courage to get in front of their peers and speak from their hearts.  Whether they read their on poem or someone else's, it was their thoughts.  Their ability to stand up and be heard.  I was super proud.

I must confess though, that at one particular moment, I was a little bummed that I didn't get to share what I had written.  In fact, I was a little annoyed.  Ok, let's be honest.  For about three minutes and fifty-two seconds I was angry.  And then I got over myself. 

And here is why.

Over the last week, I've had the opportunity to share that poem (which you can find here) with some kids in a setting that was more appropriate and very powerful. 

One day last week, I had a young man in my office whose junior year has pretty much gone down the toilet.  I suspected by looking at his transcript and attendance that he smoked.  And when I refer to smoking here, I'm not talking about cigarettes.  So I asked him the question.  Do you smoke?  And of course the answer was "yes...but only on the weekends now."  That always makes me chuckle. 

So we spent the next 30 minutes mapping out a plan for how he can recover credit, get back on track, and graduate on time next year.  He'd given up because he didn't think there was hope.  I just showed him the way.  I didn't do any super fancy counselor tricks.  I just showed him how it could be possible.

Then I asked him if he was familiar with slam poetry.  Surprisingly, he was.  So I told him I'd written one for him.  He looked at me with surprise, and I asked him if he wanted to hear it.  He did.  I read it.  His eyes bugged out, and he said, "Damn Ms.  You really did write that for me."  Awesome.  Then we talked about it.  About how he needed to find his "I care."  Such a God moment. 

Not an hour later, two girls show up, friends.  One of them starts asking me questions about summer school and whether or not she can graduate on time.  I went through the same process with her.  I explained the magic of yearly averaging.  Mapped out a plan. Her face came alive; spark returned to her eyes.

Then I asked the question.  Do you smoke?  "No," she said.  I gave her the look.  It's sort of similar to the look your mom gives you when she asks if you did something and you lie and she knows your lying...yeah.  That look.  I said, "Seriously?!"  She said, "No Ms."  Then I explained how she wasn't in trouble, but her grades and transcript and attendance told a different story.  I asked again.  Gently.  She hung her head and said, "Yeah." 

I switched and talked to her friend for a few minutes and basically mapped out the same things for her.  No super sneaky counselor tricks.  Just laid out the facts.

Then I told them that they couldn't leave.  That they had to listen.  Again, I asked if they knew about slam poetry.  They didn't.  I explained.  Then I told them I'd written something for them.  I opened it.  I'm pretty familiar with it at this point and can really speak it to them.  Look them in the eyes.  And of course I changed the pronouns to feminine ones. 

The first girl completely teared up.  The second one said, "Wow.  That's awesome.  It IS for us."  So unbelievably powerful.  I could not believe this had happened twice in one day.  And the tears.  The connection.  I can't even describe it. 

So back to today's poetry slam.  I stood at the back of the room looking over the audience and realized that some of those kids were just the ones I wrote about.  So at an intermission, I went and spoke to three of my kids.  Told them I needed to see them afterward.

When it was over, I took them back to my office and told them I'd written something for the slam but it was rejected because it was inappropriate.  But that I'd written it for them.  It's so funny.  If you tell them you wrote something rebellious, they get all kinds of excited.  Cracked me up. 

So we go to my office and shut the door.  I pull it up on the computer.  Look each of them in the eye.  And speak my heart to them through this crazy poem.  I teared up this time.  Because these are my kids.  These babies were 11th graders at the beginning of the year.  But several teachers and I have ridden them like crazy to get them to do what they need to do.  And they.  Are going.  To graduate. 

And they cried too.  And it was awesome.  And then of course they wanted to talk about make up hours and grades, and I gave them the speech again about how they better not mess up in these last couple of weeks.  Because that's what you do when you're a momma. 

Another of my kids has started referring to me as his second mom, except he says it in Spanish.  I asked him what the Spanish word for son was.  "Mijo," he said.  Later I was telling my secretary about this exchange, and she said the word for son is "hijo".  The word he gave me to call him means "my son".   

Tengo muchos mijos y mijas.

Hoops

I find inspiration in strange places sometimes.  After jotting words, snatches of poetry, and paragraphs of thoughts on napkins, church bulletins, and counselor meeting power points, I started carrying a little notebook in my purse at all times.  And if for some reason there is nothing to write on, I have the notes pages in my phone. 

I was cleaning my purse out a few minutes ago and came across this little bit of silliness.  This one was in my little notebook, written at the score table during a girls basketball game this season while I was keeping stats.  Good times.

Hoops

 

Squeak on hardwood
Smell of sweat
Bright lights shining
Swish of net

Mommas yelling
Players cheer
Hot shots fake
Show no fear

Leather pounding
Pom poms shake
Fast break layup
Another make

Score is tied up
Hold our breath
Whole crowd praying
Nothing but net

Slammin'

My school is going to have a poetry slam in a couple of weeks.  I'd never tried writing slam before, but I've always liked the form.  Really, Slam is meant to be spoken and heard.  Not read.  If you've never experienced it, you've missed out on something awesome.  Google it.  PBS did a documentary on Slam last year that was really incredible.  It's a form that really appeals to youth.  It's very honest and kind of in your face.

Last week after watching a couple Slams on YouTube, I got inspired and wrote one of my own.  I think it's pretty good, but it's not really appropriate for performing for students.  Well actually, I think students would get it.  But since I'm a school representative, it might not be the best plan.  I figured I'd post it.  My apologies for the language, but I wrote it with the thought of the kids who are the subject matter also being the audience.  Just remember, it wasn't meant to be read.  It was meant to be performed.

Tired

 

I.  Am. Tired.
Of looking across my desk
Into the blood shot eyes of the future
And asking the question, “Do you smoke?”

And they stare, eyes wide, as if it’s a joke.
And say, “What?  Why do you ask that Ms.?”
Like I’m the one who’s been smoking some really good shit.

But I haven’t.  And I don’t.  And they don’t understand. 
Why?  How does she know?  And I try to convince them
That all it takes is a good look at a transcript.
And attendance.  And an Academic Plan
To see they’ve been smoking and don’t give a damn.

You see that’s the problem with smokin’
Spend your weekends tokin’
Then pretty soon it’s mornings to just get through the day
And they have all these reasons of why it’s ok

It’s not a problem.  No big deal.  “I got this Ms.”
And maybe for a while that’s true. 
But then.  It’s a lie.
Spend your whole life denyin’, trying’
to justify.  Why?

Truth is.  Smokin’ takes away your “I care."
And I look across my desk into that blood shot stare.
And I want to cry.  As I watch another one of my kids
Flushing his future down the drain.
I wonder why I strain. 

And work so hard.  And talk
And preach, and beg, and plead with them when it sometimes feels
Like I’m the only one fighting.  For their lives.
But there’s always that one.  That one who survives.

Who walks away.  And stops the madness.  And loses friends. 
But finds himself.  His, “I care.”  His, “I give a damn.”
And suddenly, BAM!
His upside down world is magically back.  Right side up.
And there is hope.  And a future.
And it’s all worthwhile.

I.  Am.  Tired.
Of looking across my desk
Into the blood shot eyes of the future
And asking the question, “Do you smoke?”
It's no joke.

And I won’t stop asking. 
Because I DO give a damn.

The A-Word

My librarian posted on FB last night about Rihanna being a great singer but unhealthy in her personal life.  It lead to a conversation between us about how we could teach our girls that getting hit by someone who claims to love you is not ok.  It is an issue we see and deal with in high school nearly every day.  I have felt an internal indictment ever since.

I have written this post in my mind a thousand times.  I have shared this story with people in person.  At first, for the purpose of healing.  Later, when prompted, for the purpose of ministry.  To share it here is far scarier to me.  But it feels like the right time.



It was a moment I will never forget.  A realization that changed my life forever.  A  paradigm shift.  The beginning.

It was about a month after I left.  I had assumed my Saturday post walk position in my recliner, watching mindless television that I could tune out and think to while keeping my hands busy on my first crochet therapy project.

This day, instead of watching “Criminal Minds” and “Law and Order” reruns, I landed on a movie, Sleeping With The Enemy.  It was something familiar; I’d seen it before.  Something  that I didn’t have to watch closely; I could escape into my head.  That was the point.

I was paying only passing attention, focused on the pattern of my blanket:  eight double crochet, skip two, eight double crochet, three double crochet in the same stitch, repeat.  Mindlessly counting stitches. Until the music indicated a change in scene. 

I looked up and watched as Julia Roberts straightened towels so their patterns matched up.  Then a frantic pass through the kitchen cabinets, desperately checking the cans to make sure the labels were all facing forward.

I watched her panicked frenzy and sat paralyzed, unable to take my eyes off the screen.  She ran around trying to make everything perfect.  Her fear palpable.  And a fog began to clear in my mind.  My heart.

I knew her fear.  Silent tears streamed down my face.  I felt her fear.  Her hopeless resignation.  The short lived joy of her courageous escape.    The heart pounding anxiety of living a life looking over your shoulder.

That was me.  When the movie ended, I muted the sound and sat stunned. 

It is so easy, for me anyway, to look at other people, other relationships, and see what is broken.  Or missing.  But in my own, I had spent so many years trying to make it look good on the outside to everyone else, that I had convinced my own self of its wonderfulness.  That was the biggest deception. 

But sitting there watching Julia Roberts.  Feeling the fear.  The desperation.  The fog of deception was burned away.  For the first time, I allowed myself to see the truth of my own brokenness.

Abuse.

I didn’t say it out loud.  Not for months.  I couldn’t.  It was far too scary a word.  But to myself, I began to admit that I had been in an abusive relationship.

To be clear, I have never been physically beaten.  No one has ever hit me or burned me or locked me up.  I think that is why the A-word had never occurred to me before.  But there are all kinds of abuse.  Physical.  Verbal.  Sexual.  Emotional.

About thirty minutes after the movie ended, I began researching abuse online.  I didn’t really understand how I could feel all those same things the character in the movie did when no one had ever physically harmed me.

I ended up ordering five or six books from Amazon.  Books about battered women, abuse, bullying between friends.  The next couple of months I read through all of them.  It was painful.  I would read a chapter, highlighting things that connected with me, and then cry.  I also did a lot of writing and reflecting and crocheting.  Eventually, I began talking about it with my mom and my closest two friends. 

Healing is a beautiful and terrible thing.  It sort of reminds me of severe burn victims.  Those wounds have to be scraped and cleaned and treated.  And it is excruciating.  But it is the only way to healing.

Admitting I had the A-word in my life was just the tip of the iceberg.  After that, the wounds had to be scraped and cleaned and treated.  Repeatedly.  But eventually, healing began.  It continues still.



I am not done with this topic or this story.  But I find that I will have to share it in installments.  One can only scrape so much at one time.  There is one thing about which I wish to be very clear though.  I am writing this as a continued part of my own healing.  But I’m also writing because I see far too many girls and women in similar situations.  And I think there is too much silence on the topic.  Especially among church folks.  It is about owning my piece of the story.  I played a role in it.  And I am the key to making sure it never happens again.  But those are stories for another day.