Grief and God and Life and Wondering

I don't know where this is going. I'm just warning you in advance. Just in case you think I'm coming at this with an agenda or trying to make a point. I don't have one and I'm not. I don't even know what the next word is going to be as I type it. My life is like that a lot....

Being a grown-up was so much easier before I was one. I mean, did you ever look at your parents, even as a teenager, and think, "Wow, I bet they've got a lot of stuff on their mind." No. We all knew that parents had it easy. Work. Home. Clean. Pay bills. What's hard about that? Surely they didn't struggle, they didn't have friends having a hard time that they were trying to help, they didn't think about deep subjects, they weren't scared. They were just adults and what could possibly be hard about that?

It turns out...everything.

I mean, life is hard. What is going on with that? I keep reading these things (and I'm not actively seeking them out!) about husband's dying, children dying, awful things happening during wars, people have sick kids, wives have cancer, kids in Africa are starving. People are getting divorced, women and children are abused. Kids brought into loving homes have trauma issues and spreading their trauma into their new families. Moms are exhausted. Dads are stressed out. People don't have jobs, kids aren't getting good educations. People I love have cancer, are having heart attacks, are depressed. The smell of my son's diaper. Life is a daily struggle. Lives are going 180 degrees from the direction that seems right. Kids are hurt by adult decisions, adults are hurt by kids' behaviors, marriages are scraped over the rocks and both parties left hurt and bleeding. People are scared, alone, hurting. 


I just don't understand. From the little pains to the enormous traumas, I don't get it. Where is the justice? How can this be okay? Where is God while the world breaks itself? Why does the suffering just go on and on. 

(I'm just putting it out there, God, that I don't think this is a good plan.) 


I grew up in church. I went to a Christian liberal arts college. I married a pastor's son and a Bible Theology major. I've read the books. I "know" the answers:


God is restraining himself. Grace and free will. Justice will be restored with the second coming. God weeps with us. And all of those other answers. 


Theologically I can get it. Intellectually I can get it. 


But my heart is not getting it. 


The more I see of the world, the more I am given the privilege of seeing into other people's hearts and lives, the more I experience, the more I learn, the more I want to understand, the more I wish I knew how to respond, how to help, the more I want to help bring healing into others' homes, into my home, the more I seek, the more pain I find


the less I feel like I know God.


That's all.

The Ultimate Therapeutic Parent

I'm going to talk about disruption in a later post with just a brief mention of it here. (That was one of the posts I was planning on writing when I got hit with the migraine.)

We are not dreaming talking about disrupting.

I know without doubt, which does not stop me from arguing with God, that I am to parent this child right now.

That's all I know.

I ask God, "HOW?!"

And I hear back silence.

Which sucks.

I ask God, "WHY?!"

And I hear back silence.

Which sucks.

I'm not all weepy-moany about that (today). Some days, I'm all "boo-hoo, boo-hoo".

Lately, I'm just kind of tired of the silence and my attitude is probably a little more childish and little less child-of-God-ish. I've got this sulky tween thing going on (even though that wasn't a word when I was one, I think we just called them brats....)


I feel like the kid sulking about the house with a bad attitude until she finally gets sent up to her room. And I'm not going gracefully. Instead, I'm going upstairs:

STOMP
STOMP
STOMP
MUMBLE
GRUMBLE
ROLL EYES
STOMP
STOMP
GRUMBLE
DOOR SLAM

Now, I don't know about the house you grew up in, but in the house I grew up in, indulging myself in that stomp was a B.A.D idea! My parents were good parents, but they were not "therapeutic" parents. I would have been toast.

But God's not doing that. I'm not getting my way. He's holding His line, but he hasn't reached down to smite me yet and I don't think he's stockpiling lightening to strike me later either. He's listening to me, meeting me where I am, letting me make my decisions, choose my attitudes, take my time. He doesn't meet my attitude with punishment, he doesn't take my emotion and tell me to stuff it, he doesn't point out my behavior to shame me.  Could he force me to "get it together" and "obey" because he's bigger than me, the boss, God? Uh, yes!! He just doesn't.

He chooses love. He chooses grace. Even when I act like a brat. I like that. I just don't want to do it.

If that's not therapeutic parenting I don't know what is!

A new Kind of Overwhelmed

For awhile I was doing semi-regular book review postings on Wednesdays. I like to read, a lot... as in it's my most best favorite thing to do. I usually have a fairly solid stack of books waiting to be read. I'm always on the lookout for a good book (or eleven). Some day when I'm old and fabulously wealthy (not sure how that's going to work out) I would love to have an independent bookstore.

Just the other day I was taking a morning vacation since Andrew was off work and I went to the bookstore to walk around. I found several books I *could* have bought, but didn't. I knew going in I wasn't going to because we're on a serious budget. But the weird thing was that as I walking through the bookstore I caught myself thinking:

I don't need anymore books to read. Truth be told, it was kind of a horrifying moment and I'm pretty sure it was the first of it's kind.

Lately, I've been feeling a little burdened by my growing "backlist" of books to read. It's an "agony and ecstasy" kind of burden. I sat down tonight and pulled out the three books that I absolutely want to get read for my 30 by 30 by 30 goals. They are these three:

Complete Digital Photography: 551 pages, 23 chapters

Africa: 550 pages, 19 chapters

Born in Blood & Fire: 329 pages, 10 chapters.

I've read little enough from each book that I will start at the beginning.

I have 192 days until my 30th birthday. (AHHHHHH! FREAK OUT! FREAK OUT! WAHHHHHHHH! TRAUMA ALERT!!!!! AHHHHHHH!) So, my goal is 1 chapter per week, per book, which I can pretty easily knock out as long as I remember.  I did have some additional books that I could read related to goals so if I finish these early then I'll start those.

But, those three books? They were in my "To Read Stack", which I noticed was really big, bigger than I would have guessed. And since I've got my priorities so straight...I decided to count them, stack them up, and link to them, so you can see what I'm talking about.

But the number of books? Oh. That would be 55. Uh-huh. And that doesn't count any parenting/adoption books that I might need to re-read, or books from the library, or any other books that I happen to acquire anytime soon just in case you're looking for some reading material....

And no, I don't have a neon yellow wall in my house, but between an ipod with no flash, crappy lighting in my bedroom, and an editing program that should be ashamed of itself this is what you get.

And now without further ado: How I shall be spending my "free-time" when I'm not mothering, being a wife, upholding low to moderate levels of housekeeping, blogging, trying to write, and sewing blankets....

                    So really, that's about it. I don't know why some of them came up twice. It probably means that some of them didn't go in right. If you're wondering why you can't see them all in the picture it means that book is on the Kindle that I got for Christmas. And there were two books that weren't on Amazon's list: a collection of stories by Zora Neale Hurston and Love & War: A devotional for Couples by the Eldredges.

Don't Ask Don't Tell

I support "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" legislation. I think it makes perfect sense. You keep your nose to yourself and I keep my business to myself. 

I've applied this concept to my family life in the following way: I keep MY end of the bargain by not going around (in real life) blathering about my family. I expect others to keep THEIR end of the bargain by not asking questions that I don't want to answer.

We get a lot of attention when I go out with the kids during the day. Really, it's people staring because my kids are so cute and there's relatively a lot of them and they're in close proximity age/height wise. I mean, three kids within 25 months of age is fairly unusual. Plus, when we're walking I hold Pickle on one (ample) hip and then I hold Little Miss' hand with my other hand and she holds Peanut's hand with her other hand. Sometimes while we do this we sing "Love Train"...seriously. 

One time we had a nice, if exuberant, black woman yell out the window of her car to us that Little Miss was beautiful: on the way in and out of the post office. And old people...shew! You should see them smile at us. Old people like kids and I think old women perversely like to see young moms looking harried just like they used to. We had the crazy lady at Costco the one time, and a few less friendly looking stares, but I've never had to leap to defend my children, but don't think I'm not ready. 

The one thing that we get a lot, pretty much everytime that a cashier, lab-tech, receptionist, other random service person says something is this:

"They are just adorable. You're the babysitter." 

And I would like to think that they're saying this because they can't imagine someone as svelte and chic as me having three kids, but I'm pretty sure this isn't the case because I've never been svelte or chic. And I'm pretty sure that babysitters take the time to put on makeup, practice basic hygiene, and wear clothes that match. So no, I'm not the babysitter.

My creative reply to this invariably is:

"No. They're all mine." And then I don't say anything else about it. See how I'm still holding up my end of the deal by not telling any information that doesn't affect them? But do you see what they've done? They've violated my child-chasing-quietly-threatening-must-get-home-ASAP serenity. They've done it nicely. They didn't mean to. But they did.

And so then I always feel awkward. What do I say? What do I do? Do I need to explain? Should I say that she's adopted? Should I say I won the boys in a state lottery game? Look confused and tell her "What? I don't see any children." Admit to having a commitment problem with my menfolk?

But I mean, really. Do you think that's weird if I just say "No. They're all mine." I say it nicely. I'm not offended. Does it sound rude? Do I need to volunteer that Little Miss was adopted? I don't want it to come off like I'm (somehow) hiding the fact that she was adopted. I'm not ashamed that we adopted her. It wasn't our "second-choice" or anything like that. But on the other hand, even if they're just being friendly it doesn't make it their business. I don't want Little Miss to grow up thinking she needs to somehow explain her presence in our family.

What do you guys say? Do you throw out the "she was adopted" card, or maybe your middle finger, or nothing at all. :) 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh, and if you're wondering what I think of the real "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy, seeing as my husband is in the military. I think it's one of the lamest things ever. Do you know what I think is even one step lamer? Not letting gays get married. I mean, really. Speaking to the heterosexuals out there who are against this...this affects your life HOW? Oh, that's right. It doesn't. If you are a woman and you don't think women should marry other women...then I would advise you not to do so. The same goes for you men. Problem solved! You're welcome society at large. Let me know if there's anything else I can clear up for you....

Auction to Benefit Mercy House

If you've been wanting one of my blankets and wanting to support a great cause

(other than me)

you should go check out the auction to benefit Mercy House.

Here's a quick snippet about the Mercy House:

100% of the proceeds from the Mercy Benefit Day will go to the work of Mercy House. The Mercy House exists to provide alternative options for pregnant girls living in the streets of Kenya. The Mercy House will aid them in nutrition, housing, prenatal care, counseling, Biblical teaching and job skills for sustainable living. The Mercy House has approved 501c3 status.

 

My contribution is a large adoption flag blanket of the winner's choice.

There are tons of other prizes though

so head over and check it out. 

 

 

Tells

I don't play poker, but I'm familiar with the term "tell". Here's the definition (with many humble thanks to wikipedia) : A tell in poker is a subtle but detectable change in a player's behavior or demeanor that gives clues to that player's assessment of his hand. A player gains an advantage if he observes and understands the meaning of another player's tell, particularly if the tell is unconscious and reliable. Sometimes a player may fake a tell, hoping to induce his opponents to make poor judgments in response to the false tell.  

And other professionals (not that I think poker players are professionals at anything, but it sounded polite...until you read this part anyway...) use this idea too, but if they've got their own terms I don't know them. Police officers, Shemar Moore in Criminal Minds (love you babe!) parents, mental health workers, and probably even doctors to some extent have their own ways of assessing behavior to make a judgment call about whatever. 

I've noticed a certain change in myself lately and decided that it is probably some form of a "tell" that if you're (cue dripping sarcasm) really astute you might pick up on.

9 months ago when I was writing posts about my daughter I would play this lovely song (it's embedded below, but this video is better, but it won't embed). This was my song "for" Little Miss. I would sing it way better than Josh  and cry because this was what I wanted to say to her. This was going to be the music that I set our "homecoming video" too because like every other idealistic idiot PAP I had that all planned out. And no, you haven't missed that video...it's yet to be created. I'll make it when I can use that song for real without coming off like a two-faced liar. 

Lately, when I'm writing posts about Little Miss or drowning a tantrum via my ipod and headphones I've got this blasting into my ears.




Whaddaya think? Is it a "tell"? lol Whaddaya think it's "telling"?

**disclaimer** I am not actually going to burn down my house nor is this a recommendation that you burn yours down either. lol

About Writing

I like to write. I love writing my itty-bitty blog. I do not love to journal. I hate it. Journals are about oatmeal and bathrobes and boring things unless you happen to live in Nazi Germany or Sarajevo, which I do not, nor have I ever. People say, and I've even said it, that writing a blog is similar to keeping a journal, which it KINDA is, but the big difference is that you guys are reading it and commenting and since nobody comments on a journal I will hold that as the difference. So make sure you guys keep commenting or else I might think I'm journaling and then I will have to stop. :)

This is the story of why I blog, but will not keep a journal.

I was given my first journal when I was about seven. It was a cast-off from my oldest sister who was too cool for a Ramona Quinby journal. I started writing in it immediately. Like any good "journalist" I started with what happened when I woke up that morning: breakfast. Hmph. Boring! So I wrote about the time that my house caught on fire and I was the hero of saving everyone and figuring out who had done it. That was definitely much more exciting and I continued on about how my family moved into...an apartment! (C'mon, that's sexy to a seven year old in suburbia) Our apartment building had an elevator. I don't remember anything else about it except for one niggling little detail: none of that had ever happened.

And then disaster struck. My other already literate sister found my journal and she READ IT! And then she gleefully told me that I was in big trouble. Journals were for telling the truth and I had lied! I had burned down our house! I was going to get it! MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM! Jamey wrote BAD THINGS!!!!!! (I don't remember precisely that that's how it went down, but it seems about right...)

This is one of my favorite memories of my mother (less so of my sister, but I like her now, don't worry). She read the Ramona Quinby journal that was shoved under her nose by my sister. She sent my sister off to boarding school (okay, no, but that's what I would have done)  and sat down with me at the kitchen table. I remember crying, sure that I was in big trouble for lying.

She asked me if I knew that what I had written wasn't true. (I guess they were worried about my sanity even back then.) I admitted that I had known that I was lying. She smiled at me and told me that I wasn't lying. She said I had written a story. She congratulated me on being an author. She even said she liked it (so there!).

That sealed my fate. I could not journal because that was boring and because despite her superior handling of the situation I still feel an acute sense of anxiety that a) my sister will find my journal and b) to be exactingly precise so as not be called a liar and c) why would I write regular boring things when I could write exciting things?!

(Yes, I consider this little old life that I lead exciting, kind of)

I've been writing ever since. I've written stories my entire life. I remember some of them, but unfortunately I don't think that I have them anymore. I wrote longer stories as a pre-teen. I finished my first novel when I was 17. I've written three more since then. I wrote a paper for geology class as a 10th grader from the first person perspective of a tectonic plate because it was the only way I could force myself to write such a boring paper.

I haven't written regularly in a long while. I've done a few spurts of writing, but they haven't lasted long.I haven't written a complete novel since right before I was pregnant with Peanut. I've had ideas, but haven't been able to churn them out into a story. I wanted to participate in National Novel Writing Month this past November and it didn't happen.

Lately, my muse has stopped whispering to me. Now she is shouting. (Because apparently everyone has to shout with me. It might just be that she has to shout to be heard over my kids, I know how that goes, so I probably shouldn't hold it against her...) The bad news is that she's not really being very specific. She wants to me write, but I'm not getting much direction.

The truth is, if I want to even come close to meeting this 30 by 30 by 30 goal (number 4) I'm going to have to get myself kicked into gear. I need to churn out a rough draft in five months and connive a few people that I have in mind already to give it a read through. I'm pretty sure that I cannot do it, but I'm hoping a little public humiliation will spur me forward, nothing is as motivating as shame, right?