Traumatic incidents can take many forms in our lives, and most of us don't get out without being affected by at least one. Some of us experience domestic-violence related incidents. Some experience the death of a loved one due to an accident or illness. Others lose a job, a home, or a special person. Whatever the incident, it is necessary that we recognize that we are still healing and must continue to do so. Without that, we can never really move forward in our lives.
It doesn't really matter how much time passes, I'm discovering. For me, it'll be four years in October since "the incident." I mean, the bad stuff started before that, but the turning point all came down to that one day. Four years may seem like a long time, but it's really not. In the big timeline of my life, it's but a narrow strip of time. How about you? When did your "incident" happen? Last week, five years ago, ten years ago...more?
I've heard there are "steps" or stages in the process of healing. I personally have no use for formal steps. I know that certain things must happen when healing, but for me they haven't happened in stages or steps. Most of what I've experienced hasn't been written about, at least, not that I've found. It's my hope in writing this that you might see some of the things that have happened to you and acknowledge them as healing, or that you might be able to take one of the things that have happened to me to help you in your healing journey.
First, I have to acknowledge that stupid cliche, "time heals all wounds." You know what? The passing of time really did nothing for me, in and of itself. If all I had done was lay in bed and tick days off on a calendar for four years, I wouldn't be writing this. I wouldn't have been able to parent my children, hold down a job, or function. What time HAS allowed me to do is to space out the things I've done in my healing journey so that I didn't become overwhelmed by trying to do everything at once. For example, all I could do in those first few days was exist. I knew I had to breathe, to get out of bed and eat, and meet the basic needs of my children. There was no way I could even think about any of the other things that have happened since then in those early days. So I guess time has been a gift in that way.
Another thing I had to do was to define a new "normal" for me and my children. Our days before the incident, although not all pleasant or perfect, had a rhythm and sense of being normal. There was a sense of predictability that we all enjoyed. Afterwards, everything was immediately thrown into chaos, and at one point I remember saying to the children, "Although our days can't be the same as they were, and they won't be perfect just yet, we only need to figure out what normal is going to look like for now." For me, that meant starting a new job, being a single parent for the first time, re-enrolling the kids into public school from being homeschooled, and finding a sitter for my youngest child. Once we figured out what normal would look like, at least for the short term, we could relax a little. We actually stayed at that point for quite a while.
To be continued...
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Saturday, October 6, 2012
It All Comes Down to Normal
My heart was once wedged firmly
Directly between love and hate.
I truly loved those promises:
Marriage, children, and family.
They whispered to longings I felt
Deep within my being.
But I really hated the ugly realities of
Control, pain, humiliation, and so much more.
Sometimes I saw the light
In those briefest of times
When I found escape.
Glimmers of laughter
Rays of hope
Promises of happiness
And beauty and freedom.
I never asked for much,
No castles or mansions,
Fancy cars or diamonds.
All I wanted, all I longed for,
Hoped for, cried for,
Was a simple, normal life.
No more fighting late into the night,
No children crying, seeing mommy hurt.
No more berating, belittling
Throwing, screaming messes
Of despair and loss and fear.
And then, finally, it happened.
Late one night it ended, once and for all.
I breathed for what seemed like
The first time ever.
My heart started healing, flying free.
I finally have that life,
the one I always dreamed about.
Simple and happy.
Loving.
Normal.
Directly between love and hate.
I truly loved those promises:
Marriage, children, and family.
They whispered to longings I felt
Deep within my being.
But I really hated the ugly realities of
Control, pain, humiliation, and so much more.
Sometimes I saw the light
In those briefest of times
When I found escape.
Glimmers of laughter
Rays of hope
Promises of happiness
And beauty and freedom.
I never asked for much,
No castles or mansions,
Fancy cars or diamonds.
All I wanted, all I longed for,
Hoped for, cried for,
Was a simple, normal life.
No more fighting late into the night,
No children crying, seeing mommy hurt.
No more berating, belittling
Throwing, screaming messes
Of despair and loss and fear.
And then, finally, it happened.
Late one night it ended, once and for all.
I breathed for what seemed like
The first time ever.
My heart started healing, flying free.
I finally have that life,
the one I always dreamed about.
Simple and happy.
Loving.
Normal.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
A Sunday for the Dogs
Sunshine came through the windows as I laid on my bed with my two dogs this morning, waking up slowly as the day stretched before me. As always, Buddy came over from the other pillow and gave me a good morning kiss, lapping at my face with his sandpapery tongue. His kisses make me giggle every time, even though I know they're coming. I scratched behind his ears and he looked at me with big, thankful brown eyes. Lately he practically collapses against me on the bed after each kissing session; his legs are becoming more and more feeble and it's hard for him to hold himself steady on the soft mattress. It didn't help that Andy, who is much bigger than Buddy now, had found his way to the head of the bed, waiting for his turn to be loved and scratched. I thought again of how much my heart has grown because of these two dogs. Truthfully, I can't imagine life without them.
Until January of 2000, I didn't even consider myself a dog person. I had never liked the smell of any dog I'd met, and it had seemed they were far more trouble than they were worth...all that shedding hair, food and water bowls to trip over, and so on. We had taken care of a friend's very old dog for a few months that year and the kids had loved it. He had died three months previously, and the trip I was making to the shelter that cold winter day was to appease my youngsters. I was only looking, I'd kept saying to anyone who would listen. It was the kids who missed that old dog and I'd promised them I'd consider getting them a dog of their own. If, and only if, the shelter had a black lab, I'd think about it. (For some reason, I'd had it in my head that a black lab was the only proper breed for a family with young children.) Yes, I'd think about it, which for me meant going home and making a list of the pros and cons, the whys and why-nots, the projected costs, the possible obstacles, and maybe, just maybe, three or four weeks down the road, I'd make a decision.
Never in a million years would I have expected what happened next. Driving up to the shelter I had a feeling not unlike the one I have when I pull up to the grocery store...let's get in, get the unpleasant-but-necessary task over, and get out. Walking on the hard-packed snowy path towards the tired looking building, I noted the high chain-link fence and several doghouses spaced at intervals throughout the yard. I remember thinking they must have been for summertime use, when the nice folks at the shelter would bring the well-groomed pups out to play in the grassy yard. As I entered the gate, however, the noise alerted the dogs inside each and every one of those doghouses, who bounded out to the ends of their chains to jump and bark at my arrival. I couldn't believe the sheer number of them and the noise they made as they scrambled for my attention. It didn't escape me that it was freezing cold, these dogs were not the well-groomed pedigreed dogs I had pictured, and that the worn half-circles on the ground in front of their doghouses indicated that they had all been there for some time. I gasped and practically ran into the building, where I hurriedly told the woman (all in one breath) that I was there to look at black labs and black labs only, it was for my children, to replace a dog who had died, but I was sure they didn't have any black labs because, I could see, these were all abandoned dogs, so I should be on my way and I was sorry for bothering her. See, I tend to talk fast when I'm nervous and out of my element.
"Don't be nervous, now," the friendly woman said to me. "Would you believe, we actually have two black labs here at the moment." I wondered if should could tell that this was my first shelter visit. Maybe it was the wide eyes that gave me away? Whatever the case, she was as calm and slow-to-speak as I was nervous and jerky. "Why don't I take you out to meet a couple of my friends in the yard? What do you think?" "Sure," I managed to stammer. "I'd like that." Shirley, whose name I later found out, guided me on the path around each doghouse as I followed her obediently. I stopped suddenly when I saw a light-colored husky who looked just like the dog my family had owned when I was younger. I stepped toward it to pet it, when it growled and lunged toward me. I managed to step out of the chain's reach and Shirley turned back to speak to me. "Now he's not what you'd call a family dog," she said, without the admonishment I'd expected and deserved. I followed her to a faded red doghouse, where a large black dog jumped and barked with excitement. "This is Hunter," she told me. "He's a little older and very friendly." I felt timid and a little frightened as I moved closer to Hunter, who kept jumping and barking in greeting. I touched him, but he just kept going. I looked at Shirley and said, "He's nice. How about the other one?" She turned and led me about eight feet away to our right. I looked ahead and that's when I saw him...a medium sized, black dog, sitting quietly in front of his doghouse and quivering in anticipation, looking straight at me. His eyes were huge and brown and he looked so soft I wanted to touch him. Without a word I walked up to him and patted him on the head. He nuzzled my hand and without thinking about what I was doing, I knelt on one knee in front of him. He licked my face gently and backed off when I squealed in soft surprise. I kept touching him, petting him, and I couldn't take my eyes off his face. Shirley spoke softly behind me. "This is Ben. He's been here for about nine months. We expect he wandered away from his family as a pup, as young male dogs often do. We figure he's about a year old and it looks like he really likes you." I turned and looked up at her, hardly daring to breath. "Can I take him?" I asked in a near-whisper. "I mean...can I adopt him?"
And, as they say, the rest is history. Thirty minutes later, I had filled out the paperwork and paid the adoption fees. Shirley had instructed me on how to care for the frostbite my new dog had on his ears and paw and provided me with the name of a vet she trusted. She gave me a squeaky toy, a collar and leash, and a gallon sized baggie of dog food to start us off with, and she wished us well. On the way to the car, it occurred to me that I was a DOG OWNER. An official, certified, bona fide, leash-toting, owner of a canine. And he was getting into the back seat of my little Dodge Neon and going home with ME. And he didn't stink, he was adorable and I just knew I was going to love him. Truth is, I didn't even know about love for an animal until I loved Buddy. (I renamed him on the way home as I kept finding myself talking to him and adding "Right, little Buddy?" on the end of every sentence. Anyways, who names a dog Ben?) Buddy showed me right away how gentle and funny a dog can be, and he taught me about trust and loyalty. We walked every day and I learned that dogs have their own way of communicating. He learned basic commands quickly, was housebroken from Day 1, and hardly ever barked. Over the years, I've had happy times playing with Buddy, and he's been there for me to hug and cry with in sad times. We've laughed many times over the years about the fact that I was going to look at a dog "for the kids" and he ended up being my companion. When I became separated, Buddy took up the passenger side of my bed like a champ and he's there like a good friend every night. Two years ago in April, we went back to the shelter and found Buddy a playmate, Andy, who is as gentle as he is. They both sleep on my bed every night, they lie next to me at the table, and both would protect me with their lives if they had to.
You might be wondering how my thoughts landed here today as I sat down to write. Honestly, I didn't set out to write about a dog adoption story, but that it came out doesn't surprise me. Buddy's declining health has been heavy on my mind lately, and I know his days are numbered. I'm enjoying every moment I can with him, while watching him for signs of pain or distress. In August of 2010 Buddy had a large tumor on his leg and I thought I'd have to say goodbye then, but surgery delayed my fears. I've been grateful for this extra time and I can't imagine letting go of this dog, this being who has taught me so much about life and love. It will be sad for me, and for my children, who have grown up with Buddy as their childhood companion. And of course Andy will be affected. He doesn't even like to go outside without his brother, and I know he'll be lost without him. And so it is, that after a lot of deliberation and prayer on my part, I'm embarking on a new journey at the end of this month. I'll be picking up a new puppy on March 31st. A friend of mine just so happens to have a litter of eight puppies who need homes. I held my breath when I called her to ask, "Do you have any males?" and "Are any of them brindle colored?" When the answers were "yes" and "yes" I took that as my go-ahead from the universe. It's time. I was going to wait until I was down to one dog, but I can't do it. I can't let Andy be alone, even for one day. I know I'm trying to ease the heartbreak that will surely come anyway, but I'm hoping that another canine soul will be salve for our wounds. I also want Buddy to meet this new boy who will be around when he isn't, to impart his wisdom and instructions for this pup who will try to fill his shoes. It seems that we'll be a three-dog family for a while, and that's okay with me. Spring is coming and we'll all be able to play outside in our grassy, fenced-in yard as this new chapter begins.
Until January of 2000, I didn't even consider myself a dog person. I had never liked the smell of any dog I'd met, and it had seemed they were far more trouble than they were worth...all that shedding hair, food and water bowls to trip over, and so on. We had taken care of a friend's very old dog for a few months that year and the kids had loved it. He had died three months previously, and the trip I was making to the shelter that cold winter day was to appease my youngsters. I was only looking, I'd kept saying to anyone who would listen. It was the kids who missed that old dog and I'd promised them I'd consider getting them a dog of their own. If, and only if, the shelter had a black lab, I'd think about it. (For some reason, I'd had it in my head that a black lab was the only proper breed for a family with young children.) Yes, I'd think about it, which for me meant going home and making a list of the pros and cons, the whys and why-nots, the projected costs, the possible obstacles, and maybe, just maybe, three or four weeks down the road, I'd make a decision.
Never in a million years would I have expected what happened next. Driving up to the shelter I had a feeling not unlike the one I have when I pull up to the grocery store...let's get in, get the unpleasant-but-necessary task over, and get out. Walking on the hard-packed snowy path towards the tired looking building, I noted the high chain-link fence and several doghouses spaced at intervals throughout the yard. I remember thinking they must have been for summertime use, when the nice folks at the shelter would bring the well-groomed pups out to play in the grassy yard. As I entered the gate, however, the noise alerted the dogs inside each and every one of those doghouses, who bounded out to the ends of their chains to jump and bark at my arrival. I couldn't believe the sheer number of them and the noise they made as they scrambled for my attention. It didn't escape me that it was freezing cold, these dogs were not the well-groomed pedigreed dogs I had pictured, and that the worn half-circles on the ground in front of their doghouses indicated that they had all been there for some time. I gasped and practically ran into the building, where I hurriedly told the woman (all in one breath) that I was there to look at black labs and black labs only, it was for my children, to replace a dog who had died, but I was sure they didn't have any black labs because, I could see, these were all abandoned dogs, so I should be on my way and I was sorry for bothering her. See, I tend to talk fast when I'm nervous and out of my element.
"Don't be nervous, now," the friendly woman said to me. "Would you believe, we actually have two black labs here at the moment." I wondered if should could tell that this was my first shelter visit. Maybe it was the wide eyes that gave me away? Whatever the case, she was as calm and slow-to-speak as I was nervous and jerky. "Why don't I take you out to meet a couple of my friends in the yard? What do you think?" "Sure," I managed to stammer. "I'd like that." Shirley, whose name I later found out, guided me on the path around each doghouse as I followed her obediently. I stopped suddenly when I saw a light-colored husky who looked just like the dog my family had owned when I was younger. I stepped toward it to pet it, when it growled and lunged toward me. I managed to step out of the chain's reach and Shirley turned back to speak to me. "Now he's not what you'd call a family dog," she said, without the admonishment I'd expected and deserved. I followed her to a faded red doghouse, where a large black dog jumped and barked with excitement. "This is Hunter," she told me. "He's a little older and very friendly." I felt timid and a little frightened as I moved closer to Hunter, who kept jumping and barking in greeting. I touched him, but he just kept going. I looked at Shirley and said, "He's nice. How about the other one?" She turned and led me about eight feet away to our right. I looked ahead and that's when I saw him...a medium sized, black dog, sitting quietly in front of his doghouse and quivering in anticipation, looking straight at me. His eyes were huge and brown and he looked so soft I wanted to touch him. Without a word I walked up to him and patted him on the head. He nuzzled my hand and without thinking about what I was doing, I knelt on one knee in front of him. He licked my face gently and backed off when I squealed in soft surprise. I kept touching him, petting him, and I couldn't take my eyes off his face. Shirley spoke softly behind me. "This is Ben. He's been here for about nine months. We expect he wandered away from his family as a pup, as young male dogs often do. We figure he's about a year old and it looks like he really likes you." I turned and looked up at her, hardly daring to breath. "Can I take him?" I asked in a near-whisper. "I mean...can I adopt him?"
And, as they say, the rest is history. Thirty minutes later, I had filled out the paperwork and paid the adoption fees. Shirley had instructed me on how to care for the frostbite my new dog had on his ears and paw and provided me with the name of a vet she trusted. She gave me a squeaky toy, a collar and leash, and a gallon sized baggie of dog food to start us off with, and she wished us well. On the way to the car, it occurred to me that I was a DOG OWNER. An official, certified, bona fide, leash-toting, owner of a canine. And he was getting into the back seat of my little Dodge Neon and going home with ME. And he didn't stink, he was adorable and I just knew I was going to love him. Truth is, I didn't even know about love for an animal until I loved Buddy. (I renamed him on the way home as I kept finding myself talking to him and adding "Right, little Buddy?" on the end of every sentence. Anyways, who names a dog Ben?) Buddy showed me right away how gentle and funny a dog can be, and he taught me about trust and loyalty. We walked every day and I learned that dogs have their own way of communicating. He learned basic commands quickly, was housebroken from Day 1, and hardly ever barked. Over the years, I've had happy times playing with Buddy, and he's been there for me to hug and cry with in sad times. We've laughed many times over the years about the fact that I was going to look at a dog "for the kids" and he ended up being my companion. When I became separated, Buddy took up the passenger side of my bed like a champ and he's there like a good friend every night. Two years ago in April, we went back to the shelter and found Buddy a playmate, Andy, who is as gentle as he is. They both sleep on my bed every night, they lie next to me at the table, and both would protect me with their lives if they had to.
You might be wondering how my thoughts landed here today as I sat down to write. Honestly, I didn't set out to write about a dog adoption story, but that it came out doesn't surprise me. Buddy's declining health has been heavy on my mind lately, and I know his days are numbered. I'm enjoying every moment I can with him, while watching him for signs of pain or distress. In August of 2010 Buddy had a large tumor on his leg and I thought I'd have to say goodbye then, but surgery delayed my fears. I've been grateful for this extra time and I can't imagine letting go of this dog, this being who has taught me so much about life and love. It will be sad for me, and for my children, who have grown up with Buddy as their childhood companion. And of course Andy will be affected. He doesn't even like to go outside without his brother, and I know he'll be lost without him. And so it is, that after a lot of deliberation and prayer on my part, I'm embarking on a new journey at the end of this month. I'll be picking up a new puppy on March 31st. A friend of mine just so happens to have a litter of eight puppies who need homes. I held my breath when I called her to ask, "Do you have any males?" and "Are any of them brindle colored?" When the answers were "yes" and "yes" I took that as my go-ahead from the universe. It's time. I was going to wait until I was down to one dog, but I can't do it. I can't let Andy be alone, even for one day. I know I'm trying to ease the heartbreak that will surely come anyway, but I'm hoping that another canine soul will be salve for our wounds. I also want Buddy to meet this new boy who will be around when he isn't, to impart his wisdom and instructions for this pup who will try to fill his shoes. It seems that we'll be a three-dog family for a while, and that's okay with me. Spring is coming and we'll all be able to play outside in our grassy, fenced-in yard as this new chapter begins.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Searching the Morning
I lay there and I watch.
At first there's only darkness and all I can make out
are dark shapes that cannot be identified.
It makes me wonder what's out there;
not just beyond this window, but beyond this moment.
What dark shapes will I encounter on this day...in this week?
Pink streaks slowly emerge.
They grow steadily across the sky
in pretty layers between the dark shapes.
It reminds me of the beauty all around us;
not always visible, but always there.
Will I see the beauty if I look for it on this day...in this week?
Maybe it's a choice.
Perhaps each day I need to choose
whether to see darkness or to see beauty.
It compels me to search inside myself;
not to find who I am, but what it is I choose to do.
Is that the choice we all must face...each day...each week?
At first there's only darkness and all I can make out
are dark shapes that cannot be identified.
It makes me wonder what's out there;
not just beyond this window, but beyond this moment.
What dark shapes will I encounter on this day...in this week?
Pink streaks slowly emerge.
They grow steadily across the sky
in pretty layers between the dark shapes.
It reminds me of the beauty all around us;
not always visible, but always there.
Will I see the beauty if I look for it on this day...in this week?
Maybe it's a choice.
Perhaps each day I need to choose
whether to see darkness or to see beauty.
It compels me to search inside myself;
not to find who I am, but what it is I choose to do.
Is that the choice we all must face...each day...each week?
Friday, December 16, 2011
The Friendly Beasts
Jesus our brother, kind and good, Was humbly born in a stable rude, And the friendly beasts around Him stood, Jesus our brother, kind and good.
Back then, I didn't know much about Jesus. Truthfully, I didn't know much about anything. It was December of my kindergarten year. My teacher, Miss Walker, was the prettiest, kindest person I had ever known. Each morning she greeted us with a friendly smile as we entered our classroom. She let us use the colorful magnets on the chalkboard and ride the tricycle on the shiny floors. She taught us about letters and numbers and how to play nicely with others.
"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown, "I carried His mother up hill and down; I carried her safely to Bethlehem town." "I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown.
In my home we didn't sing songs about Jesus. I was the middle child who lived with my mother, my older brother Scotty, and my younger sister Deedee. My dad had left the summer before and what my mother played on her record player, over and over, were songs by Tammy Wynette and Freddy Fender. I knew the lyrics to the song D-I-V-O-R-C-E before I even knew what letters were. To tell you the truth, my dad being gone didn't affect me that much because he had never really spent time with me. But my mom sitting in her chair with her box of tissues, chain smoking and crying to "Before the Next Teardrop Falls" while she stared blankly off into space, now that affected my life.
"I," said the cow, all white and red, "I gave Him my manger for a bed; I gave Him my hay to pillow His head." "I," said the cow, all white and red.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, we were busy preparing for our school Christmas concert. Back then we were allowed to talk about the birth of Jesus in school. I even remember singing hymns and patriotic songs after we recited the Pledge of Allegiance each day. Most of my friends went to church on Sundays and to church school on Wednesdays. What I knew about church was the little I had learned when my neighbor friend, Vicky, had taken me there on two occasions the previous summer. We had glued dried split peas into a small plastic butter bowl and had played outside in the softest green grass I had ever felt. I remembered sitting on a blanket outside and singing while someone played a guitar, and that no one had smoked cigarettes or cried there. And I remembered that the people at that church had looked at me when they talked to me.
"I," said the sheep, with curly horn, "I gave Him my wool for His blanket warm; He wore my coat on Christmas morn." "I," said the sheep, with curly horn.
On school days my brother and I would get up and dressed, then pour cereal for ourselves while our mother slept in. We then waited by the front door for the school bus to come. If our little sister woke up, we had to tell her to stay put when we left. Once she followed us out to the bus in her pink footy pajamas and I had to take her back into the house! On more than one occasion we missed the bus and had to walk to school; thankfully it was close and my brother knew the way. When winter arrived it was cold and windy and sometimes the bus going to the Catholic school would pick us up and give us a ride to the elementary school. One day a sweet, older lady in the office gave us both warm hats and mittens when we got there with red noses and fingers from the cold walk.
"I," said the dove from the rafters high, "Cooed Him to sleep that He should not cry; We cooed Him to sleep, my mate and I." "I," said the dove from the rafters high.
Miss Walker taught us songs around the piano in our classroom. It was my favorite time of day; although I was painfully shy and saw myself as very different from the other girls, when I sang I forgot about all of that and just let myself feel. Music spoke to me, lifted me, made me feel equal. I could match the notes and rhythms I heard and singing made me delightfully happy. I learned "America the Beautiful", "You're a Grand Old Flag", and "This Little Light of Mine." I was overjoyed when we learned "Up on the Housetop" and "Jingle Bells" while preparing for Christmas with the other kindergarten classes. But the song that spoke to me the most was "The Friendly Beasts." This song was to be the big finale of our Christmas Concert. Our entire grade would sing with all of the first graders - my brother's grade! I was so proud to be singing with my big brother.
"I," said the camel, yellow and black, "Over the desert, upon my back; I brought Him a gift in the Wise Men's pack." "I," said the camel, yellow and black.
The morning of the concert came and we went into the auditorium to rehearse. I had never been in there and couldn't believe how huge it was! We entered through the big doors and gazed up at the stage. It was hard to walk down the steeply sloped aisle in my slippery shoes. The stage curtains were green velvet and seemed to reach up to the sky. Once at the front, we got to stand on risers; first graders in back and kindergartners in front. I was in the very front row. We sang and it sounded like angels. After we finished, our teachers gave us our instructions for that night. We were to dress up and be there at 6:00, and go straight to our classrooms to wait. I was nearly jumping up and down with excitement!
After dinner that evening, my brother and I got ourselves dressed in our very best clothes. We reminded our weeping mother that we had to be at the school at 6:00, begging her to get ready so we wouldn't be late. She said she didn't want to go to a dumb concert, that she was tired and didn't feel like listening to "little brats sing Christmas songs." I started to cry. My brother got angrier than I had ever seen him get and he yelled at her, "Well you know what? We're going to that concert, even if we have to go without you!" Turning to me, he said, "Come on, Sissy. Let's go."
It was dark and snowy, but Scotty held my hand as we walked all the way there. I was scared and little tears trickled down my cheeks. My feet were cold and I felt very small in the world. When we got to the school, my brother took me to my classroom and then left to go to his. I was the first one there. Miss Walker looked at me and smiled her beautiful smile. "Come here," she said gently, and led me to the sink. She washed my face and brushed my hair, tying a white ribbon into my plain hair. "There," she said, giving me a hug, "now you're all ready."
I felt like a princess as we sang that night. I thought about that baby we sang about, that little Jesus, and how special He must have been for all of those animals to offer their kindness to Him. I thought about all of the kindnesses that had been shown to me. I thought about my teacher, those mittens, those bus rides, and the warmth of that hug and hair ribbon, and I knew in my heart that I, too, must be very special.
Thus every beast by some good spell, In the stable dark was glad to tell, Of the gift he gave Emmanuel, The gift he gave Emmanuel.
Back then, I didn't know much about Jesus. Truthfully, I didn't know much about anything. It was December of my kindergarten year. My teacher, Miss Walker, was the prettiest, kindest person I had ever known. Each morning she greeted us with a friendly smile as we entered our classroom. She let us use the colorful magnets on the chalkboard and ride the tricycle on the shiny floors. She taught us about letters and numbers and how to play nicely with others.
"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown, "I carried His mother up hill and down; I carried her safely to Bethlehem town." "I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown.
In my home we didn't sing songs about Jesus. I was the middle child who lived with my mother, my older brother Scotty, and my younger sister Deedee. My dad had left the summer before and what my mother played on her record player, over and over, were songs by Tammy Wynette and Freddy Fender. I knew the lyrics to the song D-I-V-O-R-C-E before I even knew what letters were. To tell you the truth, my dad being gone didn't affect me that much because he had never really spent time with me. But my mom sitting in her chair with her box of tissues, chain smoking and crying to "Before the Next Teardrop Falls" while she stared blankly off into space, now that affected my life.
"I," said the cow, all white and red, "I gave Him my manger for a bed; I gave Him my hay to pillow His head." "I," said the cow, all white and red.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, we were busy preparing for our school Christmas concert. Back then we were allowed to talk about the birth of Jesus in school. I even remember singing hymns and patriotic songs after we recited the Pledge of Allegiance each day. Most of my friends went to church on Sundays and to church school on Wednesdays. What I knew about church was the little I had learned when my neighbor friend, Vicky, had taken me there on two occasions the previous summer. We had glued dried split peas into a small plastic butter bowl and had played outside in the softest green grass I had ever felt. I remembered sitting on a blanket outside and singing while someone played a guitar, and that no one had smoked cigarettes or cried there. And I remembered that the people at that church had looked at me when they talked to me.
"I," said the sheep, with curly horn, "I gave Him my wool for His blanket warm; He wore my coat on Christmas morn." "I," said the sheep, with curly horn.
On school days my brother and I would get up and dressed, then pour cereal for ourselves while our mother slept in. We then waited by the front door for the school bus to come. If our little sister woke up, we had to tell her to stay put when we left. Once she followed us out to the bus in her pink footy pajamas and I had to take her back into the house! On more than one occasion we missed the bus and had to walk to school; thankfully it was close and my brother knew the way. When winter arrived it was cold and windy and sometimes the bus going to the Catholic school would pick us up and give us a ride to the elementary school. One day a sweet, older lady in the office gave us both warm hats and mittens when we got there with red noses and fingers from the cold walk.
"I," said the dove from the rafters high, "Cooed Him to sleep that He should not cry; We cooed Him to sleep, my mate and I." "I," said the dove from the rafters high.
Miss Walker taught us songs around the piano in our classroom. It was my favorite time of day; although I was painfully shy and saw myself as very different from the other girls, when I sang I forgot about all of that and just let myself feel. Music spoke to me, lifted me, made me feel equal. I could match the notes and rhythms I heard and singing made me delightfully happy. I learned "America the Beautiful", "You're a Grand Old Flag", and "This Little Light of Mine." I was overjoyed when we learned "Up on the Housetop" and "Jingle Bells" while preparing for Christmas with the other kindergarten classes. But the song that spoke to me the most was "The Friendly Beasts." This song was to be the big finale of our Christmas Concert. Our entire grade would sing with all of the first graders - my brother's grade! I was so proud to be singing with my big brother.
"I," said the camel, yellow and black, "Over the desert, upon my back; I brought Him a gift in the Wise Men's pack." "I," said the camel, yellow and black.
The morning of the concert came and we went into the auditorium to rehearse. I had never been in there and couldn't believe how huge it was! We entered through the big doors and gazed up at the stage. It was hard to walk down the steeply sloped aisle in my slippery shoes. The stage curtains were green velvet and seemed to reach up to the sky. Once at the front, we got to stand on risers; first graders in back and kindergartners in front. I was in the very front row. We sang and it sounded like angels. After we finished, our teachers gave us our instructions for that night. We were to dress up and be there at 6:00, and go straight to our classrooms to wait. I was nearly jumping up and down with excitement!
After dinner that evening, my brother and I got ourselves dressed in our very best clothes. We reminded our weeping mother that we had to be at the school at 6:00, begging her to get ready so we wouldn't be late. She said she didn't want to go to a dumb concert, that she was tired and didn't feel like listening to "little brats sing Christmas songs." I started to cry. My brother got angrier than I had ever seen him get and he yelled at her, "Well you know what? We're going to that concert, even if we have to go without you!" Turning to me, he said, "Come on, Sissy. Let's go."
It was dark and snowy, but Scotty held my hand as we walked all the way there. I was scared and little tears trickled down my cheeks. My feet were cold and I felt very small in the world. When we got to the school, my brother took me to my classroom and then left to go to his. I was the first one there. Miss Walker looked at me and smiled her beautiful smile. "Come here," she said gently, and led me to the sink. She washed my face and brushed my hair, tying a white ribbon into my plain hair. "There," she said, giving me a hug, "now you're all ready."
I felt like a princess as we sang that night. I thought about that baby we sang about, that little Jesus, and how special He must have been for all of those animals to offer their kindness to Him. I thought about all of the kindnesses that had been shown to me. I thought about my teacher, those mittens, those bus rides, and the warmth of that hug and hair ribbon, and I knew in my heart that I, too, must be very special.
Thus every beast by some good spell, In the stable dark was glad to tell, Of the gift he gave Emmanuel, The gift he gave Emmanuel.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
If It Hadn't Happened That Way
Tuesday morning, November 8, 7:15am
It was foggy on the way to work that morning, the dense fog thicker than I'd ever driven in and getting thicker by the minute. I could barely see where I was going and I feared hitting a pedestrian or one of the Amish buggies that I'd frequently passed on this road. I'd been thinking hard for the past hour as I drove, worrying about finances, thinking how lean this Christmas would be. I prayed my children would understand how hard I'd been working to keep all of the bills paid and to provide for them on my own. I realized I'd have to take on the extra work hours that had been offered to me that week, even though it meant being away from the kids a little bit more each week. I felt discouraged and wondered how I was going to make the holidays happy for everyone.
Crawling along at 40 miles per hour, I realized I was going so slowly I could easily be hit by someone approaching quickly from behind. Alternately watching my speedometer and glancing at the yellow lines to guide myself, I increased my speed to 50 mph. Less than a minute after getting up to speed, I looked up and made out the unmistakable shape of the stop sign to my right and realized that I was already at the T in the road! I panicked and stomped my foot hard on the brake pedal. The car skidded out of control, tires screeching on the damp pavement as I continued to move forward at the same speed, my steering wheel completely useless.
"Help me, God!" I yelled as I turned the wheel to the right and tried ineffectively to regain control. I braced for impact, trying to remember what lie past the sign at this particular intersection, envisioning a field of trees. The car fishtailed and lurched to a sudden stop on the side of the road, facing the wrong direction. I looked out the window beside me and saw a tree so close, I could have reached out and touched it. Before I could even exhale though, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw the lights of a vehicle in the wrong lane and heading straight for me, going way too fast.
"Please God! No!" I cried. Knowing there wasn't time to do anything else, I squeezed my eyes shut, covered my head with my arms, and waited for the crash.
When nothing happened, I opened my eyes and looked around wildly. There were no lights behind me, but on the road ahead of me I saw the back of a large white vehicle as it drove away from me. Shaking hard, I took a deep breath and pulled the car over to the right hand shoulder to get out of traffic.
Once stopped, I turned off the car, laid my head on the steering wheel and began to cry. I thought of what could have happened, of shattered glass and bloody bodies, of a police officer telling my children that their mother had died in an unfortunate accident. My body shaking uncontrollably, I lifted my head towards a sky I couldn't see.
"Thank you, God, for sparing my life," I whispered, still sobbing softly.
Out of the fog ahead of me, I saw a white vehicle approach and pull over to the opposite shoulder. Oh, great, I thought. Here it comes...the anger, wrath and scorn of someone whose day (or life) I had nearly ruined.
A well-dressed woman emerged from the SUV and walked quickly towards me, a bluetooth device clamped to her right ear. As she drew closer, I could see that she looked more concerned than angry and I wiped at my eyes before opening my door to stand and greet her. As I stepped around the door, her arms went around me and I felt myself grow weak. I sobbed an apology into her shoulder, "I'm sorry...I didn't mean...I couldn't see..."
"Shhh," she whispered. "I just had to come back to make sure you were okay." She leaned back and looked into my face, care and concern written all over hers.
"I'm okay, just a little shaken up," I said nervously. "I thought I was going to hit the tree and then thought you were going to hit me...how did you get around me like that?"
"Let's just say this ain't my first rodeo," she said cryptically. Before I had a chance to ask anything else, she pointed down the road from the way she had just come. "I know you're heading the other way, but I want you to drive down that way about a quarter of a mile. There's a driveway on the right you can pull into and turn around. I don't want you to get hit if you try to turn around in this fog."
"Okay," I replied. "Thank you so much."
"Have a good day," she smiled warmly, before turning around and heading towards her car.
I did as she'd instructed and drove down the road to turn around. On the way back I looked for her vehicle, knowing we would pass each other on the way to our respective jobs. Instead of seeing a white vehicle, though, I saw the yellow of a school bus stopped in the road at the intersection I had just slid through. No lights were flashing, but I slowed to stop, and that's when I saw the shiny pieces of yellow in the road. Looking up, I noticed the damage to the front of the bus. The pieces in the road were parts of the shattered hood of the school bus. Driving slowly around to see if I could park and help, I saw a small, black car behind the bus. It, too, was severely damaged, with windows smashed. People were milling about, some talking on cell phones and some crying.
Hearing sirens approach, I continued slowly on, knowing there was nothing I could do to help and that I needed to clear the way for rescue personnel. As I drove, I continued to search for the white SUV, but never did see it. About a mile down the road, the fog lifted and the sun shone brightly. By the time I got to work, it was all just a memory.
Throughout that day and several days that followed, I couldn't shake the feeling that something surreal had happened on the road that day. Why did my car stop just before the tree? Who was the woman who had seemed to come out of nowhere and then vanish? How had she managed to avoid my car? How did she know which way I had been intending to go?
I can't help but wonder if it was an angel, sent from God to protect me. If I had hit that tree I might have been seriously injured. If I hadn't driven down the road to turn around as the woman had instructed, I would have been in the same intersection with the school bus. If she hadn't stopped to comfort me, I might not have made it to work that day.
I heard on the radio the next morning that six children and a driver had been injured in the school bus accident. I don't know the extent of their injuries and can't bring myself to find out. I do, however, continue to thank God for sparing me that day, for not taking me away from my family or letting me become injured and unable to work. I know, now more than ever, that He has a plan for ME.
This year our holidays will be happy, after all. May God keep you and your family safe throughout this Thanksgiving and Christmas season.
It was foggy on the way to work that morning, the dense fog thicker than I'd ever driven in and getting thicker by the minute. I could barely see where I was going and I feared hitting a pedestrian or one of the Amish buggies that I'd frequently passed on this road. I'd been thinking hard for the past hour as I drove, worrying about finances, thinking how lean this Christmas would be. I prayed my children would understand how hard I'd been working to keep all of the bills paid and to provide for them on my own. I realized I'd have to take on the extra work hours that had been offered to me that week, even though it meant being away from the kids a little bit more each week. I felt discouraged and wondered how I was going to make the holidays happy for everyone.
Crawling along at 40 miles per hour, I realized I was going so slowly I could easily be hit by someone approaching quickly from behind. Alternately watching my speedometer and glancing at the yellow lines to guide myself, I increased my speed to 50 mph. Less than a minute after getting up to speed, I looked up and made out the unmistakable shape of the stop sign to my right and realized that I was already at the T in the road! I panicked and stomped my foot hard on the brake pedal. The car skidded out of control, tires screeching on the damp pavement as I continued to move forward at the same speed, my steering wheel completely useless.
"Help me, God!" I yelled as I turned the wheel to the right and tried ineffectively to regain control. I braced for impact, trying to remember what lie past the sign at this particular intersection, envisioning a field of trees. The car fishtailed and lurched to a sudden stop on the side of the road, facing the wrong direction. I looked out the window beside me and saw a tree so close, I could have reached out and touched it. Before I could even exhale though, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw the lights of a vehicle in the wrong lane and heading straight for me, going way too fast.
"Please God! No!" I cried. Knowing there wasn't time to do anything else, I squeezed my eyes shut, covered my head with my arms, and waited for the crash.
When nothing happened, I opened my eyes and looked around wildly. There were no lights behind me, but on the road ahead of me I saw the back of a large white vehicle as it drove away from me. Shaking hard, I took a deep breath and pulled the car over to the right hand shoulder to get out of traffic.
Once stopped, I turned off the car, laid my head on the steering wheel and began to cry. I thought of what could have happened, of shattered glass and bloody bodies, of a police officer telling my children that their mother had died in an unfortunate accident. My body shaking uncontrollably, I lifted my head towards a sky I couldn't see.
"Thank you, God, for sparing my life," I whispered, still sobbing softly.
Out of the fog ahead of me, I saw a white vehicle approach and pull over to the opposite shoulder. Oh, great, I thought. Here it comes...the anger, wrath and scorn of someone whose day (or life) I had nearly ruined.
A well-dressed woman emerged from the SUV and walked quickly towards me, a bluetooth device clamped to her right ear. As she drew closer, I could see that she looked more concerned than angry and I wiped at my eyes before opening my door to stand and greet her. As I stepped around the door, her arms went around me and I felt myself grow weak. I sobbed an apology into her shoulder, "I'm sorry...I didn't mean...I couldn't see..."
"Shhh," she whispered. "I just had to come back to make sure you were okay." She leaned back and looked into my face, care and concern written all over hers.
"I'm okay, just a little shaken up," I said nervously. "I thought I was going to hit the tree and then thought you were going to hit me...how did you get around me like that?"
"Let's just say this ain't my first rodeo," she said cryptically. Before I had a chance to ask anything else, she pointed down the road from the way she had just come. "I know you're heading the other way, but I want you to drive down that way about a quarter of a mile. There's a driveway on the right you can pull into and turn around. I don't want you to get hit if you try to turn around in this fog."
"Okay," I replied. "Thank you so much."
"Have a good day," she smiled warmly, before turning around and heading towards her car.
I did as she'd instructed and drove down the road to turn around. On the way back I looked for her vehicle, knowing we would pass each other on the way to our respective jobs. Instead of seeing a white vehicle, though, I saw the yellow of a school bus stopped in the road at the intersection I had just slid through. No lights were flashing, but I slowed to stop, and that's when I saw the shiny pieces of yellow in the road. Looking up, I noticed the damage to the front of the bus. The pieces in the road were parts of the shattered hood of the school bus. Driving slowly around to see if I could park and help, I saw a small, black car behind the bus. It, too, was severely damaged, with windows smashed. People were milling about, some talking on cell phones and some crying.
Hearing sirens approach, I continued slowly on, knowing there was nothing I could do to help and that I needed to clear the way for rescue personnel. As I drove, I continued to search for the white SUV, but never did see it. About a mile down the road, the fog lifted and the sun shone brightly. By the time I got to work, it was all just a memory.
Throughout that day and several days that followed, I couldn't shake the feeling that something surreal had happened on the road that day. Why did my car stop just before the tree? Who was the woman who had seemed to come out of nowhere and then vanish? How had she managed to avoid my car? How did she know which way I had been intending to go?
I can't help but wonder if it was an angel, sent from God to protect me. If I had hit that tree I might have been seriously injured. If I hadn't driven down the road to turn around as the woman had instructed, I would have been in the same intersection with the school bus. If she hadn't stopped to comfort me, I might not have made it to work that day.
I heard on the radio the next morning that six children and a driver had been injured in the school bus accident. I don't know the extent of their injuries and can't bring myself to find out. I do, however, continue to thank God for sparing me that day, for not taking me away from my family or letting me become injured and unable to work. I know, now more than ever, that He has a plan for ME.
This year our holidays will be happy, after all. May God keep you and your family safe throughout this Thanksgiving and Christmas season.
Monday, September 26, 2011
De-cluttering
After I watched one of my favorite TV shows a couple of nights ago, it occurred to me that I never used to be able to watch favorite shows in "real time." It seemed I never had time to sit down and enjoy anything, for that matter! I reflected on what has changed in my life...I mean, I still have an (almost) full time job, I still have six children (one that I'm parenting from a distance now that she's in college), and now I'm down to one car/driver in the house. It would seem that I would be even busier, right?
What has changed is that we de-cluttered our lives.
We started with de-cluttering our space. We cleared and got rid of some bookshelves and other little stands that seemed to catch tons of clutter. We pared kitchen items down to just what we use on a regular basis. Clothing was sorted and a lot was given away; the rest was organized into dressers or baskets on top of dressers (great for little ones to manage underwear and socks!). We started keeping things in the areas we use them. Even though we still have some trouble spots to work on, this has helped tremendously!!
When I can see what's around me, find what I'm looking for efficiently, and have more space to move and work, I feel much better. I'm more productive. I'm happier. (Ask the children...when they want to "butter me up," they simply tidy the kitchen and make sure the dishes are done).
The second thing we did is to de-clutter our calendars. We no longer have 6 activities going on each week. To be truthful, I had to come to some key understandings here.
1. I am only ONE person and cannot do everything.
2. If my children want to be somewhere badly enough, sometimes they have to get creative or ask for help to get a ride, both valuable skills.
3. My children will not be failures in life if they don't participate in soccer, basketball, hockey, dance, karate AND piano lessons all by the time they are 15 years old.
4. It's okay to say no to a life that society has created and feel free to create the life that's right for me and my children.
Seriously, we were over-scheduled. Every night consisted of rushing home, rushing dinner, rushing to an activity, rushing homework, rushing bedtime, and getting up to get back on that wheel the next morning. Homework was often neglected. Notes for school were often forgotten. Sometimes the little ones didn't even get a bath! I felt like a rotten parent most of the time.
It wasn't healthy. We weren't eating right, we weren't sleeping enough, we weren't enjoying our time together, and we were getting crankier by the day. At the rate we were going, we would have all become grumpy old people by the time the children were 20.
I de-cluttered my work schedule, too. I pared my days down by .1, which equates to 18 days in a school year. At this point in our lives, that bit of time with my children is more valuable than the bit of money I'm able to keep after subtracting mileage, daycare, and taxes.
NOW... we all try to come straight home every night, where we have a system for getting dinner on the table. We talk about our day. We laugh. We plan dinner for the next day. We go through the papers in the backpacks and work on homework together. We share favorite books. I have time to do dishes and clean up the house while I chat with my children. We all have some time to ourselves to play outside, to play a video game, to talk to friends on the phone, or simply to sit and do nothing. We have a system for evening showers and bed time. Everyone is clean and in bed by 10:00 on most nights, myself included. Sometimes I even go to bed at 9:00.
Now that we've de-cluttered, we will take stock again to be sure everyone's needs are being met. My children don't seem to miss running around every night. They have more time to be kids. I will make sure they are liking the new changes, and adjust where I need to.
But not now...my favorite show is on. :)
What has changed is that we de-cluttered our lives.
We started with de-cluttering our space. We cleared and got rid of some bookshelves and other little stands that seemed to catch tons of clutter. We pared kitchen items down to just what we use on a regular basis. Clothing was sorted and a lot was given away; the rest was organized into dressers or baskets on top of dressers (great for little ones to manage underwear and socks!). We started keeping things in the areas we use them. Even though we still have some trouble spots to work on, this has helped tremendously!!
When I can see what's around me, find what I'm looking for efficiently, and have more space to move and work, I feel much better. I'm more productive. I'm happier. (Ask the children...when they want to "butter me up," they simply tidy the kitchen and make sure the dishes are done).
The second thing we did is to de-clutter our calendars. We no longer have 6 activities going on each week. To be truthful, I had to come to some key understandings here.
1. I am only ONE person and cannot do everything.
2. If my children want to be somewhere badly enough, sometimes they have to get creative or ask for help to get a ride, both valuable skills.
3. My children will not be failures in life if they don't participate in soccer, basketball, hockey, dance, karate AND piano lessons all by the time they are 15 years old.
4. It's okay to say no to a life that society has created and feel free to create the life that's right for me and my children.
Seriously, we were over-scheduled. Every night consisted of rushing home, rushing dinner, rushing to an activity, rushing homework, rushing bedtime, and getting up to get back on that wheel the next morning. Homework was often neglected. Notes for school were often forgotten. Sometimes the little ones didn't even get a bath! I felt like a rotten parent most of the time.
It wasn't healthy. We weren't eating right, we weren't sleeping enough, we weren't enjoying our time together, and we were getting crankier by the day. At the rate we were going, we would have all become grumpy old people by the time the children were 20.
I de-cluttered my work schedule, too. I pared my days down by .1, which equates to 18 days in a school year. At this point in our lives, that bit of time with my children is more valuable than the bit of money I'm able to keep after subtracting mileage, daycare, and taxes.
NOW... we all try to come straight home every night, where we have a system for getting dinner on the table. We talk about our day. We laugh. We plan dinner for the next day. We go through the papers in the backpacks and work on homework together. We share favorite books. I have time to do dishes and clean up the house while I chat with my children. We all have some time to ourselves to play outside, to play a video game, to talk to friends on the phone, or simply to sit and do nothing. We have a system for evening showers and bed time. Everyone is clean and in bed by 10:00 on most nights, myself included. Sometimes I even go to bed at 9:00.
Now that we've de-cluttered, we will take stock again to be sure everyone's needs are being met. My children don't seem to miss running around every night. They have more time to be kids. I will make sure they are liking the new changes, and adjust where I need to.
But not now...my favorite show is on. :)
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