Monthly Archives: May 2012

Words I Wish I Wrote

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Once upon a time there was a boy. He lived in a village that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a field that no longer exists, where everything was discovered and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword. A pebble could be a diamond. A tree a castle.

Once upon a time there was a boy who lived in a house across the field from a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was Queen and he was King. In the autumn light, her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfulls. When the sky grew dark the parted with leaves in their hair.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.

-Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

Hopefully, There

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I have heard the stories of perfect-faith-filled prayers. Prayers where the answer was given, the blessing bestowed, with suture lines detailed in perfect clarity in the moment the plea was lofted up to the clouds. In fact, I have had those experiences, myself.

However, this is not one of those stories.

Because while I know the relief of answered prayers, I also know the weariness that sometimes accompanies the act of “waiting on the Lord.”

It is a difficult thing to pray for something–something you know to be good and right–for years and not get it. It is heartbreaking and faith-testing, and frustrating, and, at times, angering. Particularly when one is trying one’s best to live in such a way that proves the desired blessing would be cradled daily with care and gratitude, if granted.

I do realize that I am not the only person in the world to pray for something for years and not get it. I also realize that many of those other knee-bent people have been pleading for their wants much longer than I’ve drawn breath. But if I have learned anything in my life, it is that no matter the hurt, no matter the grief, no matter the length of time spent wanting, hurt is hurt, and pain is pain, and want is want, and one’s experience cannot be measured against another’s.

With that said, this is my experience.

It was a little over a year and a half ago that I stopped praying. And I stopped praying because I was frustrated. And I was frustrated because I felt that while He was listening, He was not hearing, not answering. So I stopped. And for the first time, I understood how people could be angry at God. I understood that they weren’t bad people. That perhaps they were just sad. And maybe a little tired.

Weeks turned into months—months without kneeling or even so much as a “hello” or “thank you.” Not that this helped anything. But I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to talk to Him. Until finally, one night, my frustration reached the point of exasperation and I began to yell.

I yelled and yelled at Him and told Him how angry I was at Him. How mad and hurt I was that He wouldn’t answer me. How I was trying everything I could think of to “do my part” and that yes, I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I was trying, wasn’t I? Why wasn’t it coming? Why wasn’t He answering? I had been waiting and wanting and praying for so long.

And I did not want to be reminded about how long Abraham and Sarah waited for a baby, I said. And I did not want to think about all the people in the world who have been praying for things longer than I have. And I didn’t want to be told how I’m not alone. And by no means, did I want to hear how those who wait on the Lord will be blessed. And I did not want to talk about how some blessings come in the eternities. I was talking right here, right now, and why did the heaven’s seemed closed when it’s a good thing I want. And why wasn’t He hearing me?

Why wasn’t He answering me?

I cried and yelled, and yelled and cried, until I had nothing left to cry and yell about. I had emptied my heart. All of it. And once all the yelling and anger and frustration was out, the only thing left was silence. And in the silence I heard Him say, “I know you’re angry. And it’s okay.”

For my whole life, I’ve believed it was wrong to be angry at God. That because He’s all-perfect and all-knowing and all-powerful and all-loving—He must know what He’s doing, right?—and we must submit singularly with patience and humility and endurance to the ebb and flow of trials and blessings that cross our paths. We must be good Christians. And good Christians don’t get mad at God.

But I do not believe that anymore. What I believe now, is that what God wants more than unquestioning submission, more than pious worship, more than a perfect prayer, more than “good”-emotion-only-feeling followers, is our honesty. And if that means we’re angry. Then He wants that too.

You can be angry at God. You’re allowed, and He understands. You just can’t stay angry. And most importantly, you can’t be angry “behind His back” (not that that’s possible). You have to keep meeting Him, face to face, anger and all.

There are times when my faith is unshakable. When I am certain and confident of the things I know. But if I am being honest, and I am trying to be, there are times when my faith is wobbly. And I’ve learned that that’s okay too. In fact, I think that’s what the scriptures call a “trial of [your] faith”—to still believe when believing is hard. To trust when you’re not sure what you’re trusting. And then if that too fails, because it might—the faith and the trust, that is—to simply hope that what you’re believing is true. That what you seek, will eventually be given.

Hopefully.

I am praying again, of course, but in a whole new way. In a way that feels more open, more communicative than I ever perceived possible. I worry less about what is “right” and I simply speak. And while I’m still unsure if He will answer me (on a couple of our finer discussion points), I do know He’s there–loving, listening, and hearing.

Planting and Blooming: Thinking on My Peonies

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Every morning since the buds appeared, I’d check with anticipation to see how they were doing and offer words of encouragement.

Yes. I talk to my plants.

Yes. I think they can hear me.

Yes. I think it helps them grow.

And this week they finally bloomed. Gorgeous pink feathers billowing in undulating folds.

I got five blooms this year, as opposed to the two last summer. And I’m so happy to be experiencing them live, rather than from across the country through a computer screen. Such a beautiful flower, the peony.

I think one of the reasons I love it so, is because it blooms with seemingly never-ending layers of petals. They’re so full. Just when you think the flower can’t any bigger, it does.

I almost didn’t plant them, you know. I didn’t know if I could to commit to them. Yes, you see, there is a commitment involved if you want to hop into the garden bed with peonies. They’re a perennial flower. Meaning, once you plant them, they will come back year after year, getting bigger and bigger with each growing season. As opposed to annuals which complete their lifecycle in just one growing season–as in, you plant it, it grows, then flowers, then seeds, and then dies, all in the same year. But the peony, you cut back at the end of the growing season, and the following year it grows in fuller than the year before.

But I just didn’t know if I could plant them, knowing that someday I would have to leave them when Frit or I gets married.

Ultimately however, I determined that I did indeed want peonies. And once I decide I want something, I have to have it. Right now. All the patience I possess (and let’s just say, it is not a lot to begin with) is currently occupied/focused/allotted on waiting for a husband. So in every other area of my life, I am a toe-tapping, don’t want to wait, help me now, what is taking so long, let’s do it now, this line is too long, you’re killing me make a freaking decision already, impatient woman.

And so once I decided that I wanted peonies, I also knew that I didn’t want to wait for the day I had a permanent home. Because who knows if, or when, that will even happen. So I planted them. Even knowing that someday I’ll have to leave them.

But I realized … if and when that day comes, well, I’ll just plant some more.

And isn’t that what we all do, anyway? Journey from one spot to the next, planting our lives, putting down roots, blooming for the benefit of those around us, until we have to move on to the next step of our lives.

That’s all life is really–a cycle of planting, and growing, and blooming, and seeding, and dying, and then doing it all again the following season.

And so I say: Cheers to this season!

My Weekend in Pictures [via my iPhone apendage]

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I am back from my extended weekend in Florida. And despite the circumstances, it was a really nice trip. I love it there. Oh Southern coast, you lace my dreams like the moss in your trees. Someday I’ll return for good.

1 morning on the river . 2 seesters . 3 Sunday wandering . 4 riverbank where we scattered Granddad’s ashes

1 spanish moss . 2 lazy afternoon with Heathcliff and Catherine

1 manatee in the river . 2 its tail . 3 off the dock . 4 mama and her babies

Our time was filled with family and friends, a sunset service on the river bank, a Saturday memorial, lazy meandering around the Ranch, reading, sleeping, snuggling/smooching/chasing/adoring the niece, entertaining cousins, delicious food, manatee watching, and general relaxing. If only Granddad had been there.

Perhaps he was.

To Be a Mother

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It was late, and dark, and I was tired. But I held her nonetheless and rocked her back and forth in a chair that squeaked every time I moved. Every so often she would surrender to sleep, only to wake minutes later with a shudder as her body heaved and coughed, trying desperately to root out the infection deep inside. Monitors beeped and tubes trailed from her tiny body, making it difficult to cradle her the way I really wanted to, but I held her as close as I could, in the corner of a sterile hospital room, as the moon rose high.

She wasn’t mine—that baby in my arms. And I am not a mother. I have never watched my belly grow round with life. I have never felt the rush of that first movement from within. I have never pushed my body beyond my presumed limits to birth another human being. I have never felt the immediate instinct that binds a woman to her child as he is placed upon her chest for the very first time.

And if I am being honest, those are the things I want most, second only to finding a love with whom to experience them—so much so, that there are nights when I will place a pillow under my shirt and imagine what that roundness feels like.

Her mother, an old friend and severely sick herself, had called earlier in the day. Would you please go hold my baby for me? she asked. She had three other children at home who desperately needed “mother time,” not to mention she needed rest, and little Lissy had just been released from the NICU.

There was no need to think. Of course I would go hold her baby. There was no work meeting, no appointment, no previous commitment more important than driving straight to the hospital to stay with my friend’s baby, all night in the squeaky rocking chair, if need be.

At one point, I looked down at her soft, round face and traced her nose with the tip of my finger. Her teary doe-eyes looked back at me, whispering volumes of wisdom beyond her few short months. And a distant memory came to mind. I was five and had fallen and scraped my knee. My first impulse was to call for my mother. She came running out of the house, scooped me up off the driveway and carried me inside, where she sat me on the kitchen counter and reached for a wet cloth and band-aid.

Suddenly, holding Lissy, I found myself more grateful for my life than I’d been in months. No, I had no family of my own to care for, no husband to be home with, no children to tuck into bed, but because of that, I could easily and immediately go to the hospital when I was needed most.

And I understood—though I may not have birthed a child myself, this is what it is to be a mother: to come when you are called—as soon as you are called, to wrap your arms around another person, and to cradle them with love–all night if necessary.

Here, Without Him

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It is a very odd thing to be here in this house and not have him here too. The television is silent, his chair empty. But his captain’s wafer crackers are still on the counter. His notepads, filled with wobbly numbers and reminders, on the table. It’s as though he has simply stepped out for a minute and will return any second.

I woke up early and came down the stairs to find Grandma in the living room. I hugged her and asked her how she was doing. Fine, she said. The girl who has come to live with her is taking good care of her, although, Grandma says, she’s not as good of a cook as you. This makes me sad.

For nearly two years I didn’t have a job and could have easily come here to take care of her. To make her eggs and toast and tea in the morning. To make sure she’s taking the right medicines. To just … be here. But now I do have a job. So that means I can’t. I can’t be here. I can’t cook for her.

The tears come at the most random of moments. Like the other day when I was opening my mail. I slid my finger under the flap on an envelope and got a paper cut. And I thought how I should get a letter opener. And then I caught a memory of Granddad opening his mail with his knife. Insignificant, really. I know. But that was just how he always did it.

After talking to Grandma for a minute, and making her toast, I went outside to take a turn in the golf cart. It was less than a year ago that I rode around with Granddad, listening to his stories as the morning air grew thick with Southern humidity. And today, it was a lonely ride without him.

I followed his daily route, stopping to pick up the debris and air plants that had fallen from the trees during the night, just like he taught me. I rode down the street to “check in” on the neighbors and their horses and on the way back, I picked up the newspaper. Just like he always did.

And now I sit in his chair, the leather worn soft and broken on the arm rests, his can of cashews to my right, really wishing he was here.

It is a very odd thing, indeed.

Granddad and me, after my college graduation (2004)

How do you find the day?

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I’m not really sure how or where to start this post. And I suppose the answer is to start at the very beginning. At least that’s what I hear Maria von Trapp singing in my ear. But the problem is that I’m not sure where the beginning is.

I mean, at what point, in the course of a girl’s life, does she begin to hate her body. How do you find the day?

As children we can’t stop ourselves from jumping into pictures, making crazy faces, and loving the resulting photos. We are oblivious to the nuances and peculiarities of our bodies, simply happy that they’ll pedal a bicycle, skip down the street, and hang one-handed from the monkey bars.

But all of a sudden, we cross some threshold. We become “aware.” And we begin to shy away from photos, hiding from the cameras, hoping to be put in the back row. We begin inspecting ourselves in the mirror, eyes trailing from head to toe like a dot-to-dot under a magnifying glass, suddenly certain that our hair is too stringy, too curly, too straight, that our nose is too freckled, ears too uneven, chin too pointy, skin too pale, buttocks too round, or perhaps too flat, boobs too big, boobs too small, stomach too flabby, thighs too fat, ankles too thick, toes too long, need I go on?, all the while carrying on an internal dialogue wherein we tell ourselves that we’re not pretty enough, not tall enough, not tan enough, not thin enough, not curvy enough … not. not. not. Enough.

But where is the day that begins? When does it happen?

I have blurry memories.

There was the day in seventh grade that Joel Vierra pointed out that Shannon Schlesman was great at English, and that he was good at math, and that I was good at lots of subjects. “You’re well-rounded,” he said. And then he chuckled, “Get it? Well-rounded.”

There was the day in fifth grade when I didn’t sign up for swim team—not because I didn’t want to. But because I couldn’t bear the thought of putting on the swim suit.

Or the afternoon I’d forgotten my sheer, filmy ballet skirt in my dance bag. And so I pulled on the cotton skirt I’d worn to school that day, fully aware that I needed something to cover my belly. No one had to tell me. I just knew. It wasn’t flat like the other girls’.

Ballet class began, but when my teacher noticed my attire, he stopped class to tell me to take the skirt off—that I would have to dance that day in just my leotard and tights. And I stood there at the bar, my eyes on the floor, everyone else’s on me, heart pounding, ears burning, and told him no. He stood there in silence for a minute and then told me again to take it off. And still, I quietly whispered, “no.”

I had never told an adult, let alone a teacher, “no” before. I’m nothing if not an obedient teacher’s pet. But I was certain, that day, that it was more humiliating to stand in front of everyone wearing only my leotard plastered to every curve of my body than to do disobey.

I was in second grade. Eight years old.

I quit ballet soon after—not because I wasn’t good, and not because I didn’t love it. But because I knew, and was certain everyone else knew, that my body was not a ballerina’s body.

But when did that happen? When did I finally know? And how? When began this seemingly endless battle with my body? How many years have I been looking in the mirror silently telling myself that the reflection looking back is wrong?