Just Keep Swimming Part One: An Absolutely True Story of a Fish out of Water

This is an absolutely true story of a fish out of water.

 There was a time when we had seven children in our home.  Two sisters, another five year old girl and a nine year old boy in our care, and our three forever children. To say the least, we were just barely able to keep our heads above water.

I was heading home from work on a particularly stressful day. As I was driving, I took my deep breaths, I said my prayers, and I reminded myself of Nemo and Dory..."just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming.".

Ironically, I walked in the door to see Brent's shell shocked face.  He told me the recently unfolding story of Olivia's unsuspecting goldfish. This goldfish was hijacked from it's tank which was located on the second floor of our home, in Olivia's bedroom. It was smuggled in the waistband of one of the little girl's pants, and carried down the stairs to the other end of the house. The little girl gave herself away by shying up next to the kitchen cupboard, clearly trying to stay off the radar with her hidden treasure.  Brent was expecting the usual hidden treasure, candy. He was obviously surprised when he didn't find candy, but instead, slimy sea life. In a moment of horror, he retrieved, but then quickly dropped, the goldfish to the ground. Olivia came running into the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about. In her frenzy, she stepped on the already traumatized fish. Brent took the goldfish back to it's tank, placed it in the water, and watched as it swam sideways for quite some time. No one expected the poor fishy to survive.

But, hours, days, months later, it was STILL swimming. Still swimming.

Many of my days, even still,  are spent trying to keep my head above water. When I think back over my day, my week, my month, I think of the fishy. I imagine it's surprise as it was snatched from it's warm and comfortable surroundings. I imagine it's confusion as it was stuffed in the waistband of someone's pants and taken on a long and bumpy journey. I can almost feel it's horror as a grown man retrieved it and promptly threw it to the ground. And the final blow, I feel the humiliation of it being stomped on by the person who loved it most. But then I see it in it's tank, gracefully swimming, day after day.  Not only surviving, but appearing to enjoy the swim.

This ten cent fishy gives me hope. If a ten cent fishy from the grocery store can keep swimming after being abducted, imprisoned, abused and humiliated, why not me? I can keep swimming because the fishy kept swimming.

Many months later, I lovingly cleaned out the fishbowl, gave him fresh water, he died, and I flushed him down the toilet.  But his inspiration has lived on.

My Own Personal Riot

True story here.

I fell apart last week. My spirit was crushed, my feelings were hurt, and my pride was shattered.  It happened after a culmination of a few different situations involving written words, spoken words, and the absence of words .  No big deal, but together they destroyed me for a bit.  I was in a weak spot to begin with, and the final straw broke.  I've got tough skin,  a strong support system, faith that moves mountains, and all that; but that week shook me.

Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words will never hurt you?  Nope.  Actions speak louder than words? Sometimes.  Words are powerful.  The absence of words is also powerful.  The effect of words is greater than we give credit to.

I hibernated in my house for a good three days.  I learned to use power tools, and I built some stuff.  I painted, cleaned, and reorganized.  In the process of cleaning and reorganizing, I had ridiculous amounts of garbage and baggage to get rid of.  I started filling garbage bags, and then I realized it would be more efficient to burn the old papers, etc.

I started a fire in the backyard fire pit.  I tossed yesterdays junk mail, last weeks school papers, and today's empty cereal boxes into the flames.  The flames were beautiful, red, and yellow; and watching a campfire has always been soothing to me.  After a few minutes, the fire started to die, so I went inside, and I started to purge even more.  I threw old stuffed animals, stained dishcloths, and broken toys in.  I threw outgrown clothes in.  Anything that was burnable, I set on fire.  I even burnt things that had meaning to me.

I was worn down already, when a series of hurtful things happened to me.  I was desperately trying to heal, but life kept throwing punches.  So I started burning things. 

As I threw an old purse that had belonged to my deceased, dearly beloved mother, onto the fire, I thought "What am I doing here?  I am not helping my situation by burning things".  I stopped dead in my tracks, and I suddenly realized that I was rioting.  A teensy, tiny, backyard, personal riot.  My hurt was being expressed and healed in the purging of my house, and in the burning of my baggage. 

Sometimes it takes an individual experience to make the collective experience make sense. 

In the end,  my riot changed nothing.  I smoked up the neighborhood, I have a two foot pile of ashes in my fire pit that I'm going to have to shovel out, and my kid is probably wondering where her stuffed unicorn went.   It didn't take away my hurt, and it didn't resolve the situations that needed to be resolved.  But it made me feel like I was doing something.  My dad saw the smoke from across the road.  There was evidence of action when I felt helpless.  My emotions were consumed for a few moments in the heat of the flames, in the smoke, and in the ashes.

Words matter.  Hurt feelings and crushed spirits are real.  The human spirit needs encouragement, love, and support.  Because sticks and stones will break your bones temporarily, but hurtful words and hateful thoughts can break your spirit forever.

As I said before, I have a strong support system and faith that will move mountains.  Because of that, my riot stopped with the final toss of the annoying Mickey Mouse toy trombone.  I rejoiced as I heard "Meeska, Mooska, Mouskateer" for the Very. Last. Time. 

My hurt was small and temporary.  The hurt of others is consuming, pervasive, and desperate.  My small heartache and my temper tantrum makes my heart break for those that face hateful words, injust actions and intolerant minds every day of their lives. 

Living life in communion with others requires us to, well, commune with others.   If we want to change lives, if we want to change minds, if we want to change actions-we have to enter in. 

My Dad, My Father

I started some home improvement projects last month.  One Saturday morning, my oldest son and I went to Home Depot to get some materials for a ceiling project.  First we stopped for breakfast.  When I went to pay, my bank card was declined.  I checked my online banking.  An unexpected automated bill had been withdrawn, and I was all the way broke till Tuesday. 

The cashier accepted what cash I had, even though it was four dollars short.  We drove to Home Depot, I parked, and I pulled out my cell phone.  I texted my dad, asking if he could cover me until payday.  I hit send.  I looked up.  And my dad was standing there.  Right in the parking lot of Home Depot.

He was standing there, right in front of my eyes, right when I needed him.

Of course he'd cover me.  Of course he would.

So I said thanks,  and since he was on his way out of the store, I said I'd see him later.  He said he'd just walk back in with me, to make sure I got what I needed.  I said he didn't have to.  He said he knew that. 

I gathered all of my materials, and met him at the front.  He took a quick look in my cart.  Nope, those screws won't work.  You're going to need a different adhesive.  You'll want to grab some of those other boards.

So everything that I thought I needed, I didn't.  Everything I forgot, he remembered.  Perfect.

After we got all of the correct materials, I told my dad goodbye, and I said thank you.  Again.  I said I'd see him at home.  He said that he'd stick around until we got the van loaded.  I said he didn't have to.   He said he knew that.

We made our purchase, with his money, and began loading the materials into the van.  The boards were too long for the van by about four inches.  My son and I tried every which way to make them fit, but it wasn't happening.  My dad approached the van, saw our struggle, and he said he'd get his truck.

Of course he would.

He loaded all of my things.  All of the things that he made sure that I had.  They fit just right in his truck.  He pulled out of the parking lot first, and I followed him.  I followed him all of the way home, literally watching him carry my load, with humility in my heart, and tears in my eyes.

My dad on earth.  My Father in Heaven. 

When I am in a bind, my dad and my Father are standing there, right before my eyes.  When I make the wrong choices,  He makes them right.  When I can't carry the load, He carries it for me.

Dad.  Daddy.  Father.  Rescuer of bank accounts, one who helps me when I am clueless, He who carries my burdens.  My dad.  My Father.  Always there, no matter where.