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.

Keep Your Eyes on the Shore

I am sitting on a deck overlooking the ocean at sunset.  Some of our people are before my eyes, soaking in the evening peace.  Some of our people are resting inside, enjoying some solace.  We are on vacation with friends who have become family.  Kindred spirits in solidarity. 

As I enjoy all that is happening in these moments, it doesn't escape my mind that this is the third vacation I've enjoyed this summer.  Three different beaches on two different oceans.  Three times removed from my not so ordinary life.

June 29th. I boarded a plane to California with my dad and my ten year old daughter.   She had been given the opportunity to compete in gymnastics nationals.  My husband stayed behind with our other five children.  People kept asking if I was worried about leaving him home to take care of  the kids by himself.  I kept saying that I was worried about leaving him behind- being without him there to take care of ME.  I knew that he and the kids would be fine, I knew that I would not be.

My anxiety was through the roof, even though there was nothing about the trip NOT to enjoy.  The Pacific Ocean, visiting family, watching my daughter compete with hundreds of gymnasts, spending time with her and my dad.  I had none of the responsibilities that were waiting back home. 

And THAT rocked my world.  And that rock fell directly on my chest.  Everything that I had left 1000 miles behind hit me all at once, and it was heavy.

I had been cruising along pretty well, dodging the obstacles that life threw at me during this past year. Life had become heavy, but adrenaline had kept me going-until California made me stop.

I could handle all things, one day at a time. Until I looked back-back 365 days, and I saw it all at once.

A boy that had lived in my home was murdered. MURDERED.
I said goodbye to a 15 year career
I started grad school to pursue my masters degree
I said goodbye to a sweet little girl that had shared our home and heart for 2 years of her life
Another young girl that had shared our home took her own life

I admitted that I needed help with my mental health
We finalized the adoption of our youngest son
Our daughter was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease
And then her sister was diagnosed also
We had 14 hospitalizations-2 hours from home
Our youngest facing potential serious medical diagnoses of his own
Our oldest three babies, growing up before our eyes

Relationships strained
A strong marriage pressed
The climate of our culture
Fear, hate, violence

How did all of this happen, in one year, and how was I still breathing?

I returned home, completely raw and undone.
Vacation had ripped open every wound that I had been silently suffering from. 

It left me in a pretty dark place. Brent and I struggled to stay afloat.  Not that anything new was happening, except that we were suddenly feeling it. Our eighteenth wedding anniversary was approaching, and we were desperate.  With Every. Last. penny we had, we booked a trip to Florida.  It was an emergency-we had to pull ourselves together.  I sold furniture out of my house to make this trip happen.  

August 3rd.  We boarded the plane feeling heavy.  I wasn't sure we'd get off the ground.   The cruise control of our lives had stalled a few hundred miles back.

We made it to Florida.  We rested and enjoyed the time away, processing the past year of our lives, and we vowed to return renewed, and refreshed.

Returning home was hard.  Everything was waiting.  All of the responsibility, but also all of the love.  We could see that the hard work of our lives was worth it.  Always worth it.  A little perspective, and a lot of sunshine had made that clear.

And then August 20th.  We climbed into the car.  All eight of us, embarking on a long-ago planned trip to the beach.  Twelve hours and six kids.  Meeting up with our friends who have become family.  Kindred spirits in solidarity.

I sat on the beach for seven entire days.  I prayed while soaking up the sun, for seven entire days.  I watched twelve children and four adults-including myself-heal before my eyes.  A significant part of the healing for my children was playing in the waves.  I watched, time after time, as they ventured out into the ocean, and gradually drifted down the shore.  Time after time, after they had drifted too far, too many times, I pulled them out of the water and said these words:

You HAVE to keep your eyes on the shore.  You HAVE to keep your eyes on me.  Dear children of my heart, once you are out in the ocean, it has power over you, and you HAVE to pay attention.  You HAVE to keep looking back.  So that you aren't pulled away. The ocean will pull you away, it will pull you under, it will drown you, if you aren't careful.

You HAVE to keep your eyes on the shore.  You HAVE to keep your eyes on me.  

In those words, in those moments, after three encounters with ocean vacations, I was finally renewed.  

I HAVE to keep my eyes on the shore.  I HAVE to keep my eyes on You.

It is so easy to get caught up in the waves.  It is so easy to drift down the shore.  It is so easy to drown.  

But it is so easy to keep swimming also.  

It is so easy to enjoy your friends and your family.  It is so easy to ride your waves of turmoil, and to stay afloat in life's ocean.  IF you keep your eyes on the shore. 

It took me a summer of three vacations,  three times removed from my ordinary life, to finally move me past this past year.

My head is above water.  My eyes are on the shore.  I'll keep swimming, even though I'm not sure where I'm going this time.

I wondered why it got lighter: A story of vacation anxiety, carrying a kayak, how my dad is amazing, and social injustice.

I went to California last week with my ten year old daughter and my dad.  My anxiety was through the roof because I was homesick.  Everyone (in my head) kept telling me: "You can't be stressed, it's California. You can't have anxiety, you're on vacation.  You should just lighten up and have a good time.  You should be thankful to be on this amazing trip."  But everything I saw and did in California was through the lens of feeling lost in anxiety.

The west coast was overcast, grey, and chilly until well after noon everyday.  I remember counting down the minutes until 1pm Pacific time, when there was a chance that the sun would peek through the hazy sky.  One of those afternoons, we enjoyed some sunny moments at the beach.

There was a man running a beach side rental stand.  He was dragging kayaks across the hot sand,  bringing them from the water, and returning them to their place in the rental stand.  It was his job.  He wasn't asking for help, he wasn't even showing signs that he needed help; from all appearances, he was strong and able.  As the man picked up the front of the last kayak, and began to drag it, I watched as my dad walked up behind the man, and lifted the back of the kayak without saying a word.  The two strangers carried the kayak in silence for about 500 feet.

When they got to the destination, the man turned his head and said- "Hey brother, I appreciate you. It was rough, dragging that heavy kayak, and I wondered why it got lighter all of a sudden."

Hey brother, I appreciate you.

I wondered why it got lighter.

That moment became a permanent piece of my memory and of my heart-it changed my lens from anxiety to hope .

Are we looking for opportunities to make someone else's load lighter?

We've had a tough week in America.  Our black friends face continued oppression and violence-both individually and systemically. Our police friends face violence in misplaced retaliation from a few, amidst a peaceful call for justice from many.

If we feel the need to take "sides"-can't we each take one side of the load?  Can't we pick up an end, and walk in solidarity toward the destination?

"Hey brother, I appreciate you.  I wondered why it got lighter."

Life is heavy if we are all dragging our own loads across the hot sand.  Some of us think that we are strong enough, and that we can do it on our own.  Some of us are seeing life through the lens of anxiety, worry, and paralyzing fear.  Some of us are being told to be thankful for what we have, and our fears are being dismissed.  Life is heavy.

As we wait for the haze to clear, as we long for the sun to shine, as we trudge through the sand, what if we picked up a part of someone else's load?  What if we didn't post memes, what if we didn't move to polarity, what if we didn't walk on by the issues? What if we silently walked alongside our brothers, picked up a part of their load, and walked together?  

My Pennsylvania dad is as different from a West Coast Surfing Vendor as you can get.  But maybe not really. That late afternoon, in the California sunshine, I saw two brothers sharing a burden.  A heavy load became a lighter load.  Strangers became allies.

I pray for that in real life.

We're Just Almost The Same: Life Without Mothers

The presence of a mother is encompassing, there is power in knowing that she is just there.  There is comfort in knowing that she just is.  A mother, with all of her good, her bad, and her ugly, is more of a force than a mere person.

When my mom was suffering from the end stage of cancer, I remember peeking into her room before entering each time.  I would pause, watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, and then enter. She was still there.  When I watched the final breath leave her body, it was as if all of the oxygen in the room went with her, in that last gasp of life. She was all of a sudden, not there.

The loss of a mother is visceral.  The umbilical cord that was cut at birth was the first physical separation, but the tether that holds mother and child remains strong through space and time, throughout life.  When death separates a mother and child, there is a real physical aching.

There was a time when my five year daughter was mourning the loss of her first mother.  She cried, saying,  "I'm losing my mother. I need her to kiss me on the cheek some more. I need her to make me some noodles, and go to the park, and walk by the train tracks."  And I said to her back,  "I'll love you, and hold you close forever, and kiss your cheek, and make you noodles, and I will take you to the park every day until you're old.  While we walk to the park, we can talk about your mother, and we can remember all of the remembers that you have about her.  And I lost my mother too, but in a different way, and I need her to kiss me on the cheek some more too, and I miss her everyday too."

My daughter replied: "You lost your mother too? We're just almost the same."  

We are all, just almost the same.

I've been thinking and talking a lot about what Glennon says. "There is no such thing as other people's children."  I believe this with my whole heart.  The children that are in my life, the ones that have passed through, the ones who will be with me until my final breath, or theirs, all of them, are all of my heart.

They are all, just almost the same.  Children of my body, children of my heart.

Two of the children that lived in my home, and in my heart, are now gone. One murdered by gun violence, and one lost to suicide.  Both young teenagers.  I mourn along with their families, and I tell their stories, because their stories should be part of all of our stories.

Our stories are all, just almost the same.

But these two stories in particular: the child who loses their mother, and the mother who loses their child - these are two of the greatest, tragic love stories that life ever wrote.

In the moment that I became motherless, in the moment where all of the oxygen left the room,  I knew that a child should never live without a mother.  It is a most sacred honor to be a mother to the motherless.   But although there is no such thing as other people's children, I'm not sure it works so naturally the other way.  A mother is a mother is a mother.  My mother.  My tether.  Her mother.  Her tether. I can't be the first mother to my daughter who misses her first mother; there is no replacement for that.   But I hope and pray that I can be the best first, second, other, birth, adoptive, foster mother that I can be.   Because once I was taught to be mother, to all of the children, by my mother.

We are all, just almost the same.  Because love.

Be Still: When The Still Small Voice Isn't Still or Small

Be still and listen.

Be still and know.

Beautiful words and sentiments, except that me and "being still" don't really get along that well.

Still is my uncomfortable zone.

Being still sounds glorious, and I often long for the chance to experience it.  However, every time it gets near, my emotional immune system rejects it like a virus, like it is a foreign body trying to infiltrate my being.  I seem to have antibodies that won't allow "being still" to exist for long periods of time in my life.

I get along better with change and newness.  My comfort zone is a moving target.  Every time that my life starts to settle in, every time that it starts to feel comfortable, it makes me uncomfortable.

There is  a restlessness stirring in me.  My still, small voice is yelling at me, because it doesn't want to be still or small.

So I pray for discernment, because I struggle with the concept of being still.  I sometimes wonder if I need to move out of my comfort zone by staying still, and being still; but I suspect that my still, small voice was just born to be ornery and loud.

I think that there is a fine line between being still and being stagnant.  There is a difference between listening to the still, small voice and being a still, small voice.  Stillness intentionally layered within
a full life is like the "rest" between musical phrases, as the song continues to move forward.  The
"rests" of stillness makes the song meaningful, purposeful, and beautiful.  In contrast, stillness at the end of the song means, well, the song is over, and the music has died.  As I take my rest, I know that it is a pause, but that the song will continue to crescendo.

Be still and listen for a time.

Be still and know that the song will continue.

Be still so that you can move forward again, not so you can stay.