A Gentle Persuit

Divorce is ugly.  In the days right after I left my first husband, I experienced some of the most potent ugliness from friends at church.  I do not believe that they intended me harm.  In fact, I do believe they thought that they were being motivated by their love for me.  Unfortunately, some of the words uttered and emailed to me were sharp daggers that ripped swiftly through my spirit.  And healed with agonizing slowness.  The scabs would occasionally get ripped off, and the wounds would bleed fresh.  But eventually, they did heal.  With deliberate care and prayer and a God who is far bigger than my reluctantly forgiving self, the wounds healed.  And now the scars are fading.

When I left my husband, I also left my church home.  I knew immediately that I would move back to the Houston area to be near my family.  I’d been cut off from them in many ways for years, and I knew that I needed them.  I didn’t think it was fair for me to continue to try to worship at the same place with the man I was divorcing.  It is a good church.  With good people.  And I wanted him to have that support system.  I felt like staying there would cause people to feel like they had to choose sides.  And that wasn’t fair.  I was going home.  That was one reason I walked away.

The other reason was fear.  I was afraid of judgment.  I was afraid of people looking in with judgment on a situation they knew absolutely nothing about.  I was heartbroken and spirit broken and grieving from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, and I did not want to look into the eyes of people who were supposed to love me and see judgment.  And disappointment.  I could look into the bloodshot eyes in the mirror and see all of that I could bear and more.  Shame.

Someone actually said those words to me.  “Shame on you.”  Such a terrible thing to say.  I did feel shame.  I was a failure.  At the most important calling of my life.  And no amount of prayer and faith had healed or fixed the brokenness of my marriage.  And when I hit the breaking point, I left.  

It didn’t matter that I was leaving for good reasons.  It didn’t matter that staying would have destroyed me.  All that mattered is that I left.  And good church of Christ girls like me didn’t do that.  But I did.  Shame on me.

And then I left my church family too.  Because after the initial loving wounds inflicted, I couldn’t bear to stay for more.  More judgment.  More platitudes.  More condemnation.  So I didn’t give them the chance. 

I know now that I also didn’t give them the chance to surround me with love.  To embrace me with forgiveness and acceptance.  To sit shivah with me as I mourned the death of my marriage.  And a piece of myself. 

Later, much later, I let a few people in.  After the divorce and the move back to Houston, I’d visit my second home occasionally and eventually shared my heart with a chosen few.  After some of the initial wounds were healing.  After I began to forgive myself.  After experiencing love and support of family.  After the faithfulness of a few of my non-church friends.  Only then.  I opened up with a few and shared my heart.

And I did experience love.  And forgiveness.  And understanding.  And compassion.  And grace.  And my spirit healed a little more.

Healing is a process.  And sometimes moments of healing come in such unexpected ways.

This afternoon, I received a graduation announcement in the mail.  Such an ordinary thing. 

I didn’t recognize the Amarillo address, and the sender’s name wasn’t included, but the monogrammed sticker on the flap should have given it away. But I was stumped.

My best friend’s son is graduating, but that was the wrong school.  My other friends whose kids are graduating I’m not as close to. 

When I opened it up and looked inside, I understood.  And I cried.  This young man was my student when I was a 5^th grade counselor years ago.  Seven years to be exact.  The most devastating year of my life.  And I’m not sure I’ve spoken with him in the last six years.  I’m not really sure he even remembers much about me.  He wasn’t a kid in trouble.  He wasn’t in need of counseling.  He was one of those great kids with great parents who really didn’t need me at all. 

He might have thought to send me an announcement, but I kind of doubt it.  I’m pretty sure it was his mom.

His mom is a pretty special lady.  She was not a super close friend when I lived in Amarillo, but she was a friend.  We spoke at church.  We spoke at school.  She occasionally asked my advice about her oldest son, my student, and later asked my advice on behalf of someone else.  Long after I’d moved away.

What makes her so special to me would seem rather ordinary to most.  But for me, it’s extraordinary.

During the process of my divorce, I occasionally ran into this lady at school.  She always smiled.  If I saw her around town, she said hello.  Sometimes she hugged me.  When I moved away and finally joined the world of Facebook, she sent me a friend request.  She liked my comments and occasionally responded to my pictures.  I did the same with hers.

I’ve watched her boys grow up on Facebook, and she has watched me live.  Grow.  Heal.  Transform.

She never once asked me why I left my husband.  She never looked at me with judgment.  She might have been curious.  But she didn’t ask.  She didn’t start a conversation innocuously and then maneuver it toward the big questions so many people felt compelled to ask.

She quietly, subtly loved me.  She treated me with kindness.  With respect.  With quiet tenderness.  She asked for my advice long after I walked away.  She valued me.  She accepted me.

I’m not sure why she sent me the announcement.  Possibly because her son was my student so many years ago and somehow knew that it would mean something to me.  And it does.  Because he is precious.  It was incredibly thoughtful.  But it actually meant way more than that for me. 

She didn’t strike out at me all those years ago.  She didn’t quietly carve me out of her life as some did.  She also didn’t let me just walk away.

She followed me.  She pursued me so subtly I didn’t realize she’d done it at all.  Until today.  Maybe she didn’t do it on purpose.  Maybe she is just that kind of caring and gentle and kind.  Probably.  She most likely doesn’t know at all the way she gently nurtured my healing spirit.  But she did.        

Club Sandwich

There is a space in between
When the kids aren't grown
still needing your constant care.

And the parents aren't gone
But they're no longer young.
Crown of wisdom grey in their hair.

Kids need detangling
and reminders to brush
And grounding from 3DS.

Parents need explaining
And repeating of plans
Understanding of natural regress.

The hustle and bustle
Of concerts and Scouts
Homework and flute in between.

The listening to stories
For the umpteenth time
With a smile so as not to demean.

There's a place in between
Of worry and care
For the child, young and old.

When the "kid" in the middle
Pours out to both
Helpless to time's unfold.

Little girl's not so little
Gloss on her lips
Don't grow up too fast.

Grand getting grander
Memory eclipsed
Wanting every moment to last.

Settling in
To the space in between
One day, one struggle at a time.

Embracing the moments
Seizing the days
Girding my heart for the climb.

A few weeks back, Matt walked in to the room and said, “Do you know how old my dad is going to be on his birthday?”  I didn’t.  “Seventy-seven,” he said.  That was a light bulb moment for us.

While I know our parents are getting older, I don’t think about it too much.  We often talk about our desire to spend more time with them and our regret at missed opportunities.  We only have two parents left between us.  We, of all people, know the frailty of life.  But we still forget.

Last week I accompanied my mom to the doctor.  Don’t worry.  No big issues.  Just a desire to have a second set of ears.  But it was another moment of clarity for me.  I still think of my mom’s age of seventy as pretty young.  In fact, the older I get, the younger her age feels to me.  But there was a minute, I asked the doctor a question and he answered, when I sort of stepped outside of myself and looked at that interaction.  Me and my mom’s doctor talking about her.  With her in the room! 

Don’t get me wrong.  She was most definitely a participant in the discussion.   But something about it made me feel old, and her feel small, to me. 

And all of that has been on my mind lately.  Because I don’t like it very much.  I’m newly arrived to the parenting scene and still adjusting.  So I’m not quite ready for my mom to be getting any older!  But alas, she is.  (Don’t tell her I used the word “older” to describe her…)

We are in an “in between” time.  And I’m embracing it.

Bulimic

I need a purge

Of my churning thoughts

Making me sick at heart.

A bitter rumble

Of anger and judgment

Ripping my brain apart.

Each dark thought

Simmering, burning

Acid in my brain

Begins to seep

Down to my lips

Raining words of pain.

I need a syrup

Of ipecac

Vomit my viral thoughts

Cleansing purge

Of bitterness

Healing brain of rot.

I went to bed frustrated on Friday night about things totally out of my control.  When I woke up Saturday, my mind continued to spiral.  Irritation and anger made me grumpy, and my joyful hope for the weekend began to wane. 

I knew that part of my problem was the very difficult two weeks of school I’d just completed.  I was emotionally exhausted and mentally drained.  Sometimes my job is so much pouring out that at the end of weeks like these, I’m running on fumes.  Eventually I come to a sputtering stop.

After a very sweet flute concert, I sent my loves off to the museum, Grandpa, Dad, and daughter.  I knew I needed the time by myself to regroup and refill.  But I could not shift the focus of my brain.  I was so annoyed and could not seem to stop fixating on the source of my ire.

I was texting with my BFF and trying to explain my need to purge my brain.  I knew that I was only making myself miserable, and that I needed to let it go.  I’m a counselor for goodness sake.  I know the toxicity of bitterness.

I’d planned to do my big Thanksgiving grocery run but had forgotten my purse at home, so I ended up back at the house.  It seemed like a good idea to put in a load of laundry while I was there.   And like the mouse and the cookie, that one load lead to dusting, another load, folding, organizing, picking up, and a third load.  Eventually, with the help of my Casting Crowns station on iHeart Radio, I had a much cleaner house, an organized grocery list, a less cluttered brain, and a spirit at peace.

High School Counselor

Today I watched a parent humiliate her man child in front of me and two other women.  It brought him to tears.  And when he tried to cover those tears, she scolded him more.  It was one of the most heartbreaking scenes I’ve watched play out before me in a long time.  It is still replaying in my mind, a horrifying loop of brokenness of spirit in his wet, red eyes.

Earlier in the day one of my frequent flyers showed up with fresh scratches marking her anxiety over the loss of a friend .  As we colored, she played songs for me on her phone that spoke feelings she wasn’t ready to articulate because this wasn’t the first time she’d lost someone to suicide.

Yesterday I decided to take on a basketball project.  I have this gifted player who didn’t make the team because of grades.  And brains aren’t the problem either.  The problem is moving to a new school and being fifteen and hormonal and unorganized and unaccountable.

Before that, there was a call from a fellow high school counselor in another district who had a student report that one of my students texted her student about wanting to die.

But before I could speak with that student I had to track down another student who has figured out that texting his mom about hating school and his life and wanting to die…is a great way to get to go home.

And both of those conversations led to lots of phone time with parents and documentation and research about resources and did I mention phone time with parents?  Because the parents needed to talk too.  Understandably.

I also made a CPS report yesterday.  Reluctantly.  Because you never quite know if that will be beneficial or harmful to a 15 year old high school student.  They are unpredictable…CPS AND high school students.  But I erred on the side of caution and made the report, after getting timed out three separate times due to inactivity while I conferenced with children who thought they might want to die.  Meanwhile, this child most definitely did NOT want to die. 

And today, a police officer showed up to ask me questions about that same student.  And then he interviewed the student.  And then he went and got money from an ATM to put on her account so she could eat. 

I can’t even remember what day it was, but another day this week one of my kids who graduated in 2013 came back to see me.  He checks in periodically.  Because me and another couple of people up at school are the only reliable adults he’s ever had in his life.  And sometimes he needs to talk.  And it takes time and energy I don’t have left.  But hugging his neck four or five times a year is one of the best things. 

Tomorrow is Friday.  And in the counseling center we are counting down the class periods to a much needed respite.  A break where we can deal with the craziness of our own families instead of someone else’s.  I’ll begin the day with Starbucks and end it with basketball, because even counselors have their vices…I mean coping strategies.  And in between, I may change some schedules.  Because that’s what counselors do…

Biggest Loser

Mom bought Ipad

Won that round.

With trampoline

Dad gains ground.

Easy Bake

Brought a grin,

But homemade cookies

For the win.

Mom’s attention

To herself.

Daddy’s shared

With someone else.

Tooth fairy mom

Gives a ten.

Tooth fairy dad

Ones again.

Vacation time

Which is best?

Local trips

Or Disney fest?

Edging closer

Mom bought phone.

Daddy’s lead

Swiftly blown.

Always tracking

Keeping score.

Stressing presents

Who spent more?

Feels like love’s

A competition.

Isn’t that

A contradiction?

Constant stressing

About the plan.

Good enough?

Or lesser than?

Throw in towel

I give up.

I can’t compete

To win your love.

Even when we

Aren’t the loser

Always fear that

She will choose her.

You can say all you want to that it’s not a competition, but until you’ve been on this field, you cannot fully comprehend the pull of the game.  When children are involved, divorce is the ultimate game of tug of war.  No matter how hard you try, or how many times you give it over to God, there is a constant inner struggle for the desire of your child’s loyalty and favor.  When you only get to see your precious one Thursday nights and every other weekend, you long to be the winner on occasion.

With Halloween, we have officially entered the competition season.  It is closely followed by birthday and Christmas in our home, and nothing brings out the desire to win your child’s affection quite like those holidays.

It isn’t always a conscious battle.  Sometimes it sneaks up on you in subtle ways as your child begins listing her birthday and Christmas wishes.  You begin to think about the budget and the gifts and the all important question of the mother’s gift plans.  And that is a rabbit hole that will cause you madness beyond any un-birthday tea party.

It is the beginning of wondering if your gift is good enough.  If your love is good enough.  If you are good enough.

This past weekend of birthday, we chose to purchase within the budget and within what we considered reasonable and appropriate for our family.  We provided a great birthday weekend and celebration.  But we knew that we had not purchased the most desired gift.

After hearing about the mom’s birthday gift tonight, we knew our girl had gotten the really big thing.  I asked Matt how he felt about that.  He said, “It’s just the way it is.  We do something while mom waits and does something bigger.”

That made me sad.  Until he went on to say this, “But what we are giving her is what she needs most.  And I’m comfortable with that.”

He wasn’t referring to our birthday gift but to our family.  And he is right.  If we ever are going to “win,” I want it to be a win of heart.  Of family.  Of boundaries.  Of stability and consistency.  Of a Christ centered home.  Of unconditional love.

Boundaries

Out riding the fence

Looking for weakness

Where the wire is getting stretched

I’m looking for breaks

Where intruders invade

Where new trails get slowly etched

Repairing each strand

Standing my ground

Protecting the herd from attack

Laying new wire

Stretching and tying

While also watching our back

Out riding the fence

Looking for weakness

Cow gets tangled and stuck

Approach with caution

Watching her hooves

There may be reason to duck

One section repaired

Another one waits

Along the never ending trail

Out riding the fence

Our hedge of protection

Praying boundaries don’t fail.

I’ve spent hours and hours over the years contemplating the idea of boundaries.  Healthy ones are critical to healthy relationships.  In my job as a counselor, I am constantly reminded of the problems that can develop when boundaries are neglected and  ignored.

In a blended family, I feel the urgency for boundaries more than ever.  Between parents and kids.  Step parents and step kids.  Between ex-spouses.  There are so many levels of boundaries that have to be carefully built and maintained. 

I’ve come to think of them like fence on a ranch.  The outer fences often have another row of wire the inner ones do not.  And there are carefully planned gates at various places for appropriate movement between sections as well as crossings in and out of the property. 

Boundaries in relationships are a lot like that.  The blended family fencing is a fairly complex system that takes time to learn to navigate.  Occasionally, I find myself getting cut by the wire or trampled when there has been a break.  The building and repairing is often a painful process, but the maintenance is essential to the emotional safety of everyone living on the ranch. 

Last night, both Matt and I had to work on various stretches in the wire.  It was painful and tiring work.  I’m so thankful though for a partner who is willing to ride the fence with me, sharing the miles of upkeep and rescuing me when I get tangled.

The Golden Rule of Cookies

As a counselor and long time baker, I have developed a sixth sense about people and their cookie needs.  Today I sensed that my administrative team was in need of a cookie boost.  Sometimes a random batch of homemade cookies is just the spirit lifter for which a stressful week is calling.  Fortunately, today’s disturbance in the cookie force just happened to coincide with my need to try out a new recipe. 

I came across a recipe on Facebook recently for white chocolate, candy corn cookies.  I briefly glanced at it but forgot to snap a picture as I normally would.  I’ve always felt that recipes are just nice suggestions anyway, so I decided to simply use a variation of my normal chocolate chip recipe but with white chocolate chips and candy corn instead.

About the time I had mixed up the cookies and done the super official dough taste test, I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with Matt and Isabelle Friday night.  While we were waiting for our Brother’s Pizza, I asked them a couple of questions.  What is the best thing about our family?  What is the worst thing about our family?  What do we need to work on?  (Oh the joys of living with a counselor.)

Isabelle’s idea of what we needed to work on was cooking.  She was NOT suggesting that I’m a bad cook.  She was asking, in her way, for me to include her in the cooking more.  I told her that was a great idea and that we could definitely do more cooking together.  So tonight as I was about to scoop cookie dough on to the cookie sheets, I wished she was here.  And then I wished that I could deliver a few of these cookies to her at her mom’s house when they were finished.  I just wanted to share the moment with her.

And that random thought took me back to last Halloween night.  Isabelle was scheduled to get ready for Trick or Treating at our house.  I’d brought home a goodie bag with spooky pencils, rings, erasers and activity book along with some very tasty Halloween cupcakes.

When her mom picked her up from our house, she delivered a very large and fancy, single packaged cupcake.  Isabelle saw it and her eyes nearly popped out of her head.  All thoughts of the cupcakes I’d brought home for us were gone.  She only had eyes for the cupcake her mom had brought.  For me, the evening sort of deteriorated from there.

Tonight as I was thinking about how much I would enjoy sharing these cookies with Isabelle, I think I realized more potently than ever before how acute the loss is that her mom must feel when Isabelle is with me.  How many times must her mom think of her and what she would like to share with her daughter when she is with me.

I understand logically that this must be so as I am very aware of Matt’s sense of loss and lost opportunity when Isabelle is not with us.  It is a wound that does not heal.  But before tonight, I don’t think I’ve ever really felt like I was missing out on anything.  Just him.

My heart hurt for Isabelle’s mom.  I had the tiniest taste of what she must feel every time Isabelle is with us.  Her cupcake delivery last Halloween wasn't meant as an attack on me.  It wasn't about me at all.  It was about wanting to share a moment with her daughter.

So though it was tempting to deliver some cookies to Isabelle and her mom, I didn’t.  I also understand what it feels like to have the good thing you do pushed to the shadows while someone else’s good thing takes center stage, however unintentionally.

It’s really all about the cookie golden rule.  Deliver (or not) unto others as you would have them deliver unto you.