If you judge people, you have no time to love them. Mother Teresa

I got a text from a girlfriend after three of us had spent the afternoon together, and it’s been on my mind ever since. 

We had been eating our ordered-in lunches at one of our kitchen tables; we’d laugh, then cry, then laugh all over again, just as we’ve done for years and years and years together.  We have watched each others’ kids grow up as we’ve shared the pains of parenthood, church, work, health, extended families and relationships over so many hours together.  I honestly can’t believe the hard things they have faced; we’ve felt such tenderness together.  But the hardest of all they share is when they’ve felt judged when people don’t know what’s really going on with them or their kids or when they feel misunderstood for their choices.

Her message just said she was grateful that she could tell us things and never feel any judgment, just love. It touched my heart that she would feel that.  I remember her telling me on one of our drives together who she could trust as friends.  She counted on one hand.

I have friends in other parts of the world who have also felt betrayed, misunderstood, and abandoned by the people in their lives.  I know these women and their hearts intimately; we’ve been friends for decades. We’ve spent hours together as they’ve shared their experiences and the pain of feeling misread, of other women shutting them out because of differences or circumstances they know nothing about.

What I’ve realized is that judging is mostly only a problem when we don’t know someone.  Because once we’ve gotten past the small talk and superficial chit chat, when we really take note of who she is, what she’s going through, and what her life experiences have been, when we understand her pain and fears and insecurities, it’s the most natural thing in the world to just love her, to feel her heartaches, to laugh at the absurdity of life with her, to want to be a true friend, to draw her close and be a soft place for her.  It seems to me that judgment stems from assuming we know more than we do about another person’s story.  Most of the time we’re simply not privy to much at all.  And all we’re left with is what we can see.  But how often does the outside convey what’s really happening inside another person’s home or family or head or heart?  How likely are we to show the truth ourselves?

I’d say every single girlfriend I have looks like they have everything going for them. I’m surrounded by amazing, strong, competent, beautiful, contributing women who are raising excellent families and making a difference in their spheres of influence. They’re dependable, easy, fun, and optimistic, just lovely and loving women.  For sure.  But every single one has heartache. Every single one. They all struggle, whether it’s the family they grew up in, loss, their kids, marriages, finances, feelings of self worth and belonging, faith questions, health issues, infertility, pornography, balancing work and family, questioning what their purpose is, feeling overwhelmed and discouraged, anxiety, loneliness, just everything that goes along with regular life.  Some I know better than others, and the ones I see only superficially still look like they have it all handled in my mind until we’re able to spend more time together and are able to really talk.

Fortunately, we likely have friends who know us up-close, who have made the effort to spend time with us, who genuinely care about our worries and concerns, who are not threatened by our differences but instead ask about our perspectives, friends who simply personify love. We know how reassuring and secure it feels to have this kind of support.  We’re allowed to just be where we are, uncensored, unfiltered, authentic, raw, the real us without needing to show up in an acceptable, put-together way.  What a relief and comfort to feel safe in their company and to trust that what we share will be guarded and accepted, not judged or spread.

It is a sacred responsibility to be this kind of friend.  And such a privilege to be invited into someone’s heart.  But until we are, we can offer grace and empathy by assuming the best in others and by acknowledging that, even though we don’t know the specifics, there is likely something painful or difficult we’re all hiding behind. 

I’ve found it most helpful to simply spend time with each other beyond the superficial. I wonder if we can make more of an effort to safeguard what’s shared with us, to assume the best in others, and to withhold judgment.   I wonder if we can be the kind of person others can feel confident about trusting.  Inviting, including, reaching out, uplifting, speaking kindly, and never giving the impression of judgment in the slightest.  All this boils down to is really just loving others.

I have spent a lot of time with one of my favorite friends talking and texting during a difficult transition.  As I asked what I could do to help, she replied with poignant words I’ll always remember and cherish, “There’s nothing to do.  Just love me.”

I can’t help but think that’s the key to relationships. We have nothing to lose by simply loving people, by giving them the benefit of the doubt, by being a safe person in their lives, by letting down our own guard and pretenses and allowing others to be vulnerable yet secure by accepting them where they are, regardless of what we perceive their lives to look like.  

 

The luxury of lingering

Not long ago I gathered with several women at a friend’s house to help clean as she moved.  What an enjoyable morning, easy chatter, comfortable laughter, just catching up as we worked alongside each other.  While I had been friends with her for several years, I felt sad and regretful that it took her moving, along with the intimacy of cleaning the walls of her bathroom alone together, to really share our hearts. I had missed out.  Why had I not engaged sooner?

I think of relatives who live just a few hours from us.  How often do we make plans for a weekend together?  Not for a holiday, not for a large family reunion, but just to hang out during regular life, just our little families.  Todd and I have mourned the years we’ve missed out on, nearly all our kids are gone and we regret that we didn’t make more of an effort to develop cousin relationships; we wonder if it’s too late but want to do better.

I’m thinking about the friends whose family members’ funerals I’ve attended this year and the inspiring lives we were celebrating.  I have loved and admired the women of these families for years, these mentors whose lives have intersected with mine on occasion but not consistently. While I care for these women so much, when it came to a serious loss, I wasn’t sure I had a right to be involved because I had only really ever been on the periphery of their lives. Why hadn’t I made more of an effort before it came to this? Why hadn’t I reached in to spend more time with them and to get to know them much better so that I could be someone they could count on and turn to?

I went to lunch with two friends after one of the funerals. We lingered in our darkened cocoon of a booth, nestled together in warmth until we honestly didn’t need another refill on our waters.  And stayed some more.  Afterward, we shopped unabashedly, shamelessly pulling dresses off the racks as if we were looking for a prom or homecoming gown and not a suitable, age-appropriate mother-of-the-groom dress.  Something called Spanx was new to two of us, our seasoned and wise friend-guide introducing us to the merits of a whole new world of undergarments.  Heels, so high, so classy, so timeless, so perfectly sculpted for the occasion, reminiscent of olden day hunts for just the right footwear to dance in.  Conversation wasn’t contrived or monitored or censored.  It was stream of consciousness at its most vulnerable: open, honest, questioning, wondering, revealing. We were raw and candid as never before, and it was splendid.  But I questioned if it was only because one was moving; would we have spent this time and been this open if it had been just a regular Tuesday?

One who moved came back to stay for a few days to tie up some loose ends.  Having her with me felt like a teenager sleepover and was precious.  We sat on the beds in her room all afternoon that first day and talked until the room grew dark and I needed to start dinner.  That night we stayed at the table with my family and talked without moving till bedtime.  The next day I had two of our good friends over for lunch, and we sat and talked at my table again until it was time to start dinner once more. 

As I thought about how much fun it had been to have her stay with me, to wake up and eat breakfasts, lunches, and dinners together, to spend hours together with nothing pressing, not even noticing the hours passing, I realized it felt just like having my sister around.  I thought about the women who had joined us those two days she’d been in town and how much I love and cherish them.  I felt like I was with my high school girlfriends all over again, and I felt a lightness and acceptance and joy that we don’t indulge in during a regular workweek. 

I asked her why we wait.  Why haven’t we, in all the nine years we’ve been friends, taken a girls’ overnight trip or gone shopping like that?  Why wasn’t it until she was leaving that the three of us really connected like this? Not that we haven’t spent time together, we’ve done dinners and lunches, of course. We’ve sat in each others’ lives, for sure. It’s just that we’ve always had to get back; we’ve always had families to take tend to, deadlines, projects, appointments.  We’ve always assumed probably we’d make time tomorrow or next week. 

A couple weeks back my sister and I flew out to surprise our sister who is dealing with her cancer again.  A trip that was admittedly too short, but I found myself reminiscing just last night about being together doing nothing but watching stand-up comedy and The Home Edit on the couch all curled up together eating pasta and chocolate chip cookies.  We got our nails done, we ate out.  We talked and shared for hours as we stood in the kitchen and as we drove for miles and miles.  But why did it take cancer to beckon us?  Why hadn’t we planned a girls’ weekend much, much sooner? And way more often?

I’ve had two friends in the hospital lately.  We love them so much, both feel like family.  But I haven’t been up close and in their lives like I know I could’ve been.  I seemed to put off visiting for some reason.  Why is a question I’ve asked myself a million times the past week.  Why, when it became serious, did I finally make the effort?  Why in the hospital and not in their homes?  I’ve been a perfunctory friend perhaps but haven’t always tarried, something I think I’d already recognized as well as regretted, just that this week drove it home.

I remember a glorious day with couple who had become our good friends near the end of vet school.  We each had our two oldest children, and near graduation we made plans to spend an entire day together, just eating out, going around town, and visiting together with our kids.  We’d known each other for nine months and this was the first time we’d spent long unscheduled hours together; it was heavenly and obviously remains etched in my heart twenty years later.

While there’s no way most of us can spend our days just shopping and eating out and sitting by the pool, these past few weeks have helped me appreciate the relationships and times when I’ve made an effort, when I didn’t postpone drawing them in close, when I—and they—made the time.

I relish my weeks with my mom attending Education Week, a gloriously simple week full of early-morning classes and treats and laughter together with our friends.  Of course it’s taken some juggling to leave my kids during the first week of school, to take the time off from my normal life, to make sure things will be fine back home.  But with Covid canceling last year and with my mom getting older, I don’t know how many more years we have.  And so I’m beyond grateful we’ve made the effort all these years.  The memories are so precious.

Earlier this week three of us were working in a friend’s kitchen helping her unpack.  This felt good.  Comfortable.  Familiar.  Here was a friend who has been with me on many, many occasions.  We’ve spent hours at the lake and at the park and on her couch and eating out.  I didn’t realize how these times of just being together added up, how easy and intimate our friendship had become; but all those days spent just being together created a familiarity, a comfort, that could now be drawn upon simply and without awkwardness.  I hadn’t realized how bolstering those days in the sun had been to our friendship.

Over spring break we rented a house with our dear friends.  We did nothing of consequence. Truly nothing. I found Todd napping on the couch at ten in the morning.  We spent the better part of another day honestly just basking in the early spring sunshine on the back patio doing nothing more than watching the kids and talking.  We lingered over dinner, we laughed over games with our kids.  There was no agenda, no purpose other than to be together and just relax. This was also good. A family who feels like our family.  I think because we’ve made the effort over the past ten years we’ve known each other to carve out time for this kind of thing, slow days of just being with each other, so many days camping, being together in each others’ houses, just small drops that coalesce and become a reservoir.

 

I guess I’ve just had these few scenes come to mind as I’ve asked myself why, when I know the joy of close, intimate relationships, I haven’t made more of an effort during regular life instead of waiting for a loss to reach in and engage.  Why did it take a move or a tragedy to shake me awake, to show me the beautiful people God has placed in my life?  I try.  We’re all trying.  I’m not saying we’re not.  But there is something strengthening and enlightening about real connectedness that stems from spending unstructured, lingering time together.  And maybe that’s a luxury we don’t feel we can indulge in. Life is full.  Busy. Totally get it.

But is it simply a luxury we don’t have time for?  I think of all the shows I’ve watched this past year.  I notice the hours of my screen usage pop up every Sunday.  I see the list of books I’ve read written in the back of my journal. I'm aware of the hundreds of podcast episodes I've listened to. I’m not saying any of it’s bad.  Just that we make time for what and who we value.  And I know it’s not because we don’t care or we’re not interested or we don’t want to invest in these relationships, not at all.  All I’m saying is we just don’t know when we won’t have tomorrow or next year.  We don’t know when some kind of change will take place and we’ll be left wondering why we didn’t make the time for just being with our people. Not the scheduled frenetic compulsory visits and events we show up for.  I’m talking about making time for doing nothing but carving out time to just sit with each other, to listen, to be silly, to share, to know each other in a deeper, closer way without diversion.  I know there are always reasons to put this off till next week or next month.  We hug and tell each other we need to get together soon.  But inevitably the weeks and months turn into years, and I’d just rather have memories than regrets.

Without judgment

I got a text from a girlfriend after three of us had spent the afternoon together, and it’s been on my mind ever since.

We were eating our ordered-in lunches at one of our kitchen tables; we’d laugh, then cry, then laugh all over again, just as we’ve done for years and years and years together.  We have watched each others’ kids grow up as we’ve shared the pains of parenthood, church, work, health, extended families and relationships with each other over so many hours in each others’ homes.  I honestly can’t believe the difficulties they have faced; we’ve felt such tenderness together.  But the hardest of all they share is when they’ve been misunderstood or judged when people don’t know what’s really going on or why they’ve made the decisions they have.

Her message just said she was grateful that she could tell us things and never feel any judgment, just love. It touched my heart that she would feel that.  I remember her telling me on one of our drives together who she could trust as friends.  She counted on one hand.

I have friends in other parts of the world who have felt so betrayed, discarded, and misunderstood by the women in their lives.  I know these women intimately; they’ve been some of my closest friends for decades, and I know their hearts as well as I know mine. I have spent so many hours listening to them share their experiences, crying with them, hearing the pain of feeling misread, of other women shutting them out because of differences or circumstances they know nothing about.

What I’ve realized is that judging is only a problem when we don’t know someone.  Because once we’ve gotten past the surface, once we’ve discovered who she is and what she’s going through and what her life experiences have been and are, it’s the most natural thing in the world to just love her, to understand her pain, to express empathy for her heartaches, to laugh at the absurdity of life with her, to want to be a true friend, to draw her close and just be a soft place for her.  It seems to me that judgment stems from assuming we know more than we do about another person’s story.  Most of the time we’re simply not privy to much at all.  And all we’re left with is what we can see.  But how often does the outside convey what’s really happening inside another person’s home or family or head or heart?  How likely are we to show the truth ourselves?

I’d say every single girlfriend I have looks like she has everything going for her. They are amazing, strong, competent, beautiful women who are raising stellar families, who contribute to their communities and organizations they believe in; they’re dependable, easy, fun, and optimistic, just lovely and loving women.  For sure.  But every single one has heartache. Every single one. They all struggle with something and more likely, lots of things, whether it’s the family they grew up in, their kids, marriages, finances, feelings of self worth and belonging, faith questions, health issues, infertility, pornography, death of those close to them, balancing work and family, questioning what their purpose is, feeling overwhelmed and discouraged, anxiety, loneliness, on and on, just everything that goes along with regular life.  Some I know better than others, and the ones I have known only superficially still look like they have it all handled in my mind until we’re able to spend more time together.  Nothing surprises me any more, these women have been through it all.

 Fortunately we likely have friends who know us up-close, who have made the effort to spend time with us, who genuinely care what we worry and are concerned about, who are trustworthy and not threatened by our differences but instead ask about our lives and perspectives, friends who simply personify love; we know how safe and reassuring and secure it feels to have this kind of support.  We’re allowed to just be where we are, uncensored, unfiltered, authentic, raw, just the real us without needing to show up in an acceptable, put-together way.  What a joy and comfort to know we’re safe in their company and that what we share will be guarded and accepted, not judged or thrown about.

It is a sacred responsibility to be this kind of friend.  And such a privilege to be invited into someone’s heart.  But until we are, we can offer grace and peace to those around us by assuming the best in others and by acknowledging that, even though we don’t know the specifics, there is likely something painful or difficult or embarrassing or overwhelming that they’re struggling with.  I’ve felt connection grow as I’ve been a little more vulnerable throughout the years, even though of course it sets me up to being judged.  But it’s worth it because it seems to somehow give permission to others to do the same.  It feels reassuring to know we’re not the only ones struggling through life.  And to be able to share our hearts without the threat of judgment feels amazing.

So going forward, I think we can all do just a little better.  We can make more of an effort to safeguard what’s shared with us, we can assume the best in others, and we can leave judgment out altogether (while of course being wise and instilling boundaries if needed).  But what seems to have been most helpful is to simply spend time with each other and get beyond the superficial.  Be the kind of person she can trust and then prove it to her over and over and over.  Invite, include, reach out, uplift, speak kindly of everyone and never give the impression of judgment in the slightest.  All this boils down to is just loving others.

I have spent a lot of time with one of my favorite friends talking and texting and I cherish this, “There’s nothing to do.  Just love me.”

I’ve thought about what profound advice that was.  And is as we apply it to this conversation.  We have nothing to lose by simply loving people, by giving them the benefit of the doubt, by being a safe person in their lives, by letting down our own guard and pretenses and allowing others to be vulnerable yet secure by accepting them where they are, regardless of what we perceive their lives to look like.  

 

Flab funk

Thursday, my favorite day of the week.  Todd was off, we had a whole day to look forward to. I didn’t care what we did, I was just happy to have him home.  I figured he’d work on the laundry room and I’d get going on my quilt, we’d go out for lunch, perfect.  But checking my phone, I saw that our friend had sent us our family pictures we’d done last fall.  Yay! I couldn’t wait to see them because it was the last time when all of us were together and I had no idea when that would happen again.  She had been asking me for years to let her take our family pictures, and I was curious what she had been able to do with our group.

And at first glance, I loved them.  They are just beautiful.  The field, the colors, the lighting, the way she captured the personalities of the kids, our dog, just so well done; she is an expert for sure, and I was impressed.

And then I felt like crumbling.  I thought maybe it was just a bad angle, but in every single one there was a problem with me.  I loved the color of the shirt I chose—blue is my favorite, but I don’t wear this shirt very often and I remembered when I put it on that the fabric was an issue.  But I have so few clothes I feel good in that I just went with a color I liked and tried to not worry about how it fit.  When I saw the pictures, I couldn’t get over how pretty they were, just so bright and yet so natural, and then I just cringed when I saw the fat rolls around my middle with my pretty-colored top clinging to them.  

I'm not ashamed of my body, I'm usually very accepting and try to just do my best and move on. I am a pretty realistic, upbeat, and laid-back person; most things don’t ruffle me, least of all superficial things like clothes and looks.  I am also not one to obsess about my body or weight; we don’t even own a scale and I refuse to buy one.  I would define myself as a totally average mom with 5 kids.  I haven’t worked out at a gym since college, I didn’t even own a pair of regular exercise pants till this fall.  I never ever count calories or steps, I don’t want to be tied to or defined by numbers.  Even so, this picture—and my ensuing reaction—both surprised and saddened me.

This is one reason I hate getting my picture taken.  I don’t feel like a photo captures the essence of a person, we’re only getting part of the story when we look at a picture.  And who’s to say it’s accurate or an honest portrait?

But here it was in living color.  I know.  I shouldn’t care, it’s not a big deal, no one’s looking at me, plus I’m older and it’s just life to have gained a few pounds by now.  I could make excuses, maybe even legitimate ones like my pants were low-rise and there’s no where for excess to go but up to my middle in situations like that, or maybe it’s the tamoxifen I’ve been on for six years that has caused me to gain these ten extra pounds I can’t seem to shake, or maybe it’s that my metabolism is slowing down, I’m going on 50, my body isn’t as efficient as it used to be.  I know I would never fault anyone else for having a little (or lot) extra, I couldn’t care less what people look like, I just want to be friends.

But I spiraled.  I felt the smallest of tears.  I was so embarrassed.  By both my reflection as well as my reaction.  I wanted to hide these pictures even as I was obsessed, wondering if with clear eyes I would have a new thought if I looked again.  I couldn’t get over it.  It was utter nonsense and so out of character for me.  There are very, very few pictures I feel confident in, but I believe it’s important for moms to be in them, and so I allow them and even post some.  I was ashamed that I cared and ashamed that I’d not thought my outfit through for something that would be front and center in my home. At the same I also felt perplexed because as much as I try not to worry about appearances, I also try so hard to be healthy.

At this time I was in the middle of a book called Hunger, a memoir of a woman who feels trapped inside her “fortress” of a body; she is what they call super morbidly obese.  She knowingly created a means of protection as she simultaneously and wistfully wonders who she would’ve been if she hadn’t endured the trauma she continues to harbor.  Here are some of her words,

“I’ve been thinking a lot about feeling comfortable in one’s body and what a luxury that must be.  Does anyone feel comfortable in their bodies?  Glossy magazines lead me to believe that this is a rare experience, indeed.  The way my friends talk about their bodies also leads me to that same conclusion.  Every woman I know is on a perpetual diet.  I know I don’t feel comfortable in my body, but I want to and that’s what I am working toward.  I am working toward abandoning the damaging cultural messages that tell me my worth is strictly tied up in my body.  I am trying to undo all the hateful things I tell myself.  I am trying to find ways to hold my head high when I walk into a room.  I know that it isn’t merely weight loss that will help me feel comfortable in my body.  Intellectually I do not equate thinness with happiness” (Roxanne Gay).

I feel that she’s onto us, she’s inside our heads, she gets it.  Of course we know that being a certain size could never determine our sense of happiness, we’re smarter than that, we’re well aware of the industries and their tactics.  But hearing her thoughts expressed so honestly, so accurately, so genuinely… I feel like none of us is immune.

Regardless of the shape or size we’re in, we’re at the mercy of expectations.  We think they’re self-imposed, that we are above all that, that we’re not the kind to buy into it all, we’re aware, we’ve got our eyes wide open, we are in control.  I consciously try to push all that aside, I try to be healthy but still live and enjoy life and our culture that embraces celebrating with food.  I refuse to diet just as I refuse to give up treats.  I try to not stress, to not worry about a few extra pounds, to teach my kids healthy habits rather than to achieve a certain look.  Even as I silently wonder what’s wrong with me, why I can’t be svelte and slim through my middle, why I hang on to a little extra when I try to be so conscientious, why others have more will power, dedication, or luck.  Even as I try to sidestep the culture, apparently I am still affected.  I can’t decide what my melancholy was, shame that I had a little extra or shame that I cared.

It’s too soon to know what my final reaction will be.  As for that day, I had an anemic salad and water when we went out to lunch, usually one of my favorite pastimes, now shrouded with fear of eating, of adding to the problem even as I was aware of the incongruity of what I was doing.  I was hungry even as we cleared our dishes, and with every meal I’ve prepared since I’ve wondered if this is where I’m going wrong, if this is why.  I hate that our world has this kind of influence and hold on me, that even though we know better we still can’t help but get sucked in.

My take-home message from the day is not one I’m exactly proud of, yet it’s where I am. I hope to continue to embrace a moderately healthy lifestyle, and yet I refuse to give my traditions away just to fit into smaller clothes. I will most likely just keep working out at home as I have for decades and will probably never join a gym.  I love food and gathering around it, and I’m not about to give up sugar or bread.  I will continue to focus on teaching my kids to eat well, to move, to get outside, to ignore the number on the tags in their clothes, and to just embrace the bodies they have.  I love the rest of the picture so much, but I cropped the bottom half off when I posted it, maybe out of self-preservation, maybe because I’m still processing that this is where I am these days.  And I will probably also steer clear of clingy material from here on out. :)

Willingly

A faraway friend and I were texting the other day, as we often do, about our lives and our families. She asked how our daughter on a mission is doing and I told her the sad news that she most likely will not be able to go to her original assignment due to travel and visa restrictions. Her daughter is in a similar situation.

So I just posed the question, not mad at all, just so curious. Why do you think God assigned them to these distant missions if He knew from the beginning they might never make it there, that they would end up serving in the states? Why didn’t he just say that from the start and not get their hopes up only to be smashed? Really not upset, honestly just wondering.

I loved our ensuing conversation. She said if her daughter had just been called to where she is serving right now, that would’ve been just fine. I just think it’s so disappointing to anticipate something that is now unlikely to work out, why even suggest it in the first place? But maybe there’s a lesson in this for us and our kids that we will need desperately moving forward.

She offered that maybe they and we need to learn to simply surrender our will to God. Maybe we need to tell him we will live and serve wherever and however he wants us to.

She shared a tender story that changed her forever, in which she told God from that point on she was all in, that he had her will. And she is rock solid on that promise.

I told her I don’t know that I’m there yet.

I told her I’m scared. As we all are I imagine. What will he do with me if I let him have full charge over my life and my future? What will happen if I let him take the reins? I’ve seen what he’s done with others, and I don’t feel strong or courageous enough for any of that. It’s easier and safer to just keep things as temperate as possible and to stay at the helm to avert potential threats. As if.

Do I trust him? I dug deep, desperate to know. Of course I do, I told myself. Mostly.

I’ve been reading about a group of people in Biblical times setting “forth into the sea, commending themselves unto the Lord their God.” When they were buried in the deep there was no water that could hurt them, their vessels being “tight like unto a dish….The wind did never cease,…and thus they were driven forth; and no monster of the sea could break them, neither whale could mar them; and they did have light continually, whether it was above the water or under the water.”

I love this visual of a journey similar to ours, where we are dashed upon the seas of life, trials seemingly as big as whales, winds of troubles never ceasing, duration unknown. And yet I love the idea of what being “tight” could mean for me, confident, prepared, trusting. That “they did have light continually, whether it was above the water or under the water” helps me retain hope that even when it feels like we’re drowning in our sadness, our overwhelm, our confusion, our adversities, there is never any water so black or heavy that it can sink us if we stay focused on the light that is consistently available and accessible and always more powerful than dark.

As I read and think about the strength these and so many other faithful people have had over the years, I can’t help but love my friend even more. She is these people personified, someone like us in today’s world but who is fiercely loyal to her God and trusting of his plan for her life.

There have been times when I’ve let go, when I’ve acquiesced to doing it his way. Rarely do his ideas make sense, but so far they’ve been easy enough to agree with: marry young, have kids, move around the country, buy a farm, say yes to uncomfortable opportunities, be ok with a diagnosis whatever it means. But what about the rest? I haven’t been able to get the phrase, “commending themselves unto the Lord their God,” out of my head. Am I there, am I ready to immerse myself in his will? I feel like I’m a little kid who, after splashing around in the shallow waters, now hesitantly stands teetering on the edge of the deep end while my dad patiently waits to catch me.

I pleaded silently in my heart and admitted the absolute truth of it, “I’m scared. What will happen if I let go, if if I do give my will to You? Where will I be then, will I be able to handle what You have in mind? I’m not that kind of person. I’m so weak.”

A peaceful, loving thought immediately warmed my heart. I wouldn’t be left alone. Phrases I’d heard—even taught—so many times flooded into my mind. “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. I will go before you and be your rearward; and I will be in your midst. I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.” So many, I was overwhelmed with the rush of them all. I had forgotten to remember that I have and will never be left alone no matter what storms beset me.

“When they were encompassed about by many waters they did cry unto the Lord, and he did bring them forth again upon the top of the waters.” There were and always will be waters. That’s just the nature of our journey. But when our barges are tight, when our trust is secure, when we let him steer our journeys, we will be able to withstand the waves and the whales and the monsters of the seas and be assured that we will come “upon the top of the waters.”

Sleeplessness

Todd doesn’t usually do emergency call overnight these days, but he’s had more the past year, with a few the past couple of weeks.  Which I hate.  I stay up and read until I’m solidly tired, ever hopeful that I will just sail into morning without a break in sleep waves.  But almost never does that happen.  I usually find myself awake somewhere in the middle.  I’ve stopped looking at my phone to ascertain where we are because I already know.  It’s too early, it’s sleeping time, I would know if it were the right time to wake up.

And so there I am.  As I’m sure many of you my age and older are.  Then what?  I’ve tried a million different ways to trick myself into going back to sleep.  I’ve tried doing a monk-hypnotist-like chant, “Sleep, sleeeeep, sleeeeeep…”  I’ve tried praying for everyone I know.  I’ve tried just admitting I’m awake.  I’ve tried playing my quiet music on Pandora but all that does is tell me how many songs I’ve been awake through.

Finally I decided to write out the question in my journal.  “What can I do to go back to sleep?”  And I prayed.  Not really expecting an answer, but I figured why not, I pray about all sorts of specifically weird things.  It wasn’t at that exact time, but it wasn’t too many days later when the thought came to me as the answer: Breathe.  I considered that and remembered lying on my brown leather couch six years ago after my mastectomy recovering.  I was so desperate for some sort of pain relief that I did some deep breathing.  I’ve heard and read many variations, but the one I remember best is to breathe in for four counts, hold for four and release for four.  I know it’s deep if it involves my belly.  So I’ve tried focusing when I find myself awake, I quiet the clatter and chatter in my head and just breathe. In for four and so on.  I think if nothing else it relaxes me and helps me clear away my thoughts because it takes concentrated effort.  I don’t know how long before it works because at some point in the morning I wake up, unaware of my last breath, a lot like the surgery, where one moment I was counting and meeting the surgeons and the next I was awake with tubes coming out of my torso.  Surreal.

It occurred to me as I listened to at least an hour’s worth of instrumental music last night (because I was not breathing and focused), that this idea would be useful in so many scenarios, situations, and struggles we’re faced with in our awake times of the day.  Breathe.

I thought of a specific trial that had low-key (and occasionally intensely) plagued me for several years.  I had journaled about it copiously, and I’d prayed incessantly for resolution, understanding, and knowledge about how to deal with it.  I finally quit praying about it ever changing and decided instead to simply pray for the person involved.  For love.  I felt like I settled down and chose to just breathe through it, not knowing what the outcome would ever look like or expecting to ever feel peace.  

And I thought about how interesting it is that breathing slowly, mindfully, and deeply can have such a powerful resolute effect, a transformative power almost, carrying us from a state of worry and upset to a place of calm restfulness.

I realized just last night during my bout of wakefulness that this struggle, the turmoil, I’d been experiencing for all these years had somehow dissipated.  I was shocked actually.  But not in a jolting or even surprising way.  All my angst had faded and I realized I wasn’t bothered or concerned about it even a little bit anymore.  Something that had paralyzed me many times, that I had cried to Todd and God about even more, something that had caused me deep internal analysis and soul-searching, wasn’t even a problem at all anymore.  Bizarre, given the grief I’d felt for so long.

But just as our worries lead to restless nights where we toss and turn and fight sleep and wakefulness both, this struggle kept me from relaxing into my own restfulness of soul.  It was only when I let it go, when I tuned into what I could control and focused on my “breathing,” which to me meant loving and trusting, that I felt peace.  Just like my night sleep that transcends the issues of the day and the anxieties in my head, calm came once I finally gave up the fight and just trusted my breath.

Having her home

Cliche to say it’s not what any one of us expected the past few months to look like, who could’ve guessed schools would close followed by nearly everything else, and that there would be no definitive end in the foreseeable future. As likely as we were to make predictions, no one has a glass ball and very few among us are seers.

I have felt most tender toward the students in all of this, particularly graduating seniors who, in so many instances, were left to grieve events and milestones that traditionally helped with the transition from and closure of high school.  I have felt the want for my own kids, desiring to attend school more than they ever were aware, but especially my daughter whose freshman year of college came to an abrupt and unceremonial end.

She stayed on campus for awhile just to ride out what would surely be a temporary hiccup in her young adult plans.  But as the students began to clear out, as more and more amenities became unavailable, as classrooms and campus facilities emptied out, she felt increasingly isolated and alone.  She asked if she could come home for awhile.  Of course! But she was set on returning to her new summer apartment to be with other young students in a vibrant setting rather than hang out with her family in Montana indefinitely. We weren’t offended in the least, we know about her wiggles and what it takes for her to thrive. But how we loved having her with us for those three weeks.

We took a family road trip from Montana to Illinois to see our oldest son get married.  Some of the best memories of the summer were staying at hotels, eating out, late nights with the kids playing games and eating ice cream.  Day trips to Chicago and Lake Geneva were eye-opening highlights, soothing our anxious and somewhat emotional souls. We rented a charming house by the water, a picturesque and renewing cocoon as we officially transitioned to our supportive roles as parents.  All seven of us (plus my two sisters) spent those memorable days together, and they will forever be etched in my mind. As anyone who’s had children leave the nuclear family structure—the nest—can attest, there is nothing like having everyone together again.

But life is more than a vacation home, and so we returned to our various posts, she and her brother to their college life. Until she decided there was no point in staying in her new apartment.  She was alone most of the time in an unfamiliar environment without means to make new acquaintances.  We talked all the time, but still feeling unsettled, she surprised us by coming back one day.

The details of her travels are less important than what’s transpired in our home.  Although she’s been in and out all summer, making her way through Washington and Utah, she’s begun preparing for her pending church mission for the past several weeks, requiring someone (mostly me) to be with her as much as possible as a “companion.”  And this has been a delightful time for our family.

You know what most kids are like in high school, especially once they can drive, and especially toward the end.  A tender mercy God grants parents is the gradual way our children begin to detach from the family, compassionately allowing us to become familiar with their absence.  When she was in school we were competing with friends, activities, homework, job, and volunteer work, which means we rarely saw her except on Sundays. Without these diversions, we have her much more.

Now she’s home nearly all the time.  She’ll occasionally go to the stores with one of the kids, but mostly she’s just here. And it has been the most exquisite blessing in the world for us, to have so much uninterrupted, undistracted time with one of our children.  I cherish casual conversation, the slow minutes of just wrapping her in my arms, the long, long talks and cries about what she’s doing, what she’s missing out on, how she’s feeling, what she’s painting.  I love having her with me as we run errands and shop for groceries; and it warms my heart to hear the sewing machine, or to see her at the easel in the backyard, or to just stop and watch her curled up with the dogs on the couch for a mid-day nap.   We love hearing her laugh with her district, her new far-away but close friends, and we’re especially thrilled with her companion who has to have been heaven-sent; I honestly don’t know if there could’ve been a more perfect friend for Avery at this junction of her life and I’m beyond grateful.  I love the quiet days together, her on the computer wrapped up in blankets on the couch or at the kitchen table, me making her cookies or puttering in the kitchen or folding laundry nearby. It feels cozy, homey, comfortable, peaceful, perfect.

Our weekends are different these days as well.  Whereas before she’d have work and plans with friends till late at night, now we spend so much time together as a family hiking, eating out, going for ice cream, checking out thrift stores and garage sales, playing games, listening to music, going on walks, watching documentaries, lounging about just talking, and making fun treats.  She is our glue, our anchor, and it’s been such a blessing to have this time with our teenagers and her.  We love watching them dancing and laughing together and listening to the three of them up late talking or making a whole new dinner or starting a Disney movie as we’re heading to bed.  We love it so much that our kids are best friends and that they love being together.  These few months have drawn them even closer, and there is a palpable love and joy in our home because of these tight bonds.  The only times that are better are when our other kids come home.  There really is nothing better in the universe than having our whole family together, it really is heaven on earth.

Just as our weekend visits with college kids are always too short, our days with Avery are fading quickly.  We all realize the inevitable, that it’s time for her to move to the next phase of her mission and life.  We’re all getting a bit antsy, so thankful for this unexpected luxury of togetherness, but recognizing it as a temporary pause from what we all need to be doing.  She will serve her mission and return to college and work and friends, just as our others will continue to become increasingly independent and spend less and less time with us and the family.  It’s what we want, for sure.  We want our children to feel free to leave, to move on, to be their own people and to create lives of their own, of course.

But we also want to soak up the moments like these.  Because we know how fleeting they are.  I’ve sat on her bed, I’ve cuddled with her under the covers, I’ve listened and I’ve held her.  In my mind I know we can always recreate scenarios like these, but it just might never really be the same. We love having her all to ourselves.  I love that she’s been able to be present, here with us entirely, not distracted and running about. I love hearing her thoughts and opinions and plans, so different now that we aren’t “parenting” as much as just appreciating the person she has grown into and is still becoming.  I love the heart to heart nearness we’ve had, the sweet everyday memories of doing nothing and everything together.  I’ll miss this all so much, as we all do when someone close to us, someone we have loved so intensely, leaves us.  But I choose to be grateful for this unexpected detour in our lives, for this uncommon but blessed experience of having our daughter with us for just a little longer than planned.  It has truly been a gift from God that we will cherish forever.