Ocho

Yesterday was my 8th wedding anniversary.

8 years, 2 kids, countless sleepless nights, loads of laundry, bills, traumatic events, surgeries, fights, and deep conversations together.

I used to think romance was flowers, staring into each others eyes, and talking for hours.

Boy do I know different now.

Romance is wonderful. But it's definition is flawed.

Romance is a man who hangs a fresh towel for me when mine is stinky- because he knows I will just keep using it to save time.

It's a man who will get up and make lunches, kiss little heads good morning, and keep little voices quiet so I can sleep for 30 more minutes.

It's the way he listens to me, no matter how small or big my issue is.

It's the memory of him cradling our babies, changing their diapers, and helping me to sit up and latch them on when I was exhausted from birth.

It's the way I feel when I am wounded, and he is the only one I want.

It's bear hugs and kisses when I am pouty and difficult.

It's the way he makes me laugh when I take him with me to scary doctors appointments.

Romance is laughing until we cry over the stupidest inside jokes.

It's calling him moose and him calling me goober.

It's watching him through the window as I make dinner, and he plays with the kids outside.

Romance is the way my girlfriends all love him and know they can depend on him.

It's waking up to his face after surgery.

It's his hand in mine as we walked the halls and waited for our babies to come.

Romance is a man who holds you as you are ripped apart with contractions and birth. Who looks into your eyes and lies that the pain is almost over, almost over.

It's a man who buries your small miscarried son while you sob.

Romance is someone who loves your soul. Not just the body that houses it.

Mark and I have fought hard for our relationship. It's not always been easy. It's not always been fun. We've both grown and changed. Through babies and job changes and death and grief and sickness we have held firm onto one thing- we will always and forver love each other. Our love will always be the shelter we both run to when the world hurts or confuses us. I know I can always stand behind my husband and he will forever protect me. He knows I will always support and uphold him.

Through the rest of our lives he will infuriate me. I will be stubborn and yell. He will be quiet and laugh at me when I get angry. We will walk through every change together. Every milestone, every moment will be ours to share.

So give me mornings of coffee and the news while our kids run around us. Give me fleeting conversations as we dress in the morning. Give me shared glances across the dinner table. Phone calls from different cities. Give me he tears and the frustration and the coming back together. Give me nights spent apart missing him. And nights together as his hand searches for mine in the dark, even in sleep. Give me laughing until we cry. Tea and television. Foot rubs and back scratches.

Give me him. Forever and for always.

Fierce

There is so much I want to say, and no way to say it. No way to form my mind around what I am feeling.

I'm trying to push through. But these feelings wont leave me alone.

I'm angry. And I'm disgusted with myself.

I thought I was loving in a healthy and productive way, but I have betrayed myself into thinking I was more important than I am.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I get past these issues? Is this going to haunt me for the rest of my life?

Mommy issues. Abandonment issues. Daddy issues.

Jesus.

I've loved how I wanted to be loved, instead of loving others as they NEEDED TO BE LOVED.

I have been overprotective and fucking smothering. I have been fierce when what was called for was gentleness.

Because that's what I always craved- to be protected. To be stood up for. For somebody to stand in front of me and say- no further.

I've imposed myself and my issues into others lives with no regard for their own needs. Just pushed and called it love.

It's so messed up and tangled and wrong I can't even grasp it.

I want to love others. I want to give. I want to be generous.

I want to fix everything and everybody. I want to take the misery away.

But that's not my place.

I can't fix anyone and I can't fix anything but myself.

I've done a poor job of that so far.

And the deluded thing? That I thought I was doing so good, and so well.

I've been pushy and overbearing. Depsite my intentions to just be...loving.

Oh hell.

How do you even fix something like this? How do you fit a round peg into a square hole? How do you love people as they need when you can't see past all that YOU need?

I don't know how else to be.

I've asked for refinement. Begged in my heart for God to change me. Change this heart- make it less fierce. Make it softer. Make it less...myself.

And nothing changes. I still wake every single morning wanting to love the hell out of and fix the hell out of everyone and every situation.

And nobody needs that. And it's not a good quality.

People, in the end, don't want to be saved. They just want to be loved.

But it is...me. For better or for worse. It's me.

It's me.

And you know what else? I'm tired of being strong all the time. I've held so many others up- helped as much as I can. Even if I went overboard.

Sometimes the strongest break the hardest.

I am surely broken.

And I'm weary.

This hurts. It hurts to love and be loyal and not get it in return. It hurts.

Even those that seem strong need to be held. Even the fiercest need comfort.

Even those that can and do defend themselves need protection.

People who love the hardest need to be loved hard too.

But there are seasons in this life. Of loneliness. Of feeling lost. Of feeling as if you will never be whole or right again.

All of these valleys surely lead to peaks. The darkness becomes light.

I'm waiting for the light.

Words

I thought the broken days were behind me.

The days of tears and wounds and the deep deep drowning.

The days of losing time and space and feeling this endless void of nothingness.

Sometimes depression is an oncoming storm,stirring the ocean, riding slowly over the waves towards you.

And sometimes it is a tsnumai, knocking you bodily from your moorings.


I have been rolled through the waves these past few days. Unfurled underwater, staring up through the debris into the twisted image of the sun.

I have felt the sand bneath my hands, the water in my lungs.

I have been pulled into the depths.

And I only have myself to blame.

I've had a catch in my spirit many times these past months, a niggling feeling of unease and of being not right with God.

I've felt it when I opened my mouth with less than kind words.

And when I've kept my mouth shut when I could have spoken.

I've walked, step by step, into being the woman I swore I would not be.

Natural consequences are often fierce and unrelenting.

I have gone back to the prayer I have always dreaded.

"God, if there is anything in me that is not pleasing to you, show me and I will change it."

Being refined is painful. Sorting through, piece by piece, my every mistake, my missed footing, my unconcious part in the wounding of others. Looking at the pain I have caused, with or without intention.

It all hurts. And it's all necessary.

Allowing the surfacing of things I have relentlessly pushed down for months. Bringing them to the light and seeing what I have known but not acknowleged.

I love well, but am overbearing.

I am loyal, but too fierce.

I allow myself to speak of others in their absence as I would not do in their presence.

I harbor resentments and anger.

I panic at the idea of being abandoned.

And on and on.

I don't like the woman I am right now.

What I have heard as I have closed my eyes and quieted my mind these past few days is just two words.

"Cultivate quiet."

I need to sit and look at my life and my actions. I need to look at what kind of friend I am. And what kind of friend I want to be.

I need to look at how I need to be loved. And if I can continue to love the way that I have been, and deal with the inevitable hurt that comes with it.

And above all else, I need to be quiet to learn that my mouth can and should be reigned. That there are words that should not be said. Things that should not be discussed.

Words that should be left only between God and I.


James 3

1Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly.
2 We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check.
3 When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal.
4 Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go.
5 Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.
6 The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.
7 All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and sea creatures are being tamed and have been tamed by mankind,
8 but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.
9 With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness.
10 Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be.
11 Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring?
12 My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.

Sam

Dear Mrs Porter,

This is Sam.

You may have seen him around school. You may have heard his name a few times. I'm afraid he may be "that kid" to a few people.

And the truth of the matter is, he earned that title.

See, Sam has been through a lot. I knew he was different when he was 9 months old and instead of crying when frustrated, he would bang his head. Hard. On the wood floors.

I was a nanny for 16 years, but I wasn't prepared for this level of frustration. He would literally hurt himself when trying to communicate. And instead of expressing himself verbally, he would express himself physically. With chaotic, crazy movements. With running, falling, then running again. Flipping himself off the couch. Taking off at full speed for the street.

Hitting. Biting. Pushing.

For a long 2 years, Sam was a runaway train. And we were the screaming passengers trapped aboard- his father, myself, and his sister.

I knew something was wrong. He wasn't talking. At all. 3-4 words where children of his age were speaking sentences.

He was hurting and sad and so frustrated.

I was his mama. And I couldn't fix it.

So we saw his pediatrician. And at 2 years old, Sam began speech therapy.

They said he was too young to be diagnosed. But they felt he had Apraxia. A neurological planing disorder that prevents words from getting from the brain to the mouth.

They said he may never be a big talker.

We were, as a family, rocked to the core. This is my baby. My beloved son. And I couldn't help him. His daddy couldn't fix him. His sister couldn't talk with him.

He was alone and lonely in his silence. And his frustration at not being able to talk grew and grew.

I stayed up at night, kneeling next to his bed. I prayed for God to heal him. But if He couldn't heal him, then to help me help Sammy make his way.


I became his voice- speaking for him. Translating for him.

I vowed that as long as I had breath I would be his voice. I would advocate for him. I would help him to be heard.

He has been in speech for a long time now- almost 2 years. And I can tell you his last year at school was very very hard. He had alot of beahvior issues we were trying really hard to conquer.

Everytime I dropped him off , my stomach would be in knots. I just wanted him to be understood. To be loved. And not to be lonely.

And then, he turned 3, and something magical happened.

Sam blossomed.

There was a dramatic shift in him that can only be explained by God. His found his voice. He found his words.

And we found Sam.

He has opinions on everything from what to have for lunch to what color monster truck we should buy. He chatters constantly about everything under the sun. His words literally never ever stop- from sunup to sundown.

He gives us a headache. He makes us laugh. He makes us cry when he folds his hands and says his prayers.

I can't say he is where he should be. And I can't say you will understand everything he says.

And I also can't promise you you won't ever have to discipline him.

I know he will drive you crazy. He will talk your ear off. He will grab your hand, drag you to what he wants to show you, and spend 30 minutes telling you all about it.

I look at him and wish he would give me one blessed minute of silence at least 10 times a day. You will too, I'm sure.

And then I remember. That lost, sad little boy he was just a year ago. The one trapped in his own mind and his own body. The one bursting with things to say...and no way to say it. No one to say it to that would understand. Not even me.

I remember this day. We were on our first day of vacation. I followed him, trailing his steps as I always did, just trying to keep him from harm. He tried to tell me something I didn't understand. Then he gave up and walked to the water, alone. He just stood there, looking.

I took this picture between sobs.

I remember this day everytime I want to tell him to hush.

Every single word he says is precious to us. Every syllable has been fought for and prayed for and earned.

I don't ask that you take extra time with him. I'm not asking for him to be your favorite, or for him to be treated special.

All I want is for him to be understood. And to be loved past his slowly diminishing limitations. For a patient heart willing to see this little boy that has fought so hard to be heard.

This is Sam. My beautiful, kind, mischevious, loving and chatty son. I hope you love him just as much I do.

Struck

Lightning strikes our lives.

Waves of storms, lighting the sky like daylight.

Cracks in our very existence, shaking us to our core.

We become afraid, and weary of fear. We become terrified. We cower.

Lightning is deafening and deadly.

Storms ruin our carefully shaped human existence.

We stand and look around at the ruins. We weep and mourn for what we built, and what has been decimated.

But the one who created us, the one who loves us, the one who defines our perspective on life-

He knows what storms are. He has seen, been in, and calmed them. He has walked them and comforted those lost in the rain and skyfall.

He has stood on the edge as we wept. He has mourned with us. He has slipped into our midst as we cry out for mercy and for healing.

And He is bigger than what we are going through.

We are called to not only walk in faith, but to also BELIEVE. To stand in the face of the rain and say to the sky-

My God is bigger than this.

We are called to love each other, but to also look into each others lives for the storms. To see the rain in our loved ones eyes and offer comfort and shelter.

We are to be the shelter for those lost in the fear of the lightening.

We are to be the shelter for those crying out in fear of the thunder.

We are to mend. We are to hold. We are to give our strength when others weaken.

We are to be bold in our prahyers for others walking the edge of a dark gray sky. We are to call to them that they are safe, they are loved. We are to enter the lashing rain, the noise and the purple bruised life and cast our faith like wind over them.

We are created to mend.

Women know how to do this, from the moment we are born. We know how to nurture. To be soft. To look deeper and to see more.

We are created to mend the broken and to comfort the hurting.

Don't let this world make your heart hard to what Christ created in us, as sisters of God. He created a softness and an eagerness to give of ourselves to those who need it. He gave us physical eyes and eyes of the spirit to see the hurt beyond the words.

He gave into you a heart meant to nurture and heal.

Do not let this world, with it's hardness and it's hurt steal from you this precious gift of mending.

Look beyong the surface to what can be healed. Push beyond the words those you love say to what they need. Look for the storms, seek them out, and cast a mantle of love and prayer over those hurting and in pain.

You were created to fight the storms. Not only in your life, but in others.

Do not be afraid.

Resistance

"What are you resisting?"

The question was posed to us all by my yoga teacher this morning.

I closed my eyes, allowing the images to just come. My children's faces, my long to do list.

And my father's face, in the window of his home.

My eyes filled with tears.

What am I resisting?

Grief.

I am running from it as from a train. It barrels down on me, and I turn from it just in time to save myself from being run over.

I don't want to feel this again. This tidal wave of silence. I don't want to walk this valley alone, again.

I want to run from it.

What am I resisting?

The image of my father, shirtless on a sweltering Vegas afternoon. Tan torso, eyes crinkled with laugh lines as he adjusts the sprinkler. The oleanders smelled like summer. My skin smelled like coconuts and smoke. And he was tall, and present, and alive.

My father's face as I told him I was moving away. A slight shift into sadness, quickly masked with a smile. Followed by laughter.

My father's eyes filled with tears as he held me on my wedding day. As he danced with me under the overturned blue bowl of October sky.

His hands on mine in pictures. Holding me up as I learned to walk.

His voices echoes in my mind. Over and over I hear him telling me not to cry, not to be sad. That it's okay.

What a I resisting?

Mourning.

I am too busy. Too tired. Unwilling to break down in front of my children.

But everywhere I go, I see his face. In every old man. In every glimpse of myself in the mirror. He is there.

I will never outrun this. For the rest of my life, he will be dead.

This happens to us all. We will all bury our parents.

We will all mourn those who created us.

It hurts. The knowing that if I reach out, there will never again be a reaching back.

It hurts to know I didn't speak words out of pride. Out of anger.

I have a thousand regrets.

I dream of his house. I wander up and down his hallway. I trace my fingers over the pictures on his walls.

He's not there.

I leave, and the screen bangs behind me. The flat Nebraska sky fills with dust and scent as a truck rolls by. Far off I can hear the train as it barrels down the tracks toward his house. It calls, the sound lonely and dark.

I walk, but something makes me turn. And he is there, in the window. Cup of coffee, cigarette. He smiles and turns away.

And then I wake up.

What am I resisting?

The idea that he is forever truly gone.

I loved him with a love that only little girls know for their daddies. He was my hero, and my forever champion. I longed for him. I can still feel the tightness of tears in my chest, the lump in my throat. I can feel the hurt. I can feel the loneliness.

But I can feel the love. How he held me as I cried over lost love, over broken promises and a broken life. How he would walk out of the Vegas sun, the pavement shimmering under his feet. How I would sit and watch him fall asleep each night, drink in hand.

He was, for so long, my hope. He was my daddy. He was my savior.

And long after time and circumstance led me to realize he should have been more and done more,  I still loved him.

And I still do.

And always will.

Robert Duckworth

When I was 4 my dad took me to Disneyland.

We got on A Small World. I watched as the dolls twirled and turned, sang and danced.

It was too much for me, for my small eyes. I turned my head into my father, smelling his scent- smoke and cologne and sweat. I fell asleep, waking only as he carried me off, my small head cradled by his hand.

As I took my own children on A Small World this week, I watched their faces. Wonder and happiness shone from them bright as the sun. I pulled them to me, kissing their foreheads, smelling their scent.

As I knew my own father lay dying hundreds of miles away.

I spoke to him twice over the phone. I told him what I wanted him to know- that I loved him beyond reasoning, that I would always miss him. That it was okay for him to let go and I would see him again.

The words came easily, slipping from my lips into his ears, into his heart.

And at 3 AM on July 4th, after my brother had gone home to rest, my daddy slipped away.

The man I have loved since I had no memory is gone.

To say our relationship was easy would be a lie. It was a back and forth ocean of expectations, of disappointment, of hurt.

But to say I didn't know I was loved is a lie as well.

I always knew I was loved by my father. Always.

My memories of the man who could never bear to see me cry are endless. His words were always few, but he never hesitated to tell me he loved me.

I remember him in bits and pieces. In sun soaked memories of Vegas heat, of Nebraska greeness.

I remember a cold winter morning. I had moved back to Nebraska just a few months before. I was heartbroken, sad, and lonely. I woke up and got ready for my job. I cried as I brushed my hair, as I sipped coffee. I was broken by life.

I gathered my things, buttoned my jacket, and prepared to do battle with the snow and ice on my car.

Only to find it running, my windhshield cleared, the inside warm.

My father waved from his window in his house next door. He smiled and turned away.

This is how I will remember him.

He never was able to fix everything in my life. He never was all I wanted him to be. But he was what he could be. He gave in his own way, even if it wasn't what I needed. And he loved me.

And I loved him. And he was my daddy.

Tomorrow we will celebrate him. A man who was deeply flawed, but also deeply good.

A man who struggled with drinking, but a man who was also sober and kind for long periods of time.

A man who gave what he could to his children. Who never spoke a judgemental word to us.

A man who took his grandchildren, all of them, camping. Who taught them to fish, loaded them up with sugar, and sent them home.

His face was weathered by the sun and by time, his gray hair full and always neatly cut and combed.

Always with a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

Tomorrow we will celebrate an imperfect man, made whole and perfect as he crossed into Heaven to be with God.

I can't say my tears won't be tinged with bitterness. I won't lie and say I have no regrets.

But I also know to my core that if he were here in front of me he woulnd't hesitate to tell me to stop crying and forget all of that.

I loved him, and he is gone. My heart is broken for what was, and for what wasn't.

One day I will see him again.

Godspeed, Daddy.