A Time to Dance

Ecclesiastes 3 has always been one of my favorite passages.  The whole book is a favorite of mine, but most especially Chapter 3:1-8. 

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace." 

Those verses speak of all the things of life in my opinion.  I find them very comforting at most any time but of late I've found them reminders to of hope because for everything we might experience in life there is an opposite that balances all.  

Today after church I ended up taking a very long route home.  I'd meant to go get groceries, but it was raining and I didn't want to be in and out of the car in rain.  Yet I didn't want to go home.  I'd just spent 8 days at home, mourning the marking of John being gone for two months, of our anniversary.  I wanted to go somewhere, see something different than the inside of my house and sorrow.

I travelled roadways I'd been down hundreds of times over the years.  Traveling to shop, to go on a date, to have dinner out with friends, to visit relatives, to go to work and home again, to just simply get out of the house.  

Today, I had so many memories float up and out of me.  The homes I used to beg my first husband to just consider as a potential home for us.  Each of them has been turned into a truly lovely place.  All of them were sound homes, but they did need work.  Yet, I know in my heart of hearts that had we had any of them, they'd have fallen down around us.  They would have remained as they were when I drew his attention to them.  That was his way, to tear things down but not build them up again.

I recalled drives with friends when we'd laugh and talk and share wisdoms that we'd learned along the way.  And the drives we'd taken where we cried, told the deepest and darkest of truths we carried.  I thought of how many of those friends who have moved far away, and how many have died.  There are no memories I can share with one of them.  It is only I who remains.

I recalled the many long drives home with a chattering child in the back seat who talked all the way of the 50-mile drive home.    I recalled times when John and I rode together so he could attend a class or a work meeting on a day off and then we'd take the long ways home, meandering down old state highways and county roads, talking the whole while.

And then I came to a bridge that I recalled too well.  One day, in total despair, after realizing that I'd given my all for eleven years and my first marriage was every bit as dead as it had been before, I determined I'd drive off that bridge which spanned a railroad track that trailed through the wooded ravines under the road.  I was so weary of the depression, of the lies, of trying, of feeling I was destined to experience nothing but sorrows and hurts.

I gunned the engine, headed towards the barrier, sobbing "No one cares!"  And just as I came near the wall of the bridge, the car swerved gently and I heard a quiet voice in my head say, "You forgot me.  I care."  

I knew it to be the voice of God.  

Stunned, I found a place further ahead to pull off the road and absorb what had just occurred.  

I barely knew Him.  I had never in my life felt worthy of His attention.  It was not a miraculous change that occurred within me.  My marriage was still a miserable failure.  My depression was as real as it had ever been.  There were many more hard days and tragedies ahead of me. It wasn't even a salvation experience.  I didn't get saved then.  That came years later.  But something within me budded with hope that day.  I hung on to life, refusing to give in to the voice that repeatedly said, "I should just end it all now...   I was assured somewhere deep inside that there were better things ahead in my life.

And today, I looked back and realized how close I'd been to missing what was the most blessed part of my life.   I didn't know then that a little brown eyed girl of whom I constantly dreamed would one day be in my arms.  Nor that the man I'd love dearly and who loved me most dearly would come into my life.   And certainly not the 15 grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren I can count as my own now.  I didn't know that I'd have a home here on the land where I always felt happy and secure or that I'd be able to make my home one that I'd love dearly, or a life such as I've had the past 30 years.  I didn't know then that I'd come to be depression free, released from those black choking cords.  Or that I'd have an awesome experience that would lead to my being saved.  I didn't know that I'd be a writer with an audience.  Or how many remarkable people would come, and go, from my life. I'd have missed so much of what has been really good about my life if I'd not heard His voice.  

I was humbled to something stronger than tears today.  I needed that moment, which was very sobering.  

I needed the reminder, too, that there is one who lies and will assure us we are unworthy, that nothing will ever change, that what we do will never matter, that no good will ever come, and that we are better dead than alive.  And there is One who loves us and has good things for us, if we're willing to allow Him to direct us and change us, trusting Him all the while.

I don't know what lies ahead of me in my life at this point.  No matter how hard I peer into the future, it is a haze.  I can't read it. It is my time to mourn...but there's a promise in the verse above that there will also be a time to dance.

I want to travel new roads.  I want the new memories ahead of me.  I want to go on and see what comes next.  

For a time, I will mourn what I've lost...but I'm looking forward to dancing, too.

 

True to Myself

 

There was a place in my life where I didn't like who I was.   I'd say the shocking things that no one else would say just to see people react, to draw attention to myself.  I didn't want their attention, yet I felt compelled to get it just the same.  I was too loud.  Prone to exaggerate. Intent on disguising all that I wasn't by pretending to be someone much bolder, badder, and funnier.  Acting and behaving in ways that made me uncomfortable, that felt false to who I truly was underneath, but I thought if I acted more like those around me then I'd not feel so lost and alone and so very much on the outside of the window looking in at everyone else.  

There comes a point in every life where we have to own who we are inside and who we are pretending to be.

I spent years in counseling and deep self-analysis, which did me little or no good.  Not because I felt counseling had no value.  But I never told the truths of anything I knew about myself.  I told pretty little stories.  I told funny little incidents.  I laughed and made jokes about things that hurt deep. I denied the existence of what I carried.  I covered things up, much the way a cat does...As though covering it up was going to make the stench go away.  No one will notice, I'd say.

I was so wrong.  Of course they noticed.  They might not know the source of why I hurt or why I lied or why I acted as I did but they recognized the pain, and the smells of death and nasty things.  Probably far better than I did because I had become accustomed to the reek of what I carried. 

I met a man who became a friend.   The sort of person who asked about projects I was working on, about my courses at the technical school, about my children.  He was the sort who seemed to be a real friend, not someone intent upon using me.   He asked me a personal question one afternoon to which I made a quick reply, very offhand, a reply meant to put him off, to hold him at a distance.  He sensed immediately that I was lying and told me plainly that I might well tell myself those pretty little stories, "but when you look into the mirror, there is no lying to the face looking back at you."  

It was exactly what I most needed to hear.   It was hard to hear.  It was truth.  Truth hurts.

When he left that day, I walked into the bedroom and stared in the mirror, and I knew the truth behind the face staring back at me. Not satisfied, I went into the bathroom and stared into that mirror, too.  I saw the same things looking back.  The hurts and angers I'd tucked away, all the ways I hated myself and all the pretenses I'd made up to cover all the deficiencies in my life.   I knew that the things that made me uncomfortable about myself were mostly made up by me to cover my real feelings. It was an awakening. 

Sometimes we have to see that what we really "own" is a lot of ugly things.  We grow accustomed to the ugly things, the stench of things.  Our mind tricks us into thinking that our behavior is normal, that this is 'just how I am', that others don't recognize the pain or know how it feels to be whoever or whatever we've allowed, or forced, ourselves to become.  But if you're one like myself whose very soul yearns for higher meaning, and beauty, and peace you cannot be satisfied with that bag full of stinking stuff once you've become aware again of the stench of it. 

I determined I'd do better; I'd be better.  It took far longer than I'd imagined it could possibly take, because I had spent a third of my life learning to disguise who I was.   You don't dig out of that many years of stinking stuff right away.   Sometimes, admitting why we are who we are is difficult, especially if we've buried it deep but never healed from the wounding that caused it. 

Healing is a process.  It's rarely instantaneous.  You dig down to the root and then you scrape and scrape and scrape thinking you've cleaned up the old wound, only to have it fester up again.  It takes time and patience to keep going down to the root and scraping away.  And a willingness to face the pain again and again.  

At some point we're going to be left with a wound that has healed...It's called a scar.  It's a reminder that we, or someone we loved, caused that ugly thing to happen.  And that's when we begin the process of forgiveness.  

It's more letting go, that's all. Just more letting go.  Letting go of what we thought we'd be when we were all done with this process, letting go of the ideal of being beautiful without scars, letting go of the whys of the scar and simply accepting that it is. Forgiving not only the ones who caused it but forgiving ourselves for allowing it to happen.  Or forgiving ourselves for making that wound ourselves.  And then one day you realize that yes, there is still a scar but it's softer, less visible, there but we notice it less.  It no longer matters.

Now and then, I have to take stock all over again.  Is what I am at the moment something I want to live with? Am I covering or still recovering?   Does a new habit or trait add positively to my life?  Am I being true to myself?   Am I better?  Am I bearing witness to my own ideals or trying to fall in with someone else's?  When I look in the mirror, does the woman looking back at me see someone she truly knows, inside and out?  Or is she frightened and hiding behind falsehoods and denial?

I have to say that now, some 40 years later, I can honestly say that I'm a truer version of myself than I ever have been.  Yes, I've lost things over the last few months that I used to identify myself, but they weren't bad habits, they were roles.  There are new roles now for me to try on for size.  Not every part is going to be a fit for me, no matter how hard I try to make it so.  And this is where I need that mirror, so I can keep close check on the woman I am becoming now.  

Love, Intimacy and Desire

I've been reading an absolutely lovely book by a female Christian writer widowed after 46 years.  She talks of the great love she and her husband shared.  I too have spoken of the depth of love John and I had, how good (and normal) our marriage was.

She mentions many of the emotions and feelings I myself have experienced.  But one thing is noticeably missing.  It is missing in most dialogues about widowhood.  Perhaps because for many of us it is such a powerfully intimate subject, and for some even taboo.  

Promises I'm Making for June

June is always a busy month.  The kids are newly home for the summer, there are umpteen birthdays starting the last week of May (8 total), and somehow a new season always spurs many new projects.  It will be hard to hold myself to promises but I plan to keep as many as I possibly can.  And if you want to check how I did in May, then look right here at the updates. 

1.  I promise to find something nice and cool and comfortable to wear around the house.  I've been wearing jeans and t-shirts which is fine for the cooler days of spring but now that we're in the hotter days?  Nope!  I have some 'capris' I bought last summer that fit badly then and don't fit any better now.  They were actually made for someone about 4 feet 5 inches not 5 feet 3 inches.  And the size tag is a straight up liar.  I crammed into them last year but this year, I'm not planning to be that uncomfortable.

Identity Crisis

 

I've shared before that when Katie left home at 18, I found myself in a long spell of grief.  It was completely unexpected.  I'd been parenting for over 30 years, and I thought I was more than ready to lose that role of full-time parent.  I started out excited about the time ahead.  And then I was hit by the runaway car called grief which nearly debilitated me for two full years.  

I didn't know what to do with myself!  All those plans I'd made for the day when I would not be on call 24/7 mattered no longer.  I lost my footing.  It was totally unexpected and it took me by surprise.

Six weeks into losing John, I can tell you that I find myself in a similar place now.  

Making Changes 1% At A Time

 

I floated through the last of March and the first part of April as though I were lost in a fog and I was.  I realized in mid-April I needed to stop and just 'be' so to speak, whatever form 'being' took at the time.  Tears, making relational decisions, attempting social occasions and church solo, dealing with paperwork and appointments, and finally determining what I wanted beyond John's NOT being gone, which is not an option I can choose.

I realized I could re-establish some routines in my life and ground myself somewhat better.  I started with the Friday and Monday house blessings, those two days of the week when my house is most prone to be untidy and need real attention.  I like going into the weekend with it clean and neat and I like coming out of the weekend well rested and ready to set things to rights for the week ahead.  

Wisdoms I Need

 

Grief work always causes us to revisit underlying grief.  ~ Liz (in the comments of this post)

She is so right!  I recognized the truth of it as soon as I read that statement.  I had wondered why I kept dwelling on so many hurts, long past and more recent, things I'd normally have thought little about.  But even the slightest grief has been like a new pang in my soul.  I needed that "Ah ha!" moment she gave me when she chose to share that.

Grief is a magnet that will pick up all the little pieces of grief.  And it has made it more difficult for me to discern exactly what I'm grieving at times.

Sorrow upon Sorrow

 

The thing I've found about grief is that it has a way of dredging up all the past griefs, ones I'd thought were long dealt with and forgotten.  

The need of a girl for her mother...

The desire to be an aunt...

Today, as I was leaving church, a young woman came and stopped directly in front of me.   I stood looking at her, sure I knew her, sure she was family, but not quite recognizing her.  I said "Hi..." a little hesitantly.  Something about her face kept nagging at me that she was someone I knew well.  It was my niece.  We hugged long and deep.  She is 30 years old.   I have had only the briefest moments of contact with her.

Promises for May

 

1.  Life is too short to eat food that isn't good.   I don't mean spoiled food, but food that is lacking in taste or texture, or a recipe that didn't turn out and feels like punishment when I force myself to eat it. or the leftovers of it which haven't improved.  I did that too often in April and I've made up my mind that if I'm going to consume 'x' number of calories each day, then the food I eat shall (a) taste good (b) be something I genuinely enjoy (c) and look forward to eating.  

I've had ill luck of late with things I crammed into the freezer before John died.  WHY did I save those things thinking they'd taste better later?  

Closed Doors

 

John has been gone a month at the time I'm writing this.  One month ago today, I kissed his forehead and walked out of the room leaving his physical body, my dearest friend and great love, behind.  I realize now that I was in a state of shock.  Operating normally enough on the surface but reeling with sorrow underneath.  Holding myself together for the sake of my children, but bereft.  Probably not hiding it very well though I supposed at the time that I was.

But two things happened that I have not shared.  Two other griefs, which are wrapped up in losing my beloved.  The Sunday morning of his last day, when I'd been told he'd passed away, before I went in to see him and he miraculously regained consciousness, one of the first people I called was my brother.   I told him John had died. "Well Terri, it's going to happen to all of us at some point.  I'm sorry."    I asked him to please let Mama know.  

Coffee Chat: How I'm Really Doing

 

Dear Friends, 

I'm going to change the pattern of posting on you all for a little bit.  I feel the need to not be a writer but to be open and honest about how I feel just now.

No great revelation to any of you, I'm sure, that I'm grieving.  

Grief for me might look different than it looks for someone else.  I am not wailing and gnashing my teeth.  I do cry at times.  Little things, little tears.  And one stormy evening of wrestling with the real pain of grief and loss and longing to turn back time.  Those 34 years of John were far too short!  They went too quickly.  I wanted more.  I thought we'd have more.