My grandmother was a gifted cook. I say cook and not chef, because she was never formally trained, though she could make a seven course meal out of a chicken, potato and some broccoli. I admire those people who have the same talent with food as a composer has with musical notes. They seem to have the same ability to orchestrate with herbs and various vegetables and meats, a symphony of tastes, much as a composer can see the notes in their minds and create a musical master piece. I'm not that gifted. I need a recipe to produce a good meal. Another example of my need for a plan.
I remember visiting my grandmother on Saturday morning and like clock work, she would be making fresh dough, for the weekly batch of homemade cinnamon rolls she would nibble on and serve to guests during the week. Often there would be enough dough for a loaf of bread, and some rolls. Those rolls, hot out of the oven, spread with butter and jelly, would literally melt in your mouth. I believe she's serving the cinnamon rolls in heaven as we speak, to the delight of the saints and angels. I loved watching her work and talking to her has she methodically scooped flour, kneaded and rolled the dough. She was a master. I, on the other hand, not quite so skilled. One Saturday, she asked me if I wanted to try, again, to make a loaf of bread. Sighing, I told her, "Sure. I'll try, again." She passed me the utensils and I mirrored her every move, though I was not as graceful at the kneading as she was. And, again, we were both stumped when out of the oven came her typically perfect, golden brown loaf of bread. And mine, another door stop. It was a baffling experience. But, completely made null and void, once we cut into her loaf.
I was thinking about her last week. Her temperament was as sweet as her cinnamon rolls. Patient. Kind. Giving. She had been through a lot in her life. Raising four children alone. Her husband died unexpectedly at a young age. Life was hard for her, but to look at her, you would never know. Then I though about her on those Saturday mornings, kneading that dough. And I thought about me. How during this experience with my daughter I have run the gamut of emotions from numbness to rage; until recently. I think I have kneaded my rage out. I still teeter on fear and worry, sadness and anger but there is also a calmness that was never there, before. A calmness that, from a logical view, shouldn't be there, but it is. I have kneaded my anger into calm, and am currently forming my emotions into a more palatable menu. All of the crying, and yelling and calling to God has begun to inspire in me an understanding that I am truly helpless in all of this; the anger and rage does nothing but hinder whatever process has to take place.
So, now I am praying that we are all on more sure footing, as we walk this path. I am also praying that as each of us kneads out our emotions and experiences, we are all continually blessed along the way with golden servings of contentment and success.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Best We Can
Last Sunday, my daughter and I went to the cemetary that my mom is at to plant bulbs for next year, and a few mums for the remaining fall weather. Because of the situation here, I hadn't been able to go up there for a year and a half. It is about 2 1/2 hours from here. An old, country cemetary were all of her people are buried. 'Her people.' That reference has always made me laugh. I heard it first from my grandmother. "Their people, our people" It makes me think of tiny humans carried around in a little purse. Anyway, as morbid as it may sound, I love cemetaries, and the one my mom is in is lovely. She is on a hill near her mom and dad, some aunts and cousins, and her grandmother and grandfather. If you sit by her stone, and look across the road, on the other small hill lie more cousins, and neighbors, and grandparents. Everyone there seems to have related names. A lot of the stones are old. Someone's history. There are big, ancient oak trees scattered all over. Some were still in various stages of deep reds and gold. Some were bare. As far as a cemetary can be, it is homey.
We stopped at McDonald's and picked up lunch (my mom loved their grilled chicken sandwiches) went to the cemetary, and placed a blanket next my mom's stone. We had a picnic before we started planting. It was a very still day, sunny, no wind, sapphire blue sky. My daughter and I talked, and then I said out loud, to my mom, that I missed her and wished I could talk to her. At that moment, a swril of wind blew up in front of us, carrying with it a few fallen leaves. That wind, rushed over us and then stopped. It felt like a hug and kiss on my cheeks. My daughter said, 'Mom did you notice that the wind blew when you were talking to grandma, and then stopped?' "Yes." And I smiled.
I told a friend of mine yesterday, and she said, "That was your mom answering you. She was doing the best she can to answer you with what she has to work with." The best she can. Even the spirits are doing the best they can. An interesting thought.
My daughter is one week and two days sober. A blessing. I miss her when she's passed out. When I ask her why she continues to do that, she tells me, 'Mom, you never see all of the times I don't drink when I want to. I am trying.' She's doing the best that she can with what she has. I think we all are. We get frustrated, fall down, sit and cry, brush ourselves off, and try again. Hopefully, the trying and the strength to do so, lasts a bit longer each time until, this parasite called addiction becomes weaker and weaker and someday falls off. Another example of why we can't judge others. You can't see into their minds and the battle that is raging there. We can only see the winner. I think one of our jobs entails not only loving them, but when our children win, provide them with nurishment (soul, body) to keep them strong for the next fight, and if the enemy wins a battle, be waiting with supplies for the time they're ready to battle, again. Their choice, I know, but I'm still on her side when she decides to fight for herself, and she's fighting now.
We stopped at McDonald's and picked up lunch (my mom loved their grilled chicken sandwiches) went to the cemetary, and placed a blanket next my mom's stone. We had a picnic before we started planting. It was a very still day, sunny, no wind, sapphire blue sky. My daughter and I talked, and then I said out loud, to my mom, that I missed her and wished I could talk to her. At that moment, a swril of wind blew up in front of us, carrying with it a few fallen leaves. That wind, rushed over us and then stopped. It felt like a hug and kiss on my cheeks. My daughter said, 'Mom did you notice that the wind blew when you were talking to grandma, and then stopped?' "Yes." And I smiled.
I told a friend of mine yesterday, and she said, "That was your mom answering you. She was doing the best she can to answer you with what she has to work with." The best she can. Even the spirits are doing the best they can. An interesting thought.
My daughter is one week and two days sober. A blessing. I miss her when she's passed out. When I ask her why she continues to do that, she tells me, 'Mom, you never see all of the times I don't drink when I want to. I am trying.' She's doing the best that she can with what she has. I think we all are. We get frustrated, fall down, sit and cry, brush ourselves off, and try again. Hopefully, the trying and the strength to do so, lasts a bit longer each time until, this parasite called addiction becomes weaker and weaker and someday falls off. Another example of why we can't judge others. You can't see into their minds and the battle that is raging there. We can only see the winner. I think one of our jobs entails not only loving them, but when our children win, provide them with nurishment (soul, body) to keep them strong for the next fight, and if the enemy wins a battle, be waiting with supplies for the time they're ready to battle, again. Their choice, I know, but I'm still on her side when she decides to fight for herself, and she's fighting now.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Walk Away
Last week in church, the pastor talked about forgiveness and what it does. He started by saying that your spirit is not intended to carry bitterness. (I like that) He also said that you choose to forgive you don't necessarily feel like forgiving. After choosing, you release your offender, and third you tell God that you trust Him to see you through this because forgiving is hard. He also said, that after you forgive someone (or yourself) you can walk away. You can draw those boundary lines and not cross over them, again. He said that, "Forgiveness is for the present and the past." People often feel that right after forgiving someone, you have to trust them. He said, "Trust is for the future. It takes time." Forgiveness is less about the offender and more about the quality of the soul of the person doing the forgiving.
I thought about the person I need to forgive the most, and am pretty good about doing that, letting it go, until something from the past comes up or something in my present reminds me, and I can feel that old hatred beginning to burn. It is really hard to forgive other people.
It is harder to forgive yourself, I think, because you have to take yourself with you everywhere you go. You can't really 'walk away' as easily. So, how does that work? I've been thinking about that. How do you separate yourself from yourself? I was reading, "Because of Winn-Dixie" to the class. It's a fifth grade book, by Kate DiCamillo. I want to quote a passage because it helped me with the answer. This is from pages 94-96.
"Look at this tree," Gloria said.
I looked up. There were bottles hanging from just about every branch. There were whiskey bottle and beer bottles and wine bottles all tied on with string, and some of them were clanking against each other and making a spooky kind of noise. Me and Winn-Dixie stood and stared at the tree, and the hair on top of his head rose up a little bit and he growled deep in his throat.
Gloria Dump pointed her cane at the tree.
"What you think about this tree?"
I said, "I don't know. Why are all those bottles on it?"
"To keep the ghosts away," Gloria said.
"What ghosts?"
"The ghosts of all the things I done wrong."
I looked at all the bottles on the tree. "You did that many things wrong?" I asked her.
"Mmmm-hmmm," said Gloria. "More than that."
"But you're the nicest person I know, " I told her.
"Don't mean I havent' done bad things," she said.
"There's whiskey bottles on there, " I told her.
"And beer bottles."
"Child," said Gloria Dump, "I know that. I'm the one who put 'em there. I'm the one who drank what was in 'em."
"My mama drank," I whispered.
"I know it." Gloria Dump said.
"The preacher says that sometimes she couldn't stop drinking."
"Mmmm-hmmm," said Gloria again. "That's the way it is for some folks. We get started and we can't get stopped."
"Are you one of those people?"
"Yes ma'am. I am. But these days, I don't drink nothing stronger than coffee."
"Did the whiskey and beer and wine, did they make you do the bad things that are ghosts now?"
"Some of them," said Gloria Dump. "Some of them I would've done anyway, with alcohol or without it. Before I learned."
"Learned what?"
"Learned what is the most important thing."
"What's that?" I asked her.
"It's different for everyone," she said. "You find out on your own. But in the meantime, you got to remember, you can't always judge people by the things they done. You got to judge them by what they are doing now."
When I read that, it was like part of the puzzle for me to understand how to better talk to my daughter. She has a hard time forgiving, people, but mostly herself. She has hunkered down, and burrowed herself into a stagnant hole. Like her bunker, only she invites the enemy in instead of battling it (The battlefield truly is the mind). I think it is important to have a physical representation of what you're forgiving, because thoughts are so abstract. You need something more concrete. Gloria's bottles. It might be a letter that you write to the offender. Stones in a jar. Something to hold the past, I think, may help you face the past and once that's done, it's just an empty bottle, or a stone you threw in a lake, or a letter you burned in the fire place. Let the past go. After that, start judging yourself on the present. Each day a new way. And if you mess up, start fresh the next day. I have written on one of my walls, "Blessed is the life that finds joy in the Journey." I think that's how you find joy in your life's journey. Walk away from the past.
I thought about the person I need to forgive the most, and am pretty good about doing that, letting it go, until something from the past comes up or something in my present reminds me, and I can feel that old hatred beginning to burn. It is really hard to forgive other people.
It is harder to forgive yourself, I think, because you have to take yourself with you everywhere you go. You can't really 'walk away' as easily. So, how does that work? I've been thinking about that. How do you separate yourself from yourself? I was reading, "Because of Winn-Dixie" to the class. It's a fifth grade book, by Kate DiCamillo. I want to quote a passage because it helped me with the answer. This is from pages 94-96.
"Look at this tree," Gloria said.
I looked up. There were bottles hanging from just about every branch. There were whiskey bottle and beer bottles and wine bottles all tied on with string, and some of them were clanking against each other and making a spooky kind of noise. Me and Winn-Dixie stood and stared at the tree, and the hair on top of his head rose up a little bit and he growled deep in his throat.
Gloria Dump pointed her cane at the tree.
"What you think about this tree?"
I said, "I don't know. Why are all those bottles on it?"
"To keep the ghosts away," Gloria said.
"What ghosts?"
"The ghosts of all the things I done wrong."
I looked at all the bottles on the tree. "You did that many things wrong?" I asked her.
"Mmmm-hmmm," said Gloria. "More than that."
"But you're the nicest person I know, " I told her.
"Don't mean I havent' done bad things," she said.
"There's whiskey bottles on there, " I told her.
"And beer bottles."
"Child," said Gloria Dump, "I know that. I'm the one who put 'em there. I'm the one who drank what was in 'em."
"My mama drank," I whispered.
"I know it." Gloria Dump said.
"The preacher says that sometimes she couldn't stop drinking."
"Mmmm-hmmm," said Gloria again. "That's the way it is for some folks. We get started and we can't get stopped."
"Are you one of those people?"
"Yes ma'am. I am. But these days, I don't drink nothing stronger than coffee."
"Did the whiskey and beer and wine, did they make you do the bad things that are ghosts now?"
"Some of them," said Gloria Dump. "Some of them I would've done anyway, with alcohol or without it. Before I learned."
"Learned what?"
"Learned what is the most important thing."
"What's that?" I asked her.
"It's different for everyone," she said. "You find out on your own. But in the meantime, you got to remember, you can't always judge people by the things they done. You got to judge them by what they are doing now."
When I read that, it was like part of the puzzle for me to understand how to better talk to my daughter. She has a hard time forgiving, people, but mostly herself. She has hunkered down, and burrowed herself into a stagnant hole. Like her bunker, only she invites the enemy in instead of battling it (The battlefield truly is the mind). I think it is important to have a physical representation of what you're forgiving, because thoughts are so abstract. You need something more concrete. Gloria's bottles. It might be a letter that you write to the offender. Stones in a jar. Something to hold the past, I think, may help you face the past and once that's done, it's just an empty bottle, or a stone you threw in a lake, or a letter you burned in the fire place. Let the past go. After that, start judging yourself on the present. Each day a new way. And if you mess up, start fresh the next day. I have written on one of my walls, "Blessed is the life that finds joy in the Journey." I think that's how you find joy in your life's journey. Walk away from the past.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Joy and Sorrow
As of 6 years ago, this day is always going to be a day of joy and sorrow for me. My son was born on this day, and though it was scary at the time, it was the biggest day of joy for me. I can still 'feel' in my hands what it felt like to hold him for the first time. I can remember how easy it was to make him laugh and giggle as he grew up. He was the one who taught me that learning never stops and how to 're-see' the world every day. He has grown into a wonderful man. He's a gentle giant (he looks like a Viking). He's funny, and smart. Kind and an incredible writer. Each day, regardless of the stress involved, is a comfort knowing he's in the world. He is a blessing.
Six years ago, I was at work. I never check my messages during the day, but for some reason, I did that day at 11:30. My heart sank, and I could feel my cheeks begin to tingle when I heard my dad's voice (who rarely calls my cell phone) saying, "Signe, this is the call you hoped you'd never get. Mom's gone." The rest of that hour at work was a blur. What'd he mean, 'Mom's gone?' She was coming home today. That Wednesday, she had gone in for an asthma treatment, she had done that before, and was to come home on Friday. I had just talked to her the night before and she was fine, a little tired, but fine. I didn't understand. The woman I work with took over, and I just remember being kind of 'packed up' and readied to go. One of the principals had asked me if I wanted him to drive me, and I said said no, that I was fine. I remember getting into the car. It was raining (how appropriate) and driving 1/2 hour to the hospital, where my mom was on a ventilator. My dad looked so lost and confused. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. The doctors explained that her brain had shifted, a bleed of some sort. She was on the ventilator until Sunday, when my brother flew in. It was all so surreal. It all seems like a bad dream.
My mom was amazing. A little powerhouse. Quiet, and calm yet so determined to reach her goals. She had polio as a child and fought through that. Her father died when she was 19, and she quit school (she wanted to be a nurse) to go to work and help her mom and 3 brothers. She was beautiful, and kind and generous. She gave piano lessons to the kids in our neighborhood growing up. She was an artist. She loved to garden, and play cards. She liked Bun candy bars, and shopping at Marshall's. She read everything she could. She ended up going back to school and for seven years, I fell asleep to the muffled tapping of the type writer (yes, type writer) as she did her homework, downstairs at the dining room table. She ended up graduating magna cum laude with a degree in Library Science, and three days after graduating she got a job as a school librarian and worked there until she retired. She loved working with children. She loved decorating the library. She was so precise in her work. When she carved a turkey, it was with a surgeon's precision. She was such a mixture of talent and personality. I miss her every second.
She loved her grandchildren. She loved watching them grow and learn. She would be proud of both of them, today. Thinking of her makes my daughter cry sometimes. Not only the missing of her, but her feeling that grandma would be disappointed. Of all the people in the world, she was not one to judge. For her, love was a fortress, and once you were behind that fortress with her, nothing could take you away, and she would fight for you forever, so regardless of your circumstances, you were loved. Sometimes, I believe that if she were still here, her love would be the final pull that my daughter would need to stay sober. At any rate, losing her, has been a lesson in so many things. Most importantly, never, NEVER end a conversation with anything but 'I love you,' because you don't know if it will be your last words. Along with that, anger, and resentment are pointless. The only thing that matters is love and forgiveness. I don't think about money, or house or clothes when I think of my mom. I think of how much I love her, and how grateful I am that our last words were, 'I love you.' No regrets. I want my words to my daughter and son to only carry love. Life carries enough hurt without me adding to it. So, my mother's legacy is to be kind, work hard, never give up, enjoy a candy bar now and then, and never forget to say, "I love you."
Six years ago, I was at work. I never check my messages during the day, but for some reason, I did that day at 11:30. My heart sank, and I could feel my cheeks begin to tingle when I heard my dad's voice (who rarely calls my cell phone) saying, "Signe, this is the call you hoped you'd never get. Mom's gone." The rest of that hour at work was a blur. What'd he mean, 'Mom's gone?' She was coming home today. That Wednesday, she had gone in for an asthma treatment, she had done that before, and was to come home on Friday. I had just talked to her the night before and she was fine, a little tired, but fine. I didn't understand. The woman I work with took over, and I just remember being kind of 'packed up' and readied to go. One of the principals had asked me if I wanted him to drive me, and I said said no, that I was fine. I remember getting into the car. It was raining (how appropriate) and driving 1/2 hour to the hospital, where my mom was on a ventilator. My dad looked so lost and confused. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. The doctors explained that her brain had shifted, a bleed of some sort. She was on the ventilator until Sunday, when my brother flew in. It was all so surreal. It all seems like a bad dream.
My mom was amazing. A little powerhouse. Quiet, and calm yet so determined to reach her goals. She had polio as a child and fought through that. Her father died when she was 19, and she quit school (she wanted to be a nurse) to go to work and help her mom and 3 brothers. She was beautiful, and kind and generous. She gave piano lessons to the kids in our neighborhood growing up. She was an artist. She loved to garden, and play cards. She liked Bun candy bars, and shopping at Marshall's. She read everything she could. She ended up going back to school and for seven years, I fell asleep to the muffled tapping of the type writer (yes, type writer) as she did her homework, downstairs at the dining room table. She ended up graduating magna cum laude with a degree in Library Science, and three days after graduating she got a job as a school librarian and worked there until she retired. She loved working with children. She loved decorating the library. She was so precise in her work. When she carved a turkey, it was with a surgeon's precision. She was such a mixture of talent and personality. I miss her every second.
She loved her grandchildren. She loved watching them grow and learn. She would be proud of both of them, today. Thinking of her makes my daughter cry sometimes. Not only the missing of her, but her feeling that grandma would be disappointed. Of all the people in the world, she was not one to judge. For her, love was a fortress, and once you were behind that fortress with her, nothing could take you away, and she would fight for you forever, so regardless of your circumstances, you were loved. Sometimes, I believe that if she were still here, her love would be the final pull that my daughter would need to stay sober. At any rate, losing her, has been a lesson in so many things. Most importantly, never, NEVER end a conversation with anything but 'I love you,' because you don't know if it will be your last words. Along with that, anger, and resentment are pointless. The only thing that matters is love and forgiveness. I don't think about money, or house or clothes when I think of my mom. I think of how much I love her, and how grateful I am that our last words were, 'I love you.' No regrets. I want my words to my daughter and son to only carry love. Life carries enough hurt without me adding to it. So, my mother's legacy is to be kind, work hard, never give up, enjoy a candy bar now and then, and never forget to say, "I love you."
Monday, October 17, 2011
Anxiety at 6:00
I have been thinking a lot about how did we get here concerning addiction. I know times have always been tough, and I know that there have always been struggles with addiction, but it just seems that it has such a huge membership now, and I can't figure out why. Through watching various shows (Intervention, Dr. Drew), Documentaries (PBS station),and listening to the news, it just seems as though there are so many hurting people. The common thread with the majority of programs I've heard, concerning people with addiction, have to do with some emotional hurt that happened. The degree of hurts vary, but emotions seem to be the seed to all of this. So, what has happened to stir so much emotional unrest?
In Al-Anon, we went through some readings. Each of us read one, and commented on it. One of the women there read reading #8 that had to do with less stress and pressure. That we're supposed to pace ourselves and not let stress overwhelm us (I'm paraphrasing). It started me thinking. A few weeks ago, I heard on the news (actually, it was the alarm in the morning, so I woke up to this) that people are losing approximately $750.00 a day waiting in traffic. What!? I heard that and felt a little surge of panic shoot through my body (remember, I was in the fog of waking up), even though it only takes me 15 minutes to drive to work. As my head became more clear, and I continued to listen, the announcer explained that because people are waiting in traffic for so long, they are losing that amount of time that they could be working. So, that added up to around $750 dollars a day. They didn't specify the amount of time in traffic, just that dollar figure. But that opened another door in my thinking and I began noticing how much we, as individuals are allowing other members of society to feed our stress. The news goes without saying. Even the little blurbs between shows produce anxiety about what you can view during the 6:00 news. We are being conditioned for doom.
There are too many examples to list, but I bet I can tally at least 10 during one day. Even when the stress isn't announced, I have noticed I'm beginning to anticipate it. For instance, the first time I saw the movie Babe, the farmer was doing this dance for Babe (Babe wasn't feeling well) when he jumped into the air, I thought, "Oh, he's going to have a heart attack." He didn't. The first time, I watched this BEAUTIFUL movie called, The Magic of Ordinary Days, Livy was pregnant and pulling a huge gas can out of the truck, and I though,"Oh, she's going to loose the baby." She didn't. But it's instances like that, that I have become so accustomed to anxiety and dread, that even when something lovely is happening, that little bit of anxiety begins.
So, could that be why addiction is the new growing epidemic? These sensitive souls are being bombarded to be the best, be successful, doom is coming, you're too old, your too something else, and my daughter's anxiety, "It's (your?) never good enough."
Feelings lie. But all of the stress, and the isolation that technology brings, is hard to struggle through on a daily basis. It didn't used to be this way. When my parents were growing up, it was a slower, more dignified time. Life has gotten so fast paced, and isolating, that if you don't keep those plates spinning, it's all going to crash down around you. And somehow, more plates keep being added.
Everyone is different, I get that. Everyone handles emotions, experiences, life differently. But something has happened to cause people to want to escape from the hear and now. Something has shifted from, "Tomorrow is a new day" to "Tomorrow may never come."
In Al-Anon, we went through some readings. Each of us read one, and commented on it. One of the women there read reading #8 that had to do with less stress and pressure. That we're supposed to pace ourselves and not let stress overwhelm us (I'm paraphrasing). It started me thinking. A few weeks ago, I heard on the news (actually, it was the alarm in the morning, so I woke up to this) that people are losing approximately $750.00 a day waiting in traffic. What!? I heard that and felt a little surge of panic shoot through my body (remember, I was in the fog of waking up), even though it only takes me 15 minutes to drive to work. As my head became more clear, and I continued to listen, the announcer explained that because people are waiting in traffic for so long, they are losing that amount of time that they could be working. So, that added up to around $750 dollars a day. They didn't specify the amount of time in traffic, just that dollar figure. But that opened another door in my thinking and I began noticing how much we, as individuals are allowing other members of society to feed our stress. The news goes without saying. Even the little blurbs between shows produce anxiety about what you can view during the 6:00 news. We are being conditioned for doom.
There are too many examples to list, but I bet I can tally at least 10 during one day. Even when the stress isn't announced, I have noticed I'm beginning to anticipate it. For instance, the first time I saw the movie Babe, the farmer was doing this dance for Babe (Babe wasn't feeling well) when he jumped into the air, I thought, "Oh, he's going to have a heart attack." He didn't. The first time, I watched this BEAUTIFUL movie called, The Magic of Ordinary Days, Livy was pregnant and pulling a huge gas can out of the truck, and I though,"Oh, she's going to loose the baby." She didn't. But it's instances like that, that I have become so accustomed to anxiety and dread, that even when something lovely is happening, that little bit of anxiety begins.
So, could that be why addiction is the new growing epidemic? These sensitive souls are being bombarded to be the best, be successful, doom is coming, you're too old, your too something else, and my daughter's anxiety, "It's (your?) never good enough."
Feelings lie. But all of the stress, and the isolation that technology brings, is hard to struggle through on a daily basis. It didn't used to be this way. When my parents were growing up, it was a slower, more dignified time. Life has gotten so fast paced, and isolating, that if you don't keep those plates spinning, it's all going to crash down around you. And somehow, more plates keep being added.
Everyone is different, I get that. Everyone handles emotions, experiences, life differently. But something has happened to cause people to want to escape from the hear and now. Something has shifted from, "Tomorrow is a new day" to "Tomorrow may never come."
Friday, October 14, 2011
Do Over
I'm struggling. I'm trying to find God in all of this. Almost a month of sobriety, and bam, we're back, again, to drinking. I don't get it. I know all about free will, but a toddler has free will and I wouldn't let them walk across the street alone, or drive a car. Even though their free will was telling them that is what they wanted to do. So, why, then does God, who could pull my daughter and everyone else's child away from the terrible rush hour of addiction, as they run headlong (head strong) into on coming traffic, allow them to continue that stupid, harmful choice? Why can't He pull them back? Scold them, and put them in the time out chair to help them rethink their choices? When you think about it, in the big picture of us and God, we are infants-teenagers at best-in this spiritual family we are a part of. God the head of the family. The Holy Spirit like a loving mother. Our amazing and loving big brother, Jesus. Who wouldn't want to belong to that family? Then why this feeling of such abandonment?
I don't get it. I sound like the whinny kid sister. Maybe. But tell me where my logic is wrong. So, feeling once, again, that I've missed something, some spiritual clue, I'm racking my brain, again--what did I do wrong??? What is the key to this mystery? I feel like a spiritual archaeologist, trying to dig up clues as to how this all works. I just don't get it.
I give spelling tests on Fridays. One of my students (a fourth grader) was upset that he missed a word. He still got an A, but was upset that it wasn't a perfect score. He was getting so frustrated. I was patiently telling him that he did extremely well. Top speller. He couldn't be consoled. He was quiet for a minute, and then he looked at me, gritted this teeth, and said, "I want a do-over." I couldn't help but smile. "Sweety, we don't have do-overs for spelling tests, especially when your score is so good." (Teeth gritted, and cheeks getting red) "I want a do-over." It took several minutes before I could convince him, and he could accept that his score was wonderful. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and with pursed lips, he nodded and walked away. On my way home, I was reviewing the day, and thought of him, and I understood how he felt. I don't feel my score is that good.
I want a do-over, too.
I don't get it. I sound like the whinny kid sister. Maybe. But tell me where my logic is wrong. So, feeling once, again, that I've missed something, some spiritual clue, I'm racking my brain, again--what did I do wrong??? What is the key to this mystery? I feel like a spiritual archaeologist, trying to dig up clues as to how this all works. I just don't get it.
I give spelling tests on Fridays. One of my students (a fourth grader) was upset that he missed a word. He still got an A, but was upset that it wasn't a perfect score. He was getting so frustrated. I was patiently telling him that he did extremely well. Top speller. He couldn't be consoled. He was quiet for a minute, and then he looked at me, gritted this teeth, and said, "I want a do-over." I couldn't help but smile. "Sweety, we don't have do-overs for spelling tests, especially when your score is so good." (Teeth gritted, and cheeks getting red) "I want a do-over." It took several minutes before I could convince him, and he could accept that his score was wonderful. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and with pursed lips, he nodded and walked away. On my way home, I was reviewing the day, and thought of him, and I understood how he felt. I don't feel my score is that good.
I want a do-over, too.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Why?
I don't know if it is the full moon, too much humidity, a bad hair day, or fear of repeating the past, but I have mentally argued with God all day. This is all just SO UNFAIR. I was driving home, and saw a mother waiting for her young daughter to get off of a school bus. That used to be me. I see the female students in school, and think, once, that was my daughter with so many exciting unknowns in her future. Where her biggest worry was who was she going to sit with on the bus. She used to be so alive. Honor role, honor society, a ton of friends, so much ahead of her. And now, this. A life of rehabs, and worry and horrible memories. Sometimes when I think of the things I've been through with her, and the situations I've seen her drunk in, it makes me physically ill. When I think of the insanity of her reasoning concerning the past, it is so frustrating. This is so unfair. Why? Why us? Why can't we know that either the prayers will be answered or they won't. Why drag on a situation if it has no hope of getting better? Why, why, why? I want this all to be over. I'm craving my normal, again. I am just so overwhelmingly sad, today.
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