Messy

I started this space because I needed a place where I could be honest. I had long-since drowned in my own voice in the echoing walls of past blogs -- overshadowed by my then-voice of judgement, superiority, and an expectation to always have things together. I need a place to be vulnerable, to be honest, to be forthright about life's confusing twists and the inevitablity of failure. And I needed to say them, outside the shadow of my former self, understanding that those things were unforseen and okay.

Because Life gets messy. Sometimes really messy.

I got a call this morning that a dear and close friend had been admitted to a hospital on suicide watch.

There is a lot of busyness that fades into sharp clarity against the stark contrast between life and death. And in that sudden emptyiness and blankness of thought, there's a slow filling of lyrical poetry that occupies the mind while the soul is grasping for its own words:

"Step one you say we need to talk. He walks you say sit down it's just a talk. He smiles politely back at you. You stare politely right on through. Some sort of window to your right, as he goes left and you stay right. Between the lines of fear and blame, you begin to wonder why you came" (The Fray)

... more quiet washing of dishes and staring blankly...

"I wish you could step back from that ledge, my friend. You could cut ties with all the lies, that you've been living in. And if you do not want to see me again, I would understand" (Third Eye Blind)

... absentmindly wiping counters and watching the rain pound my picture windows...

"I watched you sleeping quietly in my bed. You don't know this now but there's some things that need to be said. And it's all that I can hear, It's more than I can bear. What if I fall and hurt myself? Would you know how to fix me? What if I went and lost myself? Would you know where to find me? If I forgot who I am, would you please remind me? Cause without you things go hazy." (Rosi Golan)

I have been to dark places. I've spent long weeks out of contact with humanity, staring out of a dorm window watching unending rain that seemed to match the weeping of my soul; where hygiene, appetite and companionship were things of a seemingly previous life. There have been periods of creative writing, describing jumping from an 8th story window and swimming deep beneath the waters to find quiet and eternal peace, that won awards for "ingenuity". It wasn't creative writing, it was non-fiction.

But in the decade since, my life has also understood what my clouded mind then could not. Life has these messy moments. These "I don't think things will ever change" stages. When I first got married, my husband had a heinous job for the military. He would stumble in from work, barely remove his work boots before he would fall asleep mid-sentence from exhaustion. I would have been praying for him his entire commute, begging God to keep him awake enough to get home without incident. I had almost lost my new life-partner on sleep deprivation insanity. He was enslaved to a job by contractual obligation that only prison could provide escape. There was no quitting, no showing up late, no "can I have a different job, please?" options. For months, he would say as he would leave for another 27 hour shift: "Life won't always be this way."

It became my mantra. We lived in an emotional triage, just surviving until we could be finished with that life stage, with that job, with that work cycle, with that employer. But every day when the day closed or I had a difficult time putting one foot in front of the other with any renewable hope, he would remind me, "Life won't always be this way."

Life did change. The job ended. The reenlistment bonus offer came: I told him to spend it alone if he considered it seriously. We left the military and started something new: school. Unending semesters without break: from undergrad, the birth of our first child, to graduate school, the birth of our second child, until graduation. He worked during the week at a full time job, and full time course load at school (plus leading worship, being an addictions counselor/mentor, and leading a life group). Study time was after dinner at the university library until 2 or 3 in the morning, before coming home to "nap", shower and load up on coffee before work. I began to think there was no difference from our previous life stage. It was in these stages of absolute crazy in which the only thing that gave me pause for grace was his reminder: "Life won't always be this way."

Right now, life is slow. Education and life experience and work ethic (and God's marvelous goodness) provided us with a solid employment, a great home and a church that aligns theologically with how we view/understand/love God. But we just left a season of shock with the miscarriage of our baby last September that made us remember how sincerely we used to cling to Him when things were continually rocky. Life's messiness always shakes me into root myself and simplify all the busyness down to the essentials.

I don't know the desperation of my friend, or what would make them feel trapped inside this lifetime enough to beg for an absolute end. But I know that I have felt those things. I also know that life gets messy. Hurried. Muddled. Darkness overshadows the Light and makes it impossible to see Truth, or Love. Life's messiness demands clarity: the shroud of Darkness makes it difficult for us to look to the One who is Light: "in whom there is no darkness at all."

I used to sit in that dark room, for unending cloudy days, listening to the rain, relishing the moodiness, enjoying the sulk, appreciating my lonliness and praying for an end. End did come with summer, and its bright sun and its beckoning to warmth brought me out of my major depression disorder and into a new season. The light dispelled the darkness and through counseling mediation and sharing my depression with my family and their overwhelming love to help me heal, I eventually came to be without MDD. It's been a long journey since then, but I remember the clouds.

Dear friend: "Life won't always be this way."

Joy

Today was a dreary, cloudy, drippy, forget-the-groundhog, winter-isn't-ending day.

But my heart was filled with so much joy. And promise. And unspeakable gratitude.

Today I saw a sparkle. A jewel of black and white. A little routine ultrasound static to the tired technician, but to me, it shone like the sun. It was the sweet spot in the middle of the target and my eyes could see nothing else: My sweet unborn child has a heartbeat. Barely one week of beating, it beats strong and constant and in the rhythms of its own. My 6 week old fetus, barely the size of a lentil has a fully functioning healthy organ to produce life-sustaining blood through the course of her infinitesimal see-through veins.

I've never seen such a tiny form before.

I was mandated by law to have an ultrasound when I was entering into my 43 week of gestation with my firstborn daughter. That 4D ultrasound showed a larger than life child with moving lungs and ribs, a four-chambered heart, sucking thumb and ten tiny toenails curled under her fleshy rump of her 10 pound self. It was unreal how clear we could see every wrinkle in her skin and the curls in her eyelashes. [Turned out, my due date was the following day. She was born 8 days after that: 41w1d.]

This was remarkably different.

 I've sat on that chair before. I've looked at that screen before. I've been this far along before. But there wasn't a sparkle in his soul that brought him to life. I looked at a screen 5 months ago (to the day) that was a tangled web of tissue without form and without promise of breath.

Today, I saw my child welcoming life. I saw promise. I saw a marvelous creation fashioned by God's own hands, living proof of his remarkable design.

Dear ultrasound tech, sorry to have sobbed. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable.

a day late

Yesterday I was preparing my thoughts on the last four months of growth since losing my unborn daughter. I was writing down the differences between immediately after, a month after and four months later.

Yesterday I would have honestly admitted that I can now feel true joy for friends who are pregnant, I can feel completely content about not being pregnant, I can look through my Ravelry patterns for baby blankets and not feel pangs of sadness, but instead feel truly eager to start making something homemade and lovely for upcoming baby showers.

Yesterday, I would have told you that I really do not want to be pregnant this year. I need a break from change. I need to aid my children back on track to stability and growth. I need to invest deeply into myself and my marriage. I need to remember the basics before I start adding in another player to my game of Double Dutch.

Yesterday, I finished my day with a glass of Chardonnay and yummy buttered popcorn and stayed up late watching White Collar.

Today, I was late. Late in writing those feelings, penning those thoughts, and in getting up.

Today, I took a pregnancy test, because my cycle also was late.

Today, I discovered there is life in my womb.

Today, I remembered all the things I love about being pregnant. I started scribbling down lists of to-dos and "don't forgets" and long lists of how this pregnancy, this baby, this delivery would be different from the others. And, in light of my new resolution, how I was going to keep up caring for myself this year. How I was going to take time away, refresh my soul, encourage my spirit, care for my body and love myself through through the growth of another child inside me.

Today my mind was spinning. I caught myself in doubt and moments of disapointment in myself for what I left undone or how my body still healing hadn't completed the tasks I had laid out for her before giving her the challenging task of bearing another young. But I silenced my hate. I spoke to my young and I told her she was welcome. I whispered a thank you to the Being who placed her inside of me and realized this beautiful opportunity for my family to grow. I let my husband sing the song he played the day we were married and I took my children out for ice cream with sprinkles.

Tonight, I drink chamomile tea, a tall quart of Berkey water and a handful of raw almonds, I'm going to read in bed and go to bed early. And I'm going to dream of a tiny little babe with curly red hair and teeny little fingers and toes and unblinking eyes that look into my heart and remind me to trust and love myself.

CLTD

a new year's apology

I want to begin with an apology. And an open letter.

To Whom This Letter Applies,

I want my new year to be filled with love, and to you, I know I have shown little.

I want to tell you that I am deeply sorry for mistreating you. For years of hurt, anger and unkindness shown to you.

I'm sorry for not listening to your mind. I'm sorry not letting you finish your thoughts, or finding value in your opinion. I'm sorry for not trusting that your contribution was worthy of adding something remarkable, worthwhile or memorable to the clatter. (I was willing to let others show themselves fools over allowing you to reveal yourself wise.) And in such way, I'm sorry for publicly dishonoring you. For speaking often of your weaknesses and failing to present your strengths, and for constantly second-guessing your voice.

I'm sorry for demanding so much of you: more than anyone can handle. I'm sorry for continually giving you the blame and for failing to relieve you of the burden of responsibility. I placed expectations unending on you. For no gain at all. I'm sorry for pushing you beyond your limits. For consistently downgrading your accomplishments and requiring always more (and thus making it impossible to finish).

I'm sorry for always comparing you. Against my peers, my peer-models and my own perspective of perfection. My criticism toward you reached new levels daily and I was continually finding fault, guilt, and blame. I am sorry for this. The shame I pour over you does not motivate you, inspire you or give you an ability to flourish. I see the way it cripples you and yet I do not relent.

I'm sorry for not acknowledging your needs. For failing to give you your own space. For reprieve. For an ability to be recharged and rejuvenated and given the opportunity to succeed. I've failed to understand what boundaries need to be observed and how best to let you live.

But perhaps what reached my deepest level of sorrow was last year with the loss of your baby. I empathized with you, but secretly I blamed you. Yet again, without concern for your voice, your heart, your value... I gave you the burden of responsibility and in anger and unkindness, I did not realize how broken and in need you were. I blamed you. Your heart was crushed but I made lists of mistakes, of shortcomings or failures. I lined you against my friends and failed to see their miscarriages, but yours I saw plainly. It was your fault. And you were without forgiveness.

Dear sweet Self. I apologize. My hatred against Self gains me nothing. Muting your voice, comparing you, ushering shame into your tender heart, and finding continual fault and responsibility is wrong. You cannot always be to blame. Theo Roosevelt said that "Comparison is the thief of joy." -- He was right.

To you, my tender Self, I commit to love this year. I want to learn about what makes you come alive, what makes you dance, what makes you feel inspired and motivated. I want to see you flourish and find life enchanting and intoxicating. I want to see your body and spirit healthy and thriving. I adore you, Self. You are the one thing my life has always had in constant and for the remarkable twists and turns in life, I want to rest assured that you know I am always on your side. Your efforts, your voice, your ability... they are worthy.

Self, find this year new. Find me in unity with you, no longer writhing in self-hatred and loathing your company. You are beautiful and brilliant. You are creative and inspiring. I love you.

Go, my sweet Self: Love life.

CLTD