Belated 8th Anniversary Post

Dear Jim,

Sometimes I like to pretend I made perfect sense before I married you (in all your complications, depth, and passion) and before we brought, in less than four years, three babies into the world.

I am (we are) in a pressure cooker to be sure, but I think it's important that I try to remember who and how I was (really was) before you...and between you and you. I am thinking back to our weekend in South Boston. It had been thirteen years since we'd touched and eleven since we'd looked upon one another's faces.

It's been more than eight years, now, since South Boston: long enough that the brightness and sharpness of those few days are gone. But when I try, really try, to remember the truth about them, I remember first and foremost how much I cried.

I remember how, without my asking, you said everything I wanted you to say. I remember how I couldn't handle it: how I left early, telling you I needed time to process it. I remember how I couldn't, didn't believe it.

But it was all true; wasn't it. I am not asking. You are still here.

For eight years, you have lived out what you said in South Boston; still, I do not always believe you love me. This is rarely your fault. We are so far in; still, I am terrified. Terror does not always look like one might expect. This is not a cheap, horror movie. This is our home, and these are our lives and the lives of our babies.

Somewhere in the middle of a bed in the middle of a log cabin in the middle of the woods, there is a woman crying. She is pinned against her sleeping husband by one of his Paul-Bunyan forearms, but it is not what (it is rarely what) one might think. He scratched her back with his chin before he fell asleep, and before that, they talked in the dark as though it were 1994. Or 2007.

I am that woman. Mostly, I am thinking I want to die your wife.

Brandee

4 Ways I Manage My Emotional Pain

"We do not see things as they are, we see things as we are." -Anaïs Nin

For a long time, now, I've struggled in blogging for the simple fact that I've felt comfortable neither writing about certain things nor writing around them. Let's just say there's an elephant or two in the room, and--having always been a wide-open sort--I've been at a bit of a loss. For the record, I don't think this is a bad thing, necessarily; in fact, one thing I've learned about myself is that I've failed most all my life in establishing appropriate boundaries with others. I've been entirely too willing to share my innermost thoughts and the intimate details of my life.

Some truths should be guarded...at least until the day a person feels (s)he can express them properly...and deal with any and all consequences of her sharing. I feel sure that someday I will tell my story, but now isn't the time, and here isn't the place.

In the meantime, though, I want to share that 1) I'm very focused, these days, on managing my emotional pain, and 2) I'm experiencing some success. It's a little humbling to admit that, at forty-one, I'm just starting to understand and control some of what ails, but at the same time, I know I've been blessed to spend time with a counselor and in research. Period. (Even if I am in the hot center of my life.)

If you or someone you know is struggling emotionally, please receive the following as what it is: my sharing some of what is working for me in hopes that my hurt won't be wasted.

• I started taking krill oil. I've never taken prescription medication to help with my emotional pain, so I can't really speak to its effectiveness. I read awhile back, though, that there are studies indicating that fish oil can be as effective for mood stabilization as lithium. Someone close to me advised my buying krill oil over fish oil since krill oil tends to be easier on the digestive system. I talked to a pharmacist about all of it before buying krill oil over the counter. Since I've been taking it, I feel much less weepy and yell-y. At this point, I have my daughters on chewable cod liver oil, too, with the support of our physician assistant. We still have drama, but I'd say it's been cut in half. At least.
• I started practicing distress tolerance (especially self-soothing) as necessary. When I get really emotionally disregulated (i.e., when I'm having what you might call a panic attack), I don't feel as though I have any control over my emotions. I feel swept away by them. It's as though I'm in over my head and drowning in the middle of the ocean. I've learned, though, that I can ground myself to a certain extent by concentrating on touch. I got through a reading at my grandma's funeral by holding a pressed penny and rubbing my thumb against it. Somehow, rubbing the penny helped ground me in the moment. I am not being swept away. I am standing here on my own two feet.
• I started reciting Psalm 23 in my mind as necessary. When I'm really out of whack, I don't feel like I can pray any sort of coherent prayer...not that God requires coherency, of course, and I've certainly prayed my share of: "Help." But I've memorized Psalm 23 to the point that I can recite it easily until I've calmed down and can more easily pray.
• I started having conversations with myself. When I'm in the middle of a full-blown panic attack, these are very limited, but there was a time when I didn't think they were possible at all. I'm learning to ask myself one question, which is: When do you remember feeling this way, before? That question helps more than any other because I can't as easily identify the reason for current emotions as I can identify the reason for past emotions (having had time to process through the past). So, for example, whenever Jim calls "time-out" and I experience panic, I think back to a time from my childhood when I felt the same way and tell myself: That was then, and this is now. They were not Jim. 
  
  I was feeling really angry the other day (needy, desperate, restless, unsatisfied, angsty, hopeless), but when I tried to explain how I felt to Jim, the best I could come up with was lonely. "If you're lonely," he said, "I don't understand why you're watching tv upstairs by yourself." I didn't know how to respond; I mean, he was right! But when I asked myself, later: When do you remember feeling this way, before?, I zeroed in on the experience of rushing to my aunt's house during lunch break in anticipation of a letter that hadn't arrived. I was nineteen, but the feeling was the same and tied (as much of my emotional disregulation is) to abandonment. Okay, I said to myself, why are you feeling abandoned? And duh: my best friend had flown home a few days before, and I hadn't seen Cade, who was on vacation with his dad, for about eight days. As soon as I understood why I'd been feeling how I'd been feeling, I felt better and (Bonus!) knew the answer to Jim's question: I'd been watching tv in an effort to lose myself in a story other than my own.

This is just scratching the surface of the mirror through which I see and understand myself. I hope, by sharing a little bit of my journey, I'm able to help someone else. It's so frustrating to find oneself in a place of emotional pain without understanding its source, knowing what to do about it, or having the words to describe it. If you're in this place, please feel free to e-mail me (normalgirl@hotmail.com) any time. Know I'm praying for you. And if you're the praying sort, please pray for me, too.

5 Reasons to Love Roanoke

I think I can safely say that I've driven past Roanoke for more than half my life: all the years I traveled from East Tennessee up to Pennsylvania/Maryland to visit family, all the years I've traveled from Virginia down to Tennessee to visit family. I guess I tend to be in a hurry to get to my people, though, because I'd never explored Roanoke until this summer.

A few weeks ago, at the end of Boone Week, we had to meet my parents in Christiansburg (very near Roanoke), and I talked Jim into a hotel room; the Science Museum of Western Virginia in Roanoke is on our ASTC Passport list, and we'd never been. Then I did my thing and researched the area to figure out what other things we should see while in the area.

Dude. I fell in love with Roanoke so hard that I'm still kind of grieving that I'd never spent time there, before.

Reasons I've found (so far) to love Roanoke:

1) The Roanoke Star (or Mill Mountain Star). According to its sign, it's the world's largest, man-made star at a height of 88.5 feet and weight of 10,000 lbs. And I'm not a landscape photographer by any means, but the overlook is gorgeous.

2) Black Dog Salvage. Jim had watched the tv show; I hadn't. This place is amazing: just so much of...everything. What do you need? A door, a sink, a sign, a knob? A mannequin? A chair to suspend from the ceiling? (I've always wanted one of those, actually.) Check out Black Dog Salvage. Everything's for sale, they say, except the dog.

3) Texas Tavern. Because I'm not gonna lie: I love a cheap hotdog. Especially in an 85-year-old restaurant that's open around the clock and seats only ten people at a time. The man who served us interacted beautifully with the kids--reminded me of Boone's Papaw Rob, actually--and won my heart right way. Having studied up on Texas Tavern's lingo ahead of time, I ordered my hotdog "with." It was outstanding. Jim ordered a burger and was clearly jealous of my hotdog. After eight years of wishing he'd ordered what I ordered, you'd think he'd get a clue. But, no. Bless his heart. Love him so much.

4) Random Kitsch and Tack.

Miniature Graceland. It's seen better days but has an interesting story.

5) The Science Museum of Western Virginia. There's so much to see and do there! The traveling exhibit while we were there was on dinosaurs and fossils. My photos from the Healthy Bodies Gallery aren't so cute, but I was particularly fascinated by the real, human organs on display.

The museum is located in Market Square, which is a building in the center of the most happening part of town. I loved Roanoke; can you tell? We'll be back!

Witchduck. Chanterelles.

I had an incredibly full month, July, and I take a camera with me almost everywhere I go, so I'm swimming in photos and stories. It's a good problem to have. I'll never get caught up; I know that, now. It's okay. What a blessing to live so hard that there's no time to blog about it.

At the very beginning of July, my high-school friend Carlena and her family came to visit. They were in and out for a week, having devised a most brilliant plan to not only visit with us but also use our home as a jumping-off point for family exploration. We didn't follow them to Washington, D.C. for the weekend of July 4th, but the following week, Jim took a couple days off work, and we followed them to Virginia Beach.

I loved this beach trip for many reasons that boiled down to our families' working really well together. The first day, we were all together on the beach, but the second, Cade and his friend Andrew opted to return to the beach with Carlena's family while Jim and I took the little kids elsewhere in the area. (Jim and I are in perfect agreement that one day on the beach, especially in the hot center of day, is plenty enough for each trip with little kids.)

I wanted to visit Old Donation Episcopal Church, Virginia Beach's first church, which is on the National Register of Historic Places. In putting its address into our GPS, I wondered at the road name: Witchduck. There has to be a story, I thought to myself. And sure enough.

As it turns out, the road is so named because it leads to the river in which, on July 10, 1706, a woman named Grace Sherwood was tried as a witch via "ducking." Sherwood, an attractive, land-owning widow and midwife, used herbs to heal both people and animals. (Virginia Beach legend suggests that all of the rosemary in the area comes from a single plant that Sherwood carried over from England in an eggshell.) The accusations against Sherwood likely stemmed from jealousy, greed, and/or the human tendency to reject someone different or not easily understood.

Despite Sherwood's insistence that she was a healer, not a witch, her thumbs were tied to her big toes, and she was ducked into the river. After Sherwood floated to the surface (indicating "guilt"), the sheriff tied a heavy Bible around her neck. This caused her to sink, but only until she untied herself and floated again to the surface. She was declared a witch and jailed for years.

In 2006, 300 years after the ducking, Governor Tim Kaine restored Sherwood's good name, making Sherwood the only deceased Virginian ever exonerated of a crime. We visited her statue, which had been sculpted by Robert Cunningham and erected across Witchduck Road from Old Donation, Sherwood's parish church, in 2007.

Chip's red, plastic sword--a 25-cent, thrift-store find--is by far his most prized possession.

Old Donation Episcopal Church

This whole learning experience reminded me: it pays to be curious. Sometimes, it really pays. I was likely thinking this--also of Grace Sherwood's foraging--when Boone Week took me down a mushroom-laden trail. Which of these mushrooms, I wondered, are edible? I had no idea, so the children and I touched nothing. But after a couple days of researching, I felt confident that I could safely identify yellow chanterelles, so I went alone into the woods and gathered a mess of them. I cleaned them, sliced them, convinced Jim to sautée them in butter, and ate them every one. (Jim wouldn't eat any.) They were delicious. I did not die or even get sick, and I have since made a plan to learn and forage more. What an amazing summer this has turned out to be.

Boone Week

My younger nephew Boone came to visit for a week. Boone Week requires some commitment and finagling because Boone lives about an eight-hour-drive from me; even if I can get someone to meet me halfway on both the front and back end, I'm going to spend about sixteen hours in the car.

It's totally worth it, of course, or I wouldn't do it, and praise be: the other drivers must think so, also, else they wouldn't do it, either.

It's worth it because, over the last few years, I've gone from loving Boone because he's my nephew to loving Boone because he's Boone. I don't know how it is for you, but my parents were born into big families, so I have a ton of aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. I love them all because they're related to me, but I wouldn't say I love most of them for them; I don't really know them well. I want to know my nieces and nephews. I want them to know me.

It takes time to know a person. I'm thankful for my time with Boone because he's a really good person to know. It's funny how little things, sometimes, steal your heart completely. One of my favorite things about Boone is that if I cry out or startle, he asks: "Are you okay?" with the kindest tone. Maybe that's standard practice in your family, but it's not in mine, where concern is generally expressed with annoyance. The way Boone responded when I gasped, last week, because a bat (I think it was a bat!) flew into the windshield--and when I cried out because I tripped in the darkness of my driveway--helped me realize how good it feels when concern is expressed with love.

The more time I spend with someone, the more apt I am to learn from and about him or her, and I'm sure that's true of everyone. I wonder what Boone has learned from and about me, these last few summers. A week in my house might always be long enough to realize how messy and impatient I am. But I hope Boone sees me, too, as a person who loves him in the way of putting her money where her mouth is. I hope he'll remember me as a person who wanted to know him.

My Thoughts on the Same-Sex Marriage Ruling

If facebook is any sort of fair indicator, most of the people in my life have strong feelings about Friday's same-sex marriage ruling. I do not. Just call me Switzerland; I am neutral. My hope is that you'll read my heart, here, which will require your reading straight through to the end. No, really. All the way to the end.

Let me start by saying: I'm glad that the spouses and children of veterans in same-sex marriages will receive survivor benefits and burial rights. I believe that--regardless of his or her sexual orientation--if someone dies in service to the United States of America, his or her family should be afforded protections.

I'm glad to know that, as a legal spouse, an LGBTQ partner will be recognized as next-of-kin for the purposes of visiting in the hospital; making emergency medical decisions; and making funeral arrangements. (Read more from Caleb Wilde, here.)

I could continue but won't; suffice it to say: I'm glad that same-sex couples will now have access to the same 1,138 benefits, rights, and protections as other married people.

I haven't started waving a rainbow-colored flag, though, because many (not all) of my brothers and sisters in Christ are hurting. They view the marriage of same-sex couples as legalized sin, and they're brokenhearted over the direction in which the United States is going. I care about their disappointment and angst. I really do.

If I'm being honest, I don't know how to get around certain scriptures, myself. I'm not particularly interested in trying because, in this country, people have freedom of (and from) religion. Married couples have access to benefits whether they're religious or not, and before Friday's ruling, a heterosexual couple who'd never once donned the door of a church were, upon marriage, granted (or given access to) benefits while other non-religious but committed couples were not. Marriage has long been more (or other) than a union before God; it's a richly beneficial institution. The government is all over it.

It gets trickier, of course, when we consider the intersection of the LGBTQ community and the church. (We mustn't forget that we have LGBTQ individuals within the church, already!) Some Christ followers are concerned about their freedom to denounce homosexual activity; others are concerned about their freedom to avoid contributing to or participating in marriage ceremonies between same-sex couples; still others are concerned about the extent to which LGBTQ individuals will want to participate in church or its leadership. I understand those concerns but hold none of them.

I think these are exciting times. I think the more opportunities the church has to interact with the LGBTQ community, the better. My prayer is that everyone will grow: that the church will evolve into a more empathetic, compassionate entity...not one without convictions, certainly, but one without the sort of animosity that becomes a stumbling block to anyone who would enter relationship with the One--the only One!--who convicts us of sin and changes us. My prayer is that LGBTQ individuals would know they are loved: that they were created out of love, that they are seen and understood by their Creator, and that they can trust Him to light their individual paths.

You know, in the wake of Friday's same-sex marriage ruling, I've already experienced a fair amount of coaching in terms of what I should (or should not) be thinking, saying/writing, and doing as a follower of Christ. I just want to say: no. I don't mean to discourage those who are called to coach; certainly, some people are desperately seeking guidance, right now. But I am not a person seeking guidance.

My thoughts and words are my own--no one else's--and I stand upon them. I'm in a great place. I took a fleeting moment of doubt to the Lord just yesterday, and He reminded me: He made me the way I am. I am Switzerland. I love all people, and I don't mean that in a vague sort of hands-off way. I mean that my spiritual gift is mercy. I mean that I'm called to enter pain: that the work God has given me to do is the work of healing wounds.

I interact with Christians, sometimes, who criticize me for a lack of boldness in matters like these, but I'm plenty bold. Hear me say, here and now: I'm confident that where I am is where I'm meant to be.

When I lived among the non-heterosexual in Dallas, there was a preacher who stood on the corner of Cedar Springs and Throckmorton and howled for LGBTQ souls. I'll admit to looking down on him; honestly, I thought his vehemence scary and off-putting, and I never saw a single person interact with him. But as I've continued to grow in Jesus, my heart has softened toward that stranger. His style wasn't mine, but that doesn't mean He wasn't called to that work. 

So I tell you one more time, in one more blog post: I'm not interested in advising you in terms of what to think, say, write, or do. I'm interested in encouraging you--whomever you are--to seek the face of Jesus. Ask Him to work in and through you: to reveal any and all sin in your life and to help you overcome it. Ask Him to reveal His will for your life. Ask Him to give you Kingdom work.

Know that if--at any point, whomever you are--you wish to have a conversation with a sinner (because I am chief among us) saved by lavish grace who will not judge you, I'm available. That's the work to which I, Brandee Shafer, have been called.

Racism, the Confederate Flag, and Facebook

Sometimes when I'm on facebook, it feels like a whole bunch of people are yelling at each other or me. I try to remind myself that no one else's facebook feed looks exactly like mine (because each of us has different facebook friends); that, in most cases, my facebook friends aren't friends with one another and, therefore, not really yelling at one another; that, in most cases, my facebook friends aren't yelling at me, personally; and that I'm blessed to have a diverse group of facebook friends.

I have facebook friends from the states in which I've lived: Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Indiana, Texas, and Virginia. That breaks down even more, of course. I have facebook friends from working as a server, bartender, educator, and registrar; from earning two degrees over the course of more than six years; from attending many different churches; from, for example, singing in a black gospel choir out of Tennessee and living among the non-heterosexual in Dallas. I have facebook friends from the blogosphere, and I mean no disrespect, but they can be a particularly mouthy bunch. 

So who am I? Well, here's the thing (And thank you, Therapy!): I'm none of my facebook friends. 

Furthermore, it isn't in my best interest to take personally anything my facebook friends say (or don't)...even on the off chance that they intend for me to take it personally.

Watch me breathe. I am Brandee Shafer and no one else. I don't have to take on the causes of others. Nor do I have to take on the thoughts or feelings of others...including about me. In fact, I'm choosing to end conversations with people who seem uninterested in calm and kind discussion...or motivated to label, pressure, or shame me. 

I find it easier to breathe when I remember that I'm free. Even...I'm an agent of Christ only insomuch as I choose to be. I experience a little thrill, writing that, especially when I consider: Christ Himself has given me both choice and will. 

So what do I think? So much, all the time. My heart hurts over the massacre in Charleston. I have personally been taken in by the black church over and over (and over!). God has used African Americans to help and heal me. I feel particularly sorrowful over the loss of reverends, but every victim of racism matters. I wish there were no racism in this country, but there is. I care about that. I'm earnestly thinking and praying about what I can and should do.

I don't have a particular attachment to the Confederate battle flag. It's never been displayed in or flown over my home. Having grown up watching The Dukes of Hazzard, though, I did cringe when I read about the removal of the Confederate flag from the roof of the General Lee. I wasn't hating on African Americans while watching the Duke boys. I wasn't thinking about African Americans at all, and therein lies my guilt and privilege, I'm sure.

I'm not attached to any other Confederate symbols, either, despite having lived in the South most all my life. I was reading today that, here in Richmond, Virginia, a local group wants Governor McAuliffe to remove Monument Avenue from the bike route for the UCI Road World Championships. That seems a bit over the top to me, but either way, no skin off my nose.

In all things--and you can choose to receive my words or not!--I encourage you to try to figure out what you think and feel, and why. This shouldn't be an easy process. Are your thoughts and feelings based upon facts? Ignorance isn't an attractive excuse for any of us. It's so important to learn, and learning requires more than willingness; it requires pursuit. It requires effort. I have so much to learn. I'm embarrassed to admit that my eyes very often glazed over in history class. I experienced my lack of knowledge at Appomattox less than two weeks ago. I experienced it in the kitchen with my husband, today. 

I encourage you to consider to what extent your thoughts and feelings have been influenced by others (and especially loved ones) over time, also to what extent your thoughts and feelings are being influenced by others right this minute. Empathy can be good. It can also be destructive. I'm learning to establish and maintain boundaries. That's challenging for me as a mercy-gifted person, but you are you; I am me; and we are not the same. We were not designed to be the same, and we are not expected to be the same.

We do need to work together. That's what I want. Is that what you want, too? Can we have calm and kind discussions on such important (critical!) topics as race and culture?

Hi, I'm Brandee. I'm a complex individual. I'm not able to tell you exactly who I am in the space of a blog post. But my heart is open, and it hurts. Is that a good place to start?