Friday, January 13, 2012

One Hundred Thirty-Seven Days

It's almost unimaginable that our family has been in "this place" for 137 days.  We packed up a decade of memories, two decades of ministry, and trekked across six states in a U-haul to move in with parents.


Our current situation isn't pretty.  Our past 20 years together isn't exactly pretty as a whole, and in all honesty, most of the 40 years of my existence hasn't been pretty, either.  I've been trying to write, but the story is tangled up in my soul right now, and the words are not finding their voice on the page.  My thoughts swirl in uncertainty.  What to share?  What not to share?  When the words come, the story will not be for those who have it all together.  It's not for the slick and polished, successful and seemingly unbroken.  The story will be told for those battered and drained by life.  The true ragamuffins. Those emptied, broken, stretched, and bruised.  The sinners who have plummeted to the depths of financial brokenness, relational failures, emotional anguish, abuse, purposelessness, betrayal, death, addiction, depression, rejection, and loss.    


These past 137 days have brought clarity to the past two decades in a way I didn't expect.  Wounds that sprinkled and drenched the past years have been boiling to the surface, demanding to be processed, screaming to be healed, and longing for closure.  When the wounds were inflicted, we did the only thing we could.  BY FAITH, we strapped the burdens onto our backs and lugged forward.  BY FAITH, we now pause to heal.......  FINALLY......  It's time to heal. 


I want to clarify that we are NOT victims.  We do not, and NEVER HAVE behaved with a victim mentality.  Sometimes, ugly and hard things happen.  We are not victims, but there IS a story to tell.  We have and will continue to own our own brokenness.  


HONESTY  OWNS.  

GRACE  REIGNS.  

ALWAYS.


Life's mess found in the raw deep can be heavy, confusing, and fragile at best.  When we left Michigan, I didn't expect that this time of rest would be painful.  I didn't expect this torrent of emotions.  Even so, 137 days in, I can confirm that healing is indeed happening.  God is faithfully filling our void, and slowly healing our wounds.  


FAITHFUL.   

HE IS FAITHFUL.


I KNOW and UNDERSTAND that we are BLESSED.  God has been with us, and has sweetly reminded us that we are not alone.  We have four amazing, healthy children.  We have deep and real love.  My parents have been gracious and giving, and have provided a sweet, safe environment for all of us.  Their gift to us is priceless, and we are GRATEFUL.  However, even in the midst of TREMENDOUS blessings it is possible to be walking a hard road.  It's okay not to be perfectly okay.  It.  Is. Okay. 


IT'S OKAY NOT TO BE OKAY IN THE DEEP WHILE THINGS ARE GOOD IN THE NOT-SO-DEEP.


It's a bit of a paradox, but most days, this is where my soul resides.  I hesitated to write this particular blog, because I know it's "heavy."  I don't want to discourage or be a drain, but I feel strongly that I need to explain why I have been quiet in the world of blogging.  I don't know if God will have me continue to be quiet altogether, or if HE will begin to bring voice to the tangle.  HE may even stir my heart to write about something completely unrelated to this portion of our journey.  I have been seeking HIM for direction about my blog, and  it is HIS to do with as HE sees fit.


Right here.  Right now.  This is where we are found along the journey... 137 days into true and deep healing.   



137 days...



"He will give a crown of BEAUTY for ASHES, a joyous BLESSING instead of MOURNING, festive PRAISE instead of DESPAIR."  Isaiah 61:3 


 
For this, we trust.






Sunday, December 11, 2011

Two Weeks Before Christmas

Six months prior to the phone call, we moved five-hundred miles away from the only home either of us had ever known.  It was a miracle that Ironman was home that day.



THAT DAY...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



Little Girl and I always took Daddy lunch to the office, but today he was home to answer the call.



THE CALL THAT CAME...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...




((RING))

It pierces my soul to remember the moment...

((RING))

The moment I slipped...

((RING))

Slipped from found to lost...




"HELLO?"




Why did he have to answer?  Maybe if he wouldn't have answered?




CRACK!!!




Our family table fractured under the weight of Ironman's fist.  I burst into tears without knowing why.  I groped and pleaded in the instant darkness for the reason my heart was twisted up where my toes reside. 



"MOM'S BEEN IN A CAR WRECK."



"IS SHE OKAY-  IS SHE OKAY?  IS-- SHE-- OKAY?  WHOSE MOM?  WHOSE MOM?  MY MOM?  YOUR MOM?  WHO!?!?"



My words hung in the air like a dense fog.  Seconds were a lifetime.



"MINE." 



Ironman's voice faded.  He could scarecely inhale enough oxygen to get the words out.  He dropped the phone.



"SHE'S DEAD."



*********************


DEAD...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



His words deafened my ears.  There was no more sound.  I fell to the floor.  Breathless.  Face on the ground, my body heaved in sobs.  Time stopped. 




TIME STOPPED...

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



I realized we were now the family we never thought we would be.  Suddenly, this sort of thing DOES actually happen to us.



TO US...


TO US...


TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



Robots made phone calls.  People came.  Dinner arrived.  Robots packed bags.  Robots boarded a plane.  The plane ascended.  Pain descended.  Strangely, we were soothed by the twinkle of Christmas lights glittering on the rooftops of houses.



TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



Memories are frozen in time.  Still and serene.  Numb peace.  Forever changed.



TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



Thirteen years ago today...



 TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...



We will never forget...



 TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Manger














Souls drown in sin's ache.  

Trough cradle.  Grace's altar.

Heaven's bridge LOVE makes.





****************************

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

A few thoughts about Thanksgiving and a poem...

Today I am guest posting for my friend Jermaine Lane.  Jermaine has an INCREDIBLE testimony of God's provision and healing.  Make sure you read his story when you stop by HIS BLOG.  You will be blessed!


For the month of November, Jermaine has been sharing his poetic gift with his readers.  As  part of his "Poemvember" (a month of poems) posts, Jermaine asked if I would submit a piece.  I was completely honored, and gave him my submission on November 1st.   I found out at the beginning of this week that my poem would go "live" one day before Thanksgiving. 


On the day before Thanksgiving, kitchens begin to fill with succulent aromas, homes are tidied and decorated, and joy is stirred as families look forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas.


BUT...


MY POEM HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THANKSGIVING.  It's actually a bit heavy.  I got to thinking that most people probably won't want to read such a serious poem during this wonder filled time of year.


THEN IT HIT ME...


It hit me that first and foremost, GOD'S TIMING IS NOT MINE.  I got to thinking about the many people who hurt and struggle during the holidays...and struggle deeply.  Depression is at an all time high this time of year.  Maybe some who will "find" my poem will be blessed to read of my struggle, surrender, and, ultimately,  freedom?   FREEDOM...


Is there anything for which I am more thankful?   


FREEDOM.


Absolutely not.  Even more specifically, FREEDOM from the image I had of myself.  FREEDOM from the image that, perhaps,  I had created.   My poem is about TRANSFORMATION and FREEDOM.  And the more I think about it...


MY POEM REALLY IS A *THANKSGIVING* POEM AFTER ALL...






Happy Thanksgiving to you, and thank you for taking time from your busy life to read my heart ramblings.  May you sense HIS gifts in your life and be touched by HIS presence.  Blessings to you!  





"MIRROR"

I stand before the glass.

Haunted.


The reflection is a stranger.


I slide quivering fingers over the slick smooth form touching cheek, mouth, eyes.


Hollow eyes stare.


I try to pull away hoping for escape from the thunder this glimpse has released in my soul.


Stranded.


I panic. I lunge.  I flail.
Arms move frantic to change the picture before me.


It remains.


I pause to look deeper.
Is this really me?  It can’t really be me.
Yet, this soul reflector has captured my being sure and true.


Without warning, a single stone hurls towards glass.
The sound deafening.  The mirror shatters.
I bend over shards hopeless to scoop them together, to protect, to reassemble.


My image is ten-thousand jagged fragments on the ground.


I curl in a heap of shame.
Confused, broken, lost in a tear river that flows over my ruin of impossibility.


To continue reading click HERE.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Unbeautiful Beauty

Depression is...

Dark.

Lonely.

Hopeless.

UNBEAUTIFUL...




For my entire existence, my life has been tainted by depression.  The ugly beast steals light and joy.  Security and worth.  Depression is a liar and a thief.


My alcoholic father was ravaged by depression.  The first eighteen years of my life were broken stumbles trying to survive it's effects.


My beloved, Ironman, suffered from a highly intellectual, introverted depression since he was a child.  Until recent years, we never understood that it was depression who was the thief.  We suffered from it's loathsome grip -off and on- for the first 17 years of our marriage.


After 37 years of life, I had no tolerance for the thieving beast any longer.  I wanted away from it's darkness.  It had dominated for long enough, and I was going to escape from it's claws once and for all.


Then it happened...

  
*I* fell down UNBEAUTIFUL's merciless slope into the deepest pit  I could have ever imagined.  The girl who *KNEW* she would *NEVER* be depressed was in the steely claws of depression's grip.  I was stuck... unable to move, breathe, live.  I felt like God had left me.  I felt hopeless.  I felt utterly and completely ALONE.


ALONE...

ALONE...

ALONE...


Then something BEAUTIFUL happened... 


My beloved who UNDERSTOOD the helplessness of depression tenderly and intentionally cared for me.  He spoke softly and gently when I would listen, and he prayed when I wouldn't.  He brought soup to me in my dungeon.  He washed my clothes.  He coaxed me out of bed to shower.  He wept for me and he wept with me.  He KNEW the prison I was in.  He KNEW my incapability to rescue myself from it.  He knew UNBEAUTIFUL.


HE KNEW...


HE KNEW...


HE KNEW...


Last week, I picked up a book by Alise Wright (and several other authors) called Not Alone.  It's a compilation of personal stories of those who have walked this road.  These are stories of those who KNOW.  They have been in the pit and are sharing their stories so you will know that you are NOT ALONE.  Catalysts of chemical imbalance, insecurity, alcoholism, divorce, adultery, anorexia, job loss, failure, faith crisis... have left these writers crippled and in the darkness of  UNBEAUTIFUL's grip.  In the same way my beloved understood where I was locked away, these writers also understood.  Deeper healing has found me as I have read the precious stories of these warrior writers.  Something of true BEAUTY has been unveiled in UNBEAUTIFUL.   













The book Not Alone: Stories of Living With Depression  edited by Alise Wright is available through Amazon.com