Ooops...I did it again.

Somewhere in the midst of this day, I lost her. I forgot my daughter's 18th birthday. It wasn't until 5:10 in the evening, while working in the cafe at my church, that I realized the date. A pastor of our church came in and wanted to put his apple turnover and iced tea on his tab. I opened the book to record the amount and when I asked "What is the date?", the words, "the 26th. June 26th."-- sharp as a sword stabbed me in the throat. 

 And time stood still.

Ouch. I cannot breathe. I am standing here and I need to smile because if I do not smile, and if I speak, I may explode. And when the explosion erupts every painful, fearful, awful part of me is going to flood this whole cafe. I turn away and I move on to the next task. 

Then, a college girl comes in to buy a bag of bar-b-cue potato chips. She smiles and asks, "How are you holding up with everyone being gone?"

What?! 

Oh...the trip. My husband is on a trip. 

I look at her and I whisper. "I forgot today was the birthday of our daughter who passed away. And, I just remembered." My eyes are welling up and the poor girl doesn't know what to do. She is full of compassion, but she is unsure of how to respond--why did I do that to her?

Voices are intruding. "What kind of mother are you?" Push it down. "Do you even miss her?" Get something to drink, wipe a table, make a panini--do something for Heaven's sake. But, do not talk, again. 

10 minutes later. I am calm. I am living in the full knowledge that there is hardly anything that the voice can say that would make me feel worse than I already feel at this moment. But, I know that I have to battle the voice. Letting the voice win just gives the voice ground. So, I want to argue my case with the voice---"I am concerning myself with the living. This is a good sign! This is a sign of healing!"

The voice acknowledges my plea, with a quick quip. "This is a sign of forgetting."

I have forgotten her birthday. This happened once before; I showed myself grace for it--and now it has happened again. How long until I forget her all together? How long until I feel nothing?

And then, a customer distracts me from the voice's snarl. A 20-something woman orders an iced coffee...and she has a gentle disposition. I am drawn to her as we talk of coffee habits. As the conversation unfolds she realizes who I am and she says she knows my husband. She goes on to tell me that she prayed with him once. 

I listen to her and I think about how much I miss him tonight and how it feels good to hear from her. Then she says, "It was a year ago and I was having a really hard time because my nephew had just died, my sister's son. He wasn't even 3 years old and he died of leukemia. And I was having a hard time, and then he talked about your daughter that died and I knew I needed to talk to him."

I cannot breathe again. She sees my eyes filling with tears, and I feel guilty because I know she thinks I am sheddidng tears for her nephew--but really, all I can think about is my baby girl and how I want to go back and hold her again. I am overwhelmed and confused because I cannot imagine her as an 18-year-old...an adult...and so, I hold onto the memory of her as tightly as I can. The memory of when she was here and she was mine. And somehow, I do all of this without breathing and without dying. And I don't know how I do that. 

Then, she stops talking. And we stand there. And I don't know what to say. So, I ask, "How is your sister doing, now?" 

She goes on to share about how her sister is involved with doing fundraisers to help fight cancer. She says that her sister is having a hard time because the anniversary is coming up and she has a hard time with dates.  And the whole time she is talking, I am thinking, "This is really bizarre. I understand you love me, Lord. I get that you watch over me...but really? Is this really happening?" 

Then the young woman asks, "Can I ask, what happened with your daughter?"

In this moment, I hold my breath and I walk to a corner in the cafe and motion for her to follow. I am sure that she thinks I am insane, and I then I say. "Today is her birthday. And, I just need to tell you this because I want you to know how awesome God is. I cannot believe that we met today and you shared your nephew's story with me."

The tears are coming now, and I don't think that I can stop them, but I want to stop them, because there are things that need to be said. 

"And, you can tell your sister, that it does get better, in fact, even today, I was so busy living life and being involved in the lives of the people who are here, that I actually forgot about the date on the calendar." 

Later, I stood and starred out the window of the cafe. And I thought to myself, "I can't believe I forgot." And, I swear, I heard a voice. But, this voice was the voice of the Lord, and he said, "Yes, you did. But, I didn't." 

Crash Landing on Fantasy Island

photo credit to http://wnymedia.net

One of the fantasies that I have had for most of my adult life is that of the life of the adult woman who lives alone. It is not something that I want for myself now, I happen to love my husband a great deal. It has always been more of a longing for what I have felt I missed out on.

Other than 3 months when I was in my early 20's I have always lived with my family. I lived with the family I grew up with, and then I married my husband and he became "my family".  Because of this, I have always had this feeling that I missed out on that opportunity to live as an individual with her own...well...her own everything.

When I have watched a movie and the heroine lives alone (i.e. While You Were Sleeping, When Harry Met Sally, The Wedding Planner, You've Got Mail) I am always slightly envious of the fictional character for having that opportunity that I never really had. (3 months isn't really long enough to even unpack the toaster). And, here is the weird part, if she has a roommate, I am not jealous. Not interested in the slightest. I guess having a roommate changes the situation and it no longer feeds my fantasy.

So, the rules of the fantasy seem to be young (too late) and single (No, thank you--my man's a keeper) and living alone. Well, over the last week, I have been reexamining this fantasy and why it had the power to make me feel that I "missed out on something". Why did the idea of living alone before I met the man I was to marry sometimes tempt me into being less than content with who I am today?  I mean, the fantasy wasn't about marrying someone else. It was about who I was and how I lived before I married.

And, over the last week I have spent more time alone than I have in my whole life. I have spent more time, with less conversation, than ever before.  In some ways, it is as if I am the latest guest on the 70's hit series, Fantasy Island.  I keep looking over my shoulder waiting for Ricardo Montelbon to step from behind a palm tree and I keep listening for Tattoo to hollar, "The plane, the plane!"

This being alone is like a fantasy where my house stays relatively clean, and I can eat when I want and I can read, or type or sit and stare at my cat chase a lizard. And, somewhere in the midst of it all,  I realized that I'm still me. I am equally me and if I had ever had the opportunity to live alone in a cute little apartment with light blue appliances, I wouldn't be more me. I would be the same amount of me. I am not less me because I went from a home with my parents to a home with my husband. I am just as much me. I never wasn't me and I was never less me.

I have believed a lie. The lie was that I had never really discovered who I was because in order to discover who I was, I would need to be completely separate from all people called "family" or "husband". As if I am an island that doesn't exist on any map, until it is charted.

That isn't anywhere in scripture. Nowhere. But what is in scripture is this: "In Him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit." Where I lived before I married was in the house of the Lord. That is where I lived. And that is where I have to live now, because there are days when I cannot eat when I want or stare at a lizard. There are days when I have to think of someone else, and I have to define myself based on something more than the quaintness of my home.

It isn't anything that most people will understand or identify with. But, it is something that has been a burden to me and I feel a little more free from it.  My contentment with myself is just as important as my contentment in my marriage. Fantasies are no longer allowed to begin with the words "I should have..." And, I will not believe any lie that deems the life I have lived as "less than". The life I have lived could easily be the fantasy that someone else has entertained, and that is not part of God's plan for any of us.

Linking up with Women Living Well Wednesday Link-Up Party

You're Looking at it Wrong

His name was Robert and he had a really cool last name that sounded as if he had just stepped off a boat from Ireland. He had an unusual middle name; given the name of a family friend, his middle name was the color Gray. He had sandy, brown hair, played the guitar and, similar to me, he liked the Beatles. He also liked me. I was his first "serious" girlfriend. He had just finished high school and I was a woman of 20, living in an apartment.  Just me and my pet bird, Ben. Everything I did at the time fascinated him. 

Yes, there I was in my red, leather boots, belting out my Olivia Newton-John songs at the Black Angus Lip Sync competition. And there he was, in the audience falling more and more captivated with each pretend note. Everything that I attempted was glorious to this young man. Not so much to his Mother. 

To this young man's Mother, I was her greatest nightmare. She had plans for him, and my world of red sequins was no where in those plans.

She was determined to put an end to her son's growing attachment to this City College girl. Somewhere between curfews and groundings, I began to lose grip of the relationship. His mother made more and more demands of his time, mostly in an attempt to keep him away from me. Our relationship turned secret in nature and began to bring out in me the first signs of what I now see as my tendency toward Obsessive Compulsive behavior. (I think by today's terms I would have been a stalker...) 

One morning, we were to meet at the beach, when he never showed. In 1985, we had to use pay phones to reach one another. Standing near the pier I used my quarter and called his home. His line rang and rang. At that time, rarely anyone I knew had an answering machine. Completely frustrated, I drove to his home, I didn't care if his Mother knew. After all, we were in love, and maybe a little more love would make it right. No one was home that overcast morning and it was at that time that I realized--it was out of my hands. I drove to the workplace of my own mother and cried in her arms. At some point there was an official break up, and soon after he was given a brand new Black Truck. I never rode in that truck.

This was my last relationship before I began to live my life as a Christian. It was a hard time for me. I was so alone and no matter how I tried to "fight" for this relationship, it continued to fall apart. Everything I touched seemed to decay. I was like the hand of cancer and I didn't know why. Looking back, it is all so trivial now, and equally meaningful. 

Now, I can see myself in Robert's mother. The desire she had to keep her son safe from a woman of the world. Her yearning for him to accomplish great things and not be distracted. I understand her desire to keep her son innocent, even to the point of purchasing that virtue.

I see the silliness in the wants of the young woman, whose desire for wholeness led her to desperation in her relationships. I see how obvious it all is now. I see that not getting what I thought I wanted led me to the place of finding what I needed, so that one day I might live in the light of what I really wanted all along. 

But, here is the strange part. I still struggle with the same issue. Deep in the core of me, I still want. I want and I think I need. And when I do not get "what I want" I feel confused by it all. I have multiple lifetimes, within my life and the life stories of others, that prove to me that when I don't receive what it is I think I need, it is quite often the hand of God protecting me. He doesn't always give me what I think I should have. His love for me is greater than that. He withholds out of His kindness and out of his sovereignty.

In as much as I believe that the sun is hot, and that the air conditioning will power us through the heat of the summer, I believe that God loves me and He will power me through this "trial". And, the truly ironic thing is--it is only a "trial" because I call it one. If I choose to look at the situation differently, it is no longer a trial, but a blessing. I am in the midst of a blessing and when I get to the other side, the reward will be much greater than getting "that boy". It doesn't feel that way today, but my feelings are about as honest as a teenage love affair. I cannot trust what I feel to lead me, I have to rely on the word of God and His plan for my future. 

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Enjoy other Thoughts on Thought Provoking Thursdays at Some Girls Website. :)

An interesting thing happened on the way to the alter...

...and so begins my daughter's new life. The beauty of my daughter's wedding will be treasured in photographs and in the memories we cling to. And while one of those is fairly simple: find a great photographer, mail him a check--PRESTO! Brilliant photographs, with the perfect editing, to seal the day! The second part, the memories we cling to--this part is a little more tricky.

The morning after the "big day", I sat with two of my best friends and my parents in IHOP and we debriefed on the previous night's events. It was interesting to hear the stories of what others had gone through while I was so intently focused on my daughter. One of my favorite stories was hearing about how my dear friend had lost all use of his iphone in route and had no address to the venue (thanks GPS) and no phone numbers (thanks speed dial) and no idea where to go. He had tried a few exits in the general vicinity of our home and had finally stopped at a Starbucks. Sitting in the coffee shop he stared out across the parking lot, when he noticed he was staring at an IHOP. (Yep, it was my IHOP). Knowing that I often walk to breakfast, and knowing that I probably don't walk far--he knew that our home must be near. So, he ventured back out onto the streets and, eventually, found our home (he has only been to it a couple of times prior). He pulled up to our house just as my youngest son, looking amazing in his tuxedo, was walking out the door. Ahhh...the hand of the Lord at work on a special day.
But, the next day, there was the temptation to focus on some of the frustrating things that had happened. There was a temptation to relive some of the things that were painful and disappointing. And, over pancakes, I shared my fears with these dear ones. How do I remember the good and let go of the bad? And, then, my father after hearing my heart said, "The stories you tell are the things you will remember." 
That statement struck me and has stayed with me all week. I have a lifetime of events, good and sorrowful that prove my Dad's theory to be accurate. The things I remember from the wedding where I was the bride--are the stories I have repeated. The memories I cling to from the day my daughter died--are the tales I have told. My mind has the capability of holding onto every moment of every event, but the stories I tell become my reality of the events.

With my daughter's wedding, my desire is to hold onto the beautiful things that happened, not the disappointments. My flesh is battling against my spirit and if I want my spirit, God's Spirit inside me, to reign-- I have to make the choice to tell the stories that will bring Him glory.
Rather than focusing on the lack of something on this momentous day, I have to tell the stories that will remind all, that on this day--God was faithful.

God was faithful when I sent out text messages and emails begging people to help us set up, decorate, shuttle and serve--beautiful servant leaders in our church showered down on us to set up chairs, prepare food and tie table clothes. God was faithful when he provided us with the skills and knowledge of some gifted and talented women to lead me through the planning of such a big event in a backyard venue. God was faithful when the bride, my beautiful daughter, began to have an allergic reaction (just before she was to take pictures) and her left eye began to swell closed and turn red, and as we called out for Benedryl (and no one could find even one pill) He led me, her Mother, to lead them-- her friends and her faithful bridesmaids--to lay hands on her pray. It was one of my favorite moments, sitting on a chair in the bathroom, overlooking those fabulous hills, we bowed before God and praised Him for being the creator of all things, including Benedryl, and we praised Him for stopping the swelling, because we believed that He would.  Within moments of praying--Benedryl appeared. Today, I am so thankful for that allergy induced eye reation. I am so thankful for it, because on the last day that my daughter was merely my daughter, and not yet a wife, when she faced what was quite frightening, God led me to lead her to Him. I am so thankful that in spite of any of the the times I failed at doing this--on this day--I did what pleases Him.
And so it comes to this, as the days pass and my treasure box of memories threatens to be emptied out and replaced with ugly disappointments, I continue to think of the wise words of my Father and I am determined to be more careful with the stories I tell.

Sentiment for my Mother-in-Law

My daughter is about to have one. I am about to become one. And, so, as I walk the streets of my foothill town and trying to calm nerves and release endorphins, I find my mind swirling and spinning back to the time when I had a Mother-in-Law.

I think back two decades, and remember the time when I was a young bride. I should not have even been allowed to have a Mother-in-Law, because I certainly didn't know how to handle one with care. I didn't know that Mother-in-Laws are fragile and sensitive. I had no understanding to that which she was giving up, on the day of my wedding. I did not know that the struggle I had with her for power or control would become insignificant in a very short time. I didn't know that she would soon become one of my greatest fans. 

I wandered through the first few years of my marriage easily irritated by things she would say. Jumping into the role of the nagging and negative wife. It wasn't the best time of my marriage, and now, when I consider the mindset I had, it is so obvious as to the root of the problems. This need for control. This desire to decide. 

It is a brutally sinful place for a woman to reside; sitting next to a tree in the middle of Eden, eating her apple of control, wanting to make each decision fall the way she has determined.

Fortunately for me, I found my way free from this place of selfishness. Somewhere between the graveyard of my daughter and the little league field of my children, I recognized that this woman did not only love her grandchildren, but she loved me. She loved her daughter-in-law as a Mother loves a child. She wanted my success. She wanted me to achieve and she was proud of any of my goals gained.

Sadly, it wasn't too long ago that she began to disappear. She became engulfed by her disease. Knowledge became her enemy as her memories became unobtainable. The darkness from her disease took her away from us, and now when I think of what we lost, my words work against me to describe my feelings. 

I know it is sadness. And I know it is regret. But, it is deeper. It is like my heart gets so heavy that it sinks down and causes my soul to crease. And when you have a crease in your soul, you can't ever make that go away.

I want so badly to go back and love her better. I want to go back and appreciate her for her willingness to love me and accept me into her family. Flaws, failures and shame~but she didn't see those things. 

Moving forward, with a wedding in 10 days, I am to become a young man's Mother-in-Law and I will have the chance to love him in spite of flaws, failures and shame. My daughter will be received into another family and everyday I pray that she will be loved as fully as I was.