support group

Now that I've finished my first fieldwork assignment for school, I've decided that we should all have a support group. Not just a group of friends or family, not just a group of people who will support you when life goes wonky; but a true, formal support group that meets regularly and officially.

There are no support groups for part-time secretaries who go to school full-time and have a family but don't have specific healthcare needs.

It's unfortunate.

Because I would love to be a part of a group that intentionally shares struggles and triumphs and everything in between. I know we do this with our friends and family, and maybe part of my desire stems from the fact that my circle of friends and family is small, but so often what we share with these circles is surface-y everyday stuff. What I share is what's going on with the kids; what My Man and I are are doing/planning; what's happening at school/work; maybe how I'm feeling, maybe not. All of this is good, important stuff that is crucial in community and a life shared, but sometimes it would be nice to have a space that was set apart for deeper things.

My husband says he has to read this blog to know the deep internal things of me.

And it's true - I don't say these bloggy things out loud very often. Not because I won't or don't want to, but because there's no specific space for it. Maybe that's why I keep writing to the handful of you who read these inner ramblings. It's a space for me to get out what is in.

I am grateful for this space, for this little piece of soul that lets me be small-ly known in the depths and the shallows. But this space is not enough. I edit myself in this space. I am not completely, unabashedly me. In the back of my mind I am always worrying about internet safety, oversharing, confidentiality. There are boundaries. Healthy (I hope) boundaries, but restraining boundaries.

And let's face it, blogging lets me be something of a coward because I know that some of those I love will read it and know, so I'm freed from the obligation to say it out loud.

But there's no substitute for looking someone in the eye. For a laugh heard, a tear caught, a hand held.

So I want a support group. A group that meets intentionally to share the inner life that is too often obscured. A group that accepts weakness, enourages growth, practices kindness, shines light into the dark places, and reminds us that we're not alone, even in the hidden depths. Not a class. Not a club. Not a movie night or dinner out.

A support group.

Now if I could just snap my fingers and make it happen. Anyone wanna join me in the snapping?
Yes?
No?

Maybe someday.

ashes to ashes

photo by The Cleveland Kid, flickr

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the 40-day-journey toward Easter. I didn't grow up noting this liturgical holy day. I began experimenting with the idea of Lent in college, and though I love the symbolism and the beauty and the intentional focus of this season of the church, I've never been very good at sticking with it. I may begin with an intention to give up something for 40 days, with the idea that it will remind me of Christ's sacrifice, but I always fail at it. I think the only time I ever stuck to a Lenten sacrifice was the year My Man and I gave up meat for Lent. But that's pretty easy for me. I don't mind giving up meat, so it's not actually a sacrifice.

Ann Voskamp says that failure is part of the purpose of Lent. It reminds us of our frailty, our sin, our hopelessness without a Savior. I don't subscribe to all of Voskamp's theology. I don't actually believe we deserve hell, as she states. But I think she may be right that getting Lent wrong is part of the point. Though I wouldn't say it reminds us of how wretched we are, I would say it reminds us of how much we are still on the journey. We are still in the midst of a life of work and care and hope and despair and success and failure. We set intentions because they are important guides, but we don't stick to our intentions (always) because life is hard and messy and sometimes we're just tired or lazy or downtrodden. We don't suck because of that. We just need help. And grace. Lots and lots of grace.

Last year I tried adding something to my life (praying at certain times and making/giving something every day) in Lent rather than taking away. I failed, miserably. Because of the way certain circumstances converged in my life, Lent ended up being truly a time of darkness, and for a moment, I wondered if I would come through with any real faith intact, which is quite scary for someone whose life so often revolves around church. I did come through with faith still present, but it's a looser faith (and I thought my faith was already loose!).

It's a faith that sustains me, but it's also one that I easily ignore. Life has been busy. So very busy. Life has been purposeful, which is good. But all that purpose makes it easier for me to ignore the inner workings of my soul, and when I do suddenly hear the inner workings, usually it's because they're bubbling over and I can't ignore it anymore - not necessarily healthy.

Last night at our Ash Wednesday service, I started to think about that ash that the pastors put on our foreheads. What is ash? What is that dark smudgy stuff? Does it matter that it’s ash and not something else? I’ve typically heard that this is the time for us to remember our mortality and Christ’s death. It’s a somber time. We don’t say “Alleluia” during this time. It can be kind of depressing. And I’m OK with that – life can be kind of depressing. It’s good to acknowledge that. But as I was thinking about this ashy stuff, it occurred to me that ash is the result of fire (duh) – ash is the result of a great, burning light (usually). Ash is the result of expended energy when that energy has performed its work.

Ash is rest.

At the end of these 40 days, we remember that Jesus died. After years of amazing, meaningful work, Jesus rested. His work was done. I don’t mean that God/dess was done, but Jesus, the man, he was done. His purpose was fulfilled. His love had been shared to weave its strands of pulling-life throughout the world. His life continued to work among us, but He was at rest.

We are not done with this life, and there is much good work to be done. But I need to be reminded that ultimately, whatever light I shine will burn only so long before a time of restful ash. Periodic rest and ultimate rest. I cannot continually feed the fire. A fire out of control is a dangerous fire. Sometimes that fire must be stilled.

So this Lent, I'm not adding anything to my life. I'm not even setting a very intentional intention. I'm just going to attempt to find more space in these 40 days. Space to listen. Space to draw. Space to hear. Space to commune. Space to rest.

May this season be a time of welcoming the darkness, for it is often in darkness that the light shines brightest.

a love story

One of the advantages of being an old(er), married student in a class of many young, single women, is that I get to hear funny stories of relationship drama and think, "Thank God/dess that's not me!" 

I do not miss the roller coaster of emotion, the Will-He-or-Won't-He questions, the struggle to hold onto myself while wanting to tumble. I may not have the same euphoria experienced in that initial, exciting connection to someone you hope will be special, but I have something better.

I have gentle, present, constant, sustaining Love.

Our Love Story isn't a storybook story. We met in my first week of seminary (his second year), but it wasn't love at first sight. It wasn't even like at first sight. It was a long, circuitous year of mutual friendships, interest, disinterest, hurt, silliness, hope, certainty, uncertainty. It was a roller coaster of rushing up and down and upside down in a track of twists and turns and loops that somehow led us together in the end. It was a wonderful, awful year. One I will always treasure. But one I'm glad is over!

Because in the end, what I got was so much sweeter than the adrenaline rush of a roller coaster (and I LOVE roller coasters - the real ones). What I got was the joining-together with a beautiful, imperfect, just-for-me Man.

Marriage is hard. Of course. Always. Relationships are hard. Throw in some kids, medical drama, boredom, job drama, moves, personal crisis, everyday life - it's a wonder any of us stay together. So many are appalled by the 50% divorce rate. I say that means 50% of us stay together - 50 whole percent! It's amazing, really. So when I say I got my just-for-me Man, I don't mean that makes it easy. Not by a long shot. We frustrate each other, miscommunicate, ignore each other, take the other for granted, bore one another, yell, walk away, disappoint. We have our problems.

But even when problems are at their worst, I know that My Man will stick with me, stick with us. I know that he will walk beside me through the good and the bad. I know that we will fly high together and crawl low together and everything in between. I know that he will look for good in me even when it's hard to find. I know that he will do the laundry, pick up the kids, play with the kids, cook dinner, clean the bathroom, talk to me, hug me, kiss me, challenge me, support me, love me, be an ever-present glue that holds us together. I do not worry; I trust. What a beautiful, precious gift.

My Man and I will have our 10th Anniversary this year. 10 whole years. Not a lifetime, but a long time. I don't know where this Love Story will take us. I like to imagine that someday we'll be rocking on a porch together surrounded by loved ones, but I know there's no guarantee. We don't know how many more days we'll have to craft this Story. We don't know where the Story will be broken and where it will hold. We do know that a lot of it will fill with the day-to-day moments that are not write-down-worthy but in the end are the threads that weave us together.

This is our Love story:
It was not love at first sight...for either of us.
But it is love at last sight...and that's the story I am so very thankful for.

valentines day

Valentine's Day this year was not romantic (it never is for us). It wasn't a lot of fun (tired, whiny kids). It wasn't restful (major presentation in class). It wasn't even well (been coughing - and not sleeping - for a week now). It was a day when I was feeling very tired (see previous sentence) and kinda lonely (missing friendship). It was definitely not a Hallmarkian day.

BUT...

• My Man made me a card and gave me chocolate.
• I was able to surprise My Girl by showing up for her school Valentine's party, and she gave me big hugs and lots of smiles.
• My presentation went OK.
• My Girl made 16 Valentines by cutting and glueing hearts onto cardstock - all of them containing a note of at least 2 sentences plus a picture (different picture for every card). I didn't ask her to do this. She decided it all on her own. She was, of course, the only kid in her class to handmake valentines.
• My Man found 2 gift cards we didn't know we had, so we had a restaurant dinner and didn't have to cook.
• My Boy snuggled with me throughout dinner.
• Both kiddoes managed to pick out a couple of new, small toys with their Valentine's money from the grandparents. It was quite the ordeal to choose, but they both ended up with toys they enjoy. Learning the value of money.
• I did no schoolwork at all in the evening and instead watched silly sitcoms and snuggled with My Man.

It was not a Hallmarkian day, but it was a good day.

voices of love

This is My Sweet Boy.

He is almost as stubborn as Sister...almost. He tries to follow her ways, much to her frustration. Her words often come out of his mouth. They love each other, hate each other, want to be together, need to be apart, mold each other, hammer each other. They are the fierce force that pulls our family in a chaotic, determined, delightful, unfettered dance.

I love them both with my whole heart. But their loves are different. Wonderfully, strangely, determinedly different. My Girl has taught me a love that is gripping and sometimes terrifying in its wild untamedness. A love that fills and hurts and hopes with a passionate pain. A love that I imagine God/dess feels for me.

My Boy has taught me a love that is free and flowing and bubbling over with laughter. A love that is unyielding and unconditional. A love that teaches me joy with abandon. A love that I imagine God/dess feels for me.


My Girl is the One who broke my heart open and showed me the intensity of a love full of pieces. She is the One who once barely connected with me but now runs to me and flings her whole body at me when I walk through the door. She is the One who tells me her hurts and her fears. She is the One who now curls up in my lap like the toddler she never was. She is the One who grasps and holds on tight and looks for me and misses me always. She is the One who makes my heart ache.

My Boy is the One who helps me to breathe with the aching pieces and tells me I am OK.

My Boy is the One who cried for me, unceasingly, before he was supposed to be old enough to know separation anxiety. He is the One who clung to me, and favored me, and adored me just for being Mama. He is the One who insists that I cuddle and read with him at night, the One who clings to me like a little octopus when he needs some comfort. He is the One who almost always refuses to let me pray out loud for him, and yet he is the One who is most likely to speak words of God to me.

A few nights ago, he said to me, completely out of the blue, "You're the perfect mom for me." And for a moment my heart stopped. 

I'm not the perfect mom. Far from it. I don't play cars and transformers well, so when Daddy's around during the day, My Boy tells me to go away. I'm always trying to get him to make something with me because I like that, but he has little interest in such pursuits. I grudgingly play games of Zingo or Candy Land while simultaneously (sometimes) trying to read a book or computer screen. I walk away from dramatics and walk slowly toward hurts. I am away from home far too much and see him far too little. I am not nearly the perfect mom.

And yet, somehow, he still recognizes me as the Mom for Him. And speaks those words when I need them most. Not words that I have earned, but words that I have been given.

Grace. Gift.

Free and unyielding Love.

He is not perfect, but he is the perfect Son for me.
She is not perfect, but she is the perfect Daughter for me.

They teach me to dance.

better

Yesterday I attended my first ever fieldwork assignment. Though I'm studying to be an OTA (occupational therapy assistant), this semester's fieldwork focuses on behavioral/mental health, and the facility I am observing does not actually have OT. But it was fabulous! I'm very thankful that this is the assignment I was given. Very thankful.

The facility is called On Our Own, and it's just a house, really, that serves as a kind of community center for those in recovery for mental health and substance abuse issues. Everyone at the house, staff included, is in recovery.  Everyone ... except for my OTA partner and me. Our assignment was to hang out at this house for 5 hours ... 5 HOURS! I was nervous. Not about going to the house. I wasn't afraid, but I was nervous that 5 hours would be a really long time to fill without any particular role. Would people avoid me? Would it be bad to approach them? Would I sit in a corner like a lonely dork? Would my presence be intrusive? Would I have any words to say? Would I say the wrong thing? Would I be bored out of my skull?

Well...No. No to all those questions. Everyone at the house was kind and welcoming. We spent a little time making Valentine's cards with a few of the clients, but we spent most of the time just talking to people and joining in their peer support groups. Each group member gave their permission for us to join their group. They didn't have to, but they did. We were even allowed to speak as peers, which I did ... in both groups! Only once in both groups, but I contributed. I contributed! And I wasn't nervous about it! If you have known me for any extended period of time, you might realize how big this is for me. It's true in other settings, as well, that I am much more comfortable contributing to a small group than I used to be. I'm more likely to jump in, less likely to wait so long that my chance to speak has passed. I'm never going to be a dominator (and I don't want to be), but I feel more confident about speaking up. I am thankful.

Though sometimes I still feel silly about getting an associate's degree at my age and with my background, there are ways in which I feel much more able to approach this work now than I would've ten years ago. As our behavioral health professor said, a large part of being able to be a therapist, any kind of therapist, is being confident in who you are. Ten years ago, I wasn't very confident in myself. Today, I still feel like a big bundle of conflicting, questioning nerves sometimes, but I know myself better. I'm more accepting of what I can and can't do, more aware of good qualities and less focused on negative ones. Now, don't get me wrong. I still feel like I've got a long way to go. But I'm better.

And better is good.

I think maybe that's what life is (hopefully): A journey of small steps (sometimes forward, sometimes backward) in becoming better. Better mom; better wife; better friend; better worker, better advocate; better giver; better supporter; better helper. Becoming better.

That, surely, is what the clients at the behavioral health center are doing. In whatever stage they're at, they're working on becoming better. And let me tell you ... they've got kindness down. At least in the safety of that secure, confidential, supportive space, they are wonderful at modeling kindness. They speak to us, the stranger. They welcome us, the stranger. They open up their lives to us, the stranger. They offer us, the stranger, a seat. How often have I stood in a church building wishing someone would say something, anything, to me? Even just a Hi?

Those who have experienced great unkindness are sometimes the ones who show the greatest kindness.

I am honored to be on a journey of better with the wonderful people at On Our Own. I am better today for meeting them.