Shell-shocked

I haven’t known what to write here for a long time.  I have thought often about just stopping with the blog thing.  I’m not entirely sure that I won’t do that. 

I have plenty to write about these days.  Way too much to write about.  But the words aren’t in me.  Or maybe they’re just not in me for here. 

Today all I know is I’m feeling a little shell-shocked.

Krystal

We didn’t travel in the same circle.  I was a ‘good girl’ a ‘smart kid.’  She was a ‘push the envelope’ kind of person and into sports.  Her life seemed to be kind of rough around the edges from the start, while mine was sheltered…  and for all intents and purposes, when compared with the early heartache of others, ‘easy.’ 

We were in the same Brownie Troop.  If memory serves correctly, her Mom took on the leadership of it.  We met in the smokey American Legion, and earned badges, and had Santa Claus come for visits, and we all sort of grew out of taking it seriously at once. 

We had adjacent rooms for our trip to Washington D.C.  in 8th Grade where we lived out our own Breakfast Club experience.  The ‘Push the Envelope’ crowd and the ‘Nerdy, Goody-Goody Types’ ended up hanging out, finding common ground, having a lot of fun together for a few days.  And it smacked me upside the head last night that I think I remember her taking too many pills one night, me wringing my hands in fear and wondering if we should get one of our sponsors, but for some (stupid) reason taking the word of her roommates who had evidently seen this happen more than a sheltered girl like me had.  All the same we laughed late into several nights.  We threw water balloons out our hotel window.  Just like in the movie, it couldn’t last…  completely.    Still, my heart was changed towards these girls who traveled in a different crowd, but weren’t as different from me as I once thought.  My heart felt more gracious to them.  I hope my actions were more gracious toward them…. 

She tormented a good friend of mine in high school….  And I can remember times when I laughed even when I shouldn’t have because even when she was being mean, she was funny (which I feel so guilty about still), and times when I stuck up for my friend. 

I feel all these awkward feelings thinking back on these relationships and the social rules that were writ large at our tiny little High School.  Still somehow our class ended up being tremendously cliquey…  But tremendously allied all at once.  We drew together when the cards were down.  We had our own cliques, but the biggest clique of all in some strange way was all of us. 

I wonder about how she felt in High School.  And how I felt.  I wonder if my ‘goody-goodiness,’ my affiliation with the Christian Fellowship Clubs, my early evangelical zeal caused her and others to feel marginalized.  I’ve always been quiet, and seemed aloof  because I really am a little socially inept, and I fear that came off as snobby or ‘too good’ for those in the ‘push the envelope’ crowd.  Mostly, I didn’t feel that.  Mostly I just felt afraid of myself being out of control, and intimidated by those who courted that feeling.  And mostly I just tried to walk the tight-rope of the high school version of ‘always do the right thing.’ 

She was unapologetically who she was.  Always.  But I can’t help but wonder if that was part of the pain she carried.

Last night, thanks to the quirks of small towns and Facebook, I found out that she died.  She committed suicide.  People are telling me she hung herself, and I keep thinking…  You have to really want it to go that way.  And that makes my heart hurt.

I’m shaken.  I’m sad.  I am feeling from the West Coast the incredible void now left in the midwest because she left us. 

I’m haunted by her pain.  I’m haunted by the loss.  I’m haunted by the questions that I have.  I’m haunted by wringing my hands wondering if I was one who made life harder for her or easier.  Brennan Manning says there is no neutral encounter.  We either push people closer to God, or farther away.  I’m unsure of those High School Days…  Which way I might have pushed people.

I was never a close friend.  I don’t want to invite myself into this grief in a way I don’t deserve and in a level of intimacy I haven’t earned.  But still I am shaken.  I am sad.

Most of all I’m sad that this beautiful, funny girl is gone.  That she felt so much pain that she knew no way out.  I know the distorted voices of depression and I’m so upset that no light was able to pierce through.   I hope and I pray that in God’s graciousness she is finding the love and acceptance that she longed for… that her pain is wiped away… that she is at peace.

Thoughts on Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday gets me.

It’s sandwiched between the more obvious Good Friday and Easter.

But there was a day in between.  When everyone thought it was over.  Everyone had to sit in their grief and their astonishment.  Everyone had to sit with their doubts.  Jesus said he was the Messiah….  So how was it that he was so easily defeated?  Where was his victory?  He’d died a humiliating, excruciating, awful death, and for one agonizing  day….  It all seemed absolutely meaningless.

And they had to keep the sabbath.  They had to sit through a day of enforced rest. 

When I’m grieving the last thing I want to do is rest, at least in the early stages.  In the beginning I want to charge full-on at whatever I can to get things done.  To fix something that can be fixed because this other something went irrevocably wrong.  I–even me who gets quiet and hunkers down in a crisis–hunger to be busy.  To NOT THINK. 

Instead they had to rest.  They had to sit in the quiet.  They had to abstain from anything that could be defined as ‘work.’  They had to sit and let it sink in that it all had really happened.  It wasn’t just a nightmare. 

All they could do was sit in it, and cry, and grieve, and wonder. 

I’m intrigued by the traditions of ‘The Harrowing of Hell.’  (I know my friend, Andrea, will fill me in on what she’s experiencing with the Orthodox church there).  I’m intrigued with the idea that while the world sat in silence and rested and it seemed like it was all over, that Jesus was, at that point, declaring his victory over sin and death

My heart is still with those who are waiting…  In limbo.  Stuck in the grief and darkness before the victory and light.  The waiting and wondering place.  That place is hard.  That place is barren. 

Holy Saturday.

I get too comfortable…

Especially with DH on Shore Duty, I forget….

I forget  the reality of the war going on.  That the consequences of that are real.  That people are dying.  That those people are husbands and fathers and sons.  That they are real and substantial like my husband.  That their families are robbed of them. 

I forget.  Until I read things like this and this.  And I am undone.  I cannot afford to forget.  I cannot dishonor these men and women and the people who loved them that way.  Pray for this Marine Wife, this first time mother who is slapped in the face with the unfairness of her husband being taken away.  And pray for the family of this beautiful girl who overcame so much.

Snarky Navy Wife on the MyCAA Debacle (that I have too long been quiet about)

I don’t know how many of you have heard about the MyCAA debacle that’s happened within the Military Spouse community (though I’m sure most MilSpouses are aware).  I am remiss in not having gotten more involved, but I am incredibly proud to BE a military spouse after seeing the swift and immediate response from this group of women (and men) and the change that came as a result.

In short the MyCAA program provided funds for Military Spouses to go to school to study things in  ’portable career fields.’  The idea being, presumably, that we so often get jilted while our spouses go from duty station to duty station, are gone frequently leaving us to hold down the fort alone, and as a result, though we are a well-educated group of folk those educations often don’t get used.  It’s hard to have a CAREER when you move every three years or so.  And that sucks.  So this program came along offering tuition assistance for career fields that were more ‘spouse friendly’, and LOTS of spouses went for it.  Then, mid semester the funds were frozen.  The program shut down.  And this is the kicker:  NO ONE WAS TOLD UNTIL AFTER THE FACT.  People found out on Facebook, or in newspaper articles, or from friends instead of from the folks behind the program. 

So anything else I could say is really superfluous, but you HAVE to read what my blog-friend over at Just Another Snarky Navy Wife had to say about it all.  She TOTALLY hit the nail on the head.  She succinctly encapsulated the outrage and WHY this was an injustice and WHY the mishandling of this deal was SO OUTRAGEOUSLY disrespectful to those men and women who sacrifice daily in service to this country as military spouses. 

Read it.

Mary Heart in a Martha World

I’m doing a little local drama this Easter.  I’m  Mary Magdalene in a little Maunday Thursday pageant about the “Other Twelve Disciples,” those being the women who followed Jesus and were there until the end. 

This week during the read through I was struck by another Mary:  Mary the sister of Lazarus.  Mary the sister of Martha.  Mary who sat at Jesus’ feet, soaking Him in, while Martha bustled about worried and anxious about many things.  I’ve always identified more with Martha, as I often feel worried and anxious about many things, myself.  It hit me though, as we were reading our parts that I might have a little Mary in me, afterall. 

The description offered in this little play categorizes Mary as “One who seemed to be busier internally than she appeared to be externally.”   That’s me.  That’s me all over.  “Bustling around the house was not one of her higher priorities” when Jesus was around, the script says. 

(It strikes me a day after first writing all this, that I’m basing all this thinking not on scripture so much, but on the words in this play.  However, as I look at the bits and pieces that we have written about Mary in the Bible, I think the play’s description might have been accurate.)

The thing is, while I’ve been aware of this constant internal chatter presenting itself more often than, “Busy hands,” I’ve had a hard time seeing this as a positive thing.  I have a hard time cleaning my house.  I know we all do, but I put it off, and put it off.  The things I want to do engage my mind and my relational muscle more than any industrial inclination.  I’m involved with many things, but I get into them by being a ‘think tank,’ an ‘idea girl.’  I love theories of math and science, but I can’t do the nuts and bolts of an equation to save my life.  I live in my head and sometimes…  often…  that gets in the way of my getting things done.  When company comes, I bustle and clean–at the last-minute–to try to make my home presentable.  Always though, I get to a point where I say, “They’re coming to see ME.  The rest of the clutter will have to stay put.”  While company is visiting, I have a hard time maintaining any semblance of cleanliness that I created because I pour my energy into spending time with my guests, and I can never figure out how the ‘cleaning maintenance stuff’ is supposed to get done with people around.  OR alternatively, I put so much effort into trying to be Martha-like against my nature with perfect meals and perfect home presentation that I  make everyone more stressed out.  That’s me.

It drives some people crazy.  It drives my husband crazy.  He’s a busy guy.  He’s always putzing, tinkering, cleaning, creating, doing.  He doesn’t have much patience when I don’t get things done because I’m so busy in idea-realm.  It drove my parents nuts.  My mother had at least learned to be a Martha after being shamed by key people in her life in regards to housework.  She implored me to learn the skills involved too…  the importance of it those skills though always did get lost with the stuff in my head or in my relationships that seemed to me to take precedence. 

I’ve labeled myself with words like ‘lazy,’ and ‘sloth,’ and maybe at times it really is a spirit of laziness that keeps me from getting things done.  I have a constant, nagging, internal mantra of, ‘Why can’t I get it together,” when I look at the chores that haven’t gotten done in a given day, or my kids’ dirty faces in public.  I often enhance this mantra with the butt-kicker of comparison:  “Why can’t I get it together like her?  Her kids are always neat and tidy.  Her house is always clutter-free and smells like vanilla and apple-cinnamon.  She’s able to juggle so much!” 

But Jesus didn’t do that to Mary.  He didn’t shame Mary for inactivity or mention the dust bunnies  left on her side of the cottage.  He didn’t shake her by the shoulders and tell her to snap out of her internal thought reverie.  He didn’t implore her to do FlyLady so that by unearthing the discipline to do housework and de-cluttering her world she could, “Finally Love Your(Her)self (though I really DO love FlyLady).”  Instead, he held her up as an example.  He exalted  her for choosing the ‘better thing,’ for soaking in His presence.  He recognized her for valuing those present even if that meant they had to order from Bethany’s local pizza joint instead of having a four-course meal.

And this gives me hope.  If Jesus valued Mary’s internal churning and presence to those present, maybe he values mine too.  Maybe he even delights in those parts of me.  I’m sure he equally delighted in Martha’s service to him.  He knew that her work came form a  heart of love–a love that wanted to honor him in her work, but he would not let her devalue Mary’s path of honoring him just becuase it was different than hers. 

So rather than beat myself up for the messes that pile up while the internal hum drones on, I’m going to try to see God’s delight in me.  I’ll continue to try to better myself and clean my home, don’t get me wrong.  But, hopefully I’ll give myself a little more grace. 

I have seen the book, “Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World,” in  bookstores many times.  I’ve never read it.  I always thought the idea was that we supposedly wanted to BE Martha when we SHOULD be Mary.  That in my head is a double should.  But maybe some of my day-to-day frustration comes from the fact that it really *is* hard when you ARE a Mary in a Martha world.  I don’t fit in to the achievement and activity oriented world of women.  I’m a thinker.  I’m a listener.  And that isn’t something to should myself out of.  Even when I have a sink full of dishes.

Need a little Brennan

It was obvious from the second I woke up this morning that I needed a little Brennan Manning in my life. 

At 5:30 a.m. my eyes slammed open and started a catalogue of the day and the weekend and the week and the month.  That was ok.

And then it started a catalogue on the myriad of ways I would be defeated for the day the weekend the week and the month.  That wasn’t so ok. 

It was like I was a little bubble riding along with the soap scum down the drain…  I mean just filthy, disgusting talk about myself to myself.  The words went around and around and around and sucked me in.  It wouldn’t stop.  I told my friend, Jesus about it and he hung in there with me, but it didn’t stop.

So I stopped by the bookstore on the way home from a meeting I had to attend and picked up a Brennan Manning book.  Because if there’s anyone who can convince me that God not only loves me (which, is after all, a theological imperative), that he also LIKES me, it’s Brennan Manning. 

So I’m reading…  And I’m trying to let this stuff sink down deep.  Brennan’s words are good, but these were the ones that captured me: 

Come then my Beloved, My lovely one, Come.

For see, the winter is over, the rains are over and gone.

Flowers are appearing on the earth.  The season of glad songs has come,

The cooing of the turtle dove is heard in our land.

The fig tree is forming its first figs

And the blossoming vines give out their fragrance.

Come then, my beloved, my lovely one, come.  Song of Songs 2:10-13

Those words are much better than the soap-scummy ones being slung around and around the drain in my brain.  And what’s more?  Those words are the truth.

Lady Redundant Woman and Bilbo

“I feel…thin. Sort of stretched, like…butter scraped over too much bread.” -Bilbo Baggins

I was going to blog about how I feel like this quote (I love you LOTR trilogy).  So I googled it.  And found out that’s been done and the t-shirts issued.  Shall I be redundant?

Which reminds me…  You know what I love?  I love Lady Redundant Woman on Word Girl (thank you PBS Kids).  That name causes me to chuckle each time I hear it.

So anyway.  I’m stealing ten minutes to write here today before I go throw my hair in a pony tail and put on a clean shirt to go to work.  I AM feeling rather scraped over too much bread these days.  I LOVE my  job, but it keeps me away from my family in the evenings.  I get to be with the kidlets all day long, and Husband after bedtime, but I miss that beautiful family time with ALL of them during dinner and after.  When I get home Husband’s eyes are inevitably bugging out of his head from the kiddos being nuts too which makes me feel…  Well, rather yucky for making him rush home from work only to stress him out with his own kids as well.  I love my  job.  I do.  I walk a little taller when I leave it in the evenings.  I love the kids I work with and the work I do.  But…  I miss my family.  The last few weeks have been heavy on work and evening commitments.  Hopefully after next week, I’ll feel a little more on-kilter (can you be on-kilter, or just off?).

Is it normal for me to feel like I’m flying apart most days?  Does everybody else?  Does anybody else?  I do.  The sunshine is helping me to stabilize, but part of the scraped thin feeling is depression-related, I believe.  I feel like I have to dig deep into my reserves most days.  I guess the good news is it pushing me towards God.  I find myself consulting him regularly for mercy and grace and help and…  not flying-apartness. 

Living in the midst of fighting the flying apartness doesn’t make for great blogging either.  I sit down to write.  And I backspace.  And try again.  And backspace.   I think I’ll just hit publish today.  Give you all a little 10-minute snibbet of my current nuttiness.

So I’ll finish and tell you that I love this totally unrelated quote by Pete Gall:  “My Passion in a Nutshell Enough of this cutesy “we’re better because they’re worse” Christianity – from old guard political platforms to young believers who think torn jeans, a tall coffee, and some bitter complaints spewed through spotty facial hair somehow represents a better way. How about actually searching for, and standing upon, a better way? And the better way isn’t found in new places. The better way is exactly where – and with whom – it has always been. Enough revolution. Enough feeding frenzy on the dead horse of a worn out approach to church. Enough fighting fire with fire. Bring water. Rediscover passion. Experience adventure. Pay a price. See what happens when you replace “principles” with “virtues” – see if there isn’t enough of “home” left in you for some homesickness for a better way, a way breathed to life by God, to still stir passions in your life. Prodigals don’t thrive in the far away land. Elder brothers are slaves until they summon the courage to speak honestly to their fathers. Let us meet there – on our Father’s land – and ask him, together, how we might live and turn this life into a tour of princes and princesses who bring justice and comfort and meaning to a world that is dying for it, and will only hear it if we make it our passion first. This is why I do what I do. And it’s bringing me back to life.”

Remembering Crystal

Lauren, over at Sharing the Journey  brought this to my attention.  She asked that other bloggers would spread the word about the story of this beautiful young Mom whose life was cut tragically short, and about her father and family, who are grieving the second anniversary of her death this weekend.  To Joseph and his family I want to say:  I care.  I will remember Crystal even though I never had the privilege of knowing her myself, and I will tell her story.  This video was made my Crystal’s Dad in her memory.  It’s a photo montage telling her story.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYIRZbyXnu0&feature=player_embedded

Two years ago this weekend a beautiful woman named Crystal took her own life in the midst of a struggle with Postpartum Depression.  She was like many of us who struggle with the disease–she didn’t… couldn’t ask for help.  The changes that family saw in her were easily explained as just the worries that she was prone to have.  I don’t fault this family at all.  PPD is so tempting to hide.  Having a baby is an overwhelming experience anyway…  Of course we’re not always going to be looking or feeling our best.  And it feels so scary and hard and hopeless that asking for help just feels impossible.

But oh…  If she could have only reached out for help.  Postpartum Depression so often tells a woman that her family would be better off without her.  But that’s a lie.  The truth is this:  Your family NEEDS you.  There is HOPE.  It won’t always feel like this. 

And that’s something that I want people to understand about PPD, and about ALL depression.  So many people, when they hear of a suicide, wrinkle up their noses in disgust and say, “How selfish!”  But what they can’t understand is that from the inside looking out suicide isn’t selfish.  When your diseased mind tells you that you aren’t the best thing for your  baby or for your family, when lies whisper all day long that you aren’t good enough to do this job, strong enough to be a mother, and that if you continue in the job your child and family will come to great harm, when those are the lies that you hear, the thought of suicide isn’t so much about sparing YOU pain, it’s about sparing them.  That’s how twisted your thoughts can become when dealing with PPD. 

BUT…  Those thoughts are LIES.  You WILL NOT be sparing them.  Because YOU MATTER.  And YOU ARE a good Mom, or can be with help, and the strongest thing, and the best thing you can do for your family is to get HELP.  Your baby and your family NEED you. 

I wish it wasn’t so scary.  I wish it wasn’t so threatening.  We think our kids will be taken away.  We think we will forever be branded.  We think that there is no hope (more lies).  We have to reach out for help.  And we desperately need the people in our lives to see past our masks and our assurances that everything is ok, and to empower us to seek that help.

I wish Crystal could have.  I wish she could have gotten help.  I wish she could have found her voice.  I wish this video could be about how she overcame Postpartum Depression.

Watch this video.  Honor Crystal.  And then, ask the tough questions to the Mom’s in your life.  Let them know that they aren’t alone when the task seems impossible.  You might just be their lifeline. 

As Lauren says on her blog: 

“If you, a loved one, or a friend are coping with the recent loss of a loved one to suicide, please read this from the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.

If you are contemplating suicide, there IS hope. There are people who love you. People who care and want to help you heal. Need someone to talk to right now? Click here for a comprehensive list of resources in the US.

If you are struggling with a Postpartum Mood Disorder, contact Postpartum Support International’s warmline at 1.800.944.4PPD. (I may just be one of the people to return your call – I’m a volunteer for the warmline in addition to providing support in my home state of Georgia)

Bottom Line here? There is hope. There is help. And above all, you are absolutely NOT to blame. And above that? You WILL be well.”

Read more at Lauren’s Blog.

Read more of Joseph’s story in his own words, here.

Letters of Vitriol, Recognition of Humanity, and Messy ‘Ole Me

I got really mad this morning.

I felt that an injustice was being done to my husband.  One that has some historical roots to it.  One that has a bearing on some of the larger story of our life.  (As an aside, this had nothing to do with work….  Even I am smart enough to keep my nose out of issues in the Navy). 

And I was mad.  I wanted to take someone down for it.  I wanted to yell and scream.  I was using language that I only use when I am seriously channeling my  mother in a fit of righteous indignation.  And my mother had some language, folks.  I’m sure you’ve noticed that by now.  I was drafting letters and rehearsing conversations in my head where I would put people in their place and they would quake in the presence of my awesome command of the English language and my projection of force ashore (did I get that term right??). 

Husband didn’t want me to.  He didn’t want to take any action.  He said to let things lay as they were.  But I couldn’t just not take action.  So I made a phone call (calmly).  Left a message.  But that didn’t seem to pack the punch I had hoped so… 

I sat down to write a letter…  A letter designed to express my anger and disappointment.  A finger-pointing, red-hot, letter of vitriol.  And I revelled in it.  I mean….  I RELISHED it.  It felt SOOO good to focus anger at a single point and to compose a coherent message around that point and to imagine the response there.  The POWER I could pretend I had while writing it.

I got it finished and it was GOOD.  It was JUICY.  It was appropriate, but pointed.  It was virulent and scathing.  But I did not send it.

A few moments after I was finished writing it, still trembling from the thrill of it all, the phone rang.   I knew from the caller ID that it was the individual who has served as our messenger and go-between in this process, and that happens to be someone whom I have always particularly liked and respected.  I answered the phone and couldn’t help but smile and say, “It’s so good to hear your voice again!” 

And that was it.  My anger was gone.  The righteous indignation that I had felt so entitled to a breath before seeped out of my teeth when I smiled.  And suddenly I was simply a collaborator with this mediator to the process trying to find a solution.  A potential solution was proposed.  Promises were made to explore the option and I hung up the phone feeling…  Peaceful.

A mere seconds before I was reveling in righteous indignation, and now here I was with egg on my face standing not with two smoking barrels, but breathing a sigh of gratefulness for people in my life who I know will go to bat for us even though those particular people happen to play for the ‘team’ to whom I had just finished writing my letter of vitriol.  In the second it took for me to hear a real human voice and to picture this man who I like and respect in the place of the enemies I was concocting in my righteous indignation mode, I was totally disarmed.  My perceived ‘enemy’ became a real person to me again, and I couldn’t be mad in the face of someone who shared in the messiness of humanity right along with me.

So I sighed.  And I smiled.  And I felt relieved that my letter of vitriol wasn’t sent, but strangely I still felt glad that I wrote it.  I feel glad that I got it out of my system.  I feel grateful that for a second I had an enemy to focus my reserves of energy and anger and emotion on.  Yes, it’s great that I didn’t hang myself in the process by putting a stamp on it, but the catharsis of it all isn’t lost in the loss of the anger.

So I’m sitting here now, just laughing at myself.  Laughing at how easily I’m disarmed.  Laughing at how angry I was.  Laughing at how big of a mess I am.  I was apparently so desperate to be angry at SOMETHING that I feel better after having written a useless (but seriously beautifully crafted) letter of vitriol.  I’m laughing at the beauty I find in the realization of the humanity of our ‘enemies.’  I’m laughing at my delight in analyzing the layers of the situation and my reaction to each of them.

I don’t know if in the end I’m going to feel like my husband wins out.  It’s a complex situaton with no easy answers.  It’s entirely possible that a week from now I’m going to feel like sending that letter once again (though I may amend it with some good words for those who have gone to bat for my husband in the process).  I’m laughing at my bull-headedness and insistence of taking on the situation despite my husband wishing otherwise, and I’m hoping that maybe he’ll see the value in a meddlesome wife who at least is cool-headed enough to not immediately send her letters of vitriol.

Ahhh…  but it sure was fun to write….