Our Christmas Miracle

In the fall of 1992, I was a freshman at Maryville College and on work-study in the library. My friend Akiko was standing just on the other side of the circulation desk, talking with me, when a security guard approached and said I needed to call home. I hurried with dread to the payphone in the lobby, Akiko on my heels, and learned that my (paternal) grandma had died. I've never forgotten the comfort of my friend: how she walked with me to my dorm room, stayed with me as I packed. I've always believed that God sent her to the library to be with me.

I remembered this at the restaurant, last night, when I was hurrying to leave work and looked up to see Andrea and Vanderhoop just inside the front door. Am I dying? I thought, then: Whatever is happening, God has sent them. I've been here before.

My sister-cousin Andrea is a nurse. When I told her I was leaving work and why (more bleeding than after childbirth or miscarriage), she insisted not only that I go to the ER but also that I allow her to drive me. Jim and the four children had been at the zoo for the live nativity and headed toward the hospital. "Go ahead and check in," he said. "I'll bring the insurance card."

As I left with a nurse for triage, Andrea asked: "How do you want this to go?"

"I want you to take the children home," I told her. "I want Jim to stay with me."

And even as the words left my mouth, I realized: I already have my Christmas miracle.

I've been praying for a different one; Jim had a fourth interview, last week, and whatever the company decided, they decided, yesterday. They told him they would turn yesterday's decision over to HR and contact the candidate of choice early next week. I can't tell you how many times I've thought: Wouldn't it be nice if they called, this week, to say he has the job? 

I've been longing for my parents and brother's family in East Tennessee; I haven't been home for an entire year, and I guess I've never been apart from my mom at Christmastime. I haven't been able to bring myself to ship her a package. She hasn't been able to bring herself to put up a tree. Wouldn't it be nice, I've thought, to know Jim has that job...to just pack up and go home?

Our situation has not yet been resolved; yet, already I can say:

I would not go back.

I would not go back to where we were before Jim lost his job. We were with our third marriage counselor, and while he is incredible!, progress was painfully slow. Jim was so frustrated that he walked out of our last session. He lost his job right after; then, we didn't have the option to return to our (slow) miracle worker. We didn't have the $300/month to spare.

Trust me when I say: after Jim lost his job, things got much worse before they got better. But this situation has been like a jump-start, or defibrillation, to our marriage. I believe we will make it, now. I believe we will be okay. And I'm going to be okay: I was discharged from the hospital with a doctor's note for work and strict instructions to visit my OB/GYN, today. My body is changing. (There's a pill for me.)

My heart is changing, too, and Jim's. We are changing. God is at work, here. There has already been a Christmas miracle.

On Drowning

Like Charlie Brown, I'm in love with a little redheaded girl. Her name is Charleigh (pronounced Charlie), and she's my third of four children, second daughter, presenting middle child.

She's been hauled in distress from the lake the past three summers in a row, and I told her daddy I couldn't enter another summer without Charleigh's knowing how to swim, float, something. We signed both girls up for swim lessons at Aqua-Tots: Level 3, Fast Track. Six-year-old Clementine loved every minute of it.

Charleigh, though, struggled. She's strong and solid in the way my people mean when they say built like a brick shithouse, so there was never a question of physical capability. Problem is that she's strong-willed in the way my people mean when they say raised in the canebrake by an ol' mama lion. And Charleigh wasn't happy over the swim-lesson situation; in fact, she was periodically awash in terror.

The first week, I bit my nails watching Charleigh through the glass. Instructor Alex pulled her into the water and made her complete the drills even when she roared with her head tipped back or pleaded with her pale hands clasped together. Sometimes he worked with Charleigh's classmates while she dangled off his back like a baby monkey. Once, Charleigh broke free and ran, and the master instructor on duty had to abandon his class in the pool to return Charleigh to hers.

She did her fair share of yelling at me before and after class; one afternoon, I pulled the minivan off the side of the road and refused to drive until she quieted. I assured her over and over that Alex was not going to let her drown for fear of losing his job. (Ha!) But on the fifth morning, Charleigh melted down completely. Complete and utter hysteria.

"If you're not a big enough girl for swim lessons," I suggested, "maybe you're not big enough for Vacation Bible School."

"Or King's Dominion. Or a week at Nana's," Jim said.

"Or your birthday at Jellystone," I added.

Charleigh, sobbing, said: "Maybe we can just celebrate my birthday, next year." My eyes met Jim's. (His were wet.) He shrugged. For a moment, we were completely at a loss. Then I thought: this child has almost drowned three summers in a row; of course she's afraid. Of course the fast track's hard on her. But we've already paid (an arm and a leg); I'm watching her through the glass; her instructor is so kind, so patient; and ultimately, I'm just trying to keep her alive. She's going to have to be pushed through her fear. She needs to know how to swim. She's going to do this. Period.

It was the right decision. Somewhere in the middle of her fifth class and just like that, Charleigh stopped being afraid.

***

And here comes the Lord. Later, when it's quiet. You see it now; don't you? He asks. I immediately go twitchy and try to chalk His voice up to magical thinking. A facet of mental illness, I think. That's all. But we've been in many of these uncomfortable places in my lifetime, and we both know what this is, so He laughs and cracks my world open just a little more.

I see Charleigh's hysteria and hear my assurances that Alex will not let her drown. Then I see myself in a state of emotional disregulation. I've just come to understand the term for this form of it: panic. Like Charleigh's fear, it has been hard-earned. Our counselor has explained it to Jim in terms of drowning. ("She's going to come up clawing and scratching," he said, "or whatever she thinks she needs to do to survive.") I realize with a start that Jim isn't going to let me drown any more than Alex was going to let Charleigh drown, also that Father God (on the other side of the glass through which I see Him darkly) isn't going to let Jim let me drown any more than I was going to let Alex let Charleigh drown.

I see that, like Charleigh, I have to push or be pushed through my fear. Life with fear in one's heart isn't kind. It isn't God's best for any of us.

Parenting. Jesus promised: whatever we do for others (especially the least of them), we do for Him. But in my lifetime I have found that, often, whatever I do for others and from a perfect place in my heart, I do for myself. The Lord in His great mercy works it out that way.

'Tis So Sweet

I haven't known what to share for what feels like forever. When I write that, I mean it: I haven't known. I puzzled over it for awhile; I couldn't figure out why, having written through so much for so long, I was suddenly at such a loss.

But I know, now: I haven't trusted my feelings, lately. I seem able to write any feelings I have as long as I trust them, but I don't always, anymore. It's related to counseling, and I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing; in fact, I think it's a good thing to step back and say: yes, I feel this way, but should I? Is my perspective fair? Am I seeing this situation from all sides and for what it really is, or am I seeing it only through a flawed lens?

And I don't think I'm being unfair to myself, because I don't trust Jim's feelings (or anyone else's) any more than I trust my own. I think the truth transcends feelings. I suspect that, most of the time, the truth sprouts in middle ground...or maybe on some distant plain no one can see in his or her shortsightedness.

I may not trust my feelings, right now, but I think it's important that I write: I trust Jesus; I do. I think He does good work in me when I'm in a state of discomfiture. I know He hears me. I know He sees straight through to the heart of me. And just like the old hymn says: I've proved Him over and over.

Things are not always well between Jim and me, but I believe they will be because we want them to be, because we're working on it. I would say that, otherwise, things are very well. I'm deeply encouraged in our homeschooling journey with the little kids. Maybe I'll write more about that, soon. I want to write, too, about our little dog and how I know she's meant to heal just one more broken place in my heart.

Oh, for grace to trust Him more!

Marionette

My one word for 2014 was "ignore." I remember well writing this. I remember the frustration I felt regarding facebook, especially. Many posts in my newsfeed had gotten under my skin: political, religious, and especially those I'd thought judgmental. I'd felt the need, often, to comment—to express my “righteous indignation”—but even when I'd managed to refrain from commenting, I'd found myself arguing in my head with the person whose words had offended me.

Sometimes, after crafting an argument in my head for days, I'd blogged it out. Those argumentative posts, while popular, hadn’t fulfilled my purpose in blogging: to capture my family and myself in words. I hadn’t been writing for my children but, instead, to those with whom I'd disagreed most vehemently.

Over time, I'd damaged relationships—including some that I hold most dearly—with anger, distraction, or both.

I started unfriending and unfollowing people whose words offended me but realized pretty quickly: I wasn't any less angry or angry less often. Facebook felt like a bottomless barrel of offense, and the facebook friends whose words offended me had, in most cases, nothing in common but me. I was the common denominator. I knew my anger was my problem, but I didn't know how to fix my problem! Finally, I deactivated my account.

I was facebook free for four months, and it was a good four months. It was quieter in my head. I thought and wrote happier thoughts, and God seemed nearer. I seemed nearer to myself.

Ultimately, though, I missed my friends...some with whom I retain contact only through facebook. I missed the ease with which I could get in touch with them, ask them questions, and keep up with not only their lives but also local events and opportunities. Facebook is an incredible source of information!

Since reactivating my account, I've handled facebook a bit better. I avoid it when my feed blows up over a particularly divisive issue. In most cases, when someone's words offend me, I choose not to comment, and inasmuch as possible, I choose to think about something else. I still unfriend and unfollow on occasion.

But what I really want to share with you is this: my counselor, in talking with me about my reactionary tendencies, suggested gently that I'm giving most anyone the power to trigger my anger at any moment. I'm like a marionette dangling from thousands of strings. The great irony in this is that--often, when I respond with anger--it's because I feel like someone is attempting to control me: trying to tell me what to think or do, judging me, patronizing me. But only in getting worked up (over what I perceive as someone's attempt to control me) do I lose control...do I, effectively, hand over control.

I shared some of my struggles, recently, with a pastor friend. (I would be remiss if I failed to say: it was incredibly providential that we even had the time and space for the conversation; we were supposed to be meeting with others who were--through no fault of their own--running late.) My friend is a student of Bowen Family Systems Theory, and he offered me a new word: differentiation, which relates to one's ability to separate his or her emotions and thinking from that of others. A person with a high level of differentiation, according to Bowen, will find himself or herself capable of connection (relationships) with others, in general, but disconnection from others' emotions and thinking. 

I realized: I don't want to ignore others. I want to differentiate from others. I want to grow in terms of emotional maturity. I want, in short, to be able to think and convey with calmness and dignity: inasmuch as you are you, I am me, and I will choose how I behave and think. 

So my word for 2015, and the remainder of 2014, is differentiate. I'm tired of being a marionette! And isn't God good for helping us, oftentimes through other people? I'm so thankful.

Pain, Rage, and Thoughts on Advent

If you were my therapist--asking what I'm thinking or learning, or how I'm being led--I would tell you I'm thinking about pain and rage. I'm thinking about everyone's pain and rage, but it's easiest (safest) to write about my own, knowing I am--to a certain extent--everyone. I am him, and her, and you.

I'm just figuring out: I know very little about managing my pain. I'm talking about inner, not physical, pain. My parents didn't offer much help in this regard. I know they did the very best they could with what they had. Also, in all fairness, no one else has offered much help, either.

I'm forty years old. I know I'm responsible for my own behavior, that I have choices regarding all of my behavior. I know I'm lacking some tools in my toolbox but that they can be acquired. I didn't know these things for the longest time.

A friend said to me: "You're more than your emotions, you know." His words penetrated my consciousness like an arrow shot out of the dark. I received them immediately and as truth, but with surprise. That was a year ago, maybe: an important moment in this leg of my journey.

I'm more than my emotions. In times of conflict, I don't have to fight. I don't have to flee. I don't have to be anyone's doormat, ever. (I've never chosen that last scenario, anyway, but know how it works.) I have the option to say: "I'm going to take a break from this and come back to it when we're able to have a civilized conversation." As I've written before, that option feels unnatural, even painful, to me. But I'll choose it over and over until I've learned it...because I don't want any of my children, at forty, to have to pay someone to learn something (s)he should be learning from me.

And, now. Advent.

My friend Sharon asked me to go with her to a Blue Christmas service held on the first night of Advent. I took Clementine, my five-year-old daughter, with me. I took her mostly because she had dance class until shortly before the service, but given that her mamaw had flown to heaven at the end of May, I wondered if there would be takeaways for her.

A Blue Christmas service makes space for sadness at Christmastime. It acknowledges that grief is part of the human experience and that Jesus, having suffered Himself, understands. I watched my little daughter write: "I miss Mamaw," on a piece of paper; cry real tears; light one candle; and carry another candle from darkness into light. I hadn't imagined that the service would hold so much meaning for her.

I could use more of this, I thought, in my life. If I have to wait--if I have to, for example, take a step back from conflict--I would prefer to do so in an atmosphere like this. I would like for someone to stand beside me, wordless, in my darkness. I would like for someone to pass me a candle...or the peace. I would like for someone to acknowledge my pain. These things would go a long way, I think, toward diffusing my rage.

Fight or Flight

I liked our new marriage counselor immediately. She's deadpan, and I don't tend to run the roads with suchlike, but Lord help: when sparks are flying between him and me--or me and me, for that matter--the counselor's impassivity is such a gift. Also, she has the kindest eyes I've ever seen.

She's seeing us separately, for now. When she asked, last session, what I was learning or thinking, or how the Lord was leading, I told her a little about a class I'm taking through Canvas Network on behavior management. It emphasizes making small shifts in one's own behavior, as teacher, in order to impact the behavior of one's students. I signed up for the class because I'd never studied behavior management and had recognized a deficiency when teaching sixth-grade English, also because I find myself flailing in this area, even now, while home educating Jim's and my four- and five-year-old daughters.

Online instructor Paul Dix explains: humans have both an emotional mind (the limbic brain) and a rational mind (the prefrontal cortex). The emotional mind is dominant and has--smack-dab in the middle of it--a nut-shaped object called the Amygdala. The Amygdala's job is to respond to threat signals (Danger!) by releasing small bursts of hormones into the rational brain. Once the Amygdala has triggered, rational thinking stops, and a body prepares for fight or flight.

My emotional mind, I told the marriage counselor, controls me too often. I'm pretty much always ready for fight or flight, and while I'd thought I'd like to be a person who yells a little less, especially at the kids, I hadn't realized the serious ramifications of such behavior. If any of us is "on eggshells," so to speak, (s)he isn't learning the way she should...which may well provide the single best explanation for why I'm not a genius by now.

At this point, the counselor whipped out a couple of huge, matching volumes, and we took turns reading aloud through a section on being reactionary. "Well, what do you think?" she asked when we finished. "Can you relate to any of that?"

"I can relate to all of it," I said, then: "I had no idea I was so broken."

"We're all broken," she said, "and the point isn't to beat yourself up. This is learned behavior, and it's difficult to overcome. But you're worth it; do you hear me? You're worth it. And so are those you love."

I'd tell you I haven't written much, lately, because I've been busy, but truth is: I've been busy for far longer than the four years I've been blogging. It's closer to the truth to say I've been learning and processing so much that I haven't been able figure out how or where to start sharing.

Jim's and my marriage isn't any happier than any other romantic relationship I've ever had, which is to say: it isn't very happy at all. Jim's and my marriage is holy, however. The way we deal with one another isn't holy, always (or even most of the time), but if nothing else, our marriage has an "iron sharpening iron" quality to it.

This man will not leave me alone. He will not let me be who I am. It's exhausting. I feel picked at, nitpicked, roosterpecked.

But.

I have to ask myself: have I become, over the course of this relationship, closer to who God would have me be? And yes. Unequivocally. God doesn't leave us alone, either; does He?

Thoughts on Feminism

Oh, the ongoing uproar on the subject of feminism.

First, my story: I was raised in a household in which my dad functioned as head. I followed his rules for the most part, and I was motivated to do so because I loved and respected him and didn't want to disappoint him, but also because I didn't want to suffer the consequences of disobeying or embarrassing him: i.e., he had a long, black belt. All of the above is true for the years we were and the years we were not a church-going family.

I've always found myself attracted to men like my dad: broad-shouldered with a commanding presence. My ex-husband doesn't fall into that category at all, and I'd tell you I don't know how I ended up with him, but that would be a lie because, in fact, I do and just don't want to get into it right now. 

At any rate, my ex-husband had been raised primarily by his divorced mother, who was and is a strong and God-fearing woman, and my ex-husband seemed perfectly comfortable and content with the idea of a true and equal partnership between us. 

Problem was, I didn't know how to function within that sort of construct. I couldn't be trusted. I ran amok. He wasn't a saint, either, and our marriage fell apart.

So, now: Jim. Jim is much more like dear old Dad than my ex-husband. I consider him the head of the household, and under his leadership, I walk much more closely with the Lord than ever before. I feel fairly comfortable with the way our marriage works, although we've had to hash a lot of it out, and some of it with a professional. 

Jim holds the purse strings for real and will absolutely put his foot down in other areas, as well, but I can honestly say: I've never come to Jim regarding a Jesus calling that he hasn't backed me 100%. (I take that back: he's still not on board with the idea of our adopting a baby girl from China, but I trust that--if it's a true calling--he'll get there.) One of my favorite things about Jim is his desire to delight me. He reads and supports my writing; he surprised me with my camera and supports all my dabbling in the realm of photography; he supported me through my season of excessive cookie baking; and probably most importantly, he supports my every effort to do God's work.

Now, who's to say how screwed up I am or my marriage is, and why should anyone care, really, so long as I love the Lord and do His work...so long as I love and please the husband God's given me...so long as we're happy together (or working on it)?

And when the rubber meets the road, the feminists and non-feminists alike pluck my nerves because everyone's trying to convince everyone else of something, and I don't give much of a big, fat hairy crap about any of it.

Who am I to say whether or not some chick's been called to preach? I grew up in an Independent Fundamental Missionary Baptist church, and a female preacher works for me to about the same extent as a female gynecologist, which is to say, hello, not at all, but I'll readily admit: 1) I'm probably totally screwed up; 2) I have zero interest in messing with God's anointed; 3) a female preacher may well work beautifully for someone else; and 4) I don't know how to get around Galations 3:28. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus. Amen.

Please, Lord, don't ever call me to preach because my sad, little zit of a brain would just pop.

In terms of our marriages, though, Lord have mercy! Why must we feel the need to tell one another how to be married? I say: Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths (Proverbs 3:5-6, KJV, again: I told you: Independent Fundamental Missionary Baptist upbringing).

If anyone cares...if anyone's listening...my best advice for your marriage is simply this: make it your God-centered marriage. Get down on your hands and knees. Get up in the Word. Pray. Pray with your spouse! If the Lord's truly calling you to speak into other people's marriages, that's one thing, but be sure. Be careful! I suspect that most of you would do well to concentrate on your own person and your own marriage because...well, because...you're nothing but a hot mess like the rest of us, and you're not changing anyone's mind about anything, anyway.

What God Hath Joined

I think we've known since the moment we were pronounced: no going back. What [...] God hath joined together, let not [wo]man put asunder, and we know He joined. We can never doubt His joining; we prayed for God's blessing and watched His swinging wide the doors to our union. 

God went to a good bit of trouble just to get Jim and I in the same state. Even in the hardest, most challenging times, we haven't been able to forget the miracle of it: how--in no time flat--God made possible the nearly impossible. At points it would've been easier to doubt, but we've never been able to doubt: God joined.

As people who love God, then, and cannot doubt His joining; as people who love one another; as people who love our children...quitting has never been an option. The only option has been to live (ever after) happily, unhappily, or somewhere between.

One would expect love to make happiness easy to come by; it doesn't, necessarily. One would expect persistent unhappiness to be born of some huge infraction (addiction, adultery); it isn't, necessarily. So many ways to sin against one another, and "little sins" can accumulate and become fertile ground for resentment: a sin that leads to even more sin. Nothing snow balls like sin. I'm not telling you anything you don't know.

Jim and I spent six sessions with a counselor, but (long story short) our insurance company paid for the second half of the sessions only upon our appeal. We haven't yet found the will to switch to a counselor approved by our insurance company.

In the meantime, we've made halfhearted attempts to follow the reflective-listening process our counselor taught us, and interestingly, we've experienced a bit of a breakthrough. (Pity it took so long; I blame our lackadaisy.) It happened because Jim said: "Your hurt doesn't come across as hurt. It comes across as anger, and I go immediately on the defensive." It happened, too, because I was in the right spirit to receive those words. (I give the Lord credit for all of it.)

As I considered Jim's words, I knew he was right. Not only does my hurt come across as anger, but many of my negative feelings (disappointment, fear, frustration, etc.) come across as anger. The anger is real enough; I become angry that I'm hurt, disappointed, fearful, frustrated, etc. But all Jim can perceive is anger, and--because he doesn't think anger is warranted, and/or because he's unwilling to help me with a problem when I'm angry--the problems persist or even grow.

I've been shooting myself in the foot for so long.

In case you're wondering why in the world I'm writing/posting this, I mean only to encourage. I'm not trying to make my story yours. (Only you know where you are, and why, and how God is leading you.) I'm just sharing: inside of my own marriage, love hasn't made happiness easy to come by; yet, I don't think hard always means wrong or not worth saving. Also, even recently, I've thought: we will never get past ___. But then (like that old cliche about its being darkest right before dawn) we've gotten past, like, four ___s, and all at once.

I love him. For the first time, I'm taking seriously the spirit with which I approach him. It's helping.

Photo by Heather Causey

Listening to Silence

When our marriage counselor Adam recommended a process of communication called reflective listening, I was raring to go. Confident, too, because--if I had a Native American name--it would be The Communicator. I know how to listen to other people: sure nuff do. No problem.

I didn't realize I'd need to listen to silence. Nor did I realize: I don't know how to listen to silence, and doing it hurts me. Just being asked to do it hurts me.

The first time my husband Jim called a time-out, I disregarded it. He hadn't followed the reflective-listening process up to that point, after all, and didn't seem particularly inclined to follow it after. So...what? He thought he could just call a random time-out? I felt sure Adam would back me up.

But Adam didn't. "You need to respect the time-out," he told me, "even if Jim doesn't follow the rest of the process. By the way," Adam asked, "when have you called a time-out?"

"I've never called a time-out," I offered smugly.

"That's a problem," he said.

The second time Jim called a time-out, I stopped talking but cried hot, quiet tears. The third time, I protested: "But I don't want to take a time-out! Why are you time-outing me? I'm completely calm!" But Jim was upset. My disregard did nothing to help.

"It hurts when he calls a time-out," I complained to Adam, later. "I feel silenced and just so angry about it."

"Push past the hurt and anger," Adam said, "and try to figure out what scares you about time-out. Then you'll be getting somewhere."

A thousand light bulbs went off in my head as I considered:

• I fear the issue will go unresolved.
• I fear my perspective will go unheard.
• I fear my feelings will go unacknowledged.
• I fear the relationship will be permanently damaged.
• I fear, ultimately, that I will have to "get over it" by myself.

And, in all fairness (or unfairness, depending upon how you look at it), life has taught me: these are legitimate concerns. Now that I've named them, I need to learn to trust my husband with them. I need to give him the opportunity (also the space and time he needs) to prove my concerns unnecessary.

So this is my word to my own, beloved man: I aim to do it, to trust you. I choose, right this very minute, to see the cup of our marriage as half full, and I plan to watch it run over, in good time. I intend to watch sparks fly out the top of that cup, My Darling, and light you up. You're my person. All the magic has always been--and will always be--right where you are.

**My sincere thanks to my friend Connie Kottmann, who provided the artwork that inspired this post.

The Mystery

"I used to be a member of a church, too," she said, "and I never could quite understand about the Trinity. I accepted it as a mystery, but it didn't make sense to me." She seemed relieved that--while she still very much believes in Jesus and the Holy Spirit--no one asks her, now, to consider them equal to God the Father.

She's traded in one mystery for another; now, she doesn't know where she'll spend eternity. Her friend explained: they don't believe the decision's been made, yet. "But what if you die, today?" I asked.

"I like to think I'm in Jehovah's favor, today," the friend answered.

And I won't speculate about whom has or hasn't found the truth. I admire the confidence, persistence, and scholarship of my friends. They have more answers than I. Just: I won't trade my sense of security in Christ for all the answers in the world.

Because, in the end, what matters more than: "Even though you're imperfect, I love you beyond condition?"

I'm learning to live with lesser mysteries, to--as Rainer Marie Rilke suggests--"love the questions." I'm prepared to explain my sense of hope (I Peter 3:15) but realize, at the same time: I'm seeing through a glass, darkly (I Corinthians 13:12). I know that I know nothing (including whether or not Socrates actually said the same), or at least that I know far, far less than what I don't.

Any hope I have, any peace, any anything: it stems from and rests in Christ Jesus. I'm trusting God to reveal His truths to me as I'm prepared to handle them (i.e., I'm trusting Him to inform me a little at a time so my head won't pop clean off).

And, you know, thanks to marriage counseling, I've remembered: mystery can be a beautiful thing. As a very young woman, I thought loving someone meant sharing everything; now I know: if a person expects to keep a relationship (s)he best learn to hold that tongue, pick battles carefully, and work through as much as possible in his or her own head and heart.

Because, in the end, what matters more than: "Even though you're imperfect, I love you beyond condition?"

Highlights. Lowlights.

I understand, suddenly, why bloggers throw up their hands, overwhelmed by the prospect of writing their lives. I've been on the road again like Willie since the weather's warmed, and I've found it hilly as the one what leads to Hollowell Brethren. Which is to say: at least hilly enough for the flight of a Volkswagen Beetle. At least.

Lowlight: for those of you who've been reading my adventures in marriage counseling, I had another reflective-listening fail a week ago Sunday. This carried over into the first part of last week. Yuck.

Highlight: celebrating Becky's 40th birthday a week ago Monday evening.

Highlight: the little kids and I met my blogger friend Jamie and her kiddos at the zoo last Tuesday. As with other blogger friends I've been blessed to meet face-to-face (including Becky), I found Jamie to be in person who she is in words. I love that. I love her.

Highlight: visit from from my cousin-sister Andrea Tuesday afternoon/evening. We never know exactly when Andrea might appear, but when she does, she shines and shines on us.

Lowlight: marriage counseling on Wednesday. Oh, my word. I was a sobbing wreck, leaving. "Why does it seem like I'm the only one suffering?" I asked Jim.

"Because, Honey," he offered kindly, "we haven't even gotten to our issues, yet. We're working on process, and I'm a process man. Hurry up and master the process so I can suffer over my issues."

Lowlight: dance photos, Wednesday evening. Thank you, Lord, that I had Cade to help with Baby Chip, who chose that very moment (uncharacteristically, I might add) to whine like a dentist's drill. Two girls, four costumes, eight shoes, individual ballet, sister ballet, class ballet, individual tap, sister tap, class tap. High stress.

Highlight: Green Valley Book Fair, Thursday, with my girl Christy and Baby Chip. Why, yes, I did leave my daughters with Miss Sarah Beagle (of St. Baldrick's fame) for six blissful hours. I've never shopped so well at the Green Valley Book Fair. No one grabbed books off the shelves at all. It was amazing!

Highlight: Epic at the Goochland Drive-In with the fam**, Rachel, and Zach on Friday night.

 

 

 

Highlight: helping my friend Anjie photograph a wedding on Saturday. It was my first time being away from Baby Chip for more than thirty minutes or so. Yes, that's crazy town considering he's almost seven months old. I pumped my first bottle in the approximately twelve years since Cade was a breastfeeding baby. Yes, that's crazy town considering: between then and now, I nursed the boys' sisters for fourteen and fifteen months, respectively.

I learned so much about what I didn't know, taking photos at the wedding, like: don't wear ill-fitting underbritches as a photographer, and always carry Tylenol. (It got me, early on, in the back.) Always photograph backdrops in case you need them later, in editing. Learn (really learn!) how to use your camera at night. And I have many more thoughts to share, later, but bottom line: awesome experience. Thankful for the opportunity. Thankful for Anjie, in general.

Highlight: church on Sunday.

Highlight: meeting with a pastor friend, Sunday afternoon, and asking him to put me to work. Being well-received, encouraged on several fronts.

Highlight: I have to brag on my husband; he saved $200, Sunday evening, performing a couple repairs on my van by himself.

Highlight: Memorial Day at the zoo with the fam.

 

Kiss from Farley. She lured him to the glass by showing him her belly button; it's his thing.

This isn't the greatest photo, but it was a big moment for Charleigh. I think it was her first time feeding an animal at the zoo.

And maybe I'm forgetting things. (If so, you see why: busy, busy!) Love y'uns.

**Kind of fun to look at our drive-in photos from July of last year to see how much the kids have grown and Jim has shrunk.

Reflections on Marriage Counseling

As I shared a few weeks back, Jim and I--in an attempt to make our "ever after" go as happily as possible--have been working with a counselor. Considering we haven't yet addressed the first issue*, I'm amazed by how much the counseling has helped, already. I wish we'd gone years ago.

You may be wondering why I'm blogging about this, and truth is: I don't really know. I do believe with all my heart that, as believers, we do ourselves and others a disservice when we pretend we're perfect. I don't want my hurts wasted and like to think that--by laying them out like this--I make it easier for God to use them. I seek accountability. I desire prayer.

Anyway, our first session was all about the three of us getting to know one another and deciding to work together. The counselor offered no advice or suggestions beyond encouraging our being nice to one another until the next session. We'd made the first step, he said, and we needed to rest in the knowledge that we were on the right road, that things were going to get better.

Those simple words really helped me, and Jim and I didn't have the first argument before our second session. It felt like some of the pressure had been relieved. We were hopeful and especially attentive and kind toward one another.

During our second session, Jim and I took a lot of notes regarding a specific process of communication called reflective listening. We'd been collecting hurts and resentments for a long time, our counselor said; our first goal should be to stop accumulating them. He gave us some homework and sent us home to complete it. We had another excellent weekend, but a few days before our third session, we tried to discuss an event of the day and had a communication fail.

When our conversation started to get heated, Jim called a time-out, which is part of the reflective-listening process. I was perturbed: we hadn't followed the process up to that point, and Jim wasn't particularly inclined to follow it after. I pretty much refused to accept the time-out until Jim followed the rest of the process correctly.

Our third session with the counselor was painful for me because the counselor disapproved of my refusing to accept the time-out. Einstein defined insanity, the counselor said, as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, and fact is: I've always refused to let things drop for any reason or length of time. I pretty much demand to be heard, understood, appeased, etc....not that it's worked out for me.

The counselor reminded me: if I have a problem, it's my problem. I need to ask the other person to help me with it and respect his or her need for the time and/or space to do so. He said: any answer or response I get from demanding is unlikely to be the one I want. Finally, he encouraged me to trust him, Jim, and the process itself. We won't leave things unresolved from here on out, the counselor promised, regardless of how many times that's happened in my past.

All in all, his words forced me to take a hard look at myself, my past, and the unhealthy patterns I've learned and lived. I cried and cried, and--at the end of the session--I really just wanted to go to bed. But I reckon they call them growing pains for a reason.

One more note: the time-out part of the reflective-listening process, when carried out properly, should make it possible to 1) talk about the troublesome issue at a later time, and 2) talk easily about other things, in the interim. I love those concepts.

*No worries: I don't intend to write out our issues at any point, just share some of what I'm learning.

One Foot in Front of the Other

From the situations in Boston and Texas to the Gosnell trial, I haven't much known what to say, this week, and I've pretty much decided that's ok, because so many others are talking. I've avoided their words, for the most part, and just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

I'm learning: I don't handle hot topics well, especially when they're at their hottest. I wish I did, in a way, because I think people long for someone to make sense of what causes them pain. In the past, I've allowed others to speak into my disappointment and hurt over the hot topics and walked away feeling even heavier. I've engaged in too many arguments with them, even just within the confines of my own head.

I'm learning, too: it's ok not to have answers. It's ok not to engage. It's ok not to pursue anything but a healthy something that makes me feel better. For all these reasons, I can't recommend any more highly this post from JoAnn Hallum. I had the sense, while I was reading, that she was rubbing my shoulder. Maybe even my tender, banged-up and bruised heart. I love her so.

You know, I look back over my week, and I experienced real beauty. God answered some of my prayers; my loved ones helped celebrate my birthday. But I've had easier weeks, lighter weeks.

Charleigh and I have been going at it head-to-head, and if I'm honest, she's often getting the better of me. Also, Jim and I have found ourselves at an impasse on a few issues and are working with a counselor: mostly because we're absolutely crazy about each other and want our "ever after" to go as happily as possible. But still.

My ex-husband called awhile ago to tell me his wife's back in the hospital and ask me to pick up Cade. We talked for a long time; he brainstormed with me about Charleigh and listened when I shared: my new counselor works two doors down from the one I saw nine or ten years ago, before my first marriage ended. I feel heavy and sad, I told him, walking past that other door, even being in that same building.

I told him: I feel sometimes like I'm making progress as a human, like I'm really growing in the Lord, and then, suddenly, I'm just not sure: seems like I might be as sorry and weak as I've ever been. He proceeded to affirm who I am, today, and the marriage I have, today. He encouraged me in every respect. It was a strange and beautiful moment.

I don't even know what I want to say, here. Part of me would like to be at a writers' conference, but here I am on the sofa, breastfeeding and blogging. I try to look beyond this day and feel instantly overwhelmed. I knew with more certainty what the rest of my life would look like, when I was ten, than I do at almost forty. Often, I don't know how to share my heart with my husband, let alone people I've never met in person. I don't know how to make my home a pretty and peaceful place, let alone the country, the world.

But when I look to Jesus, He says:

Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. Don’t worry about missing out. You’ll find all your everyday human concerns will be met. Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes (from the end of Matthew 6, MSG).

So I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. I just keep trying to make sense of this moment, with the people just in front of me. I just keep going. I just keep trying.