Another World (not the soap opera)

Memoirs #4

Another favorite spot of mine was the small strip of grass that was in the backyard. It wasn’t much because the yard was small and cluttered with things and there was always the remnant of an old garden taking up space.  I would lie down in the grass on my back and be as still as I could. I would not move a muscle. 

I would open my eyes wide and stare up at the sky. I would watch the clouds drift by and marvel at their ability to change shape and disguises or to disappear all together. What power. What freedom. 

Sometimes I would stare into the sun instead. Blinding myself momentary so that all I could see were the funny specks flying around in my eyes and then waiting for my sight to return so that I could do it again. I marveled at the strength of the sun to take away my natural eyesight and make me see things that I could not see before.  

I liked lying on the ground, feeling it connecting with my body. I so wanted to be a part of something big, why not the earth? Could I just for a moment will myself to be a part of another world. Not really, but I could enjoy the itchy sensation of the grass on my arms and the tiny movements of things under me as I pressed into their world - the warmness or coolness of the earth creeping into my body as I waited for my desire to stay there forever to pass. 

My Burden Carrier

Memoirs #3

The focal point of my yard was not the house, no sir. It was the big tree just to the left of the front door. Out of its side ran a low, long limb, a strong arm just waiting to be used, daring me to take it on. “Look at me,” it said, “strong and able, so do what you will with me.” I accepted the challenge by using it to put up a swing made of old rope with a piece of scrap wood for a seat.“There, “ I said, “Can you handle that?” It replied “Yes, and more,” for which I was grateful because I had more to give. Over the years, not only did that swing bear my weight, it also bore the weight of the things I was carrying inside me. Secrets. Dark secrets. Heavy secrets. 

It was a grand tree and a loyal friend, one that I would leave behind when the time was right. I saw the tree many years later, after making my great escape, and I was heart broken to see how ravaged and tired it looked. Did my secrets do that? Did my burdens zap the life right out of my friend? I imagined myself tying a yellow ribbon around its base and telling it to die and find peace, that it isn’t needed any more, that I am okay. Let go. I did. All is well now.

Then I think, why would I want a faithful friend to die? Why not encourage it to use its roots to go deep in search of living water that it could use to create the strength and vitality of new life? It’s there, waiting to be tapped into, waiting to rush up its trunk and into it branches, giving it the power to stretch and reach into the sky as far as it dares - into the hope and promise of a new day.

It worked for me - Living Water. Shouldn't I offer the same hope to my withering, dried up friend? Shouldn't I introduce it to my new burden carrier? One that never grows weary or tired. One that can carry the burdens of the whole world with strength to spare.

Childhood Memoirs

I couldn't sleep one night so I decided to do one of my favorite things, read. I finished the book I was reading called "The Secret LIfe of Bees," but I still wasn't sleepy. There was an interview with the author, Sue Monk Kidd, in the back of the book, so I began to read it in hope that sleep would soon come. Instead, I made a great discovery, a real treasure! In the interview, the author made this statement in reference to her memoir writings:

"I think many people need, even require, a narrative version of their life. I seem to be one of them. Writing memoir is, in some ways, a work of wholeness."

A chord was struck in me and a sound wave of inspiration began to vibrate inside me, working its way to the surface. The thought of writing about my childhood had been something I had been toying around with for some time. However, I just couldn't find the purpose in it. To what end would I write about myself? 

Wholeness. 

Now that speaks to me of purpose. One of my long standing prayers to God has been "please make me whole."

Wholeness: "An undivided or unbroken completeness or totality with nothing wanting*."

If there is even a remote possibility of God bringing wholeness into my life by means of me writing my memoirs (memories), then how can I resist? I am an adventurer at heart and this would definitely be a grand adventure, as well as a huge leap of faith! 

I admit that I have been a little perplexed and somewhat overwhelmed as to where to begin. Over thinking things always bogs me down. So, I have decided just to jot down memories as they come to me and post them in bits and pieces.  I am not sure yet just how much the Lord wants me to reveal through memoir, but I want to warn you that sometimes what I share may be very "real" and sometimes raw in nature. Unfortunately, brokenness defined my life for a very long time and I can already see that evidence of it will seep out into my writing.

My goal - to  invite you to a view of just one of my many paths to wholeness, all which lead to the source of wholeness - Jesus - and to encourage you to seek out your own path to wholeness.

Here goes...

Snippet #1:

Most of my early childhood was lived out in a little obscure bayside town in Florida called Eastpoint. It was neatly tucked away between its sister towns of Carrabelle and Apalachicola. It was one of those towns that if you blinked while passing through it, you might just miss it all together. Eastpoint was easy to navigate. I never heard tell of anyone ever getting lost within its limits. It was divided up by a front road (also called the main road and technically called hwy. 98), a back road, and a few dirt side roads that had no names. Oh yeah, there was that extra road at the very edge of town that we called the dump road because that's where it led, to the town dump. By nature of its location, no one resided on that road.  At the intersection of the front road and one of those old dirt side roads is where my house sat. 

From this corner lot vantage point, this ninety-degree angle, I watched the world pass by me. Occasionally I would get a lift of the hand or a nod of the head, acknowledging my presence, evidence that I could be seen even though I had my doubts. To be fair, how much sight does a ninety-degree angle really afford passersby into the life of someone else? Can people be held accountable for their limited vision, their inability to see beyond what's right in front of them? Probably not, at least not according to my experience. Some days I wished someone would see past the facade, the smiling face and my own lift of the hand, to what was really going on around me and inside me. At other times, it filled me with great fear to think that someone would see the reality of my life. 

The good news is, even though I wasn't fully aware of it at the time, just catching glimpses of hope here and there, there was One who could see all things, not only what was, but what was to come - a full-circle view. Nothing was hidden from Him. Oh, how the hand of God plays out in such a bittersweet way in the lives of those that call upon His name and I did call, many, many times.

Snippet #2:

A fence surrounded my house. Not a very good one mind you. It was made from wire and wooden posts. My imagination would have it be a chain-linked fence with metal posts and a nice gate, but in my heart I know that isn’t so and, actually, I am glad. 

There's no character in a well-put together fence. A fence of good character needs evidence of having been climbed over dozens of times, leaning slightly here and there, toe holds a plenty, and spots sagging under the weight of blackberry vines and wild, running rose bushes. 

Another thing - what is a gate that doesn’t announce one’s coming and going with a faithful creak? Rude, that’s what. No, my gate was nice and polite, greeting those that came in and speaking farewells to those that left. In addition to its role as greeter, it also served as a sentry. It alerted me to the people who were about to enter my world, giving me time to think about how I was going to respond – a warm welcome or a quick exit out the back door. Sometimes, according to who was walking through that gate, it was very important that I not be caught unaware.

(*wordnet.princeton.edu/perl/webwn)

The Enemy Within

Betrayed by your own body. 

This is the thought that came to me this morning as I recalled the reason I was up late last night. 

My little girl suffers from a tic disorder, not a blood sucking insect, but a repeated, involuntary movement. It has been under control for some time now, however, it came back with a vengeance last night. She came to me with tears in her eyes and a look of defeat on her face and said, "Mommy, I am so tired, but I can't get to sleep. I have 3 tics going on at the same time and if I try not to do them, it hurts."  "What can I do to help?," I asked. "I don't know," she said, "probably nothing."

Heart breaking words.

I thought about the other people I know whose bodies are not in alignment with their wishes - more than wishes - with their deepest desire and need to be made whole again - to have their bodies and minds restored to God's intended design.

The enemy within. 

Definition: An invisible agent doing its best to make itself known to the world through side effects and symptoms.

What does it look like? Does it have features - bulbous eyes and long, dirty fingernails? Is it slime green or fire engine red? Does it smell like sulfur or decay? Is it calculating or does it just run amuck in a drunken stupor of destruction? Is it a loud mouth or does it do its work ever so quietly. Where did it come from? Was it invited? Did it happen by chance - a cosmically unfortunate luck of the draw?

I know that I am anthropomorphizing sickness and disease (giving it human characteristics), but it seems so much easier to visualize the enemy and the ensuing fight when it has a face -even a made up one. We as humans know how to fight one another - having been doing it successfully for years - and even make believe monsters to some extent, but how do we fight a germ, a cell gone bad, a system out of whack? How do we make things right again when everything we throw at the enemy seems to fail?

I don't have that answer. But I do know this. There is something I can do with the experience of my suffering, of my child's suffering. 

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows."

2 Corinthians 1:3-5 (NIV)

The truth is that no one is exempt from suffering. Also the truth, the knowledge that when it comes, we can seek comfort from those who have gone through suffering before us. Suffering, sickness, disease are here to stay, but so are hope, compassion and comfort - given to each other as a precious and costly gift, given by God.

"Why do you say, O Jacob,

and complain, O Israel,

"My way is hidden from the LORD;

my cause is disregarded by my God"?

Do you not know? Have you not heard?

The LORD is the everlasting God, 

the Creator of the ends of the earth.

He will not grow tired or weary,

and his understanding no one can fathom.

He gives strength to the weary

and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary,

and young men stumble and fall;

but those who hope in the LORD

will renew their strength.

They will soar on wings like eagles;

they will run and not grow weary,

they will walk and not be faint."

What did I do for my daughter last night? I sought the Lord out loud so that she could hear my hope in the Lord's ability to help her. I rubbed her forehead with a gentle touch and sang her songs from my childhood. Songs my mom would sing to me, even if the occasion was rare. The power of that comfort remained with me and I gave it to my child. I sang "You are my Sunshine," "Hush, Little Baby" and "Jesus Loves the Little Children" over and over again. She got a small smile on her face and her eyes softened. She settled down and it wasn't long before she was sleeping.

Comfort.

Strength. 

Hope.